Everyone wants to know a secret.
I have discovered that if I want a group of people to be quiet,
I simply make the sound of a whisper
Or lean over to someone and make the whisp whisp sound of secrets passing.
I want to know the secret
That no one seems to know the answer to.
The Way, I guess.
And the Way cannot be known.
That’s what all the old teachings say
Or at least all the ones
That seem to understand something.
Something like how a breeze can carry a smell
Or a memory
Or both.

They tend the garden. They attend
At the door, awaiting instruction.
They offer you tenderness.
They tender you offers.
They tend to anticipate
Your every intention.
They intend to do you good –
For all intents and purposes –
No matter the trend.

This is the wind at my back.
This is what it whispers.
Sometimes it’s so quiet, I can barely feel it
And then it shouts and pushes
Until I have no choice but to follow its instruction.
The going, in and of itself, is not so powerful
Except when it is –
When the place I leave is rank and toxic
When the dysfunction infects everyone around it
Then the Going is powerful.
That’s when the people you leave behind
Tell stories of your going
That’s when they turn you into a hero
Of the Person that Went.

A clock spreads its arms wide
Hands at 3 and 9
Come in come in
See my inner workings
My gears and timing
See my works, locking and interlocking
How I move from one moment to the next
One bit clicking quickly forward
Another dragging its feet and a third
Splitting the difference between them.
All the secret connections
The push that touches something and makes it
Turn something else
Wheel to wheel
Pulley to pulley
A train a brain
An hourglass.

Blessings seasoned with advice
A little sprinkle to give it some extra flavor
A shaving of counsel. Or in this case
Most of the meal is advice
With just a hint of blessing at the start and finish.
Mostly, advice and blessing don’t pair well together.
If someone gives me a heaping
Spoonful of advice, the blessing is usually
Overcome, if it’s included at all.
My own father, though, gave me this very advice
And it was a blessing.

Polonius to Laertes.
This one’s sandwiched into a line of verse
In a speech that rolls and rolls
Like a scroll unwinding.
It is the simplest sentence.
The simplest idea
And yet it is the summary of all that came before.

This is what it means to grow:
To see more and more clearly
Who one’s self is, what is self and what is mask or trappings or other.
To become truer and truer
To that true self
And prune away the vines that wind around it –
Carving one’s self out like a block of marble
Chipping off bits of unnecessary self
Til all that is left is that sculpture
That art
You were meant to be.

It can be dangerous. It can be
A breeding ground for resentment or regret.
But, too, it can grow a hardy crop of love and interdependence.
When a friend is thirsty
You will not deny him a glass of water
If you have one handy.
If he’s hungry
You bring him a bowl of that stew you have
Cooking on the stove. And he will do the same.
I have hesitated to take kindness –
Afraid of losing the friend in the transaction
But sometimes accepting help
Means becoming vulnerable to someone
And giving it can mean
Surrendering control.
Money being not so different from love
In that giving it is a real gift.
But I realize here that my mistake
Is in the mixing up of a loan and a gift.
I suppose because I see a loan as a gift too in
The present moment.
When I give one, I give to the now
When I receive one
I am saved
For the moment
Saved by someone who loves and trusts me
From the moment I’m in
To the moment when things will be better.

Is it in their genes?
Four hundred plus years later
This remains true.
Next to most of my French friends
I feel the least fashionable human in the universe.
I become acutely aware of the little hole in my shirt
That I scarcely knew was there before.
I suddenly notice that this shirt
Doesn’t QUITE fit me,
That this little spot of paint isn’t invisible.
I want to run to an expert
Throw myself on their mercy
Have them dress me
Like a doll
Since I am so seemingly incapable
Of dressing myself with style.
One Frenchwoman I know
Has so much style
And so much grace within that style –
That I find myself almost always
Spilling food
Or dropping cups,
Discovering a stray crumb on a lip
Or ink all over my fingers.
As if her stylishness were a planet
With its own gravitational pull
That pulls all the style out of me
And pours my drink all over my front.