Pine Trees and Peonies

Hello lovely people who read this blog.

You are beautiful.

Also, I spent the whole weekend engaged in some delicate shenanigans outside of the gulch (yes, it happens sometimes.) I have so much to be thankful for and to talk about and dwell over, but I am tired, and honestly don't see me being able to write a post for the past week.

I just want to say that my birthday was really quite wonderful. It was filled with shoveling piles of horse poop and old food, lovely ganache tarts made by the gentle wonder Rebecca, many birthday hugs, Boston Cream Pie made by the gently strong and handsome Jack, some dinner dishes, some dharma discussions, and of course, plenty of zaz'. I also received just so many wonderful and thoughtful well-wishes from my loves elsewhere, and I can't even begin to touch on just how much it all meant to me. I love so many people, and I am immensely grateful. There is no other way I'd rather spend my life, no other way at all, than to be loving all of you.

I was also treated to a wonderful bonfire on Saturday and Juniper took me today to see the new Star Trek. I don't know, I'm just overwhelmed so often with how fortunate I am.

I am also tired. So, without further ado, I wanted to share with you 2 poems that were shared with me this past week, in lieu of a regular post. I'll make up for it next week, I promise.

The first one is a Mary Oliver poem (Mary Oliver's a Zen Center favorite) that the elegant and lovely Isabelle shared during our last class with Wendy last Sunday.

The second one is a poem that my mother shared with me because she thought I'd like it. I sure did.

They are both sublimely poignant and stilling.

"Peonies" by Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open —
pools of lace,
white and pink —
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities —
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?

"I Hear You Call, Pine Tree" by Yone Naguchi

I hear you call, pine tree, I hear you upon the hill, by the silent                          pond where the lotus flowers bloom, I hear you call, pine tree.        What is it you call, pine tree, when the rain falls, when the winds blow, and when the stars appear, what is it you call, pine tree?         I hear you call, pine tree, but I am blind, and do not know how to reach you, pine tree. Who will take me to you, pine tree?