(No. 67 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Recently I chose to retire from my day job–well, OK, a career of many years in public transportation. Though daunting in some ways, this opportunity provided a chance to reflect deeply on the work and heartfelt sense of community that happens when one is fortunate to pursue “right livelihood” with a collection of bright, soulful people.
Before leaving, I interviewed an array of folks I have worked with for years, came to see more clearly how we have deeply and permanently affected each other. What a gift!

And now, the journey continues–further up and further in.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

Outside my window
a varied thrush, dressed
for upland migration,
beckons. I step onto the porch,
hear a spotted towhee as it shuffles the ground;
note movement in the red stem dogwood—
someone with white eye streak, but not
a nuthatch. Now a strange
warbling from those cedars—
a traveler, not yet
revealed.

I have learned many things in varied realms from my daughter.  Of course, she serves as my tech advisor and is the webmistress of this blog.  She is, by some reckonings, a “cultural creative/early adapter.”  If the Zeitgeist has waves, Ariel somehow manages to surf the big forward curl.  I’d long noticed and forgiven her tendency to plug into Internet ethers several times each hour.  After all, it could be very useful (see Reality Check under 2007 archives).  But I wasn’t surprised when she decided the time had come to sign off a night a week.  Instantly the press picked up on this (she’s well connected to media), and once again she landed precisely in the cultural pocket.  

I was, myself, clicking away, mind off in virtual gabfests,  when the above mentioned thrush said Hey!

(No. 60 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

It’s odd, being single at my age. Full of all kinds of learnings, thanks to the insights of age. But there are those times like the one described here. Meanwhile, I am a slow adapter to technology. My daughter, like so many her age and younger, is a relatively early adapter. So, when her message showed up, I was delighted but clueless.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

(No. 87 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Many layers of time may be found in the canyonlands. This moment was experienced during a recent visit to Canyonlands National Park (via the White Rim Road).

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

Though it’s charming when a shapely
word leaps to caress us, sometimes
it must be sought and wooed.
A true word Romeo stops at nothing,
however mad, bad, or dangerous
the seduction.

Brother Two-L,
you are
welcome.

John Willson is a fellow poet in my community, an all around nice guy, and leads a poetry workshop I often attend. One night John brought a fine piece which utilized his old high school Master combination padlock as the metaphor stitching together his reflections. None of us could name the part of the lock he was referring to as the “u-bolt,” which was clearly not the right word. Google came through. The true pleasure in John’s voice when he called was palpable, revealing that the missing word was “shackle.”

Thanks, Google.