I’ve been carving a book out of my best work from the last few years and it really seems to be coming together. Some days I think it’s crap, but on those days I think everything is crap.  Other days, I am kind of shocked by it and believe it has a chance to do something in the world. Either way, thanks to a recent grant, I’ll begin sending it out to test against the senses of others. I’m both being ambitious and keeping my hopes low. But I thought I’d run it through a little test before releasing my full grip. Below you see a Wordle image—a congregation of the words most commonly used in the manuscript. My only surprise came from the giant “like” with the e’s gaping mouth about to devour whatever words come near it. Hopefully this doesn’t happen in the poems themselves. Though, I guess it could be worse.

We like walking with River. A lot. It’s one of the few activities that we seem to enjoy equally at this point. We usually snuggle him up in warm clothes and a cheap sling that let’s him face out, then it’s out the back gate and up the hill.

We don’t love everything about where we live, but really, we can’t complain. The “usual” is a two ravine walk, which takes us deep through two untraveled ravines, a creek cutting through the middle. When I say untraveled, I mean I rarely ever see anyone out there, which is strange because it is wildly beautiful.

Even in mid summer it is dark in the ravine’s hold. Enormous old stumps suggest the immensity of the first forests and the trail rises and falls, winding, always to the tune of running water. It’s here we found the salmonberries early summer, and here we hope some of River’s first memories will be from.

Sometimes I get tired or lazy and think to cut the walk short after one ravine, but then I am reminded that my time with River is rare and will not always be this tranquil. So I push on and thank River for the lesson.

Yesterday made me love the fall. It was raining and we walked under the small roof of a colorful umbrella. Leaves spun and glided down in the wind and the creek was running high. Every part of the day—all the pieces of the place around us—felt so tenuous and temporary. Which made me love it more, and River too, I think. I wished I’d had the camera, but knew that wouldn’t capture it either.

It could be. This place is cozy, as in small, as in warm and with good lighting. Currently, it boasts a wall of custom shelving and a built in desk. Many of my books have found a new home here, as well as trinkets from all my travels. Yes, this could be a love shack, but it will be a shack that loves words.

If I have any say, I’ll spend my mornings here, slipping out of the house early with a mug of coffee and, hopefully, the urge to write. Soon it will have a built in window seat for sitting back with a good book, should I need to learn from those patient teachers. I have a view of the chicken coop, what’s left of our once-lush garden and, down through some trees, the house.

It’s raining outside and I couldn’t feel more tucked away. If I have any say, this place is going to house the best of my writing mind, so that when I show up I’ll be ready for work. And though I’m not even fifty feet from the house, it feels away. Intention is built into the walls.

It’s taken some time to convert the old playhouse-turned-shed into this little dream of a shack, but damn, I’m glad we stuck with it.

I miss summer. It was just a few weeks ago when the light lingered and the days were dry, and upon stepping outside everything still felt possible. Of course, I love the rain too and have been dazzled—yes, dazzled—by the fall colors. This year has been particularly striking in the northwest. Right now I’m looking at a bush with iridescent pink leaves, surrounded by the ubiquitous green of everything else. Not so bad. But when it comes down to it, summer is my season.

I know I couldn’t love it as much if it weren’t for the rest of the year’s variety, but the season’s warmth and lushness, the way it moves about lingering—all that stuff clicks with my spirit.

Last night I roasted some green tomatoes from our garden. I picked them knowing they weren’t going to ripen, and while they were delicious, it was a sad polarity from the early summer’s green tomatoes, when eagerness and impatience caused me to grab a few fruits from the vine.

Good things? It’s soup season and the writing shack is almost done (pictures coming soon). The never-ending chicken coop just needs a roof and I’m about to get that sucker on there so we can have some hens and their inevitably delicious eggs. River. Coffee’s always good. And knowing that summer is only, like, seven months away.

If you haven’t decided to buy a copy of my new book (or haven’t even thought about it, or entertained the idea of thinking about it), here is a poem from the collection, which seems particularly relevant this time of year. Though, there is more to it than the season, I hope.

