February 10: Ghosts

Driving home from the gym tonight on Park Street, I passed the house where my grandfather died. The house doesn't always consciously register in my mind when I go by it--which is fairly often, being my main cut-across route from the Y. He only lived there for a few years before he passed away. While I spent a lot of time with him there when I was home from college, mowing his lawn and helping with house-cleaning, it never really felt like his true home to me. My entire life before that, he and my grandmother had lived on a saltwater farm with sheep, chickens, a pet goose, and a big organic garden in Lincolnville. After my grandmother died, he down-sized to the house in town as a way of making his daily life easier and renewing his social life. By his choice, it ended up being where he eventually succumbed to cancer. 

The few times that I think about this as I drive by, I wonder if the people who live there know that someone died in that downstairs room. And I wonder if there's anything of my grandfather's spirit left about the place, if the house is haunted. But if my grandfather's ghost is anywhere, I don't think it's lingering in that nondescript ranch house on Park Street. I would think if his spirit were going to linger, it would be hanging out again at Sea Bluffs, the old farm that was his life's joy... which has now been transformed into a luxury inn. You can sleep in my old bedroom (or his)--both utterly transformed--for $385 a night. My grandfather would have been amazed and delighted by that. 

My grandfather once told me that gulls were his favorite bird. A herring gull would hang out on their chimney, coming down to feed on table scraps strewn on the lawn when called (his name was Joseph). Joseph and his buddies were a constant presence, and my grandfather loved to watch them soar on the sea breeze. He said that it looked like they were sailing around just for the sheer pleasure of it, and that after he died, he'd like to come back as a gull so he could fly like that. Sometimes when I see a flock of gulls in the air, white wings illuminated by sun in a way that renders them positively angelic, I think, Maybe he's up there now, enjoying his wings. 

After passing his house this evening and remembering him thus, I arrived home to find a pre-pub copy of a Maine poetry anthology that includes one of my poems. The poem is an homage to my grandparents' kitchen--a place I remember in the minutest detail and with much love. Sadly, my name is misspelled in the book. The poem doesn't even properly carry my grandfather's surname--pretty much the only tangible thing I have left from him. But my grandfather loved me and was so proud of everything I ever accomplished. Even though they got my name wrong, his unshakeable support of everything I did would have made it seem okay. And he would have been so thrilled that a poem about his kitchen was published in a such a lovely little book. Here's the poem published in the anthology:

Kitchen

There is the ritual of icing the sugar cookies,

the sacrament of eating them:

sheep, reindeer, turkey, tree, little man.

There is the prayer of the old pressed tin ceiling,

litany of the clock with its waxing moon face,

blessing of the cast-iron potbelly stove

fragrant with coffee and rising bread.

The hymn of certain knowledge.

The psalm of bringing it back.

Whether he's a ghost or a gull or simply life essence in the ether, I know he's still with me somehow.

No longer a child
yet still missing what was lost,
I talk to your ghost.

February 9: Leaves in Buddha's Lap

As I left work tonight, enough of a glow remained in the sky that I didn't need a flashlight to find my car. Yet it was dark enough that I could clearly see the two brightest heavenly bodies in the sky--Mars and Sirius--bracketing Mount Battie. (The waning moon had not yet risen.) They were my celestial escorts as I headed into town on my way to the Y. When I got there, I realized I'd forgotten to bring my running stuff. I took that as a sign that I wasn't meant to run tonight and turned around to head home for an unexpectedly free hour. Back between the Red Planet and the Dog Star I went, my mind still churning on work.

As I walked up the front step of my home, a nearby streetlight illuminated the statue of Buddha in my flower bed. He's been buried under snow most of the winter. While the mid-Atlantic states have been getting dumped on the past week or so, our snow has been disappearing, sublimating into the sublime blue skies of these sunny days. So there was Buddha, half-heaped in snowy dead leaves. I thought about clearing away the detritus but decided to let it be. His mildly amused expression caught by the light, Buddha looked completely at peace sitting there with that lapful of dead leaves and ice.

Leaving Buddha, the war god, and the twinkling dog star behind me, I unlocked my front door and suddenly felt a complete sense of calm. Some things ease our minds by drawing us outside ourselves--calling our attention to the infinite reaches of the night sky, for example. Others help us empty the mind and think less: be here now; shut down busy thoughts by briefly meditating on an object of beauty. And then open the door and cross the threshold into the next moment.

Leaves in Buddha's lap--
dry offerings of winter.
Remember: life's short.

