glass between us made

our first hello memorable.

spring birds are singing

isn't she wonderful?

cream blossoms

fresh rain

wonder among us,

her name

One day I met a man who talked of glaciers and supple cottonwood bark.

He pauses to acknowledge a jabbering Blue Jay just as he pauses mid walk to acknowledge driftwood in my hands.

I thought it was just as beautiful too. 

I'll leave you with this- he says multiple times- then changes his mind and continues. 

He names trees and wooden rings and how he once loaded valley rocks into his station wagon.

I notice a small notepad and pen in his hand with tidy black letters 

Slanted on a light blue cusp and suddenly want to know what they say.

Word by word he smooths out a grain of apprehension on my shoulder 

Until the spring morning is more alive to me because it is so alive to him. 

If you gather flat glaciers stones, you can paint on those.

If you want to sandpaper your driftwood, it's quite receptive to wood burning or writing messages. 

"I call it drift words" he says. 

    One day I met an artist who left me with this.

It just so happens that

I am carrying a bag of carrots

when I spy the brown rabbit.

Thrilled by this brilliant moment,

I crouch under the shrub beside the rabbit

and talk devotedly to the animal

with round glossy eyes

who listens in return. 

I grab a just-so-happens carrot

and toss it on the damp mud 

since most friendships

bond over snacks

and Shrub and I have carrots in common.

The next day I go out to find 

Shrub under the bushes 

and find the carrot has disappeared. 

I learned something new about my grandma today. 

During her studies, she gave lectures on art at the stellar museum in the city. She drew and painted and drew and painted until people who saw her work said, 'amazing'. And then she did something unexpected after she graduated: she burned every inch of her studio art until no trace was left. 

I never knew this. I'm left hanging on a thread, to where this story ends in smoke. I imagine her charcoal trees brought to gray ruins while her blended impressions burned, the paint swirls hissed, those crisscrossed lines melted on canvas and paper until her expressions were all, all, all gone. 

My grandma did not pretend to love her art, even though others did. My grandma did not pretend anything. 

A week or so after I heard this story, I built a bonfire surrounded by snow. I know the dance of mesmerizing flames- how the blazing metamorphosis of wood and paper in fire is exquisite. 

So when exquisite things burn, is the fire more beautiful or is it something else? Is it any different? 

I heap snow on the bonfire until all the colorful embers and flames disappear in a hissing song. Gray threads of smoke linger then fade. The evening light is now dim and I am left to wonder. Wishes, they float in empty places. I wish I could have asked her, did you ever regret your choice? Or did the fire cleanse you.

o holy night

the stars are brightly shining

it is the night of our dear Savior's birth

long lay the world 

in sin and error pining

till he appeared and 

the soul felt it's worth

a thrill of hope 

a weary world rejoices

for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn

 

fall on your knees

o hear the angels voices

o night, divine

o night, when Christ was born 

o night, divine 

Would it be enough if I just woke up? 

on Christmas. 

If I didn’t finish the list

or the advent devotional.

If I only drink lukecold coffee today

(not even lukewarm, just lukecold coffee)

and the piles stay piled.

Is that enough? 

That depends. 

Is the thought of eating whole coffee beans straight out of the bag 

enough to make you smile?

(yes)

Back to the real question. 

Would it be enough if I just showed up