_______________

Autumn

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There is a time when god never stops speaking,
when the flagrant red tongues of leaves burn
against the sky, when the spirit flares up,
rushing through the branches
with a voice disbelievers call wind,
when words belong to whatever field
of air they fall through, whatever patch of land
they come upon, and whosoever walks
through their crackling must listen,
cannot help but listen, cannot possibly
be alive and not hear the words
that every bush is burning to say.

_______________

from The Smallest Working Pieces

Yeah, yeah. Most everyone expects this and understands it: when you have a baby your life takes on a different shape. For the most part, though, Elle and I have fit in a good many adventures with the boy strapped on. We’ve been busy and happy, tired and excited.

It seems though, that among all that we are able to fit in, neither of us are getting much socializing in. Which is fine for the most part. But I’m starting to feel that we both need a bit more of that outside energy, and more often. So last night Elle was out for tapas with Jane (where Jane fed a stranger his tapas because, as a quadriplegic, he had come to the restaurant alone, on his birthday. Sweet Jane). (P.S. the poem draft this inspired can be heard below). And this afternoon I’m meeting a friend for coffee and then a few friends for a beer.

We’ve still got a lot of finessing to do with our daily schedules. River’s been a bit demanding lately and Elie’s taking the brunt. We need more dedicated family time and a better plan for the next few years. It’ll all come together, but I’m glad for the small steps we’re taking daily. Baby steps, I guess you’d call them. (Sorry, that was awful, but I hope you can hear my sick laughter behind the words). Click play now.

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My “office” is currently a cluttered desk in the corner of the living room/dining room/kitchen, a heavy traffic area, an area thick with the smell of good food and the sounds of baby talk. My doubtfully heavy Smith~Corona is dry of ink, covered in newspapers, loose change, stamps, old mail. The window sill is a failing shelf, stacked with bills, receipts, loose change and job applications. Books scattered on the floor. Messenger bags. A chair draped with half a dozen sweaters and shirts. Two pairs of slippers.

I had to get out of the house today. I’ve been establishing bad habits, getting nothing done. So, I swung by two coffee shops, both annoyingly full, before making it to a third location with plenty of open tables. It happens to be right next to a Half Price books and I thought, what the hell, maybe I’ll find a book that will change my life. And as much as words can do such a thing on a cool, blustery, damp fall day—they did.

I picked up a copy of Marie Howe’s What the Living Do and damn near read half of it without blinking. Well, my heart blinked. I coughed. I held the book to my chest and thanked Marie for being such an amazing writer. Brave, necessary poems.

And even in the noisy coffee shop, I felt quieted. I became focused. I reassessed my current life and made some goals. I drafted a couple poems. I felt a quick return to a part of myself I have been missing for months now. And it’s not as though I haven’t been happy or present. ‘Cause I have. But to get away, for even two hours, allowed me to step outside of the chaos enough to think and hear a little more clearly. I’m so glad I did.

Sigh. I’m pondering big stuff tonight.

I’ve been thinking about the total joke that is our legal system and the sheer disappointment I have in the systems that control so much of our lives. Day to day I am quite happy—I work hard to live in a way I find fulfilling and good for more than myself. I have a good community. I’m surrounded by people who challenge and support me. But all compassion, humanity and common sense reasoning evaporates as soon as we enter the world/business/bureaucracy of our official systems. And before I get lost in lofty and non-specific jabbering, I’ll toss out one small story to give some ground to what I’m saying. You may have already heard it.

This past week a six-year-old boy was sentenced to 45-days at reform school for bringing a spoon/fork/knife combo to school. He had just joined the cub scouts and was so excited that he wanted to use his camping utensil at lunch. This, however, violated the school’s zero-tolerance policy toward weapons in the school environment. This means a teacher or several teachers, a principal and a superintendent had to agree that this boy’s violation was worthy of such punishment.

We assign a black and white framework to a colorful world and rules/laws that are intended to protect people end up doing harm. What are we teaching that six year old boy about the world? Basically, that it makes no sense.

