1      Listen to my advice:

when you visit the sights in Kings Canyon,

don’t miss the lushness

and grandeur of Zumwalt Meadow.

Take the path through the forest,

past the Indian grinding rock,

and across the bridge;

then follow the curve of the canyon

to the meadow in its scintillating freshness,

full of rushes and reeds,

butterflies, wild roses, and perhaps a bear.

Travel ‘round this wonder

against the backdrop of tumbled granite;

you will re-enter the forest

planted by streams of water,

ripe with ferns and mosquitos and raspberries.

At the fork in the path,

you can circle ‘round

and return to the beginning

or you can continue this forest path toward Road’s End.

The path to Road’s End is simple –

tree cover with a mix of cedar, oak, and pine,

undergrowth of dappled light, gnats, raspberry bushes,

steep banks and river to the left,

canyon wall rising on the right,

an undemanding wonderland

where feet can wander.

Soon the forest opens,

lighter, brighter,

trees trimmed and cleared by fire

and a lush carpet of fern and fine flowers

matured now in the second spring

contrasts with pillars of darkened trunks.

At the curve, where the canyon wall comes close

and the berries are ripening on the western slope

just before the fallen boulders jumble with wild grapes,

there, Hummingbird Glade will open up to you.

 

 

This is where to go.

At eight o’clock in the morning,

when the dew is glittering on leaf and stem:

here, if you wait across the path,

softly nestled in berry bushes,

you will see dozens of hummingbirds

arrive for their morning ritual:

flitting through streaming light,

hovering and dancing with their tribe,

taking deep draughts of water

from delicate petals and leaves.

Stand in the quiet and witness this lovely congregation;

take part in this sweet sacrament

where a charred stand of trees

holds session with a blazing world.

Let the glistening drops

poised on plant and tiny beak

slake the thirst of your heart.

 

 

In the canyon by Pyramid Creek on the trail to Horsetail Falls.

4      The source in the dark,

The womb in the sea,

The moon and the mist calling home,

      (breathe)  

The sun is the heartbeat,

The mountains the strength,

      (breathe)

The voice of the river,

The wind is the breath,

The trees are the arms around.

Here I am, unafraid.

 

 

5      I came back to the land:

thirsty and longing, a little shy,

mind jumbled with thoughts,

anxieties crawling my skin.

A stiff, demanding landing set me on edge

and my thoughts profused:

“It won’t come to me this time.”

“I’m too swallowed up by obligation.
“I won’t know how to open.”

“I’m too shut down.”

“I won’t hear their voices.”

Walking through camp in an ordinary moment,

my arising intention: allowing.                             Arrival

 

The first night I slept well, solid,

but awakened early to the call of the cool morning.

The day was a reacquaintanceship:

a greeting song composed itself by the waters of Sheep Creek,

Grizzly Falls baptized me in irreverent mist,

robins and their babies congregated busily,

the dry and rocky forest floor

summoned me to walk and worship.

I did the rounds of all the human places,

river roared and roared,

old wind, that dear friend who keeps singing me alive

greeted me with joyful, breathy laughter.

and Luna – waning to a whisper

with her sky of blazing companions –

held a shimmering sacred blanket wide open over me.

And so, the joy!                                   Connection

 

The second night I could not sleep:

restless at the threshold of the spirit world,

nervous with some deep, rising energy,

bored with my own mind games,

entranced by flickering stars,

comforted by the stream’s soothing voice.

My inner spring broke through at high dark:

my children newborn,

overwhelming me with my belonging to them,

their pitiful cries and playful years,

the songs we sang,

the lake we swam,

the ways they grew awkwardly into their own dear selves,

the echoes of their voices, “Momma!”

One word replied to this bubbling dream: childless.

 

“Not now, not here, not yet…” I said aloud

as the weeping began.

But the door was open and I had passed through,

into the great temple of my earth heart.

 

 

 

And this is what was waiting for me:

a journey I didn’t want,

the secret darkness of my self-pity and rage and pride,

the strength of my unwillingness,

the longing I will take to the grave.

And so, the grief.                                Opening

 

Truth is, I never know what awaits

when I enter the great cathedral of the land.

It is different every time:

I am different,

these Beings are dynamic and responsive,

the gift is in the wound,

I am held to the depth of my openness,

there is nothing but reality (truth) here.                          Reflection

 

The nature card I chose last night was Millipede:

eats grasses and herbs,

eats decaying matter.

And so I am to be fed by the freshest of life,

the fragrant, the lush,

and by the rank, foul disintegration

of life fallen into death.

 

I can’t say thank you;

but gratitude is an old friend:

she will possess me

when I am ready.

Until then, at this outset of my pilgrimage,

if initial signs are anything,

it’s going to be one hell of a ride.                         Acceptance

 

 

18    Let me swallow this rock,

settle it low down deep,

sitting heavy between my hips.

Let me take it in

the way I encompass my mate,

a pleasure and a pressing weight.

Let me hold this rock

in the grip of my desire,

as it holds me, an internal presence

pressing against me,

growing a quiet fever,

generating impulses of beauty, bliss, death.

