continuity

Grandparenting

a child is born
and in the birthing of self
looks around and feels alone,
an aloneness that parents ameliorate for a time
as do friends when they’re there,

when love connects you with another
and a child is born
it’s hard to feel alone
for that child needs you
and you’re there for him and for her day and night
until their individuation separates parent and child again,

in my heart I’m still with my parents
and my children are still with me,
and my children and I for precious hours can be together again,
and then our different lives wrench us apart,

now that I’m lucky enough to be a grandparent
it’s harder and harder to feel alone
for there are younglings within whom my genes express themselves
in partnership with those of my love and of my son’s love,
and I can at least feel resonances of examples, of teaching,
of passing on gifts that are of the best to which we have risen,

when one granddaughter laughs at my tomfoolery
or another toddles up to me with arms raised in search of being in my arms,
when each day empowers them more and more
as cognition and heart learn to scale their selves higher and higher,
my eyes twinkle with the twinkle in theirs,
and I find joy every time each of them laughs, understands,
reveals a gift with which they rise,











when they leave our presence, I feel sad and more alone,
I also feel myself larger and fuller because they are,
for each of them is also who I am
and the substance of my life therefore feels fuller,
larger,
more nearly right.

by Henry Walker
December 30, 2009

seamless

Isabel, version 1.5

at one and a half Isabel is solidly herself--

there is an implacable sureness to her gaze and her actions,
a firmness as she considers, decides, acts,
she takes it all in and the decision-maker inside
sends her hands and her feet out
to touch, to pull, to push, to drop, to explore,
to mirror her sister, to engage with those around,








she casts out sounds and we quickly know her opinion,
especially if it’s “No!” with a quick shake of the head,
or her decisive “I want MAMA!”,
her interest: “More. . . That. . . Wuh!” (when she sees a dog),
sometimes a pride or something else: “I did it,”
her love of “Dada” and the power of “Door”
saying “Bye” and “Hi,” and her hand moves to reinforce the sound,
she increasingly has opinions of what she wants,
and when she wants it,








and, for now, she is limited in the verbal tools
that can express the subtleties within her,
so she fusses more and hopes we can translate well,

her whole face lights up when you notice her,
she notices you,
and you each smile,
her smile and the light in her eye enough to melt anyone,








life comes at her and she comes at life
as if each is made for the other,
with most of us, the fit isn’t so seamless
and a disquiet at that partial disconnect unsettles us,

I feel solidity of self and place in Isabel,
I love watching her watch her big sister
and to learn her best from her,
and I like watching her toddle quickly away as Big Big comes at her
to join in the fun that can be a bit much for the smaller self to endure.












by Henry Walker
December 27, 2009

ordering the houses

houses in order

it feels good to get the physical house in order:
clean the corners,
sort the piles
fix what needs fixing,
get your own house in order,

it feels good to get the psychic house in order:
check and clean its corners,
order and process the internal lists,
unplug the processors and then reboot it all
so that glitches can resolve themselves,

for me I need to leave my physical house
and lose myself in God’s woods,
to reconnect with all that is most not me
all that that I feel somehow is that
which is also really who I am.

by Henry Walker
December 22, ‘09

noticing the change of the seasons

Winter Solstice ’09

as the Sun’s year winds down
a storm flies north over us
full of moisture from the Gulf,
cold air from the Pole
pulls a great snow out of it,

before, all that needs doing at school and home
has also broken upon me in a snow of tasks,
and later a flurry of actions,

it’s often easy in modern America
to find a way to let nature’s cycles be peripheral,
we light away the night,
cool away summer,
heat away winter,
and not even quite notice how short the days are getting,
I do contend, though, that our moods know what’s going on,
for grey days somber us like a filter that hides away
any brightness in the mood,

the last day of Fall
I drive my fully-loaded 19 year-old van
across a whitened landscape, though roads are clear,
as I leave the Piedmont and climb up to the mountain plateau
the bright Sun stays behind
and brooding clouds greet me and hold all across the mountains,
my usual interstate way across these mountains still is blocked
by a landslide months ago when rock & earth reacted to another storm,
as I race north I feel the weight of the foot and a half of snow
beside the road, near half a foot still on the trees,
I thank the engineers who designed and built this interstate
and the workers who have cleared it
as I crest the Appalachian ridge at 3800 feet in elevation
and scurry down and across the great valley of the Tennessee,
the snow disappearing till it reappears around our cabin
huddled at the base of Mt. LeConte,
a few inches on the ground and a light dusting still on the trees,
subtle, accenting the lines of leaf & branch
rather than overwhelming distinctions the way snow measured deep does,

stars and a crescent moon come out to mark the night,
early morning, even before the grey of daylight starts to softly return
I venture down to the creek for my morning soul time,
the white of the snow the first to shape the world around me
and slowy other shapes unveil themselves,
the full creek falling fast,

it’s now almost 9:00 a.m. and the Sun still hasn’t crested
the mountains to the south and east,
though the tops of the trees on the ridge across the way see it,








late morning I set off on an adventure to discover
what will reveal itself in the snowy valley today,


