Why I Keep Photographing Flowers (and trees and rocks and other stuff)

"Self-Portrait as a Tuning Fork"

There is, perhaps you’ve felt it,

a moment when the day falls away

and your name falls away and

everything you thought you knew

falls away and for a moment

you know yourself only

as whatever it is

that continues—

your whole body abuzz

with the eternity of it—

and you quiver

as if struck by the great hand

of what is true,

becoming pure tone,

a vibration, a wave,

a human-shaped resonator

tuned to the frequency

of life itself,

and though later you might try

to dissect what happened,

in that moment you’re too abloom

to wonder how or why,

you simply are

this ecstatic unfolding

knowing the self as I am,

so alive and so infinite

you tremble like a song.

~ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

image: "Community", June, 2025, say

A Quiet Song

 I have not felt well this week, and this morning I woke to discover that I had lost my voice. This happens pretty much every year, for one reason or another. I find myself thinking of Gandhi and the fact that he took one day a week to be completely silent. I believe that day was Monday. Mine happens to be on a Wednesday. I am okay with this day of silence. Now, if the voice never comes back, that is going to make for some remarkable changes in my life, but a day or so seems to offer some healing. I leave you with a very fine poem written by Rosemerry Wahtola Trummer. I am not quite ready to sing, but I like thinking about it. For now, I leave the singing to the birds. They do such a fine job.

"Today we lose the words

yours and mine and find

in their absence a song

that can only be sung together.

How did we ever think

we could attempt

this humanness alone?

To the table of love,

we bring soup, bring cherries,

bring the bread of our own

sweet communion.

We bring scissors to cut away

the tresses of the past,

bring dark wine to toast

the courage of showing up exposed.

And when we forget

the words to the song,

well, there is always laughter.

And when we forget to laugh,

well, there is always

the union of tears—

the way many rivers

become one river,

the way many voices

become one music."

First Sip ~ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, from her collection All the Honey

image: Dahlia, San Leandro, August 2023

Monday Mourning

This morning I told Tyler that I did not feel well.  Something was just not right.  As we talked, I said, "This feels like mourning."  Well, then I realized that would not be surprising.  The beloved dog has been ill and we were up very early with him this morning.  We were all  tired.  The country is jangling with fear and anger.  The kitchen needs cleaning.  What creativity I have seems elusive and is not bailing me out.   

So, I was grateful to receive this morning's post from First Sip.  I have found healing and encouragement in other poems by  Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. I am now breathing a little more deeply.  

Yes,  let us try to quiet some of the jangling.  Yes, the beloved dog is getting expensively better.  And yes, just after I post this, I will try once more to get the kitchen cleaned.  My dentist's office manager told me this morning that they will be happy to see me.  Oddly enough, I believe her.   I am getting better about crossing that threshold.     

Friends, I am certain we all are experiencing some level of PTSD.  Remember to take good care, talk to friends and loving family members, a therapist, maybe even a pastor!  Look for the blessings, for they are there.  Do give your dog or cat a big hug.  In these jangly days they are working overtime. So is God. 

 Yes, I do believe.      

     

Manifesto   

And if we can’t save the world,
and who says we can’t, then
let us try anyway. Perhaps
we have no superhuman powers—
can’t see through buildings,
can’t fly, can’t bend the bars of cages—
but we have human powers—
can listen, can stand up to,
can stand up for, can cradle.
And if we can’t imagine
a world of peace, and who
says we can’t, then let us
try anyway. Perhaps we start
tonight—on a Wednesday.
Thursday works, too. Or Friday.
Doesn’t much matter the day.
All that matters is the choice
to meet this moment exactly
as it is, with no dream of being
anyone else but our flawed
and fabulous very self—
and then, wholly present,
bringing this self to the world,
touching again and again what is true.
What if we do? And if we can’t
save ourselves, and who
says we can’t, let’s try anyway.
There was a time I thought
I could never be healed. That
was only because it hadn’t happened yet,
so I decided it wasn’t possible.
Healing happened anyway.
What have we decided isn’t possible?
What if we stopped believing
that limit? What if, right now,
we used our human powers
of compassion, clarity, gratitude,
praise? What if we did it together—
opened all those closed doors inside
us? What if we let the opening do
what opening does?

~ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer   

    

     

photograph:  San Leandro, November 2020   

Good Morning

 A beautiful poem that illustrates how prayerful cooking and baking can be.  Blessings on you day, and may all tables be a place of peace, sustenance, and gratitude.   

   

More than these greens tossed with toasted pecans,
I want to serve you the hymn I sang into the wooden bowl
as I blended the oil and white vinegar. More than honey ice cream
beside the warm pie, I want to serve you the bliss in the apples' flesh,
how it gathered the sun and carried its luminousness to this table.
More than the popovers, the risen ecstasy of wheat, milk and eggs,
I want to serve you the warmth that urged the transformation to bread.
Blessings, I want to serve you full choruses of hallelujah, oh so wholly
here in this moment. Oh so holy here in this world.

~ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer   

via First Sip, Claudia Cummins   

 

  

The photograph that is attached is one of my earliest.