Stain-glass Eyes

I bought a pedometer, the other day, to keep track of miles I walk.  I wanted it for more than measuring my daily walking.  I'll use it to distinguish between "daily” and "exercise” walking.    I think I got the idea from a guy, I was talking to, in the lane next to me, at the pool.   He was resting against the blue and white tiles, on the side of the pool, huffing and puffing.  I said,  "You sure have quite a workout!”     He said, "I make a goal for how many laps I swim a month!” Silently, I considered the possibility, "Gee, I never thought of keeping track of laps."  I swim by the clock.  "Well, that could take all the fun out of my swim", I decided.   When I swim, back and forth, I think more about the feel of water around me.  I ponder the latest homework from counseling.  I spy on other swimmers to see what new contraptions they'll pull out of their bag of tricks, to punish themselves.  "Counting would be te

This is a great tool I never had when I learned how to play the guitar. But, the calluses still have to be toughened on your fingertips.  I don't think there's any getting around but just pain.

I know. Spring is just another turn of the four seasons.  People shed their clothes. Birds return with their sweet sound.  Snow packs up its chilly presence and moves on. Curtains and windows are kept open longer.  It seems like there are more hours in a day. But this spring seems to be opening me up more.  Or it’s coming at a time when I’m letting myself be open.  I finally seem to be shedding my fears.  At last my music-making is feeling more second nature.  I see what is there for me, not so much what I’m missing.  Sharing myself feels less a drain of my energy and more restoring.   This spring I’ve noticed the buds on trees opening up into leaves. Apple blossoms go from looking like rose buds, to small white flowers.   Small changes feel significant this spring. Am I getting old?  Is Thoreau finally getting to me? Or am I finally getting young? The following, I found in a book by John O'Donohue, Anam ara - A Book of Celtic Wisdom. You should belong

Mother’s Day is next Sunday.  I think of a lot of mothers, including my own, during this national holiday.  When I taught elementary kids, it was something I felt like I had to start a month ahead, so the kids didn’t rush through the project and regret it when they handed the gift/card to their mothers. Usually, I’m thinking months ahead about my mom.  I want to get her something to make her smile, surprise her or make her cry, (In a good way).  I know, to her, the gift itself isn’t the important thing.  She appreciates anything with a thought of her.   This Mother’s Day will be one of the rare times I won’t be there to share the day or weekend with her.  It’s another thing she doesn’t make a big deal about.  She doesn’t call and say, “Are you coming up for Mother’s Day?”  or “What are we going to do for Mother’s Day?”   I want to share a poem she wrote months ago.  I think it’s beautiful.  My mom is 88 years old.  She’s still writing poetry.  If you’d have asked me, when