Speaking Mountain


Kripalu.mountains.I am learning to love
the mountains, though
their language is still
a mystery to me.

Every day they speak in
new tongues of light
and dark, shadow and
fire, warmth and frost;
but always the silence,
the stillness underneath.

Just when I think I understand
your dark ridges, the swings
and sways of the forest, the
mists dappling and quiet fogs,
you go all afire, or crystal
clear or dark as pitch under
tangy pines. I almost
hear you and then
again, I am lost and
alone, clueless in you.

Talk to me mountains, I
want to understand!
Like my dearest love,
the faraway Ocean,
teach me your language,
tell me your secrets,
show me your broken places,
your joys, and I
will show you mine.
Embrace me and
I will hold you too!

I will bring you my triumphs,
my failures, my bruises and
my songs. Don’t be
distant! Like the Ocean
I will give you my heart
and be your friend forever.
Love me, talk to me
so I can love you too.

Red Tree Standing


There is one lone red tree in the sea of green covering the mountains where I work. I don’t know how it got there. I don’t know why it is different from every other tree in the forest. But it is there, being not-green. Like a thorn, a stem, a speck of something that is not supposed to be there. It shocks me every morning as I look out my window.

It is not taller than the other trees, it must have been born at the same time. But it has no siblings; it seemingly has no parents. It is alone, shining in the green. I would walk to this tree, if I could get through the forest, to see what kind of tree it is. With red-brown leaves. I can see all manner of trees adorned with their summer green, yellow and dark forest piney boughs. But still there is that red tree standing, crowded, but distinct. Different. A rebel.

Was this lonesome tree the result of a seed carried by a bird, or a fox or a bear? Why was only one seed able to plant and take root in all these hills? Why are there no other red trees as far as the eye can see? Surely it isn’t a dead tree, it seems vibrant, bobbing its leafy head as the mountain winds sweep down to the lake. Even today, as the fog shrouds the hills and peaks the red tree smiles up at the sky. From my perch on the second floor, I feel for the tree finding its happiness surrounded by strangers. I too am a stranger. I too am a transplant from a place far away. I too am finding my happiness while remaining my red-tree self.

The other trees crowd and press, murmur and complain. They try to steal the sunlight and water and struggle to tangle the red tree with vines and mar its beauty, cover its spirit. The trees whisper — be like us, think like us, breathe like us, feel like us, look like us, talk like us and be saved. Be comfortable. Be right. The red tree bows under the green crush. Loneliness. With its red-tree language and red-tree thinking and red-tree feeling its heart beats slowly, deep, between the roots. Bubbling up from the sadness there, the red tree hears: I am who I am. I can be only my red-tree self. Even it if means aloneness. I am the red tree standing. A simple beauty, in my own way. Destined to live and love among strangers, while being my red-tree self.

As the red tree straightens and embraces her redness, the murmuring and whispering falls away. A nearby pine brushes its boughs against her slender branches and they hold hands in the summer breeze. Nesting birds sing while chipmunks chase each other across the forest floor, tickling the red-tree’s bare roots. Delighted, the red tree shares all of herself with them, and with me. The forest is at peace.

Berkshire Mountains
Aug. 10, 2012.

Death in the Afternoon…


Red-tailed Hawk

I took a brief walk after a working lunch. The sun was high in the sky and the air was cool. It was a beautiful September day in the Berkshires. I walked down the hill from the main building at Kripalu and hadn’t gone too far when there, to my right, on a wire overhead was a red-tailed hawk looking this way and that. I stopped and watched the wind lift his tail feathers. He stretched and showed me his white belly and fluffy legs. He — or she — was awesome in structure. He looked strong and powerful.

As he sat, he moved his head from side-to-side. He turned once to look at me as I cautiously took a seat on the low wooden rail along the road, then turned his attention back to the tall brush, tangled weeds and wild flowers that framed the woods. I sat contentedly in the sun, thrilled to have this opportunity to be so close to such a creature. I studied the way he slid his head across his back and tried to move my head the same way. Taiji [Tai chi] teachers always imitated animals — some say Taijiquan was created after Wudang Daoist master Zhang San Feng (12th C.) witnessed a fight between a crane and a snake.