Zero tolerance—to anything—is a lazy and ineffective (non)solution to complex problems. Even a magnificent organization I spent years working for has a zero tolerance policy on drugs. “Great” most people say. But when it comes to enforcing these policies any real chance at helping people is tossed out the window. It might be harder to orchestrate, but if we approached any given situation from a human—rather than system—viewpoint, I guarantee we would have more effective outcomes.

I’m intentionally avoiding other specific—personal—stories that could further demonstrate the broke joke of jail and “the law,” but I’m content to wander the rooms of my mind for a salve to dissatisfaction. I really don’t care if I’m not saying anything new here. Just so long as I’m not adding to the wide-spread practice of indifference.

p.s. — maybe I’m quashing any substance this rant might have had by refusing to get personal, but that’s not really an option right now. So, I guess oh well is the best I can offer.

On Friday and Saturday of every week River and I get some guy time. Just the two of us doing what we do: taking walks, chatting on the couch, spitting up, singing songs, tummy time, spitting up, napping, drinking milk, spitting up, and smiling. It’s a good life and a good reminder of how a simple day can be a fulfilling day.

Elle and I trade off roles during other days and I sometimes have a sense of being pulled elsewhere—that I’d rather get back to writing or whatever else might need to be done. But on Friday and Saturday Elle is off at class for her foundation year of Waldorf teacher training and there is no other choice.

These days I relax, move into our time together with joy and intention. I don’t have a sense of needing to be elsewhere or doing anything other than focusing on River. It’s an attitude I wish I could carry every other day, but I’m glad to have these weekly reminders that our time together, even when it is exhausting, is really a gift. He’s growing quick and things are ever changing. It’s a rare deal that I get to witness as much as I do.

I’m back from my whirlwind trip to New York. After my sleepless overnight flight I bussed into NYC at dawn, the sky warming to a thick red, the skyline more expansive than I could have really known. I was exhausted, a bit zombie-like, but I found my way through a couple cups of coffee and Grand Central Station where I also ran into a friend from Guatemala. Then the train along the Hudson to Sleepy Hollow. One of my amazing editors met me at the train and welcomed me into her home.

The reading was fantastic. Set in a beautiful little museum, the crowd of 70 or so people filled out the place. I read last and felt I really lived within the poems. It was strange to realize just the day before that I knew almost all of the works by heart, that without meaning to I could speak them as though they were just happening to me on the spot. Needless-to-say it was affirming. The whole trip was a glorious tease and I now know I would love to return—much thanks to my warm and generous editors.

***

So, yesterday—instead of reorienting myself to the work before me—we set off to the Olympic Peninsula to go mushroom hunting. The ferry kicked the morning off well, but once back in the car River made it clear this was going to be a rough go. I think he cried more yesterday than in the past couple weeks combined. It was a little tough to have him so worked up, but the day was beautiful, rambling off trail in an old growth hemlock and cedar forest, finding Chanterelles, Hen of the Woods, Oyster and Bolete mushrooms. We’re sorry River, but we made of the day what we could….and I can’t wait to work something up with the new wild edibles.

To cap it off we missed the two ferries we were aiming for and I had to go straight to the reading. I hadn’t showered, but I did have a change of clothes. So, once at the Richard Hugo House, I locked myself briefly in a bathroom, stripped and, well, showered in the sink. I kind of washed my hair and really helped myself to the hand soap. I was midway dressed when the knocks started, but by that point I was feeling refresh and didn’t mind telling whoever had to go that they could wait.

With that kind of prep how could the reading do anything but rock? (Which it did), much thanks to the amazing turnout. There were more people there last night than I’ve seen at any other Castalia thus far. Read some poems, sold some books, saw some great friends. One of the great treats, though, was being blown away by the other readers. Elissa Washuta was sharp and hilarious. Andrew Feld’s new poems were fabulous.

And so I put myself out there again. Let the world do whatever it would. And for the moment I’m  the proud owner of that shining piece of knowledge: I-would-do-it-again.