Month: April 2025

The Thinnest of Tightropes

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Good morning, tiny spider.
I see that overnight,
you’ve made the thinnest of tightropes
beside my kitchen sink
between the soap dispenser
and the window ledge.
There you perch,
right in the center.
I actually thought you were
a tiny ant caught in spider silk
until I looked closer.
You are not safe here.
I gently lift you
on a small piece of cardboard
from the recycle bin.
I hope you don’t run up my arm,
because as small as you are,
I’m afraid I would instinctively,
and quickly,
brush you off,
and that might be a traumatic event
for you.
So as I head for the back door,
I’m glad to see that you stay put—
for a second.
Then you skitter to the edge of the cardboard
and bungee jump off,
spinning your own lifeline as you dive.
At first I think you’ve gone to the floor,
but, no, there you are,
dangling from your silken thread.
You ride there,
swaying gently as I open the door
and step outside.
I place you, string first,
at the edge of an empty bucket,
trusting that through your day of
adventures,
you’ll find a safe place to settle.
Godspeed, tiny spider.
If you should ever come back
to visit my kitchen,
you would be welcome—
at least for a minute.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

Arrivals

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From where I sit in my after-dinner chair
as sunset dims into twilight,
I can watch airplanes approach
the end of their journey
from the west—
from Dallas
or Denver
or Los Angeles.
Their bright landing lights
cross the darkening sky,
winking in and out of sight
as they thread their way
among silhouettes of tree branches.
By the time one plane
passes overhead with a low hum,
another appears in the distance,
trailing the path of the first one.
Another plane follows.
And another.
Evenly spaced,
they glide smoothly on
like wandering stars.
When I first noticed them,
I thought they truly were stars.
But these stars that are not stars
are full of people
hurtling across the heavens.
These planes I watch,
these travelers
near the end of their journey,
are at the beginning as well.
For what is the end of the journey
but an arrival,
sometimes to a new place,
sometimes home to familiar comforts.
And I wonder:
When I get to the end
of that larger,
longer
journey,
will anyone be watching?
Will I appear as a bright star
slipping through
the night sky,
coming closer and closer?
I have a feeling that for me,
it will feel like coming home.

-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

A Bluebird Between Storms

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Between storms,
the whipping wind calms
to an easy breeze
flicking rainwater off
the newborn leaves.
Mama bluebird flits to her birdhouse
with thin dried stems of grass
dangling
from her beak.
She pauses at the entrance,
the just-right-size hole,
glances around,
spies a robin at the birdbath.
Satisfied that he is busy drinking,
she ducks into her house,
reappears seconds later, empty-beaked,
and darts away.
Papa bluebird watches
at a distance
atop a light post
as the robin decides to perch
on the roof of the bluebirds’ house.
Mama bluebird flies back with more straw
but stops short,
resting on a garden ornament,
a shepherds’ crook,
wary of the robin,
this unwelcome visitor.
Papa bluebird casually glides closer
then dives at the robin,
who decides it’s best to be gone.
Mama bluebird flits in again and,
with a wink of blue from her tail,
disappears into her house.
Bluebird wisdom says
be patient
when someone needs to rest
atop your house,
but keep the boundaries clear,
for it is, indeed, your house,
and it is you who are building
your nesting place there.
It’s what we do
in the pause
between storms.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week—Mama bluebird peeking out:


Shadow of the week:

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.

From the Hospital Window

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I stand at the wide glass window.
Behind me, my son sleeps
in a hospital bed.
My son will be fine—
I am confident of that—
but at the moment,
he is not fine,
so I am not fine either.
I hurt at his pain;
my heart cracks with his cries;
I pray when he hasn’t the will
or the faith
to pray.
This present moment,
the Now
is supposed to be a time and place
of meditation and peace.
But this Now, this present moment
bites me.
I look out this wide window
across buildings and treetops.
I see beyond this moment of pain
that curls him inward,
calls all his attention
to a deep
abyss,
and I think even God must cry
at least a little bit every day,
for there’s so much to cry about.
I take a deep breath of treetop and sky
and determine to be a source of peace
for my son
just as friends who text me
are a source of peace for me.
This peace connects us
like an invisible, strong thread,
stitching up our cracked hearts
with every color
warm and cool,
joyful and sad,
sometimes glinting with our tears
and God’s too.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:


Shadow of the week:

If you want me to send these thoughts to your email each Sunday, simply sign up on the right.

Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2025. All rights reserved.