December 28, 2016. The year 2016 is just about spent – a year to be remembered for many losses. On the numerology front, 2016 is a “9” – the completing year in recurring 9-year cycles; 2017 starts us off on a new “1”. Perhaps losses are obscure completions we must reluctantly release.
The image is a mesquite seed pod, aglow at sunset in the Rio Grande Valley. Hanging on with tenacity, intrigue, beauty. But not for long.
December 21, 2016. Solstice dawned clear and sunny, a welcome followup to our first freeze a couple nights ag0, repeated, repeated – now history except for the abundance of plants turning into mush piles. The Brugmansia was trying to bloom another round. For a week prior to the freeze I gave it daily encouragement (with a hint of hurry up!) This morning I stood transfixed by rising sunlight beaming through the still-green wilted leaves and the still-yellow tubular buds – a different sort of beauty, a different sort of strength holding my attention – model for stepping into a radical change of seasons. Many dire circumstances could derail its Spring emergence, but Brugmansia isn’t burdened with worst-case scenarios. (Oh, for such clarity of being.)
December 7, 2016. The world swirls with opinions, oppositions, petitions, all manner of unpleasant realities. I wrote this poem the morning after the November US election and set it aside till I could think more clearly. I keep humming to myself the last line of Ray Wylie Hubbard’s “The Messenger” – I just want to see what’s next. Then and still, the view is murky.
December 1, 2016. December rolled in on a cold front – but a clear blue sky made for warmth when properly positioned in line with the Sun. I couldn’t resist, and out I went with my journal. Luckily, I had the camera phone in my pocket to capture the take-over that ensued. Ziggy showed me an even better way to sit in the sun.