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

le chevauchement

Well, that last post didn't work so well. I didn't know that videos don't come through in email notifications. Readers have to click on the blue post title which is linked to the blog if they want to view/listen to a YouTube video. Good to know. Crappy to happen.

My first blog post in almost a year, and it was an email flop. Oh, well. The song is MY happy song. Everyone has their own.

***

Some mornings, I read a poem by a contemporary poet, then steal a phrase that I like and write my own poem from that prompt (I only do this some mornings, because I lack discipline, and different days ask for different activities). I noticed that one writer wrote a few lines with words that ended a thought, but also began one. I have no idea if this is a "thing," if there is a name for this style of writing. I'd call it le chevauchement (the overlap). You'll see in the writing below, thoughts overlap. Kind of like how my brain works.


Late Summer Garden

The summer’s been quirky, 
and we found ourselves on the computer too 
much heat and not enough rain to keep the lawn green
beans have been plentiful, though, and kale grows
like weeds must be pulled around the roses weekly 
so the murdering bindweed won’t strangle them. Each 
year, I say next year will be more colorful
flowers would look nice mixed with the daisies. 
We’ll feed the grass in 
the fall I could plant bulbs if I remember 
this miracle growing right before my 
eyes keep focusing on what needs to be done 
and forgetting to enjoy even the perfect globe 
of dandelion seeds blowing the mind with happiness.

Carol Barrow
September, 2019

The Gift

When I was about nineteen, I met a young man, probably at a dance club, and we went on an afternoon date in the mountains. I don't remember the man's name, but I can see him in my mind, and I can also remember riding in his little green Triumph with the top down, going down a highway that, at that time, had very little traffic. The highway was so quiet, that when the man's hat blew off, he had all the time in the world to put his car into reverse, open the door, and pick the hat up off the road.

As we drove down from the mountains, the wind and this song created a wild dance of my hair and heart:




Not long after that date, the man would write me love letters. I was busy looking in a different direction. But I am so grateful for that memory. Especially for the song. When it comes to mind, which only happens every few years, I blast it from the speakers and dance wildly like my hair did that day.

What song will you drop into someone's life today?

A Lovely Thanksgiving

I was telling a friend that every morning when I wake up, before I do anything else, I spend some time thinking of things for which I'm grateful. The first thing I think of is always My Bed. Next, I'm grateful for my warm blankets, then it's my pillow. There isn't much that's better than my bed and warm covers, especially when it's time to crawl out of them into the cold morning air. That's when they become magnetic, trying to persuade me to stay just a bit longer, then another bit longer.

I do move on to other gratitudes that could be considered to have more substance, though I'm not sure that judgment is accurate.

In response to the description of my morning gratitude, my friend offered me this:

Every day, choose a letter of the alphabet, and throughout the day find things that begin with that letter and be grateful for them. 

Day one, I chose J. J was a challenging letter for me. But I saw Juniper trees and remembered making a happy face out of Juniper berries during my solo time while on wilderness quest years ago. I was grateful for that experience, and the memory of it gave me a smile. I also found gratitude for the Junctions of streets where I walk my dog each day; particularly the Junction that can be scary with cars whipping around the curve. That Junction wakes me up if I happen to to have been lulled into a daydream. 

In the evening while I was pedaling my arm bike, I looked around the room for things that began with J. Not even one book on my bookshelf had a J in the title. Oh! But I was using my arm bike for my shoulder JOINT! The Joint that has hurt so much and limited my movement so I can't even reach over to wash my other armpit. I love Joints, even ones that are limiting. Can you imagine a life with no Joints? 

Today my Letter is L. Ah. See that? Letter. I'm grateful for Letters. Letters that make up words that open the world for us in so many ways, allowing us to express, coming together to form books about Lives and Loves we might have not known without them. Oh, and the other kind of Letter! Something almost archaic now, but who doesn't love to read a handwritten Letter? (Unless the handwriting is mine and pretty much undecipherable...)

As I bake and cook and clean and prepare for family to come over for Thanksgiving dinner tonight, I especially want to pay attention to the L word Love in all the forms it shows itself. Love between humans, the Love it takes to get up early on a holiday in order to ensure the turkey is thawed and cooked just right, Love splashed all over the sky as a pink and purple sunrise, the Love that is shown by our Listening to each other. The Love that is everywhere in Life. Unlike my J day, I could spend this whole day finding L everywhere, because Love is everywhere, showing up in so many ways.

As I get ready to click on the Publish button, I am thinking of the few readers of this blog, people I know and Love. This day, and always, I hope that Love shows itself to you in each and every moment.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Love

Carol

As Dharma and I walk together

not too far from home,

I hear the voice of a hawk.

