To My Fears

 Robert Creeley wrote, “I think I grow tensions/like flowers."

 I say the same about fears.

They are lovelier than I would have imagined.

My fears seem delicate, almost translucent. I think I can see through them as I walk around the day. I think they are just veils or screens, that I can still see the shapes on the other side: my son, his 15 years; my dad, his lungs; my baby grandniece, the world she’s growing into. They are all there, it seems, just out of reach, just far enough away so that if I called to them, my voice would dissolve just before it reached them.

But fears aren’t veils or screens and I’m not seeing through them. They’ve grown slowly wild around me. They are prehistoric, coded in my DNA, oddly particular in their fragrance. They are hypnotic. And it’s not other people I see; those are the fears beyond the fears, the fears growing behind the fears, the viney weave crawling up a trellis.

What is there to do but pick them? This one is pain. This one is death. This one, that I never existed. This one, that you never cared. Or that you did. And then you didn’t.

I will dry them and press them between the pages of the dictionary. I will smother them with words I never learned taken from languages I’ve never heard. And then, later, I will send them in cards, letting them speak for the tensions we carry.

To the Unexpected Sunrises

This morning, I go out to call the dogs back inside and when I turn around, facing east, I see this:

Instantly, I am grateful that I am not a painter. I do not want to be anymore moved or stunned or awed than I am at this moment. If I saw these colors the way painters do, if I felt them the way artists do, I would shatter the way they shatter.

Not that they are fragile. We all have our weak spots. I stand, just looking at these colors, the bare black branches like stained glass windows. My driveway is a church this morning and today my life is a prayer.

A prayer against injustice. A prayer for everyone to put their guns down. A prayer to pick up pens and books. A prayer for forgiveness. A prayer for letting go and a prayer for holding on. A prayer to know, despite all appearances, what is worth the letting go and what is lost in holding on. A prayer for families, both given and chosen. A prayer for gifts.

These colors are a gift I can bear. Today is a gift I can bear. This will not break me. I listen to the silence in the blues and pinks. The prayers are wordless.

I am not a painter. I’m a writer. The colors won’t undo me. The words will.

To The Person Who Has Everything as I Start My Holiday Shopping

The description isn't literal--you don't have EVERYTHING--but when I brainstorm and browse the internet for that perfect gift, it certainly feels right. You have all things you need, no doubt. And you have all the things you want. Because, and this is why you are so lovely, you want so little.

Clothes are too personal and food is too messy, and it spoils too quickly when it’s the good stuff. You read books too quickly to make buying them worthwhile. Though everyone enjoys a scented candle, the particular scent is hard to call. A picture frame (who prints them out anymore)? A set of golf balls? Wine glasses? Sunglasses? Bird feeder? DVD?

Maybe this year, it’s bigger: gifts of experience. Concert tickets are good, but the band you want to see is playing an hour away on a weeknight. A play? A day at the art museum, the Van Gogh exhibit? Skiing? Kayaking?

Something that reminds you of your childhood, perhaps. A big box of Hershey bars, a bag of marshmallows and a box of graham crackers. We can camp out one night. Or a desk lamp like the one you had in middle school. A lunch box like the one the bully stole from you. I can right the wrongs. Injustices don’t have to last forever.

No, you say. I’m sure I’ll love whatever you pick, you say. I’m not fussy, you say. World peace, you joke. Really, you say, I don’t need a thing.

I know you know I love you. We know that stuff is just stuff and ultimately, it won’t make us happy. That’s a lot to ask of a present.

Still, I look. I hunt you in places you would never go. I turn over trinkets and baubles. I run my hand across cashmere and wool and brushed cotton. I break open books and then study the wording on coffee mugs. I will find the one thing. And you will know the gift is not what’s in your hands, but all the hours spent getting it there.