The hawk comes every day now. He swept across my vision that first time seizing my attention like unwary prey landed just outside the window and hunched down to stare at me. I have seen eagles up close crows, cormorants, herons all unmistakably lovely but this was different. He arrived…

The shaman’s dog comes and rests her head on my knee as if she sees my condition: puddled here in weird shapes and colors played out like an old guitar. In times before, I was tight knit, wound up I knew things or things knew me I went places and acted on…

I like my alone-time. It’s best enjoyed outdoors. Heading off into the woods to hike, camp or just sit with a tree in meditation sounds like bliss to me. I once lived on a small island off the coast of Washington in a cabin situated in a patch of old-growth…

Do not deal in the currency of cynicism. The value of that coin is falling due to inflation. Rather, cherish wonder which becomes rarer each year until it falls on the ear like a forgotten language you knew before you knew what knowing was. Children deal naturally in wonder they have it in abundance they pay it out…

Life Lessons From the Guinean Backroads Many years ago I lived in Guinea, West Africa during a stint as a volunteer grant writer for the International Rescue Committee. My position meant traveling around the country to visit refugee camps and report on our programs. The transportation was usually hot, crowded…

A Daily Practice of Reconnection There is an eye staring at me from the window of the house across the street. Whenever I look up from my writing, I see it: a giant eye looking back at me. Knowing it’s the reflection of a tree branch distorted in a way that evinces the shape of…

There are two kinds of poets. One moves through the world collecting words like a woman placing gems into a reed basket. Words that burn and cool words that soar and sink that lift the spirit or strangle the breath. Words come from everywhere: the rails of train stations in rural India a coil of sunlight through…

My heart is rain-soaked sorrow-filled sodden to overflowing. It fills me to bursting and leaks from every pore until I could water the world with it. I was taught one must not write about the heart rather, find metaphor use other colors to paint the thing one wants to express. …

Stop what you are doing and listen to the world breathe.