#17

Gratitude

I want
a long walk,
David Whyte's voice,
and some kombucha.
That's it. That's all.
That's all I want right now.

But, truth be told,
there is more I want.

I want my family and rain,
avocados and
blueberries fallen into silver buckets.
The sound of the ocean on the shore
at night through the window
and my mother's voice
again and again and again.

Did I mention blueberries?
Friends that give bear hugs
and teach me to put on make-up;
a nephew
just like Quinn;
lobsters, of course,
and the sun,
warm,
drenching my skin.

I want snow and
silence so quiet it hurts your ears and
church bells, real ones;
hot chocolate, the real stuff.
Grampy's hands and Barbara's words.
Everything about Grampy.
Trees good for climbing, grass to walk barefoot in,
sage brush, piñon, lilacs, beech, birch, hemlock and willow.

Tea with honey
and your face staring at me
knowing there is nothing in the world
I could want
or need more
than that.
Truly, than love.

Also, my father's voice
stern and then joking
making me laugh;
And one of his lectures. And just him.
There is no end!

Mud,
children,
red lipstick,
and water to float in.
Baths,
waves,
sails filled with wind
and love,
always love.

I want-
this life
Mine.
All of it.
How could I ask for anything more?


-Llora H. Kressmann

#15

Tread beneath the waves
to where the images
cut closest
to the bone.
Get caught
in shame's teeth.

Now breath
big
for everyone
and let yourself move to see
what is really here.

Space
only space
quiet and black and open
timeless and windless
freedom.
Though it seems impossible to face,
Truly,  nothing here can harm you.

Now return.
Changed. Your cells
knowing the true story.

Replace the wind-weathered map in your heart
with the gold ring won.
Let the pages of those carefully kept volumes
fall away into
the day's slack tide;
The leather binding left on the shore for the gulls and stones.
You are done with that story.

-Llora H. Kressmann

#14

Whale Watch

On boats
it was always this:
my sister reclined in the stern
turns to a nap.
and I
dashing to the bow
as fast as I can
wind all the way through me if I can.
Until I am exhausted, sunburned and seasick, usually.
Throwing up off the stern
my sister, now awake, handing me a paper towel.
The root has a way of staying the same.

Our shells change
we flick them away into the wake of time.
Facing the moon each-by-each,
but after twenty years,
I twist my face to see the boy I once knew.
Oh, but he is there.
The root has a way of staying the same.

At the dinner table it was this:
you've turned all eyes to me with curious questions and excited reflections. And still I dread this. I falter and close at the sight of all this attention. The barking spider frozen beneath the blinding beam of a flashlight. Caught. No web in sight. No luminosity. Just the prisoner entranced by the light. The root has a way of staying the same. 

We've gone now
these many moons
and tides
more.
No one knows how long, really, the whales can live.
Beneath.
Those oceanic, blue-light
hearts
beating
in time
to
something
S l o w
Who knows how long they can go.
The root has a way of staying the same.


-Llora H. Kressmann

#13

Gold

I was walking this morning on these same streets.
So tiny I was
on these same streets
around my mother's house.

At five, around the block I went
alone. For the first time in my life.
It was a grand adventure.
That first block alone.
They let me go.
They always did.
I rode the Big Wheels.

Coming up the hill
beneath the giant Horse Chestnut trees,
whose husks lay splitting and browning in the curb
some still shining and smooth as a sweet cheek,
I had to stop and rest.

They called to my small hands.
I collected them.
As many as would fit
into pockets
and hands
and into the hollow spaces
of the Big Wheels, of course.
Why? Who knows.
But one cannot pass up
such treasures
on their first adventure
around the block.

Gone now, many years, the great trees on the small hill.
But in the place where Chestnuts lay, acorns pile
smashed by passing cars
and some, still, all green and lathered cannot be left;
call now to,
day-soaked hands
for filling up of pockets
for bringing home of gold.