It stands out against 

the rumbles of the city,

and the sound wakes me up.

I then search the sky and trees

for the high I know will come

as the raptor flies us free

from the gravity of life.

Carol Barrow

November, 2018

Because

Love.
Not for a reason,
or to fulfill
someone else's
deserving.
Love,
because
love
is
what
you
are

.

I Wasn’t Fat; I Just Hated Myself

Because of something I had said the other night, my friend asked if I had ever thought I was fat. I answered, “No,” but then I remembered that I did think I was fat when I was eighteen years old, recently out of high school, with a badly broken heart.

Shortly after graduation, my boyfriend of two years had suddenly left me. I felt like I was standing alone out in a desert, winds of self-hatred, sadness, and failure pelting me till I curled up into a protective ball of numbness.

I weighed myself to see if I still existed, and I noticed the scale read 108 pounds. Always being thin enough that people felt a need to comment, 108 sounded like too much, so I began to live on a small handful of cereal, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, and a few saltines each day. When I saw 103 pounds on the dial of my parents' old scale, I began to feel a little more in control of my life.

What I didn't tell my friend the other night was that after losing those five pounds, things only got worse. Back then, a couple of girlfriends and I met a man while hanging out at Cheesman Park down in Denver. He was inviting people to a meeting where participants talked about God. Having little going on, and being the spiritual seeker I was, I bit the bait and started attending Wednesday night meetings, even driving the hour and a half it took to get there from the town I lived in while going to college.

I didn't know it at the time, but I was finding my way into a cult.

I ended up dropping out of school in order to be with the group full-time, and shortly after that a small number of us were sent to another state. There, I had at least a dozen companions who were doing the same meditations and following the same long list of rules as I was. We were a sick family, stressed by ridiculous exercises to make us more disciplined, while the leader used us to make himself rich.

I started eating too much. The needle jumped to 133.

One day the cult leader ordered several women to lose specific amounts of weight, while letting me know I should just "lose a few pounds." We were living under penalty of being cast out, of having to go back to living with "world people" who would suffer the anguish of the Last Days, and I didn't even know whether the loss of two pounds or ten would save me from all of that! 

I tried an all-protein diet for ten days. I ate too much. I fasted. I ate cartons of ice cream. 108. 130. 110. 125.

I medicated with food, eating a whole box of Triscuits or a package of cookies in one sitting. After throwing away the empty box, I would buy a milkshake and drink it dry. This was my dessert ritual after eating a big dinner.

My pain came from much more than my big, bloated belly, but I only had the means to relieve the physical symptoms. I failed at self-induced throwing up, but I was a master at purging through the over-use of enemas and laxatives. After each cleanse, I would feel a lightness, like I was walking out of a sort of prison and into the huge sky of freedom. I would swear that I never wanted to be a prisoner of my bingeing again, and I would vow to stop over-eating.

The last time must have come two years after joining the cult, right before I popped a couple of bleeding ulcers that put me in the hospital.

In the hospital, I couldn't binge and purge. I couldn't do the required meditations or follow the rules of the cult. That was all fine. More than fine. When I left the hospital, I also left the cult. Two bleeding ulcers and a few hospital stays began the healing I still work with today.

The other night, if I had thought about it a little longer, I would have told my friend that, honestly, I never thought I was fat. But the dark thoughts of self-hatred and some horrendous fear of trying to live in this world used to warp my view of food and life. 

Self-hatred and fear continue to be shadows over my left shoulder, but at the same time, right in front of me, I see the sun rise, I feel air filling my lungs, and I know love is so much bigger and truer than the thoughts that try to undermine the beauty of this world.


Carol Barrow
October, 2018

waiting

how 
does
one
wait
?

michael's
cancer
status
is
“watch
and
wait”

ethan 
and
emily
wait
to
find 
out

but
how 
does
one
wait 
?

i
can’t
see
your
waiting

can 
one
wait
in
her
sleep
?

no
it’s 
a
job
we 
take
on
by 
day

except
when
we 
forget

what
a 
relief
the 
moments
i 
forget
to
wait

and
i 
wait
without
waiting.


Carol Barrow
September, 2018

Now That I’m Sixty-four

I am sixty-four years old. I don’t have that many years left. Some would say, “You could have another thirty!” That doesn’t feel true to me. Or desirable.

I am sixty-four years old. I have to be honest. As sweet as life is — and it is sweet beyond words — I can’t believe that this beautiful, finite, hard and violent, loving and kind world is something to be held tightly.

I am sixty-four years old. I hold onto this life tightly.

But sometimes, I don’t.

The play of light and shadow seems to grab my attention quite often. And I forget to look to find what it is that is shining the light and casting the shadow.

But sometimes, I don’t forget.

