Awakening Collision



Yesterday during our lovely hike through the Bosque, there was a funny moment that turned poetic. The Bosque’s land and vegetation sprawled around us, lush from the recent rains, just beautiful, the air unusually humid. We cut from the wider woods path to the smaller path beside the Rio Grande, below the tall cottonwoods. And then a large insect collided with me, bumping me, hovering around. I couldn’t get away—I screamed!

I stepped back, re-focused my eyes, and realized, actually, it wasn’t an attacking insect, but a cocoon suspended in the air at chest-height, dangling all the way below the tall treetops above. A bagworm moth larva, Google identified. Suspended mid-air, he slowly revolved after our collision, and the top of his fringed cocoon was open, with the worm’s head poked out, along with a few arms.

Bagworms adorn their bag-like cocoons with bits of leaves and other debris till their cocoons are shingled with textures, like hobo tents cobbled together from whatever’s around. This cocoon slowly revolved suspended, with the larva’s head wiggling from the top as he tried to figure things out. Quite a predicament, thirty feet below the tree branch, dangling in a big heavy cocoon on a thin strand of silk.

A couple of the larva’s hands held tufts of cotton stuffing, which seemed to line the inside of his cocoon. He waved his handfuls of cotton and kind of mouthed the strand he dangled from, as if trying to winch himself the thirty feet back upward.

It certainly seemed his cocoon’s top should have been closed and the larva kept tidy so he could change. He was nowhere near done with his transformation, and had no moth characteristics in sight.

We watched him, took some video clips, and then walked on down the path, leaving him to his destiny, revolving mid-air under the trees by the river—to winch himself back up, or seal back closed his cocoon, or get swallowed up by a dog leaping for a treat.

What an awakening collision with that moth larva in his cocoon by the Rio Grande. And of course, it’s always funny to get spooked and afterwards still hear the echo of your own stock “terrified woman” scream. I keep chuckling.



Antennas and Reception

Just a tilt can do it. Some of my favorite times are the glimpsed patchwork memories that overlay a moment and suddenly have me living in two places at once.

Yesterday, as we drove through a rush hour intersection and I glanced up at the hanging green streetlight, was it the raised slope of my gaze that fired distinct synapses? Because then I found myself concurrently in a live memory of sitting by a lake house window almost three decades ago, gazing at the creamy sunlight shining past the green trees. Flash! I was there, drinking in the land and quiet. Just as I was when I was fourteen, there I was in Virginia again. And I’ve always been the same me whether fourteen or forty-two.

We drove on through the Albuquerque intersection, and was it that as soon as my gaze lowered the live memory was gone? Or did it escape along with my awareness of where my relaxation and visions were originating. In any case, I was more fulfilled for the memory, as we drove on past the drivers and orange construction cones, that I can go so many other places, and that I’ll always be me.

Our brains seem like such electrical operations, with currents and tiny connections that produce 3D miracles, and respond, just like a faulty radio, to a little tilting or even a good shake.

Real Life Account of Surviving

faery silhouette


Here’s the real life account of surviving. It’s not staged with theme music or applause.

The greatest achievements and miracles happen alone in private, even though society is in love with the spotlight and disbelieves any value that isn’t bought by the crowd. One day, I’d like applause too, but I don’t want to abandon my soul’s gold to get it. So I stay in the dappled shade by the trees, along with my miracles and meaningfulness and divine love.

It’s their eyes, I try to remember, that don’t know how to adjust beyond the spotlight so they can actually see. We’re blessed when we know we are, not when someone else agrees.

I Find You in the Timing

I was thinking of something else when I realized, O, was I hanging out with my dad last night in my dream? And then it seemed like his presence was recent, that connection we shared.

What was he saying?, I tried to recall.

The chorus of the song playing cut in then, and the timing was perfect enough to feel choreographed:

“And I can only say

that I have hoped for you

safety from fears and darkness.

Are you feeling better

than before?”

It sounded like him at his best. The song is called “You Are the Light.”
I keep listening to it.

Two Views

This life, huh? Who even knows about it, but we continue on anyway because it’s mealtime and someone has to cook. We strive toward ideals and then have to learn the skills to accept what actually happens. Society lauds lofty goals and impressive treasures, and then we each deal privately with the real necessities in life—fortitude, forgiveness, adaptation, love. Those are the ingredients that make or break a life. How do we keep going and make a good time of it. Part of creating a successful, valuable life involves looking past the highlighted targets and aiming at those subtle bulls’-eyes that would create the most difference, despite what others say, whether or not anyone else can see them. I don’t understand why there are these two realities so contrasting—the public view of life and the private. But so it is.

(This is what my left hand had to say today.  It’s fruitful to give it the pen sometimes.)

How to Turn Warmth and Light

Here’s a little piece I wrote almost a month ago, April 28, 2015.  I just reread it and thought I’d share.  It reminds me of how wherever we’re at, we’re mid-transition, all the time.

*  *  *

Isn’t it nuts that it’s almost Beltane? It’s fascinating to feel the seasons turn inside me, to feel my soil churning and warming and observe the new growth pushing past my surface, knowing what to do all on its own, how to turn warmth and light and nutrients into all these new aspects of me, growing and strengthening and one day able to bloom. I even have some small blooms opening on me now—like ground-cover plants with many tiny white blossoms—seemingly unscented till you bend way down, get your nose right in there, and then you can catch its small sweet whiff. That might not seem so impressive unless you knew how thoroughly never-ending-winter I’ve felt, how I was trying to be okay with being fallow, since I couldn’t find a choice in the condition, how I thought winter was how I’d stay, so I struggled to swallow the clay and call it water. But now, standing on the raised lip on the edge of May, I see and feel the new shoots growing through my inner compost, breaking up the old death and rot, combining ingredients, adding heat and energy to waste, until my humble opening blossoms release a breath fresh and sweet. Miracles of life. It’s in the live moment that I receive the world and myself.

Mes Merize


Praying mantis on the screen outside my window, languorously cleaning herself — licking elbows to wipe around and across her ruby eyes, swiveling her triangular head — completely mesmerizes me, puts me in a spell as I observe for I don’t know how long, and then she tilts her head back to face me and we just watch each other. She tracks my movements in 20 degree shifts of her neck’s angle, and finally lifts a folded arm to lick her elbow and slowly, carefully continue preening the top of her head.