Llora H. Kressmann

#12

                                                                                                 Toni Frissel

Over Breakfast

When will you stop running?
From life, from pain, from conflict, from the past?

This morning (though you did try, and failed),
you are on the pavement,
walking,
walking away.
Away from that house
away from all that.
You can't breath or think.
There is only tightness in the solar plexus, chest and throat.
You're walking fast.
You think, perhaps, to slow down.
This helps.
Allot.

You are planning your exist strategy when you hear yourself:
When will you stop running?

There's allot of momentum behind it,
lifetimes, it seems, of running.
Running to, running from, running after, but mostly,
running away.
You can't quite imagine staying put.
You know you have courage,
but not for that.
The image is of
stepping
right into
the fire.
Can you do that?

Kev took you swimming the other day.
Waves splashed against waves,
sloshing here and there.
"Is it safe?" you asked.
Confused, then smiling and laughing a little.
"It's safe."
Waves rocked and swept and dipped and pushed.
You felt stressed.
Kev said, without knowing your distress,
"I like when the waves toss you about and
you don't know which way they will come from."
"You do?" you question, astonished.

Here's the teaching then. Again, the ocean teaches to let go. And more. To go with the flow.

Of course this was not your nature in the sea. You reached your toe, down to the rock below. Ah. Holding there. Hoping for stability. Holding on in one place. Good. For just a moment.  Only that. Until, sweeping grace, lifts and pulls back into somewhere more open. It doesn't work. But that doesn't stop you from trying, again.

This is also the teaching. Have some compassion for these habits.

But, today, I do try.  Something new. To be like my friend in the sea. I lift off from the rock, into the rocking waves. It lifts me up and away, but only so far. It's gentle. Very. And without resistance, you know, the stress is gone. It works. Better. Much. So much. I'm having fun. I look for my friend. He's out now. Maybe smiling at me. I don't want to get out of the water.

When will you stop running? 
Today,
I'll try, a little,
to stay. Because I'm not holding on
anymore
to the rock.

I have faith in the sea and myself and this breath. I have faith in the sangha, my friend on the beach, that keep teaching me to stay. Gently turning me toward the notion that everything I want is in this letting go and being with. Right here.

I walk back to the house.
I open the door
and go in.
I stay.

I'm not holding on anymore.
I'm letting go
and finding
a new way
to be in the sea.


Llora H. Kressmann

#11

Stand still
I'm trying to
remember you.

The night
the loons
expectant hope
heart fluttering in my chest.

Behind the cabin, number nine
against the
paint-peeled doors
you leaned me gently
weight and all
moon peeking through to see
your face wide
holding me
this moment's ecstasy.

Two nine-year-olds
snuck out at night
to kiss among the pines.

You were my love
my one true love
of long ago
Tonight.


-Llora H. Kressmann

#10

The Day-Long Sit

Who would have thought
there was
a lotus
in my own palm

in my elbow, tooth and knee,
and behind my eyeballs
waiting?

Each spot holding
its messages of pain
of ache, of tension,
of tiredness acute
and now that I can see it
I'm going to say,

What a wonder to meet you
on your wicked edge
throbbing knee and tooth!

That's when I see,
the petals reaching out.

Of each and every ache and pain
of each and every throb
there was
a  bud
an honest lip of green
not doing anything
just unfolding
whenever I am ready
to let go.


-Llora H. Kressmann

#9

Kindness

The heart
is a tender reed
waiting
for the wind
to press against it.

For there is
music there
within
a tune
whose sound
heals-

whose voice is only ours
only living
only heard
when it is broken
open.


-Llora H. Kressmann

#8

Your smile illuminates
all your grand features.
Catching our breath you declare:
"Wait, everyone think of a happy childhood memory!"
Laughter.
This is new territory
for our family.
We share and then
not imagining there could possibly be more

Of course we'll go for a ride in the convertible.