I aim my steps up the valley toward the Sun,











who has been hiding behind the clouds
and chooses this day, of all days, to reappear,
on this, its lowest day of the year,
the mountains before me rise up to make the Sun seem even lower,
I snap picture after picture of tree and creek
decked out in white with the bright eye of the Sun
the jewel at the top of photo after photo,

as I make my way two miles up the valley
the snow deepens from several inches to 5 then to 7,








and I go cross-country where my tracks are the first of my species in days,
though story after story hints of itself in other tracks:
deer, wild turkey, rabbit, probably a coyote,









lower bushes and trees who keep their leaves,
mostly rhododendron and hemlock, one laurel I notice,
bow deep under the weight of the snow
and in their supplicance hold me to a slower way around them,









a tall hemlock, draped with snow, so looks as a Christmas tree,
that I take its picture with the bright sun as the star at its top,













this is the valley I most explore and know,
this Spring,
this Summer,
this Fall
I have wandered these woods
and found flower and view and bear,
now these same woods seem as if at intermission,
the snow speaks of the truth of Winter’s phase of holding, of stasis,
the stream speaks of the truth of the phase of flowing, of change,
the Sun speaks of the truth that he calls the dance
and we do well to follow that lead,

as the day diminishes toward dusk
I find my way to where I can watch the last light today
highlight the whitened mountain at the head of my valley,









tomorrow the days will start to slowly lengthen,
three times the Moon will fill, and it will be Spring,
for now, though, it is time to feel the Winter and celebrate light.

by Henry Walker
December 21, ‘09

a followup to my gifts

may the mandala turn

when the effort of leading with my heart has been long and hard,
it helps me to find time and space
to recognize the wounds and the losses,
to release the tears,
those tears that so much in life demands some kind of payment for,

while it is true that there is much joy
in celebrating how well the glass fills,
we also need the grounding of feeling true to each way
the glass empties, diminishes, when we lose,

we are on the wheel of the mandala,
whether we know it or not,
and we need to let ourselves turn, turn, turn,
the heart literally and metaphorically a muscle that must be used to be healthy,
and when we give in to the exercise of feeling each loss
we ready ourselves to be able to turn
and to feel the joy fully
when there is gain again.

by Henry Walker
December 21, ‘09

Annie's sister-in-law

as the year winds down, there is loss, not only of sunlight, but relationships, health, mood--this is a poem in tribute to CFS dance teacher Annie's close family member, a person assaulted by serious health issues

Kathy Godleski Dwyer

I sit down
and release my own agendas till later,
I start to make the little leaps into understanding
by asking about the facts: names, places, connections,
I look deep into Annie’s eyes
and listen deep to her with my heart, and my head,

and I start to see her,
the third sister, brother Tom’s wife,
Kathy Godleski Dwyer,
she who holds the families together--
the hub of the larger Dwyer connections,
the hub of her family of origin,
the hub of her nuclear family as it grows:
with two daughters, 4 granddaughters, 1 grandson,
nothing more important to her than time with
husband, daughters, grandchildren,
ah, those special first months and years!
yet all the connections are special to her:
no one better at remembering birthdays, favorite foods,
getting you the right gift at the right time,
the one who calls you, the one whom you call,
a Christmas party every year, everyone welcome and treasured,
the family reunion every summer,
the one who holds all the history, who knows all the anecdotes,
the homemaker who seems to be made for turning house into home,
I hear of 9 houses Kathy has transformed into home,
redoing kitchen and yard, finding the right paint,
all the ways to nest so that Tom can come home,
so that her kids can grow up in the home
she feels should be everyone’s birthright,
no wonder her children live so close, stay so close,
wherever her relations move and live
they feel the pull to return to where Kathy calls home,

her connection to her parents-in-law powerful enough
that her mother-in-law considered her as daughter
and that her father-in-law opened-up enough
to describe her as “almost like family,”

the Southerner in me is intrigued by her honest realness
that realness that we here in the South can too easily forget--
as she tells it like it is, letting out the reaction
while still holding true to the connection,
a sharp wit, no pretense, no hidden agenda,
able to laugh heartily at herself,

a deep wisdom as she is close to her own heart and thus to others,

as I see her fuller and fuller,
I see the creator, the gardener who plants, grows, savors,
she who quilts and crochets, to create and then to give away,
she who knows how to make a home,
she who knows how to dress well,
she who knows how to live well and fully,

and, through it all, Kathy and Tom have both been lucky
to have found each other so early
and to have devoted themselves to each other so fully,

I have learned that anyone who has been close to Kathy has been blessed,
and those of us who have not are lesser for that absence.

by Henry Walker
December 16, ‘09

it's the heart. . .

what is my gift?

what is my gift?
the light that is most mine to give,
that gift that can shine
while I use the tools I have within my kit?
my gift is my heart,
the caring within me
that wells up and overflows out of me,

that which powers me to see what I see in my photography,
the twinkle of the eye as the wonder within a person
gives me a flash of itself,
the angle, the moment, the possibility
that lets a waterfall, a sunset, a flower, a mountain
reveal its own heart,
and the possible becomes actual,

it is the caring that powers my teaching
so that I can touch a wholeness who can self-organize
if given space, foundation, encouragement, release,
while it needs so much to resist all
that pulls down at its reaching and that rewards the base,

for now words are my familiar, my agents,
the sous chefs who help me fathom the depths, encompass the breadth,
reach up and back to the source,

how relatively easy it is to know the “how” of action,
it’s the heart that gives the “why,” the “where,” the “when,”
and then the “how” knows what to do--

and there’s a picture, a learner,
and sometimes a poem.

by Henry Walker
December 14, ‘09