February 8: Pint o' Beer

Some days it's hard to find poetry. I spent the entire day in a seminar, rushed through my e-mails during the breaks, and then, when I got home, finished up some other work that had been put off because of the seminar. Where does one find poetry amid all that busy-ness?

I guess I'd have to say I found it in the glass of beer I ordered with my dinner: a pint of Geary's Hampshire Special Ale. I can't remember when I last had a beer, and it tasted really good. Made in Maine, too.

Also, then I read this article about how drinking beer enhances bone density. And Wickipedia tells me that it's the oldest fermented beverage. So by downing my beer tonight, I was staving off osteoporosis, enjoying a brief flashback to college, relaxing after a hectic workday, and carrying on a tradition enjoyed around the world for millenia. (And--though I didn't realize it at the time--toasting my 100th blog post to my Book of Days.) All that in one 16-ounce glass.

Tapping liquid bread
like erudite monks of old,
I channel the past.

February 7: Fireworks

As part of the US National Toboggan Championships held in Camden this weekend, last night there was a fireworks show over Camden Harbor. When told we were going to see them, my niece, who was born on July 5, was confused. "Is tomorrow my birthday?" she asked hopefully, if a bit confused. "Am I going to be four?" We had to explain that these were special fireworks, not like the ones she remembered seeing in Marblehead Harbor this past summer the night before her birthday. Fireworks are fireworks, so even though her birthday wasn't involved, she was still excited.

Bundled in many layers under her little down parka (the bottom layer of which was her shiny blue, pink, and silver-spotted princess dress), Fiona was probably warmer than we adults were. In fact, I offered to carry her on my shoulders just for the added body heat. And perched there amid the small throng gathered at the public landing, she had a perfect view of the display.

Unlike most nights when Camden plans fireworks, last night was perfect (OK, it could have been about 30 degrees warmer, but other than that...) After a striking pink sunset, the night sky was crystal clear, Orion shone bright over Curtis Island--I was able to point out his belt to Fiona--and Mars hovered above the plastic-wrapped windjammers. The walkway at the public landing was lit by pretty ice votives. And the fireworks went on just long enough to make it feel like a worthwhile outing, while not so prolonged that we risked serious frostbite.

When we watched the Fourth of July fireworks this past summer, Fiona was too sensitive to the loud bangs they made to enjoy the spectacle of the light show. Now she was just enough older that she was able to appreciate the bursts of color despite having to cover her ears. Watching fireworks with a kid reminds you how much fun they are. We all "oohed" and "aahed" right along with my niece as we admired the sparkling greens and pinks, the blossoming flowers of sparks and sizzling streamers spread out over the water of the outer harbor. The crowd cheered more than once after a particularly prolonged burst of pyrotechnics, and the grand finale sent us all on our way aglow with the shared fun of small-town pleasures. Now, time to hit the pizza place...

Over the harbor
winter fireworks burst and bloom.
Little girl's face glows.

February 6: Eagle Visitation

As I sat down at my desk this morning and looked out the window, a bald eagle soared through my backyard. A bit startled, I heard myself exclaim, "Whoa!" as it sailed past, following the river's course. It was probably on a mission to terrorize the ducks that congregate downstream at Megunticook Market. The sighting seemed auspicious--keeping in mind that the word "auspicious" derives from the Latin word "auspice," defined by Merriam-Webster as "observation by an augur especially of the flight and feeding of birds to discover omens." An auspex translated patterns of birds. As oracles go, that seems a big step up from reading tea leaves. And as a way to start the day, having a eagle fly by seemed like a positive omen to me.


I also couldn't help but think of the trained eagle that sometimes flies around the stadium at the start of the Super Bowl. Today is the first day of the National Toboggan Championships at the Camden Snow Bowl. Maybe this is our own, wild version of that sports ritual. I confess that I'm always moved to see that eagle soaring around during the pre-game show, though I secretly root for it to keep going and head for open sky instead of back to the arm of its handler. Even though the eagle is by now a tired cliche of freedom, the sight of one flying never fails to stir me. For the eagle's own thoughts on being appropriated as a patriotic metaphor, however, read this recent article from my favorite fake news website, The Onion.