I can't tell you how good it was.
The summer night
perfect.
Utter elixir
the air.
The ocean
a dream-scape of
color and mood.
Then there was the moon,
Goddammit, the moon was there too!
Watching us through the trees
laughing with us.

We are raising our arms now.
I am howling at it all.
All this joy and beauty
in our life.
Always.

We get ice cream.
We lean on the brick in the narrow street
each of us holding our cups.
We are watching the moon and the car and the people.
We are together.
"This is a happy moment," I say.

Happy.
There's a new color to it tonight.
She's gold and deep
and running into the dark nectar of my past
giggling to un-surface
the joy that was always there.
Holding it up
for us to savor.

The sledding hill in the backyard.
Dad lacing up your skates,
fires on the beach, with hot dogs.
Free beer.
The beautiful Zuckerman twins
and dad being wild and hilarious.

Night knocks to talk to day
I see now they are smiling at each other.
There is a kissed passed.

We have been given a gift.
We've been given a new life.
We've been given time and each other
A chance to heal the past.
To brave the dark with all this light.
and maybe to guard the light too;
to tenderly care and nurture.

Wait. Wait!
Don't let this story put you to sleep.
Don't fall back into the chasm of that old tune.
"Everyone, think of a happy memory!"
Thank you, Mom.

Thank you, Thay


-Llora H. Kressmann

#7

The Nature of a Wave

Some people
love you
and will stand for
nothing else.
Others have a different purpose.

They must be the break
that knocks you down,
holds you beneath
the cooling tide

until you are washed,
with everything else,
upon the smooth, silver, sand
broken.

There you lie
for a long time,
listening.

Perhaps
this is just
the nature of the wave.

and you have only just
been caught
in the wake
of one man's pain.


-Llora H. Kressmann

#6

All I Want 

Just what is happiness?
Today, I think that it is:
really good pizza
comfortable shoes and finally
finding a bra I actually like.

Red bricks after the rain.

Seeing a friend in a unexpected place
and it not being 90 degrees.

The guy in the book store
letting me sit for an hour
lost in a book
and the girl at the counter
whose smile and chit chat
made me feel normal again.

Sand between my toes
and everything being made
whole again
by the sea.

Today, it's all these things
and that will have to do
because that is plenty
for any life.


-Llora H. Kressmann

#5

The Visit

Today 

your face

was smiling

and you were soft
in a way
I have rarely seen before

It was 11:00am
you were in your nightgown
satin-lined collar, slippers
even that seemed elegant

Time whispered beneath the linen curtains
I wished I could close it out
lock the window and door
tell them not to bother
or disturb you.

Please.
This porcelain frame and face
with a lion's heart
is so tired
so worn
by each beat
of her ragged heart
each step
of her perfect foot and frame
my grandfather so adored.

I hold your hand on the couch
you had tucked it between the cushions
your skin so soft and familiar
like love itself

I tried to take you in:
A dusky wisp of cloud
a sail, the breeze, a wing.
Each reaching for me
with what seemed like
their last light.

Time, march away.
Hold her up
for one moment
more.

We'll drink you down with a glass a Champagne.
We'll drive that MG, hard and fast, over the hill.
We'll march in the mini-skirt off of the plane.
We'll tell him we love him.
We'll shock them with our strength and boldness
for you.

We will live

for you

we will live l o u d

for you

we will remember.

Time
be present now.
call all your sentinels
to witness
this life, exquisite.

This one
wild woman
in a glass castle

holding still
against the tide.


-Llora H. Kressmann

#4

How do we measure a heart?

Today
tear stains
ripple your notes
She's having cancer surgery tomorrow
and she is in terrible pain
your daughter

you clench around it.
Tighter.
you cannot speak
or cry.
you cannot open.
for fear of coming apart
completely.
"It's too much" you say.
It's too much.

How do we measure a heart?

