Strolling With Ursula

Thoughts,  floating like leaves to an autumn yard dance their patterns upon my mind. An uncaring wind sweeps them away as soon as they land making their impact brief  and their destination unknown. A path, cleared for winter hosts blanketed silence.   Thoughts, prance along, staying ahead of their destiny, for a time. The seasons of our mind   resist each other.   Where do the thoughts go? Can spring resurrect them? Are they the same thoughts  lying buried all winter? Will summer provide any hope? Will vigilance make a difference?   Are thoughts accruing somewhere  in the mind's seasons, awaiting presentation? How deep can one look? Do thoughts disappear,  or hibernate  like grizzly bears? An earth embraces change and a mind does the same. Maybe this is   a return and remembrance  of something,  never really lost, at all. The wind blows softly,  the leaves fall, winter sets in,  and soon spring buffets all about. Summer's sun shines  its rays  into the corners and crevices of o

Your power, your grace, your presence, your origins all reside within your name, Ursula. And, you passed your name to me.   Thank you. Now, when will I become you? Your gifts were many. Your essence expanded beyond your presence and your presence pulsated. Ursula. Bear. Power gained through hibernation. Names carry such knowledge. We do not choose them,  Over time, we embrace them. ____________________________________ My great aunt Ursula came from the plains of Eastern Montana, youngest daughter of nine children of Ballaghaderreen, Ireland immigrants.   She is my muse.  She was born in 1901.   My middle name is Ursula, and it has always been a source of strength for me. I only met my great aunt Ursula a handful of times. She spent most of her life living in New York City with her husband on East 73rd street.  She was my mother's favorite aunt.   My mother always said Ursula had a 6th sense.  She just knew.   She lived 90 years.  The day she died, she sat bolt upright in bed in the

Coo. Coo. Calmly the doves do.  I see and hear them, I coo. Another appears on the branch  just above my swimming pool, looking down at me. Now, another and another  until there are four. Of what interest am I to them? How different is swimming than flying, I wonder?  Both involve arms and wings,  and a certain lightness  of being held by air, by water. Coo, coo in answer,  emanates from the doves.  I coo. They are silent.  I expect another coo,  but none comes. They recognize through observation, but do not act on that recognition  in any way. Is this their morning's entertainment? Patiently they perch, observing me in this foreign land of water. I swim. Coo! It's over. I disappear before they do. I retreat behind my sliding glass door  and peek out at them, still on the branches. My unfounded expectation is that they  might dive into the water. Instead, they flutter away into the morning blue sky with no discernible emotion. Water, sky, wings, birds, arms, humans. Another gif

  There I walked without surety,  not thinking or knowing, only moving through the trees, quietly  walking towards the sunlight shards. Drawn only by  the light, something about the light, muted, one or two dimensions removed. I strolled deeper into this Burren stand of trees,  now blending with the presence, joining and confirming, I know not what. The beckoning surrounded me and A shimmering, a million light beings smiled and laughed, seemingly happy that I dare look,  not using my eyes. Gifted, once again, by ancient aliveness, always present, awaiting invitation. All shimmer and light, all total bliss. A world of brilliance, lightning-like, flashed, and the pierced veil fell away. Such brilliance waits for affirmation and the invitations are few. Look, invite, confirm and accept and know from your soul depths,  you are not alone. The light always beckons. Hold dearly this rare gift, encountered in a leafed tree alcove  on an island of rock in an ocean  thousands of miles from home.

Start unknowingly. Look, show up. Engage. Know transcendence is possible. Surrender to the moment. Accept exhilaration. Understand without speaking, without language. Allow the spirit of St. Andrews to rush in and claim you  in a gesture where  time and space marry and ask you to join,  here, now. No shadow falls between the impulse and the action. Joy lives here on this bridge   waiting  for denizens of the world  to clamor upon it and let magic manifest. Always say yes. ___________________________       The title of this poem could also quite possible be Serendipity meets Joy!  Because this moment was not orchestrated.  It was a Friday night, my first in St. Andrews.  The nearby Firth of Forth was calm, and the sun had not yet begun to set.  A handful of people strolled about the 1st and 18th holes at St. Andrews, among them, Ursula herself.        The famous Swilcan Bridge sat in the distance, known the world over to golfers.  Its location and  setting were renowned for a photograph