Dreaming Between Photographs

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

I sleep between past and future.
On the wide windowsill to one side of my bed,
a single frame holds black and white photos
of my mom and dad, newlyweds,
shortly after World War II.
On the left, Mom stands at the kitchen sink,
apron over her sweater and skirt,
smiling at the camera while
washing a white enameled pot.
On the right, Dad also smiles at the camera.
He wears a suit and bow tie
and sits at a breakfast table,
a cup of coffee in hand,
a newspaper spread before him.
On the windowsill on the other side of my bed,
a single picture frame holds color school photos
of two of my grandchildren, whose mom is Japanese.
Before Dad died at 95,
he pointed out that in the war,
he joined the Navy to fight the Japanese.
Now, here, decades later,
his granddaughter-in-law was from Japan,
two of his great-grandchildren were half Japanese,
and he dearly loved them all.
Who could have predicted it?
I would say the thought blew his mind.
He would simply laugh softly and say,
“Isn’t that something!”

I sleep between that past and future.
I live between that past and future.
I dream between that past and future,
hoping that someday all of us will see each other
with new, clear, gracious eyes
and that fear and anger over our differences
will dissipate like a fog in the sunlight
and we will see each other
with open hearts,
with wonder,
and softly laugh and say,
“Isn’t that something!”
For it really is something.
It’s peace.
It’s joy.
It’s the mystery and brilliance
of love.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

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Every Drenched Thing

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

Every drenched thing bows to the rain—
branches weighed down with water,
marigolds sated and soggy,
lilies drooping and dripping.
This is not a cool, crisp perk-me-up rain
but a bucket dump so heavy
that it will leave a sultry, thick wet blanket
lazing on the lawn,
steaming the garden.
As the downpour eases to a steady silver shower,
clouds drift apart,
sunlight elbows through,
I scan the sky expectantly,
hopefully…
and I am not disappointed.
Against a billowed backdrop
of blue-gray clouds,
a veil of color gently curves,
gift of rain and sun,
sign of hope,
smile of God,
heaven’s arms holding space,
sharing the secret that all light holds:
a glorious variety of hues,
reminder of the glorious variety of humans,
of plants, animals,
rocks, rivers,
skies, seas.
I can’t help but smile and hope,
for on the other side of the rain
there is a luminous bridge,
arcing in a joyful embrace of us all.
On the other side of the rain
is a rainbow.
-kh-

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The Word that Waved

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

Has a word ever waved to you
from something you were reading,
like a kid in school, hand held high,
Me! Me! Choose me!
“Expansive.”
The word waved to me,
sat up and saluted,
highlighted itself,
and I paused,
right then,
right there,
hooked and held.
Expansive.
The word unfolds
like opening hands,
arms swinging out,
stretching,
reaching beyond.
Expansive
raises my head,
puts a smile on my face
fills me with a feeling of all’s well.
Expansive says,
“Here is the gift,
sun warming your face,
breath of air flicking your hair,
call-and-response, bird to bird,
scent of blooming and greening things,
the embrace of invisible strands
of love and goodness
weaving through the universe,
vining and twining and blooming
in small acts of generous grace
or large acts of courage and kindness.
Expansive says
there is room—
room for you,
room for me,
room for all of us
in this universe of abundant,
all-embracing
love and goodness
that flow freely
like light seeping through cracks,
like springwater bubbling up through rocks,
like breezes drifting through open windows.
Love and goodness
find their way,
refuse to be bound,
refuse to be hoarded,
grow and overflow.
They wave—“Choose me”—
for love and goodness
are forever and always
expansive.
-kh-

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Who Knew?

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

“There was an old woman tossed up in a basket,
Nineteen times as high as the moon;
And where she was going, I couldn’t but ask it,
For in her hand she carried a broom.

“‘Old woman, old woman, old woman,’ said I,
O whither, O whither, O whither so high?’
‘To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky!’
‘Shall I go with you?’ ‘Aye, by and by.’”

There was a time,
years and years ago,
when an old woman swept the sky,*
when the moon was the North Wind’s cookie,**
and when Mrs. Peck-Pigeon
went pecking for bread.***
Who knew that such a long ago time
would take root and grow into
a warm, spacious place-of-mind,
a pool of peace,
a cup of all-is-well within me.
Of course, out in the big, wide world,
all is not well
and was not well even then,
but my heart tiptoes back
to this landing place where I can
hold the open hand of hope,
find gentle joy,
and open again and again
the treasure box
of childhood dreams and imagining,
where all things are possible
and the currency of trade is
simple kindness.
Who knew that such a pool
of goodness and trust
would never dry up
but would be there still,
seventy years on and counting.
Who knew that it would call to me
on bright spring days,
that it would be my “land of nod”
on the darkest of nights.
Who could know?
But even now,
the moon is the North Wind’s cookie,
Mrs. Peck Pigeon still peck, peck, pecks,
the old woman still sweeps the sky.
I still ask her, “Shall I go with you?”
And she still replies,
“Aye. By and by.”
-kh

*nursery rhyme **Vachel Lindsay *** Eleanor Farjeon

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

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At the Tail End of Winter

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

Joy is the crocus, who
does not wait for spring
but will push her way up
even through snow
to wake the world.
Fresh and new,
her purple peeks through
undaunted by chill wind,
bright in brown grass,
stretching up as if to say,
“See? Here I am!”
Or rather, “Here we are,”
for she brings sisters with her every year.
They rival the soon-to-come daffodils
and the Lenten roses
to be first to announce
the warm gladness of coming spring
even as the tail end of winter whips by.
Such small blooms,
they can come and go unnoticed.
But for those who watch
for early signs of spring,
the crocus is a generous grace.
She is hope.
She is faithful.
She is bold joy
on a cold day.
-kh-

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Splashes in the Birdbath

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

Rain has come at last,

a slow, soil-soaking rain

welcomed by wilting asters

drooping marigolds

and me.