I had a boyfriend once, that kissed me in the rain and knew the Latin names of plants. Cooked me breakfast on a mountain top and took his shoes off to walk with me barefoot along the moss. One day, he told me he didn't feel 'like that' about me. We had climbed the same mountain to watch the sunset, then laid back on the granite rock, still warm from the day, to watch the stars come out. My tears mixed with mica and sand and moss, hidden from his sight, as he raised his arm to show me all the constellations.  How kind he was. I rested my head on his shoulder, knowing that I loved him and he didn't feel, 'like that' about me. It was spring in Vermont and the dandelions had just started to open themselves to the sun. My heartbreak echoed through my body day and night. One day, driving the hills at dusk, a field of rolling green pastures caught me and I held my breath. The field, verdant green, like a dream, had just exploded into an unbelievable display of yellow dandelions. In the setting sun, each one seemed to explode into firelight. This broke my heart too. I smiled. These dandelions all, broken hearts. Each one. Everyone. Their beauty, so stunning, was life. Beautiful broken hearts. Beautiful life. Thank you broken heart. Thank you life.

I can only measure my heart, when I feel it.

A healer once asked me if I knew my heart. I certainly thought the answer was yes. But, when I paused to look into that space, I realized, astonished, that it was very much a stranger. Looking in I saw and felt the layers of grief and sadness that seemed to inhabit her. That this was where the well of pain was. As vast as the oceans. It's easy to get lost there. Breathing in. Breathing out.

I want to make a map of my heart.

Today, news came from a beloved friend. Recalling our time together, my heart quaked and spoke. This beloved friend now looked out at the Pacific ocean. Pacific sand between his toes. Pacific ocean air in his hair. And mine, all Atlantic. The continent between. My heart trembled a little with this thought of distance and the unknown between. And then, I picked up a large, shiny green acorn. It's skin so smooth and green. Just dropped by the tree. This beloved place is my home. Right here. With acorns, goldenrod, yarrow, even poison ivy, bending in the wind. My feet walk along the pebbled shore, lapped by the deep blue of the frigid Atlantic. The summer wind blows off my hat and I smile to life.  I smile to my heart. Which is full of so much. Whose map I am learning to read.

-Llora H. Kressmann

#3

Picnic at Cathy's Pond

And finally
after they had settled upon the spot
the right flowers and light
the right direction

they sat
beneath the grand umbrella
sometimes in the rain
sometimes in the sun
the day winking all about them
summer laughing in her completeness
bursting to tell her secrets too
with these 'wise women.'

when it was time
the clothes were abandoned
and the two entered the pond
with the rain drops
how natural to lie about
what a way to spend a day, 
one said.

later, after the rain
their talk still deep and round like the moon
they sat held
in the chair, naked
holding onto words
and listening ears

the pond, still now
in that place of waiting
pretending to be glass
holding its breath

two turtles emerged
heads lifting just above the surface
reaching
their necks
to float there
without any ripples.

without them none of this would be possible

their slow dance
through the water
reminding us
to forget all these notions
to set down the ideas
and worries
to look around
and float.


-Llora H. Kressmann

#2

Meeting with my Mentor

On this day 

in this place

we sat, you and I,

amid strangers

in the noisy cafe.

The light from the window

so bright

I had to move closer to you

and so

I saw the chocolate

from your croissant -so savored

dappled across your lips

all the while

keeping up the conversation

about our lives.

This quiet memento

the sweet gift

never bothered either of us

To speak and listen of such things

one needs chocolate croissants.

Thank you for teaching me,

Richard, how to savor 

all of life.


-Llora H. Kressmann

#1

After the Retreat 

I am on the couch in your apartment
we are sleeping in
the curtains are drawn
it's past 8:00am
you rise
we rise
There is coffee made

and instead of breakfast
we talk
in our pajamas
over coffee
about some of the things that are on our hearts
"let's have pie for breakfast."

Sometimes, this friendship
is all we need
in a day.

My sangha sister,
this is it.

Llora H. Kressmann
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All the posts below this are from 2008 and earlier.

2008 Blog About Vermont