Winter Morning by James Crews

When I can no longer say thank you
for this new day and the waking into it,
for the cold scrape of the kitchen chair
and the ticking of the space heater glowing
orange as it warms the floor near my feet,
I know it is because I’ve been fooled again
by the selfish, unruly man who lives in me
and believes he deserves only safety
and comfort. But if I pause as I do now,
and watch the streetlights outside winking
off one by one like old men closing their
cloudy eyes, if I listen to my tired neighbors
slamming car doors hard against the morning
and see the steaming coffee in their mugs
kissing their chapped lips as they sip and
exhale each of their worries white into
the icy air around their faces—then I can
remember this one life is a gift each of us
was handed and told to open: Untie the bow
and tear off the paper, look inside
and be grateful for whatever you find
even if it is only the scent of a tangerine
that lingers on the fingers long after
you’ve finished eating it.

Winter Morning

This is January when winter mornings are what we are given each day. Perhaps you may already be tired of it, when I can no longer say thank you / for this new day and the waking into it. You may find it harder to appreciate the cold even with the warmth of a space heater glowing orange / as it warms the floor near my feet. Is it because as the poet says I’ve been fooled again, believing he deserves only safety / and comfort?

But as he pauses, listening to car doors slam as people go off to work (as they once did), sipping coffee and exhaling each of their worries white into / the icy air around their faces, he remembers this one life is a gift each of us / was handed and told to open. He reminds us to be grateful for this gift, no matter what it appears to be, even if it is only the scent of a tangerine / that lingers on the fingers long after / you’ve finished eating it.

It really can be that simple, the scent of tangerine on your fingers, the sip of coffee, the space heater warming your feet. What is your gift on this wintry day?

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Winter is the Best Time David Budbill

Winter is the best time
to find out who you are.

Quiet, contemplation time,
away from the rushing world,

cold time, dark time, holed-up
pulled-in time and space

to see that inner landscape,
that place hidden and within.

Winter is the Best Time

This from a Vermont poet who knew what deep, cold winters can be like made me think of our own Canadian winters. I know some of us dread it, shiver with the cold, long for the warmth of the sun, don’t love to shovel snow. Some of us love the winter best of all for its opportunities to be out on the land by skis or skating. For myself, it’s more that winter tends to go on, and on, too long. But Budbill offers us another way to look at this season.

This is the best time, he tells us, to find out who you are. Because winter means more darkness, the quiet that comes with a muffling blanket of snow, it gives us contemplation time, time to withdraw from the habitual busyness of our lives, the rushing world. We don’t have to live in a monastery to be reflective, to consider how our lives are unfolding.

It is the time of cold and dark, holed-up / pulled-in time and space, a time we only get in these long months. He is reminding us that this is a time to see that inner landscape if we are willing to look within to what may be hidden. Perhaps this may speak to you, call you to some contemplative time. Who are you really?

In addition, I would like to add a link to a piece I wrote on the deep connection of mindfulness and poetry at the kind invitation of a UK site devoted to meditation practice. I encourage you to take a look at their lovely site and many offerings. Here is mine: https://www.everyday-mindfulness.org/poetry-as-mindfulness/

The Beauty of Hopelessness by Rebecca del Rio

You are hanging from a branch

by your teeth. No way to save yourself

or others who hang, too. Arms that cannot reach

any branch, legs stretch but

cannot find the smooth safe trunk.

All around, your loved ones, friends, strangers hang–teeth clamp bony twigs

that suspend necessary hopes

and plans.

It is hopeless. No rescue will arrive. So you relax, taste the clean, unfamiliar

tang of sap, feel the forgiving wind against

your waving arms, arms

that swim through emptiness.

Without hope, life is

focused, fluid, a ledge

of fragile earth suspended

over the ocean of unknowing, the end

of the branch. Life is

the glorious moment

before the fall when all

plans are abandoned, the love you give

as you hang, loving

those who hang with you.

The Beauty of Hopelessness

I’ve debated many choices this week, feeling the ripple effects of last week’s trauma which I cannot ignore, yet wanting as always to offer some of the beauty that is inherent in this life. I was intrigued of course by the paradox in this title – when have I ever heard those two concepts paired? Trust a poet to find a way.

As she opens with the image of hanging from a branch by your teeth, I immediately recalled the expression “hanging on by the skin of my teeth”, that tenuous hold on life that we have all experienced at some time. No way to save yourself but look, you are not alone, you are surrounded by loved ones, friends, strangers, hopes and plans suspended together.

Since the situation is hopeless and no rescue available, you relax, stop struggling, feel the forgiving wind against / your waving arms. Here in this place of no hope she tells us life is / focused, fluid, a ledge / of fragile earth suspended / over the ocean of unknowing. It is the glorious moment / before the fall when all / plans are abandoned. What I hear is that we meet that place of uncertainty, unknowing, which is out of our control and in that place what we have is the choice to give our love, to love all those who also hang by their teeth.

And by the end, I can see how there is beauty in hopelessness, room for more compassion and kindness when we stop hoping and wishing for things to be other than they are. May you know beauty in whatever state you find yourself at the start of this never-before year.

For a New Year by Holly Wren Spaulding

Let plain things please you again

and every ordinary Monday.

Bean soup in a white bowl,

firewood in your arms.

The weight of longing.

That you have survived is evidence

that nothing is assured

but you are lucky.

Looking up from this page

let all of it surprise you –

piled mail. other people, the air.

For a New Year

There are many poems about the new year, a time that causes all of us, much less poets, to reflect on what has transpired in the previous twelve months and what the coming months may bring. I first had in mind Anne Hillman’s We Look With Uncertainty but realized I had posted it back in March as we embarked on the unknown journey of the pandemic. The title still calls to me but I chose this one for its immediacy and simplicity which feel necessary as we move deeper into uncertainty albeit with a tender hopefulness.

What could be more simple than her invitation to Let plain things please you again as well as every ordinary Monday. In other words, any ordinary day, with ordinary things we tend to take for granted – soup, a white bowl, firewood in our arms. The weight of longing – this too is something we experience at times, perhaps not even knowing for what, just that inarticulate sense of something we are wanting.

That you have survived is evidence / that nothing is assured / but you are lucky. Reading this, know you have survived these challenging past months, yet as she says, this is not evidence that life is guaranteed but that good fortune has been with you. These are words to take in deeply and then, let all of it surprise you – and she returns us to the plain things, the ordinary days. This is what our lives are made of. Let us be surprised and aware and grateful as never before. May this new year please you.