And none of that matters, I guess.

Can I say it?

Dare I?

I don’t find living until ninety-four to be desirable because it’s too hard to live this life believing in the lights and shadows. Too tiring to believe I am someone who needs to be happy, liked, loved, warm, cool, young, smart, beautiful, loving, giving, perfect.

I have to laugh.

Stop believing such things, and then life won’t be so hard!

I am sixty-four years old. I don’t have that many years left. Some would say, “You could have another thirty!”

In the moments I am free of the need for an identification, none of that matters.

Can I say it?

Dare I?

It’s not that anything matters, or that it doesn’t.

There is another option: To be free of the need for anything to matter, and to love all the mattering.

I am sixty-four years old. I don’t have that many years left.




Carol Barrow
September, 2018

I Won't Always Be Here

Stephen Jenkinson asks, “Until your ability to see the flower is rooted in the fact that it won’t always be there, and neither will you, how much of the flower do you see?”

I hadn't gotten around to posting this photo of dinner the other night, a dinner where all but the almonds came straight from our garden to the stove to the table:

I remember thinking about how common and boring pictures of food can be. Maybe that's why I never made the effort to post the photo of dinner or the photo of just a few of the green beans I picked last weekend.

We had great vegetable gardens this year. Our soil was happy, and our plants were healthy. Until...

 Swiss Chard

...yesterday afternoon, a scary, windy, rainy, haily storm came through and pretty much annihilated the vegetable gardens, and stripped many trees of their foliage. Now, eighteen hours later, hail and strewn leaves still cover our yard.

Kale

If it hadn't been a hailstorm, it would have been frost or something. All things must end. Or continue on in another form. Or...

Every summer, I carry with me the fact that the plants in our garden are impermanent, that they will wear out by autumn, but I don't entertain the possibility that they could all be gone in some unsuspected moment, long before the first frost. I live that way in other areas of my life, too, thinking that everyone I love, including me, will naturally die in old age; there is always lots of time before I need to look at an ending. I put off living with the fact of impermanence until autumn approaches, until someone is in her 90s, until...

I won't always be here. I won't always be here. I won't always be here. This culture does not prepare us for, does not educate us in, that truth. Nature is offering it up to us all the time. I am trying to remember to listen.

What Really Matters III

when i try to find the answer
to the question
what really matters?
i 
get 
stressed

i 
run around
in circles
looking 
for something
i can't find.

maybe this is it!
but what if it isn't?
that over there
seems to matter more 
than this
but 
everyone says
THIS matters most

i get dizzy
fall down
look up
at the huge
              blue
                  sky
                     above 
                             me
grass tickles my skin

i fall again
in love
with this fresh nowness
and 
forget the question


Carol Barrow
August, 2018

What Really Matters II

The summer before I started second grade, we moved into a new home. Somehow, between our old house and the new one, my favorite stuffed, yellow kitty got lost. I loved that kitty. To me, she was as real and alive as anyone. She mattered, and I spent many, many nights looking up into the darkness and searching for an answer as to where she could be. I had failed as her caretaker, and I felt as though a piece of my heart had been yanked from my chest.

We moved again, to Colorado, when I was a young teen. Moving from a small, conservative town to a large city, I felt like I had just awakened from a long and boring dream. There was so much that mattered! I became aware of war protests, and suddenly the Vietnam War mattered. So did my new friends, bell-bottoms, make-up, and long hair. Boys mattered; especially the one who asked me to dance. Sometimes God mattered, and so did the huge pimple that showed up the morning before a date.

Now, fifty years later, I  still remember many of the things that once seemed important. Who I think I am is made up of those memories and many others; they have stuck to my True Self like frosting on a cake. So sweet.

I notice that my ideas of what matters come and go, many lasting a few minutes; some, several decades. But a ribbon of mattering has been woven throughout my life. It is made of air, food, water, sun, beauty, kindness, friendship, and love. These things have mattered throughout, even when I turned my attention to other matters.

But what happens when I die? Does mattering need a “someone” for it to matter to? Are there some things that REALLY matter, no matter what? I don’t know how to know. I don’t know if the Earth needs us, or if it matters to the sun that the planets encircle it. I don’t know if the universe cares what goes on within it or around it. Still, I have a sense that all of this does somehow matter. Like the dancer depends on floor and gravity, space and relationship, all that we are aware of depends on everything else. In the dance, all parts matter, and maybe that is true of the universe, of everything. Acknowledging this, it makes sense to me to be with each moment, each dance partner, each stuffed, yellow kitty as though they all matter, but to do so lightly, with the freedom to accept what comes next in these ever-changing appearances of life. 

Do all of these words matter? They did while I typed them. Now, I'm not sure. And that feels so right.