9:10 a.m. yoga mantra:
“When in doubt,
exhale it out.”
Without our breath,
and our ability
to let go of the negativity
in the world,
we have nothing.
6:56 p.m. sunset capture:
“Inhale the magic,
exhale the tragic.”
Without our compass,
and our agility
to embrace the possibilities
on the horizon,
we have lost all hope.
To enjoy more of my poetry, buy A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
Passing acquaintances, like months in a parade of forgotten years, come and go with a dry desert breeze and the turn of a page.
But kindred friends–no matter how long they’ve been gone–turn our heads and rekindle our spirits when they or their memories appear.
We greet them with an open door, a place at or near the table, and the promise of more chapters to write in the chambers of our hearts.
In the base of nature’s jagged bowl, weighty wings of clouds gather and descend. Endless cascades of cleansing tears appear to wash tangled unsuspecting souls.
“Fly away” they shout. “Show us those we knew are lasting. Bathe us in revealing light and budding promise. Help us replenish and remember what has gone.”
***
This poem is dedicated to all those who have gone before us. To enjoy more of my poetry, buy my latest book–A Path I Might Have Missed–on Amazon.
We begin with a fresh slate.
As we embark on this even-numbered journey, the season reminds us that we get to decide what to keep. What to build upon. What to change or cherish.
It’s time to relinquish extra pounds, unhealthy habits, and heavy losses. To let them fall away so that we can focus on luscious fruits, ripe with possibilities.
***
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From time to time, it’s important to take stock of where we’ve been and how we’ve grown. In that spirit, as December’s light wanes, I look back over the fence at 2023.
Here are ten important things–in no particular order–I’ve learned (or been reminded of) this year. Each is connected to one or more blog posts I wrote in the past twelve months.
***
#1: Creative opportunities are rare butterflies; grab them when they appear.
#2: Music transforms the human heart with joy and hope.
#3: Cats are resourceful, cuddly, and conniving characters.
#4: Losing someone you love to suicide is devastating.
#5: Trees keep us rooted to the places we love most.
#6: Good poetry simply IS; no explanations are required.
#7: My husband is a sweet guy, who really knows his movies.
#8: Carol Burnett is a national treasure and a kind human being.
#9: You can’t replace your mother or father, but you can remember them fondly.
#10: We all need a sense of community to connect and nourish our souls.
***
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Nature’s mid-century palms rose early without caffeine’s jolt. The quartet whisked breakfast into curls of golden cotton candy best consumed in a wondrous hush.
Perched on sprinkled pavement and slanted roofs, a mix of mourning doves, misplaced pigeons, and I marveled at December’s delight beyond distant flurries.
***
To enjoy more of my poetry, buy my latest book–A Path I Might Have Missed–on Amazon.
Today in the United States we celebrate Thanksgiving. It is easy to become consumed by the preparations for this holiday. To focus on the feast we will consume, while many in the world aren’t as fortunate.
But there is greater meaning–in our bodies, hearts, and minds–when we pause and recount what makes life satisfying beyond the things that adorn our days.
I am thankful every day for the love of family past and present, friends and neighbors near and far, good health and the ability to write and sing, gorgeous trees and furry critters that grace our lives, and most definitely the world Tom and I have discovered and created together inside and outside our Arizona home.
Wherever you live, thank you for joining me on this journey. I am thankful for the ability to connect with you–for this opportunity to share my voice through words, images, ideas and memories–every day.
I’ve found my comfy chair on the edge of town. No reservation required.
It’s my way station when I need a quiet break from the weary world.
Last week, one of them sat nearby while I napped. I didn’t mind.
In fact, it eased my mind to be closer than before. He thought so too.
I’ve trained them to leave morsels–salmon or tuna–outside their door.
Lately, I’ve ventured inside to enjoy a snack and sniff around their place.
I don’t stay long. I’m out the door until next time … whenever that may be.
***
If you enjoy my poetry and photography, purchase a copy of A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
The quietest slices keep us whole and hopeful. If we let the snippets slip past without noticing, we are missing the moments, the essence, the connecting tissue, the story of life itself.
If you enjoy my poetry and photography, purchase a copy of A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
In October 2019, I puttered in my garden as I often do.
I had already begun to assemble tongue-in-cheek and serious stories about life in the Grand Canyon State. But I needed a creative hook to link the essays and my desert fantasies to the wide-open experience of living in Arizona.
Strangely, sagging citrus tree branches provided the stimulus for my book title. While they impeded our sidewalk, identifying the obstacle cleared a path in my brain. Tom stood by as seven words flew from my mouth and tumbled into the arid Arizona air: “I Think I’ll Prune the Lemon Tree.”
***
Nearly four years have passed. In early 2021, I completed and published my book. Folks near and far have told me how much they’ve enjoyed reading it.
Of course, I hope more will discover it and find meaning in the essays, including those I wrote about living in a global community we never imagined–a place I call Coronaville.
This afternoon I found myself in the same space outside my front door, examining the same tree, realizing it needed another haircut. I grabbed the loppers, pulled on my gardening gloves, and pruned only the most problematic branches that hung low.
Sadly, there were a few lemon casualties that fell to the earth looking more like green limes than the fully matured lemons they might have become in December.
Still, I think I did a good thing for Tom and me … and our neighbors and delivery people, who pass daily on the sidewalk of our mid-twentieth-century condo community and go about their lives under the radar.
And the lemon tree? It’s now shapelier than before and has inspired me to write yet another story about the possibilities at play in nature.
Mark Johnson Stories 