January 21st, 2019

Maybe the moon and the stars want to take us by surprise. It’s that simple. I broke my own rules this morning to read the news headlines, and to learn what the scientists can predict. Posted at ten thirty p.m.: Tomorrow morning will bring the chance of a lifetime. So … Continue Reading January 21st, 2019

January 15th, 2019

Finally a thin blanket of snow to brighten the morning. I run with metal coils strapped under my shoes, and a slight tension in my gut: the bridges can be icy under the powder, and the dog can dart suddenly between the trees. Everything is new again for him. For … Continue Reading January 15th, 2019

January 12, 2019

The new year is always predictable with its forced variations on the routine: the end-of-term rush of student evaluations, early meetings and final rehearsals. Piecing together a devised production is like designing a quilt using everyone’s talents. It’s a joy and a privilege, and a sometimes-overwhelming responsibility that keeps me … Continue Reading January 12, 2019

January 5th, 2019

Returning to work is always difficult after a stretch of quiet. It’s like surfacing suddenly in the white water of a familiar river. And often there are moments of doubt – of confused orientation – of not recognizing the mechanisms of my own limbs. It takes so much effort to … Continue Reading January 5th, 2019

January 1, 2019

No such thing as a new beginning, but perhaps a turning, a point on the spiral to take in the view. This morning I woke late to the wind. The sun was up and the sky a flat white. The crows who fly their morning route already in the neighbor’s … Continue Reading January 1, 2019

September 18th

The world is never, really quiet. There are waves in the darkness that beat a rhythm through our very cells.

Dance.

August 20th

An electric light at dawn, anticipating the lengthening night.

This little window of autumnal sunrises before dark creeps over my mornings.

August 14th

The last morning of a summer
of unexpected ease.
An arch of light on the horizon.

August 13th

Summer is leaving the lake now. There is a quieting all along the trail.

Footfall and breath, and an absence of birdsong.

August 11th

The sky was still dark at 4.45 when I woke to meditate. White by the time we hit the trail. These last mornings running in the half-light before the cows are taken in, and all the geese have flown south, I breathe it all in.

Now, while the world is wet and the fallen pine needles still green.

August 9th

Not dreaming, but stepping on egg shells this morning.

It’s been a week since I heard the cuckoo, though the songbirds are still here, getting on with the effort of living before they leave us to another season of darkness and crows.