paint

She is such an artist, the sun.

I watched her rise today,

a brilliant yellow-orange backdrop

to the dark green silhouette

of the neighbors’ bamboo.

Her morning gold, silent as breath,

spreads wide,

slides between cane and leaf,

creates a shape-shifting mosaic,

light and dark,

shadow and shine.

She shoulders higher up the sky

with wise warmth,

quietly whitening thin-stretched clouds

feathered across the high, icy blue.

She is just getting started,

for the whole world is her canvas,

and she takes her time,

for she has all the time in the world.

Her fluid beauty ebbs and flows

as shade and light flirt,

drift,

slow dance,

weaving magic into the day,

sparking autumn-touched treetops

into gold and copper leaf-flames.

She is angling now to give us

her brightest and best

even as the days shorten and cool.

I will watch her paint this day.

I will watch her dance with shadow.

And maybe I, too,

will dance.

-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.

The photograph is square

with scalloped edges,

a black and white picture of

a preschool girl with chubby cheeks

and curly blonde hair—

me hugging a sapling,

probably a mesquite,

for this is West Texas.

This is where I grew up.

_____

Through the window of the jet

I look down on L.A.,

buildings shoulder to shoulder,

crowding the path to the Pacific.

After years away, I’m returning,

feeling again the spark of excitement,

the expansive optimism

where all seems possible.

Here I was a newlywed.

Here I became a mother.

Here I became we instead of me.

This is where I grew up.

_____

At my desk in Nashville,

an email from writer friends

summons a scene:

a snowbound Vermont campus,

a steel-cold January wind,

and warm MFA graduates,

honoring our different ages,

our disparate backgrounds,

our varied beliefs.

Here the we in me opened, expanded.

This is where I grew up.

_____

In the studio,

I pound a fist of paint

onto wall-sized paper,

learn that art has no right, no wrong,

discover the marks of my hands,

the art of my heart,

the kindness and freedom of

non-judgment.

Here I find myself again,

become me instead of we.

This is where I grew up.

_____

In West Texas,

in a back yard of full-grown ash trees,

I climb the redwood fence,

pose for a photo beside my sisters,

the stone house behind us empty,

soon to be sold now that

Dad has died.

Here is where life breaks all bounds,

breaks all hearts.

This is where I grew up.

_____

I suppose that on my own deathbed,

if I’m lucky enough to know my mind,

a bit of a smile will come—

to my lips maybe,

to my heart surely—

and I will think, yes.

Here.

Now.

This.

This

is where I grow up.

-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.

Carry the Calm

Karyn Henley

Where I Grew Up