Sweeping the Sidewalk

The maple tree out front is fertile with seed. Our driveway and sidewalk are rust colored with its velvety droppings. Today I finally got out the broom and cleaned up a bit.

When I sweep our sidewalk or driveway, even now, more than forty-five years later, I still flash back to one of the two brave days of my life. I was not the person sweeping the alley behind the Holubar Mountaineering store in Denver, but all I have to do is to move the broom over concrete, and I see the man who was. 

It must have been winter or early spring. There was snow on the ground. I was nineteen, and I had just dropped out of college so that I could immerse myself into the cult that had found me the summer before.

I was shopping for hiking boots while on my lunch break from my job at a small, independent newspaper. At the cash register, a store clerk asked me if I had driven to the store, and when I said yes, he asked if I could give a ride to some kids. The kids, who were nowhere to be seen, had thrown snowballs at a car out front in the parking lot, and there was fear for their safety. I, a naive, young woman, agreed to drive around to the alley where the boys would be waiting. 

I carried my new hiking boots out to my yellow VW beetle and drove around to the alley, not knowing who I would find or where I would find them. That's when the sight of a man sweeping dust etched itself into my mind. When he saw me coming, he signaled to someone inside the open door, and out came three boys who may have been eleven or twelve years old. They quickly jumped into my backseat and folded themselves down onto the floor. In my rear-view mirror, I saw a big, mobster-looking American car entering the alley. That was the car that had been hit by the snowballs. 

I drove faster than ideal for alley driving, turned onto the street, then took a right onto a busier main street. Traffic was stopped for a red light. But my little yellow VW beetle could squeeze between a car and the curb and gain access to the turn lane. The big, mobster-looking American car could not. So I squeezed and I turned and I ignored speed limits and I got those kids home. Then I went back to work, probably telling my about my adventure to my office mates, never telling it to my parents.

I love that this story comes back to me when I sweep the sidewalk. I love the young woman who gave those kids a ride. I am not sure that today I would do the same thing.

Silence

Silence
in this
room
Silence
in this
room
Silence
in this
room

Words on the screen
Words on the screen
Words on the screen

Thoughts in the mind
Thoughts in the mind Thoughts in the mind
Thoughtsinthemindthoughtsinthemindthoughtsinthemind
Thoughtsinthemindthoughtsinthemindthoughtsinthemind
Thoughtsinthemindthoughtsinthemindthoughtsinthemind  

Silence
in this
room
Silence
in this
room
Silence
in this
room

Silence
in the
breath
Silence
in the
breath
Silence
in breath

Silence
in
the
mind
Silence
in
the
mind
Silence

Silence



Carol Barrow
March, 2020

Sheltering In

I don't know about you, but my word limit has almost been reached. It's great that we are all connecting as we live through this crisis, but this introvert is going to need a little break pretty soon. While staying home over the last week, I've talked with more people via phone and the internet, read more Facebook posts, and met more neighbors (from a distance) than I'm used to. I'm at capacity.

I've been a big phone talker for a long time!

So, I'm going to keep this to under a hundred fifty words and just say, 

Please take care of yourself. 
    Love as much as you can. 
        Remember, we were made for this.

💗💗💗

Grief

grief,
you have visited me often —
deaths, young and old;
lost lovers; 
world catastrophes. 
many times,
when i’ve felt too sorry 
for myself,
you’ve knocked me 
to my knees
looked me in the eyes
and reminded me that
we don’t grieve alone.
you are a thread
connecting us 
to each other —
to the mother in Africa
sitting next to her baby’s
lifeless body,
to the father whose son
shot up too many drugs,
to the crying child alone 
on the dirt floor of
a migrant camp,
to everyone,
for no one can escape you.
grief, 
you are our broken hearts
knit together as one.


- Carol Barrow
March, 2020

Gila Wilderness Lunar Halo

a full moon
embedded 
in a large milky glow 
thinly framed 
in muted rainbow
and taking up 
most of the eastern sky

like another world
so close it’s in us
it lights up the earth
turning bushes, trees, 
and hills 
a mysterious warmth
reaching horizons
earth’s edges 
moving through
dark infinite space 
like a drop 
in an ocean 
of silence

silent moon
silent earth
silent space
silent night


Carol Barrow
February, 2020
Photo credit Lois Farrington

While in Gila Wilderness II

day one

an easy hike 
with a friend
under cottonwoods whose leaves
are yellow and crisp
like the sun and autumn air,
we find the dragonfly 
petroglyph, and the 
tiny ponds that want me
to drink and bathe
as if no one has come 
here in two hundred years,
as if I can hear the songs of 
women washing clothes,
the babbling of babies still echoing
from the cliffs.
i yearn to 
feel
   what 
      they 
         felt,

but we head back, drive
into town, to the food co-op
where we find SURPRISE!
round, plastic containers
of fresh-made carrot soup
urging us to forget 
oceans and fish bellies 
filled with bits of petroleum-based 
human convenience. with
salivating anticipation
we buy two.
the trip back
to our cabin

is interrupted by the pinks,
yellows, and purples erupting
before us across the wide,
open new mexico skies. we
pull over and awww at the
heart-shattering play of light
that soon darkens into

the road ahead of us,
and it isn’t long until 
a fire is lit
in our kiva, its flames
imitating the sunset
that lives in memory 
and photos, preserved
in the cloud that has never 
touched the sky. we eat 
our warmed carrot soup,
and awwww once more,
at the heart-shattering play 
of flavors and warm bellies,
life full of perfection
in ever-changing moments.