Let me heed this rock,

oracle that sun bakes, moon chills,

that shifts slowly, holds long,

exudes strength, echoes stillness.

Let me be this rock,

and when the time comes,

to crack lightning and

hurl down wreckage.

Let me carry this rock,

a swaying weight,

balancing day and night,

casting down the cliff,

obedient to gravity,

emanating silence over the land.

 

 

The Palace at King’s River

21    Down by the river today,

picking her way

gently across slick rocks and remains of trees, walking

wand in hand, hood up, glasses glinting

in the spare mountain air,

my friend, wise hippie hermit,

measures her steps

across wobbles of stone and sandy dirt,

casting an owl’s eye

on the water jumbling and beseeching

for breath, song, prayer.

Where will she land?

Tree-shrouded alcove or bouldered expanse?

Like a wily animal, she checks gingerly

for cushion, strength, and curve.

Finally, sweet bottom fussed

atop a granite chair,

ground and sloped to a comfortable throne,

her contemplation begins in dappled shade next to water’s edge,

willow arms floating on her thighs,

longing eyes lowered in seductive gaze,

hair lifted by breeze’s hand.

She flows into some secret communion

of solitude, heartbreak, and luscious infinity;

there, still and somehow perfect.

 

 

From my own perch

next to wild cavorting tumult,

I can’t stop staring at this silent queen

humming with the universe,

bathed in misty coolness.

 

A visit to the high country.

24    Now, now that I am here in the splendor,

the words drop away

in favor of the curved baby pine

with the white trunk there

with its sisters, gazing stoutly and freshly at the magnificence.

 

Or is the magnificence there for it,

holding it so dearly in the earth-wind-water-sky-rock cathedral,

its own sacred heart,

worshiping it, giving to it, loving it?

 

How does it take hold? How does it live

so brightly and so humbly, here in its place,

some well-chosen random place that now sings

because of this one earnest pine?

 

And I ache for you to live forever,

to take root in my heart,

to never let me forget.

I want to touch you

and carry you around with me,

plant you and raise you up —

and never be far from you,

for what you teach me

and how you make me cry

and how you grew straight out of the rock for me, for me, for me.

 

And see, all of your relations are here. And I am here.

 

Medicine Summer arrives.

XX    I looked today and found a confetti of black feathers

in that hidden grassy alcove beneath the deck.

Yesterday it was a fresh corpse –

bones and blood gruesomely exposed,

flies feasting, guts drying,

and a downy head tilted softly against the earth.

And the day before that you were a juvenile crow

fledged early, quietly taking cover in my garden

while your wings and body grew strong enough to fly,

cawing adults keeping watch overhead.

And the day before that, you were a chick

happily leaning on your parents for sustenance

high in the canopy of the ancient oak next door.

 

A few weeks ago, I noticed two crows taking up residence

in a sheltered, curving branch.

I waited for your appearance; this was not the event I expected.

 

And last week, it was your sibling,

early fledged, sick and infected

sun-stroked, dead on my walkway.

 

And tomorrow, it will be yet another just down the street,

stranded in the open by some enfeeblement,

a dark, watchful penitent

reduced overnight to one perfect flightless wing.

 

What is it with these dying crows?

Were they fated by some pestilence or unlucky in parentage?

Is my neighborhood so brutal with its skunks, raccoons, cats, dogs?

 

It wasn’t just that you died, little one;

it was the shock of my hopefulness turned to stone,

tumbling down my throat

into the pile of rocks grinding away in my belly.

 

I fell into your spell:

your sweet, gentle hiding;

the solemnness of your stillness;

your wary eye keeping watch;

your delicate life, a flower just blooming.

 

I kept vigil with you,

waiting, noticing from a distance,

wild thing.

 

Grief and hope, I become part of it.

 

 

Appendix A

Correlations with the canonical Psalms

 

 

• “Happy are those who do not…take the path that sinners tread, or sit in the seat of scoffers…They are like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither.” (Ps. 1:1,3) 4/2017

4      “The Lord hears when I call to him….I will both lie down and sleep in peace.” (Ps. 4:3b, 8a) 2015-2016

5      “But I…will enter your house, I will bow down towards your holy temple, in awe of you….But let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them ever sing for joy. Spread your protection over them, so that those who love your name may exult in you. (Ps. 5:7, 11) 6/2016

18    “The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer, my God, my rock in whom I take refuge….In my distress I called upon the Lord….Then the earth reeled and rocked; the foundations of the mountains trembled and quaked….For who is God except the Lord? And who is a rock besides our God?—the God who girded me with strength.” (Ps 18: 2a, 6,31-32) 3/2017

21    “In your strength the king rejoices, O Lord, and in your help how greatly he exults!…For you meet him with rich blessings; you set a crown of fine gold on his head. He asked you for life; you gave it to him…splendor and majesty you bestow on him.” (Ps. 21: 1,3,4a,5b) 5/2017

24    “The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it, the world, and those who live in it….Who shall ascend the hill of the Lord? And who shall stand in his holy place?” (Ps. 24:1,3) 9/2015