My neck cracked just as I heard little throaty chirping sounds come from the underbrush. It sounded like the noise squirrels make, not too loud though, and it didn’t sound alarming — just a steady series of clicks and chirps. Suddenly the hawk spread his wings and dropped straight down into the brush. A terrible squealing commenced and I knew the hawk had caught something. I was struck, mouth open, by the sudden change from sight-seeing on a lovely day to the wailing of an animal dying in the claws of a predator. The racket was awful, but it didn’t last longer than a minute, maybe two. It was heart-wrenching none-the-less.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. A city-girl for decades — I was curious, frightened, repulsed and paralyzed. Here was the truth of nature, not on television, but barely five feet in front of me. I didn’t know why this was happening for me to see, but I thought I’d best finish it. I slowly walked closer to the underbrush. I could see the hawk’s white feathers and stopped. He was no more than three feet in front of me, barely concealed by dried grasses and weeds. I didn’t want to see blood. But I couldn’t not look. I stood still. The hawk looked at me the same way he had earlier, unafraid, unconcerned, unimpressed.

As I watched, he made a small jump and the captured creature came up with him in his talons. He was in a small clearing, now two feet from me. I could see the eye of the squirrel and the hawk’s talons on its belly. I didn’t see any blood. He kept squeezing his talons into the squirrel — perhaps to make sure it wasn’t playing dead or that it wouldn’t suddenly get up and run away. He fluttered his wings and hopped and the squirrel came up and down with him again, a few inches closer to me. He was coming straight toward me, out of the brush and now, onto the mowed grass. This was more than I wanted to see. I couldn’t fathom why the hawk was coming toward me, with his prey, his prize.

I thought of a time my house cat caught a mouse and brought it to me. What did they want me to see?

I continued to watch the hawk, two feet in front of me, in plain sight, without cover. Then I realized he was not eating. His lunch was getting cold. I didn’t understand.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman — one of our guests — crossing toward me into the parking lot off to my left. When she got close enough, she looked where I was looking and saw the hawk.

“I don’t think you want to see this,” I turned my head and said to her.

She looked from me to the hawk. “You’re right; what has it got there?”

“A squirrel,” I replied. “It made a horrible sound when he caught it.”

The woman grimaced and turned and walked in the other direction, toward the main building.

When I looked back at the hawk at my feet, he was slowly pulling up with his beak on a long string of something red from the side of the squirrel. I turned and followed the guest up the hill toward the center.

Origin of Taijiquan

Yang Warrior in the Mountains


Wild flowers

Walking in the Berkshires

The sun came out today after two chilly, rainy days. The warmth inspired the flowers to show off these last few days of summer. There were delicate cosmos in orange and pink and white, some few remaining blue bachelor buttons, sunflowers, and a lone poppy stuck his crimson head out in chorus. In the fields, my favorite for wild flowers, there was purple clover and small, white daisies mixed among the plantain. Plantain stalks stirred in the breeze and furry plantain made handy landings for the insects. Small yellow butterflies danced in a helix, rising above the green like a fountain.

Along the edges of the woods were tall golden rod, leaning over, heavy with flowers. Dragonflies, butterflies and dirt-brown grasshoppers were everywhere. Mosquitoes too. I walked on a trail for a while, until I heard the sound of crunching and breaking wood — with a heaviness that signaled, at least to me — that whatever it was or whomever it was — was my size or bigger. I split after that and walked on the more travelled path. I could feel the heat coming off the ground and the sun on my neck, but knew it was fleeting. It would soon turn cold. Some maples were already displaying red and orange and gold.

The days are shortening, shorter and shorter, dwindling down the hours of sun as the yin begins to stretch out and embrace the season. I loved my summer; nights with Kevin at the ocean or in bed in his arms. Waking up naked and happy and safe in our world. Showering and drying off, lying side-by-side and breathing in and letting go.’Tis the season of letting go — the trees and flowers and bees tell me so as I walk along the way. I talk back to them all — cooing and aaaahing at their magnificence.

We all know nothing lasts. But we take refuge in the cycle. The season of endings gives way to the season of beginnings. The yin will grow and surround our world and plunge us into the midnight of winter, and the yang will creep up slowly in the heart of darkness, with tendrils of light to awaken the world and inspire newness. That nothing lasts is our pain and our blessing. Tears make way for joy, love makes way for loss and death makes way for life. This is our world.

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