About ten minutes after it flew downriver, the eagle returned. The eagle has landed, I thought. What is it about eagles that elicits these cliches? But land it did, in a tree right in my backyard maybe 50 feet away from my window. A pair of crows gallantly harassed it for a while, forcing it to hop from branch to branch till it found a sturdy one where it could perch securely. The crows were sometimes so close their bodies actually buffeted the eagle, but their bombardment had no effect whatsoever on the larger bird, which never even registered their presence. Eventually they gave up and flew off. 

While I ran from window to window with my camera trying to figure out how to get a photo, the eagle spent several minutes wiping its bill against the dead wood of its perch. Perhaps it had recently fed? Through binoculars, I could see that the top of its head looked a little dirty. That must be a difficult spot for a bird to keep clean. When the eagle stopped its bill-wiping and simply sat there, looking dignified and, well, big, I had to laugh: its expression was exactly that of Sam the Eagle from the Muppet Show. Eagles have a way of paradoxically looking both noble and slightly comical at the same time.


By holding my digital camera up to the eyepiece of my binoculars perched on a windowsill, I was able to take a few blurry shots of the eagle through the screen window. I share them here with some embarrassment:

There's today's eagle, in all its blurry, pixilated glory. It headed back downriver a few minutes ago. Happy hunting! (And if you have some time, would you flap over to the Snow Bowl and circle over my brother-in-law's toboggan team a couple of times? They could use some avian blessings this morning.)


Bird of good omens
pauses here to wipe its bill.
My yard is honored.

February 5: Constellations

Some nights when I look up before going inside each evening and see the constellation of Orion tilting above my house over the southern face of Mount Battie, I feel lucky. It's as if I have a heavenly guardian or something, to see that familiar figure in the profound celestial blue of the winter night sky.

It's human nature to make sense of things, to create patterns out of things, delineate them. Most cultures have their own star stories. We're just trying to shape that vast distant ether, that unknowable vacuum of space pricked with the cold light of millions of distant suns, into something knowable. So we draw lines between different stars and create Orion, the big hunter, or Gemini, the twins, or Taurus, the bull, or Cassiopeia, the queen on her thrown. And we note the singular stars, the ones that stand out: Polaris, the North Star; Sirius, the brightest; Betelgeuse, a red giant.

But really, Orion is no sky king or starry god. And he's certainly not watching over me. "He" is just a collection of stars that in reality aren't anywhere near each other. Seen three dimensionally from somewhere out in the galaxy, the three stars that line up so nicely to create Orion's belt aren't lined up at all. They're light years apart any way you look at them. Really, there's no order out there. The stars, as I understand it, are just particles hurtling away from the Big Bang that started it all--shrapnel. And we're all just along for the ride.

We tell stories to comfort ourselves. But some nights, I don't see any stories in the sky overhead, just an unfathomable emptiness, space stretching infinitely away.

Fathomless night sky
shines with our made-up patterns,
offers cold comfort.

February 4: Soaring Hawk

Tired and a little stressed, I walked into the office this morning huddled against both the cold and the day ahead. Fortunately, I looked up before heading inside. There, in the perfect blue sky above sparkling, snow-powdered Mount Battie, soared a red-tailed hawk. Broad wings spread wide, red tail shining in the morning light, the hawk cut several broad circles in the air before sailing out of sight behind the mountain. Yesterday's all-day storm would have forced it to lay low; today it was free to fly (and hunt). I realize I'm projecting my own feelings onto the bird, but its flight seemed to contain a certain measure of delight as it lifted in the wind.

My guess would be that this is the same red-tail I've observed along the river this winter, the one that keeps agitating the local crows. Today I embraced the sight of it as that of a familiar friend, my spirits momentarily lifted.

Wind-driven red-tail,
thank you for lifting my mood
on your wide-spread wings.

February 3: More Snow

"A dusting of snow." That was today's forecast. Yet a couple of inches of light fluffy snow had accumulated on my car before I'd even left for work. Snow fell all day and it's still falling. Huge flakes drifted in mesmerizing three-dimensional flurries. I hardly needed a shovel to clear the driveway tonight--I might have just swept the driveway clear with a big broom. Though deep, such snow feels harmless, even comforting, softening the landscape. Once again the street grit, frozen sludge, and fallen branches are hidden from sight. All is fresh and pure again.

Wanting to honor the snow, it seemed appropriate to consult my favorite book The Tale of Genji, the complex emotional narrative of which is advanced by tanka--five-line, 31-syllable poems (the first three lines of which eventually evolved into haiku). The characters regularly communicate via such poems, which convey many layers of meaning through evocative word play. In addition to the words themselves, poems were also judged by the type and color of the paper they were written on, the handwriting of the poet, the way the paper was folded, and what type of flower or branch the poem was attached to. This was a culture that valued the poetic aesthetic to an extreme.

