Somebody’s Home

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

Winter twilight crisp and clear,
red rush-hour tail lights
ease north, disappear over a hill.
Bright white headlights
stream slowly south in the oncoming lane.
Above the river of traffic,
bare tree branches lace across
a quickly darkening evening sky.
Left and right, houses come to life
as windows wink on
in squares and rectangles of gold.
The car in front of me slows,
signals,
turns left into a driveway,
and something inside me warms.
I feel somehow lighter.
Somebody’s home, I think.
Somebody’s home.
I’m not far from my own house,
my own driveway,
just three more left turns
and then that deep hum of a breath,
the hug of home-ness.
I know that “home” is not warm joy
for everyone,
nor has it always been for me,
but it is now,
and for that, I am grateful.
A few days ago,
a photo popped up on my phone,
a random memory:
me and my youngest sister
standing side by side
under a tent in West Texas
in front of our dad’s flower-covered coffin.
After making his way through the maze
of a full and wondrous life
with all its curves and corners,
switchbacks and straight stretches,
uphill slogs and downhill slides,
Daddy had slowed, turned left in front of me,
and made his way home.
Someday when I cross through the twilight,
the divine veiled divide,
into the mystery of beyond,
I hope that those who see my handful of ashes
will feel somehow lighter.
I hope their heart will warm.
I hope they will smile and think,
somebody’s home.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

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Tangled in a Tree

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

There’s a balloon
caught high in a neighbor’s tree.
I’ve been keeping an eye on it for weeks.
At first it looked like a grand butterfly
flapping oversized wings
as the wind tried to blow it down.
It never dropped but day by day
shrank until it dangled,
entangled and trapped in twiggy tentacles.
Each breath of the breeze
makes it wave like a flag,
flapping and flashing gold-red in the sun.
My mind wants to make something natural of it—
perhaps it’s a precariously perched hawk
or a squirrel out on a limb,
maybe a clump of mistletoe
or an angel trumpet bloom,
maybe one last giant red autumn leaf
clinging to this leafless winter tree.
But this metallic dangling thing is not natural,
probably poses a danger
to birds,
to squirrels,
to buds that will come in the spring.
I once untangled a robin caught in a string
that was, in turn, snagged in a bush.
I once freed a sparrow
whose foot was trapped
in the bars of a feeder.
I remember how helpless they were,
weighing almost nothing
but fighting with every ounce to get free.
So I hope that before a bird is tangled
in this saggy baggy balloon,
the ribbon will wear thin,
the mylar will tear,
and the danger will fall from the tree
to be tossed into someone’s trash can.
But for now, there’s a deflated balloon
dangling high in a neighbor’s tree.
I’ll enjoy the magic of its changing colors
as the sun comes and goes,
the surprise of its shifting shapes
as the wind sighs and blows.
I’ll keep an eye on it.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

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Fog

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

(Today we have snow. Tomorrow ice. But a couple of days ago…)

A sweet sparrow-song wakes me this morning,
a tumble of bell-tones,
a liquid waterfall of notes
echoed somewhere in the distance
by a fellow sparrow singing in answer,
“Good morning, good morning.”
And what a gentle good morning it is.
A feather-soft cloud of fog
has silently settled
on us,
with us,
around us.
Nature has drawn a shawl of whispery mist
across her shoulders,
turning stoic trees into
shy, wispy silhouettes
barely visible through the veil of silver-white.
The rays of the rising sun scatter
through droplets of drifting cloud,
spreading a soft glow
that gradually brightens and lightens,
easing the silver of dawn into
a golden pink, cloud-hugged morning.
The sunlight is insistent,
though today it has to swim in,
but little by little, trees become more distinct.
Roofs emerge.
Just as quietly as it descended,
the fog lifts.
Nature sheds her shawl.
Still and soft,
the day opens.
A sweet sparrow-song,
a tumble of bell-tones,
liquid waterfall of notes
echoes somewhere in the distance.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