day two

an easy hike 
with a friend.
our goal: 
a birding hotspot
as indicated on the map.
we walk 
among wiry, 
dr seussian cacti
next to a wide, lazy stream
that draws us close.
i yearn to
   let 
      the
         water
            carry me.
we rarely spot a bird, 
eventually arrive at 
a gate that looks
like civilization

so we head back, drive
into town, to the food co-op 
salivating
at the thought of
fresh-made carrot soup,
but we find SURPRISE!
round plastic containers of
a different soupy substance.
we forget oceans and 
fish bellies filled with 
bits of petroleum-based 
human convenience, and with
reticent anticipation
we buy two. the trip back
to our cabin

is serene, punctuated
by dreams of living simply
under the wide,
open new mexico skies, 
which are now a dark 
backdrop to

the lone headlights
on the road ahead of us,
and it isn’t long until 
a fire is lit
in our kiva, its flames
imitating a sunset
that lives in memory 
and photos, preserved
in the cloud that has never 
touched the sky. we eat 
our unremarkable

creamy soup
and come to the
realization that none
of our day’s goals 
had come to fruition. 
we awwww again at 
the heart-shattering play 
of flavors and full bellies,
life full of perfection
in ever-changing moments.


carol barrow
january, 2020

While in the Bosque del Apache Wildlife Preserve

Blackbirds
   a pantoum*

A cloud of blackbirds darkens the sky,
expanding and contracting
like a huge breath.
How can we not pay attention?

Expanding and contracting —
in a dance spontaneously choreographed —
how can we not pay attention?
The movement and joy are contagious.

It’s all a dance spontaneously choreographed,
and, admit it or not, we are being danced.
The movement and joy are contagious;
for a moment we forget who we think we are.

Admit it or not, we are being danced.
We’re being twirled by a beloved partner,
And for a moment we forget who we think we are
as we watch a cloud of blackbirds darken the sky

Carol Barrow

November, 2019

*Pantoum: A poem of any length composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanza.

While in Gila National Wilderness

The Fly

A fly committed suicide in our cabin yesterday evening. For three nights before that, I, in my most compassionate Buddha-nature way, had allowed him to buzz circles around my bedroom. Actually, I accepted the droning sound, interrupted by his quiet exploration of window sills and lamp shades, because once I was under the weight of warm blankets, not much could drag me out before morning.

Each day, I’d forget about the little guy, until I settled in to sleep and he would make his presence known once again. 

Last night, my room was quiet when I pulled the covers up around my ears. That’s because earlier in the evening, as Lois and I had just finished heating tortillas in a hot skillet, the fly committed suicide by heat. It could have been an accidental death. Most likely, he didn’t mean to take himself out. But right after we moved the skillet to a cool burner, Mr. Fly flew into it. For a split second, I saw him dance like popcorn— or maybe he was just sizzling. I then realized what was happening, and Lois picked up the pan, but… It was too late. Dancing in three hundred degrees when one weighs about four ten-thousandths of an ounce is, of course, deadly. It would be for anyone.

Often, I notice myself letting out an Ohhh! of sadness and compassion when, for instance, a fly happens to burn up in a pan, or when I see a dead skunk or cat or dog on the side of the road. I not only suffer unnecessary grief for the animal I never knew and who is dead and no longer feeling any pain, I will also find myself sad for the deceased’s family, projecting onto them how bad I would feel if my family member burnt to a crisp in a big, hot skillet. 

So, for no logical reason, or maybe for the best reasons in the world, I had a few moments of sadness for that fly. And I wanted to tell the story of its demise. To honor that tiny being. Really, its story was every bit as important as any other I might tell.


Carol Barrow
November, 2019

almost spring

almost spring

something shifts
i always notice
the day i first notice
but i don’t know 
if it’s a sudden change
or one slow and gradual
missing my attention
until it’s blatantly obvious
in a familiar birdsong
not heard for quite some time
maybe since this time last year
but now it’s here beautiful
and cheery and 
honey I’m homey
its voice gives me a smile 
warmth flows through my chest
we’ve made it 
through winter’s depths
I want to die in spring 
when life is saying yes!
and so am I

Carol Barrow
February, 2020