Carolina Friends School, from its founding

 

the way opens for a school

before me on the computer

sits a couple I have known about 2/3 of my life,

a husband and wife, a mother and father,

who moved to piedmont North Carolina in the late 1950s,

a time that should, and did, appall any

who realized the equality of all

in having the same touch of God within each of us,

from out of the calling of their Friends faith,

from out of the calling of their love for their own three children,

from out of the synthesis of both callings,

they joined with others who saw a  way that could open

to the founding of a new school,

a school that could live the charge that George Fox felt,

and that every parent feels deep in their souls,

the charge to make the world better,

to follow the better angels of our nature,

to live a life that opens the doors to possibility

for each student, each teacher, each parent, to walk forward,

to dare to belief in self,

to dare to believe in community,

and for near 60 years, Carolina Friends School

has done its best to be true to the revolution,

the revolution when we are so radical as to get back 

to the roots of what a school should be

when it sees and knows each student,

and does its best to structure itself to be what is needed:

daring to hold to what should not be changed,

daring to change and find a new way forward when needed,

thank you, Peter and Martha Klopfer,

for your vision, for your daring,

for your decades of loving labor

so that C.F.S., a child you helped to be born and to raise,

could survive and become the school its students need, 

the school the community needs.

by Henry H. Walker

June 29, ‘21

nature deficit disorder

reordered by nature

much of humanity lives increasingly distanced

from forest, from sea, from animals we don’t own,

we love to make a world to live in

that is full of right angles, of boxes, of devices,

of foods and entertainment servile to us,

a world in which we are alpha

and we feel all exists only

in how they connect to our world,

yesterday we hiked up a great mountain 

in a great national park,

Mt. LeConte in the Smokies,

two peregrine falcons called loudly

and soared above the steep ridges,

where some humans some 20 years ago 

helped them to refind a home,

these falcons are not domesticated,

they are their own selves,

and yet something deep within us needs them to exist,

as if unbridled nature allows our souls to lose their bridles,

the forest on this mountain is a wild menagerie

which lives stories of success and failure,

of competition and cooperation,

of obligations and reciprocities,

al held within communities 

about 10,000 years old, this time around,

but really stretching into billions of fertile years,

what we are finally learning is that the forest

is a community, a community of diversity,

of a wholeness we humans struggle to achieve,

of a rightness to every flower, every tree, every leaf, every heart,

we need nature to hep us remember fundamental reality,

the truth beneath our feet, before our eyes, above our presumption,

there exists a nature deficit disorder;  for our health

we need to order ourselves by letting nature swallow us:

so much depends on a great beech tree, 

a moss-wrapped spruce,

a foraging bear, 

the sun on the horizon,

a waterfall dancing with our souls.

by Henry H. Walker

June 18, ‘21

Summer Solstice 21

 

Summer Solstice ‘21

as June moves toward and through the Summer Solstice,

the heat and humidity of full summer

increasingly rule the day,

cool dry air times a visit

so that we could hike up a mountain with its help,

back down summer resettles over us,

the forest is luxuriantly full,

the air clear enough to magic the light

and the world around us,

galax, 

blue-bead lily, 

bee balm, 

and sand myrtle, 

flower, as do rosebay and catawba rhododendron,

some laurel still hang in,

summer comes in on a Sunday this year,

and the black bears in our valley in the Smokies

seem to have a coming-out party this day:

a beautiful yearling walks by the cabin, 

then up the trail,

then along the stream,

briefly pausing in the cooling water,

a huge adult bear, maybe 30 minutes later,

also goes up the dropping creek,

pausing even longer when in the water,

a cub from this year, alone,

with a red tag in its ear,

hangs out in the nearby picnic area mid-afternoon,

and then slips away back into the woods,

the next day up here quiets,

our family gone back to their usual lives,

nearby rentals turn over,

no bears or herons appear again 

through the morning and into the afternoon,

the air expects rain to visit overnight, and it does,

we slipped up here to the mountains earlier than usual,

so that we could come together

for a hike up the mountain when opportunity allowed,

in that hazy time when school ends,

and we are almost ready for vacation. . .

surprise!  just as I write these words,

the huge bear ambles up from the creek,

embraces the spruce tree to scratch itself,

then moves to the cedar tree to embrace it, too,

scratching front then scratching its back,

    

I follow it for 20 minutes as it checks out the nearby neighborhood,

no one else out besides her and me,

one half-hearted “woof” when it tired of the paparazzi in me,

I lost it in the border world where yards and woods meet each other,

where, like Alice found, one world can slip into another,

the year is of borders now,

the growing season is full,

and the days know light slowly ebbs toward fall,

and winter will come.

by Henry H. Walker

June 21, ‘21

I seesaw merrily

 

My Dichotomies

dichotomies define me:

I am as much introvert as extrovert, and vice versa,

I am as much pessimist as optimist,

tears are as close to my eyes as laughs to my belly,

inaction calls me as surely as action,

I find myself stating something in my poems

and immediately following that take with a “but. . .”

I have made it to 73,

and I feel good,

“the Good Lord willing, 

and the Creeks don’t rise,”

I am 73,

and the chasm 

is knocking at my door,

a dichotomy just shouted at me

on the 5 miles up Mt. LeConte

and on the 7 miles down that great mountain,

my muscles and soul exulted at the top,

the cool dry air supporting my optimism,

the way down flipped my feelings,

my right leg a bit “iffy,”

 so I was cautious in my steps,

on the longer way down,

the increased heat and humidity,

and the bright baking sun,

pulled over 5 pounds of water from me:

my forehead and shirt drenched,

I hydrated the outside,

and I suffered with not enough enabling liquid inside

and not enough limberness

to help me readily move down the rocky trail,

my sons, granddaughter, and niece,

called to help me by my amazing wife,

came to my rescue with electrolytes and liquid,

with supportive camaraderie,

my will, with their help, got me down the last mile and a half,

my humor got me across the last footbridge by the parking lot,

I shook the hands of those near me

and thanked them for being who they are,

I said goodbye in case I didn’t make it the last steps,

across the bridge was my first-born son,

so I laughed that I made it across

since I hadn’t said goodbye to him,

I cannot yet determine whether I am more pleased 

with myself for making it down, again,

or fearful that this should be my last trip up and down,

there is a schizoid duality about me and my dichotomies,

so I seesaw merrily back and forth, and back again.

by Henry H. Walker

June 20, ‘21