In the dream, I was working hard to finish a bridge in order to cross some river whose current was strong. It seemed important to get where I was going, though I couldn’t put where I was going into words. Just as I finished the arc of the bridge, an elephant appeared in the water. It was stepping down the middle of the stream. When it was squarely beneath my unfinished bridge, it stopped to douse itself with water. Then... Read more

Like light in the sun spilling out of the sun, the spirit within beams its way through all our cracks till our most treasured walls come down.   The coming down of those walls is the blessing we crave and resist.   The coming down of those walls—so the light of the soul like the light of the sun can help the world grow—this is the call of calls. Read more

How the door left open is a threshold to a new world, which we fear to go through. How the broken birdhouse tips the baby birds into each other till the one leaned on most takes the longest to fly. How the patch of wildflowers tries to drink of the fast-moving river. I confess I’ve been leaned on till I forgot how to fly. But I’ve been opened by simple kindnesses till others thought I was a doorway left open.... Read more

On the way home, hundreds of fireflies. They flicker like your memory of Bennington, the poetry readings at night in the barn. Crossing the field of grasses, they were everywhere, their abdomens glowing. They hibernate like us over the long winter, some for years. Some burrow underground. Others find safety in the bark of trees. We’re all little glow worms holding out for spring. But the night grasses at Bennington, there you found the light in your belly. It glowed... Read more

Lyn Hartley is an independent educator who lives in the wilds of the Yukon. She tells the story of two skiers crossing a frozen lake at night. Sliding through the snow with flashlights, they came upon a moose fallen through the ice. The enormous creature was stuck shoulder high. It was clear the moose couldn’t get out and they alone couldn’t pull it out. The temperature was dropping. So they stayed through the night and, though the moose resisted, they... Read more

How do they do it? The ones washed ashore. Who in a broken pile put themselves together. Who after the hurricane sort the rubble for the nails that still can hold. Who after being cut dream of stitches. They are the heroes. The ones who like an old tree grow around anything. The ones who grow another arm, another leg, another way. And what starts the growing? Is it the rain on the turtle’s back as she never waivers? Is... Read more

The early sun is spilling up the thin March trees. Through the barky silhouette, steam un- furls from a neighbor’s roof. Diffused by light, it belongs to everyone. It seems to rise from the center of the earth, seeping enough of the fire that never goes out to keep the day going. This is how I view Art, as a small taproot into the center of things that lets a flare of what matters back into the air to keep... Read more