Advent 2017: Missives from Hibernation


I've gotten a few nudges from some of you. "Are you going to post every day for Advent again this year?"

After much consideration, my answer is "No,"  though I'll post as the Spirit moves (which may be a lot). The word coming up for me this year is "hibernation." Taking a cue from winter's quiet, listening to what's inside of me, doing some service work, spending time with my growing-up-too fast kids, reading, putting off clients until January, sleeping in with my cute husband whenever possible.

From an Advent devotional called "All Creation Waits" by Gayle Boss, I read this today:

For us, as for our ancestors, the dark end of the year brings unrest. It is an end. It comes without our asking and makes plain how little of life’s course we control. This uncertainty, we don’t know how to mark. And so it marks us. We feel weighted, gloomy even, and we feel guilty because voices everywhere...sing out “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...December sadness is no reason for guilt. It is a sign of being wide awake in the world, awake enough to sense loss...there is a way to engage that sadness. That way is Advent.

How beautiful.

For the last several years, I've struggled with Seasonal Affective Disorder. In the Pacific Northwest, it's not only dark, but WET. The idea of hibernation is helping me go into this season intentionally, like the animals do, knowing that the darkness and silence can actually be my cue to be still, to wait, to conserve energy, feel whatever I feel.

I hope, in reading this, you give yourself the same permission if you need it. Permission to buy less. To eat less rich food. Permission to listen to music, read, take a fast from social media, say "no" to conversations or endeavors that keep you in life-sucking energy expenditures. And the "what for" isn't so we can just be happier human beings and feel less stress. It's all so we can really be in this world of ours, cherishing it and one another, not hiding from what's real. There are terrible things going down right this instant (especially if you're marginalized in any way) and the world needs our gifts. Our voices. Our outrage. So it follows that we really need to rest. I'll be here, too.


Thankgsiving and Sorrow


Friends, as I write this I am perched in my living room letting my sister and Mom do all the work. I sprained my ankle this morning and spent all morning in the emergency room. I'm so relieved it wasn't a fracture (it sure FELT like one!), and I'm laughing that the universe is giving me a big fat lesson in RECEIVING today. Apparently Operation Hibernation is commencing with more vigor than I had anticipated.

There are countless things to be thankful for today and every day. But I've been teaching a class on White Privilege, too, and I'm also acutely aware this year of how this holiday came from subjugation. It usually doesn't happen to me very often that I feel only one thing. Despair comes with anger, happiness comes with wistfulness. Today, thanksgiving comes with sorrow, and I think there's wisdom in feeling it all. Emily and I are reading Miriam Greenspan's "Healing through the Dark Emotions," and Miriam would tell us there isn't a path to growth without going through fear, shame, and despair.

I woke up thinking about all that this morning, and here's a very unedited poem about waking to rain and reality. I'm thankful for all the Native Americans that have survived, and this poem is for them. I'm sorry.

Thanksgiving and Sorrow

Looks like the long Thanksgiving walk I imagined is doomed
unless we want to get soaked and track mud through the house
I spent all day cleaning.

For all our preparations--grocery store runs, baking pies,
setting tables and sending emails--
we are still at the mercy of this earth
and whatever deluge or gift it is hiding.

The first Thanksgiving wasn't a sweet, inclusive feast
with candlelit expressions of gratitude
or the peacemaking we love to imagine.

The Pilgrims gave thanks
after they'd massacred Indians,
raised bloody glasses to conquest, wealth, domination.

Lord, I am ashamed to come from them.

Help me make room at my table
for the storms and the rain, for the stories
I want to forget.

Help me make room for the outrage and heartbreak
that's mine to steward,
for the thanksgiving that will come
only when we've set a place for everyone,
when we've surveyed the damage
and called it our own,
when we know that saying prayers
will never be enough.


I'm Ready for Hibernation


At the gas station where you stop, are there video monitors on the pumps that tell you what to buy? And what to watch? Ads on the backs of your receipts, and now even in the middle of NPR programming?

Do you get notifications on your phone or watch that make everything feel frantic and urgent? Is your mailbox full of campaigns and products trying to get your attention? Is your own head full of voices and prompts that aren't your own, masking that soul of yours that's always there?

Me too. And the end of the year, my tolerance for all of it starts to wear thin. I feel the need for hibernation almost like a hunger, something I need to address before my blood sugar drops and I can't go on anymore. I wrote this poem yesterday in a moment like that, and some of it's on the chalkboard wall in my office, too. As Jane Kenyon says, "Let evening come." I'm ready.

I'm Leaving Now

Hibernation is a survival skill.
Let it get dark.
Let it get quiet.

Let yourself be missed,

Whatever energy is left,
save it for yourself,
for a long, lumbering sleep

that lets you return to the world
lean, hungry,
and awake.

Sunday Morning Thank You


Like many of you, I'm sure, I've just had a week. The house is cyclonic, there's no clean underwear in my drawer, and Loretta reminded me last night that I still haven't paid her piano teacher for the month. I facilitated seven back-to-back retreats and trainings since Monday and it's as if my "ON" switch is stuck, the motor about to burn out.

So waking up this Sunday morning to a quiet house without anything on the calendar feels too good to be true.

Our four-year-old neighbor was here yesterday afternoon. Loretta played dolls with her (she keeps them for that purpose) and all the accoutrements are spread out over the couch. (At least that means the dog won't sleep there.) On the kitchen table right now is a New Yorker, a baby present bought for a friend, stacks of mail, Yancey's computer, my computer, a shaker of red pepper flakes, a Bluetooth speaker, and some books for work. And some little plastic fingerboards that Wyatt was doing tricks with last night. On the kitchen counter is Loretta's bike helmet, a cooler we used for road-tripping to Wyatt's basketball tournament yesterday, Wyatt's computer, Loretta's book, and little flakes of kosher salt over everything.