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“Lovely,” She Said

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

Last week at the grocery store
as I reached for my usual carton of eggs,
the brown ones,
the large ones,
chilled and nesting
in soft gray cardboard,
I heard a woman’s voice behind me.
“Lovely eggs,” she murmured.
“Lovely eggs.”
I turned to look.
“Sorry,” said the young woman
scanning the stacked shelves,
“I’m talking to myself.”
I smiled. “No need to be sorry.
It’s a beautiful thing to say.”
I turned back to the carton I held,
which now felt precious,
a fragile treasure.
I gently opened it,
checked each egg for cracks,
as I always do,
but this time with a sense of wonder.
What a marvel an egg is.
Truly, a holy marvel.
Round, smooth, a miracle in a shell,
it holds life—
in one form to fuel me,
in another, to morph into its own small self.
I have been in awe of eggs for days now.
And this week when I went to the store,
I paused before the bin of bananas.
“Lovely bananas,” I murmured.
“Lovely.”
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

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Following the Fingerprints

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

A morning shower has cocooned us
in clouds of soft silver gray,
embroidering our window screens
with seed pearls of glinting, dewy
droplets.
I am warming myself with hot coffee,
not in my usual smoothly curved,
factory-fashioned white cup
but in a handmade pottery mug
ringed by ridges
formed by the potter’s fingers
deftly pinching and pulling the clay
as it whirled on a wheel somewhere.
This mug is glazed shiny brown on the outside,
light pink-lavender within,
though the pink is now halfway hidden
by steaming coffee.
As I sip, I notice the potter’s thumbprint,
a dip pressed with purpose
exactly at the point
where the handle meets the mug’s rim,
a place where my thumb also rests
to hold the mug.
It’s a tiny, thoughtful gift
from someone I’ll never meet.
My right hand fingers hug the handle,
and my thumb rests in the thumbprint.
My left-hand fingers curve around the mug,
finding and following the fingerprints of the potter.
As I hold this mug,
I hold the potter’s hand, and
even though I’ll never know the potter,
I feel a genuine gesture of generosity,
a connection of kindness,
of comfort,
of kinship.
I’m grateful for this unknown potter
whose presence in this present moment
is bringing warmth and goodness
to the start of a soft,
silver gray day.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

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Biting Into a New Year

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

This time of year,
the morning sun rises
in the bamboo next door,
sparkling through breezy leaves
as it outshines the night-stars,
sends them into hiding.
These are the dawns,
crisp, cold, and snappy,
that make biting into this new year
feel like biting into a fresh, crisp apple,
the first crunch and snap,
first fistful of round red goodness,
first taste of tart sweetness,
first scent of the promise of joy,
first yes to the perfect imperfection
of wholeness,
of what I hold in my hand,
of what I hold in my heart,
of what I hope for.
A few days ago, I cut an apple in half
crosswise,
discovered again a star hidden inside,
a star holding seeds.
We think of our heart as heart-shaped,
but maybe it’s more star-shaped,
unseen
like deep-space stars tucked away in daytime,
like the star tucked away at the core of an apple,
holding seeds to scatter in this new year,
seeds of love and kindness,
grace and goodness,
help and hope.
As we bite into a new year,
may we look for the star in each other.
May we look for the star in ourselves.
May we be generous with the seeds we hold.
May we shine.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

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When Quiet is Loud

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

The last of the holiday guests
(grown children, their children,
and one new dog)
have just driven away, headed home.
There are sheets to wash,
floors to sweep,
leftovers to freeze,
gift boxes to put in the recycle,
but I sit down in my comfy chair
and simply listen.
I don’t want to miss this moment,
for it comes only once a year,
this moment when quiet is loud,
thick as dense fog,
and heavy from holding so much weight—
lots of laughter,
a few tears,
the eager energy of children,
the willing weariness of grownups,
newly made memories,
hopes for the future.
I take this time
(for silence this deep demands time)
to absorb it into my heart,
knowing I will carry this quiet
like a treasure.
I breathe into the absence of noise,
let it breathe itself into me,
let it thrum like a pulse.
A jet flies over.
A neighbor starts his leaf blower.
Birdsong breaks through.
There are sheets to wash,
floors to sweep,
leftovers to freeze,
gift boxes to put in the recycle,
and a rich quietness
to carry into a new year.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