Each droplet dimples

the water in the birdbath,

each splash makes small-bird waves

that ripple out and overlap the others.

Another ripple, unseen but real,

touches and tugs me today,

a ripple of friends

who gathered last night,

an assortment of artists

soul-touched by

the grace of nonjudgment,

the freedom to discover

the art in ourselves,

to discover ourselves in our art.

A first splash rippled out years ago,

found us, overlapped us,

sent our own ripples circling wider.

Everyone washes the world

in waves that widen and overlap.

May our waves be full of

goodness and grace

to restore,

to renew hope,

to refresh

our thirsty world.

-kh-

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Steady and Soft, Damaging and Deadly

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

After weeks of drought,

the rains finally came,

steady and soft.

I sat back and listened to

the soft tap of droplets

showering the windowpane,

the white noise of water boiling

in the kettle,

the gentle creak

of the rocking chair,

whispery gusts of wind,

the hum of the fridge,

the purr of the cat,

the turn of a page,

the distant whir of a jet in flight,

fading into the sound of the rain,

the delicious,

life-giving

rain.

This is not

what my friend heard

in North Carolina,

for this same storm system

that brought me sweet,

life-giving rain

wore a wild mood

when it reached her

rushing in a raging torrent,

a damaging, deadly downpour.

In my back yard,

when the rain ended,

the renewed trees dripped,

sated and peaceful.

Birds warbled and chortled,

branch to branch,

tree to tree,

a clear, world-washed song.

When the rain ended

in my friend’s back yard,

trees lay uprooted,

muddy floods of river water

swirled and swallowed

tangled branches.

I have to believe that birds

still sang from the tip-top

of whatever withstood the storm—

peaked roofs,

stubbornly strong trees,

a post, a pole,

a precariously tilted sign.

May the birds always sing

their ancient wisdom,

their song of courage,

comfort,

and hope.

-kh-

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Having the Maybes

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

I’m having the maybes today.

The longer I live,

the more maybes I have.

Maybe I will breathe easier.

Maybe my shoulders will

relax—

or my arms

or my hands,

maybe all three.

Maybe peace will come.

Maybe I’ll

be still

long enough to feel it,

know it,

catch it,

carry it within me.

Maybe I’ll get an insight—

or not.

Maybe I’ll never be

so arrogantly sure of myself

ever again.

Maybe my heart will

re-tune itself to hum

a richer, fuller

melody.

Maybe I’ll hear Life laughing

in delight

at me and my

maybes.

Is this wishful thinking?

Is it hope?

No matter.

Maybe my maybes will

come true.

-kh-

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A Waterfall of Music

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

I’ve heard it said that

often, when we think we’re

hungry,

we’re really just

thirsty.

On a walk this week,

I thought I was hungry for

talk radio,

hoping to find hope

somewhere in news and analysis.

But then,

sandwiched between

one segment and

the next,

came an interlude of music,

gentle piano,

a drifting melody.

I paused,

closed my eyes,

let liquid notes pour over me,

a waterfall,

a silver stream of serenity,

freshening, cooling,

full of hope.

As I opened my eyes,

I realized

I had not been hungry after all

but thirsty,

thirsty for the

soul full,

drenching,

quenching

grace

music.

-kh-

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So Many Reasons

Posted by karynhenleyauthor

The sky is crying today,

softly, slowly dripping tears down my windows.

And why wouldn’t it?

The world is rumbling, tumbling,

churning, turning,

so much hurt,

so much hate,

so many reasons to cry.

But past the teardrops on my window screen,

I can see two squirrels

skittering up the trunk of a pine tree,

its branches stretching high

brushing away the tears in the crying sky.

The two squirrels have made a runway

through the deep green maze of pines.

They scamper in stops and starts up and down.

On the way up, they carry bundles of fresh

spring leaves they’ve nibbled off the bushes below.

They’re building a nest near the tip-top

in a thicket of pine needles.

It’s almost invisible, a dark bulk

nestled between branches,

swaying in the breeze.

I assume squirrels do this every spring—

build their penthouse nests—

but this is the first time I’ve seen them

carrying greenery,

refurbishing their nursery.

I suppose they know what they’re doing,

trusting swaying pines

not to toss them out but to rock them,

not to crash but cradle them.

So I’m trusting those little squirrels

and the pine trees too.

I’m trusting the return of spring,

the bloom of dogwood,

the robin hopping along the porch rail.

Trees sway,

skies cry,

the world churns,

but we will gather fresh bundles of hope,

carry them along the mazes of our world,

jump the chasms,

bridge the gaps,

and build at the very top,

stretching high into the crying sky

to brush away the tears.

– kh –

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

Nature of the week:

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Carry the Calm

Karyn Henley

hope

Dreaming Between Photographs

Every Drenched Thing

The Word that Waved

Who Knew?

At the Tail End of Winter

Splashes in the Birdbath

Steady and Soft, Damaging and Deadly

Having the Maybes

A Waterfall of Music

So Many Reasons