And I woke up this morning happy about all of it. I stayed in bed reading Bill Hayes' book Insomniac City about moving to NYC after his partner died, about falling in love with Oliver Sacks (who had never been partnered at 75), about taking photos in NYC, watching the sunset from their rooftop. I got it from the library yesterday, started it at 10:00 last night, and finished it from 5-7. One of those kind of books. The kind I wanted to get up and tell you about. Divine. Perfection. The kind that breaks your heart and makes you love life all over again. And then I wrote this poem. Happy Sunday.

Sunday Morning Thank You

Finally, a free Sunday.
I wake up at five, eager to exploit
the commitment-free hours.
I plan to clean the fridge and make it look
more like my friend Lisa’s fridge,
little tubs of roasted squash and cut carrots
beautifully waiting for the week.

Then I will fold the laundry
that’s been piling up for two weeks,
dumping it out on my bed,
maybe listening to a little early Christmas music,
and probably reminding myself
that I need more socks.

My daughter and I have planned to go to church.
The men of the house are gone,
leaving us free to revel in the little rituals we both love,
probably slurping Vietnamese soup afterward
and debriefing Sunday school, where she is the oldest
(which she both loves and hates).

There will be coffee and later, wine,
maybe a walk with the dog when the rain lets up,
maybe a letter written to Emily
whose mailbox I love to fill.

But first—blessedly first!—are these two hours
under the covers with the old gooseneck lamp humming,
these two hours when I finish my book,
the one I got just yesterday
from the library, the one about finding love,
the one about grief and curiosity, the one
that makes me want to write this poem,
to notice every last thing about this day which,
inexplicably, I’ve been given.

Don't Blink


Oh boy. I am overrun with nostalgia lately. There's nothing like your kid starting high school to 1) Make you feel old and 2) Make you teary all the *&#*ing time.

I have finally started to call myself a poet, accepting that I love brevity and that, for better or for worse, I'll always be trying to collect images and crystallize them in as few words as possible. It sure is helping these days, when I can hardly keep up with the world inside and outside my doors.

I've been riding my bike more lately, too, and I've found it's a recipe for more clarity, more connection to myself and what's happening around me. That's what happened this morning when I passed Whatcom Middle School and immediately looked for Wyatt on the playfield.

Wherever you are today and whatever you're doing, I hope you're happy and wistful and engaged and growing.

Don’t Blink

Riding past the middle school playfield,
clusters of kids in the morning sun,
I remember with a jolt
that you aren’t one of them anymore.
I thought I’d have those three years
to stretch my legs, take a breath,
get my parenting act together.
Teach you how to cook a few essentials,
maybe take you to Yellowstone or New York City,
figure you out more than I have.

High school started without much fanfare.
I’ve discovered I have to stay up late
for any chance of sliding
into that thin envelope of light and tenderness,
the one where you laugh at my jokes,
I fix you a sandwich,
and we’re not strangers anymore.

Song of a Reformer


Song of a Reformer

I can't stop trying to be good.
It's my illness, though some days
it's in remission.

By the river, I take my shoes and socks off,
find a flat rock and patch of sun,
let the glacial water baptize me.

See how the river cuts its own path,
how the valley surrenders,
how the eddies and currents, unruly,
are as good and as beautiful
as anything I've ever seen.

Morning Wake Up


Morning Wake Up

He's a hard sleeper just like his dad.
When I say his name, touch his arm,
he sleeptalks and says he's getting up.
I sit on the bed's edge for another minute,
straighten his twisted covers,
look at him with the kind of love
he'd squirm under if awake,
the kind of longing I had
that first morning,
the room spinning around me,
every cell in my trembling body
saying, Thank You. Thank You.

So Long, Emily

There's Hurricane Harvey and the West Wing travesty and a non-native salmon spill in Puget Sound. And famine in Africa.

But tonight, there's Emily flying to California for the year, and then who knows what after that. She's my person, as anyone who's read this blog even once probably knows. We are good at staying connected and it will take a hell of a lot more than this move to change that.

But still. Sad and it's all a little surreal. Nothing to do but write a poem. I love you, sister.

So Long

You'll get on the plane
and text me when you land.
I'll see you before Christmas
and fill your virtual and actual mailboxes.

But you won't be leaving notes
on my desk,
walking my dog,
sleeping in my house
like you are tonight,
your breath, body, footfall,
your "I am here"
always making me
into the wildest, loveliest
dream of myself.

Little Poems for Dark Days #13

Little Poems for Dark Days #13

End of the day, nothing written yet.
If I have anything to say,
it's thank you.
Thank you for my life,
thank you for this anger,
geyser of revolt rising up in me,
that part of me that won't sit down,
cloud of witnesses
who won't be silenced,
worker in the field,
first responder in his boat,
writer with her pen,
refugee in his tent,
loud Chorus of Love
on the bleakest, most sodden of plains,
singing though there's every reason
not to.

Little Poems for Dark Days #11

Little Poems for Dark Days #11

I'm tired of the bitter river!/Tired of the bars!
(Langston Hughes)

Whether it's because we built an ark
with blood money
or happened to be born
on top of a hill,
those of us on dry land
have always been smug,
directing others not to be angry
or to work harder
or to have more faith.
What's that you say?
This bitter river comes for us?

Little Poems for Dark Days #10

Little Poems for Dark Days #10

Today my free tote bag came in the mail.
The fridge is full of washed fruit and little yogurts.
I manage to clear my desk,
send a note to my aunt,
have an idea for a poem
or the urge to learn something--
tennis or Spanish or pickle-making.
Sparks in the dark, all of it,
sticks and tinder, hope against hope,
making fire in the cold.