For example, the hero Prince Genji must reply to an invitation by the emperor to go hunting in the snowy mountains. He doesn't want to go because he's mooning over a pretty young woman, so he sends his regrets with a flattering poem:

The falling of snow
in fine weather is splendid,
as magnificent
as jewels on the palanquin
of the finest emperor.

translated by Jane Reichhold with Hatsue Kawamura


In response the emperor writes his own poem about the day's hunting and sends it to Genji with a brace of pheasants. And his poem triggered my own:

I dreamed three pheasants
sat on the snowy feeder--
gems set in crystal.

February 2: Groundhog Day

With this kind of crusty snow cover, I don't imagine there were too many groundhogs venturing out on this chilly Maine day, despite it being Groundhog Day. Working at home, I did however observe several very active squirrels in my backyard throughout the afternoon. Not quite marmots, but they'll do in a weather prediction pinch. Alas, the squirrels frolicking through the treetops, and apparently up on my roof from the sounds of it, were definitely seeing their shadows on this crisp, clear, sunny winter's day. So six more weeks of winter it is. I'm resigned to it.

Now that I'm thinking about groundhogs, however, I'm reminded of the yellow-bellied marmots in Rocky Mountain National Park. These fat rodents lolled around on the alpine slopes, whistling like sailors, posing for photographs, and otherwise just hanging out enjoying what looked like quite the life. In summer, at least. I'm wondering what those fuzzy guys are up to now, with the Colorado Rockies buried in many feet of snow. They must have to take their hibernation much more seriously than our woodchucks here in the relatively milder climes of New England. After all, snow lingers up there through June most years. Definitely no venturing forth on February 2. It would probably burn off all their stored fat just to dig their way to the surface. While Punxatawny Phil poses for TV cameras and we're already thinking ahead to spring's arrival--whenever it may come--the alpine dwellers merely turn in their sleep, curl up a little more tightly, and settle in for five more months--not weeks, months!--of winter. Talk about a long winter's nap.

Groundhog buried deep,
who can blame you for sleeping
longer in the dark?

February 1: Brigid's Day

This afternoon as I was getting ready to leave work I was amazed to see that the sky was still light. Light! The days truly lengthen at last. Even as snow still covers the ground, hardened into a tough crust of ice.

Today is Brigid's Day. (Catholics have co-opted the day as Candlemas, the feast day for St. Bridget of Kildare, one of the patron saints of Ireland.) Brigid is the Celtic goddess of poetry, healing, and smithcraft--the common element of the three aspects being fire, of course: the fiery spark of inspiration, the warmth of good health, and the flame of the forge. And fire brings light, the growing light and deepening power of the sun as the days slowly, slowly but surely, lengthen.

In the pagan calendar the day is also called Imbolc, meaning "in milk," the time of year when sheep and goats give birth. Perhaps a little early here in Maine, but at Aldermere Farm in Rockport it won't be long before the Belted Galloways start dropping their calves. Whatever you call the day, it's all about light and the hope of new life.

One ritual I have heard recommended for the day is to light a candle and walk through each room of the house, purifying each with the candle's small flame. And since I can't hammer on a piece of metal, or perform any medical miracles, another ritual that seems appropriate for the goddess of poetry would be to write a poem, of course, if but a small one.

Inspiration's spark
heats the deep cauldron of words.
May they rise with light.

January 31: Tulips

Last day of January. We're entering the heart of winter. Apart from bundling up and enjoying outdoor snow activities as much as I can, another thing that helps stave off cabin fever is an indulgence in fresh flowers. This time of year, I'm unable to resist the colorful bunches of tulips that beckon just inside Hannaford's sliding doors. Orange, yellow, red, purple--the colors exhale a warm breath throughout my house to offset the whites and greys outside our windows.

While my outdoor garden has been reduced to dry stalks sticking above the snow, indoors the tight buds of tulips slowly open their petals to reveal the sensual beauty of each blossom's secret center, something Georgia O'Keefe might have painted. 

In a few months, after the snow melts and the air warms enough that I can rake off my flower beds, green spears of tulip leaves will poke up through the leaf litter, one of the first signs of incipient spring. But for now, the simple pleasure of my store-bought beauties will see me through. 

Red hothouse tulip,

your heart's an exploding star

to melt winter's blues.