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I Wonder About Dogs

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

From windows beside my desk,
my second-story perch,
I watch the weather change,
see the seasons come and go.
Another new year is on the way,
and I wonder what lies ahead.
But today sparkles with sunlight
defining sharp angles of rooftops
into bright brown triangles,
shaded rhombus shapes,
shingles hatched with pine tree shadows.
One garage roof slopes at a perfect slant
to show a snippet of the street beyond,
a few feet at most,
just enough to watch a small dog trot past,
in and out of frame.
A few seconds later, her human enters the scene
strides across, soon out of sight.
Before long, a larger dog ambles by,
followed by another dog-lover.
Then another dog and his person stroll past.
It looks to be a delightful dog-walking day.
(But I have a cat, and an old one at that.
I will not be walking my cat
no matter how glorious the weather.)
I wonder if the dogs know where they’re going.
I wonder if their walkers know.
I’ve been told that, unlike cats,
who attach to place,
dogs attach to people.
Dogs may not know where they’re going,
but they know who they’re going with,
so I imagine they’re quite happy
to be out and about.
As I head toward a new year,
as much as I’d like to tunnel
under the covers like a cat,
I’m facing the future more like a dog.
I don’t know where I’m going,
but I do know who I’m going with,
and that’s what really matters.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

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No Looking at the Calendar

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

A magenta dianthus peeked out of its pot
on my back deck this week,
its petals curled, shivering in the chill
but bright and hopeful anyway.
“Have you not seen the calendar?” I ask.
“It’s mid-December.
Tomorrow will be below freezing.”
But my garden does not look at the calendar,
does not care that I’m thinking Winter.
No, my garden feels its way day by day
according to the whims of the weather,
for seasons can be fickle,
can change in a heartbeat,
serve up winter in spring
or spring in winter.
So gardens ride the swing of the seasons,
sense the sway from fair to frosty,
frying pan hot to freezer cold.
Each plant, on its own timetable,
blooms or goes to seed
by some inborn instinct.
Here, today, halfway through December,
a neighbor’s tree is sprouting spring green.
A gaggle of black-eyed Susans
glow yellow-gold in the shy sunshine.
Purple pansies huddle together,
friendly-faced nodding gossips.
And the leaves of the lenten roses
are stretching up and out
to let the world know
we’ve not been forgotten;
they will soon bloom.
Nature’s wisdom says
ride the swing of the seasons,
for December can still bloom,
and swaying between fair and frosty
is the way life works.
Nature’s wisdom says the calendar does not dictate
when to bloom and when to fade.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:
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Twenty-seven Degrees

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

Twenty-seven degrees.
A cardinal is caroling,
bright as a holiday ornament
in the bare branches of the elm tree.
Robins gather in a circle
around the heated birdbath.
I bundle up to go to the grocery store.
I feel rather chipmunkish in my habits,
scurrying out to get food,
hurrying home to halfway hibernate.
I have bought yeast
and flour and eggs and butter.
I have all the cozy ingredients
to bake bread.
And I do.
Fresh baked bread is comfort food,
gives the air a buttery warm smell.
I hold my cold hands
over the open oven door
where the rising heat drifts up and out
like the breath of a hot summer breeze.
Outside, the chilly joy of twenty-seven degrees.
Inside, the warm joy of an open oven door.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

Shadow of the week:

Carry the Calm

Karyn Henley

Author: karynhenleyauthor

Somebody’s Home

Tangled in a Tree

Fog

“Lovely,” She Said

Following the Fingerprints

Biting Into a New Year

When Quiet is Loud

I Wonder About Dogs

No Looking at the Calendar

Twenty-seven Degrees