Category Archives: haibun
Honey for My Soul
Does it matter that I know where the first globemallows will bloom along the wash each April?
Not to the globemallows. Their rose-orange blossoms will open whether I seek them out or not. When their appointed hour comes, nothing, neither my presence nor my absence, will keep the furled flowers from responding to the urgent summons programmed within each cell.
The blooming does not matter to those who mistakenly think that “mallows” means a mound of tempting confections lying on a plate, waiting to be savoured.
And the blooming certainly does not matter to those who fear the wilderness and its wanton ways.
But to me it matters, and to the spirits of this wasted place, because we have a common purpose: to celebrate each fleeting wonder rising like a tiny phoenix from dust and desolation.
elusive little blossoms
honey for my soul
Text and photo © 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Photo: Globemallow (Sphaeralcea ambigua), Northern Arizona
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Serendipity
Only about thirty minutes of daylight remain. All week long I have been cooped up in my classroom with ten understandably recalcitrant adolescent boys, doing state testing. I need to leave the stress behind, and refresh body and soul. I grab my point-and-shoot and head to the wilderness area behind the house.
Something is calling my name. I will know it when I find it, or more precisely, when it finds me. Is it the tuft of dried grass glowing in the last fiery remnants of day? Is it the desiccated sunflower? Perhaps it is the lichen-covered stone.
Oh, it is you, tiny white flowers! I do not know your name, but this I do know: You are my bread in this wilderness, you are the wine that refreshes. I kneel before you in awe and wonder. Te adoro.
nearly crushed by careless boot
last-minute reprieve
Text and photo © 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Photo: Northern Arizona
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Wildflower Maiden
In “Walking,” Thoreau writes that his health depends on spending at least four hours a day “sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from all worldly engagements.”
The saunterer goes wherever her feet take her, and near sundown mine take me to an open place I call the Meadow, where in late summer yellow wildflowers spread like butter among the thin grasses. Now, however, only bedraggled heads of spent sunflowers remain, glowing orange with the last lights of day.
I move toward the dry sunflowers, but seeing a spot of purple or pink at my feet, I kneel for a closer look. It is the first tiny spring wildflower, whose name I do not know. I snap off a dozen shots, just as the sun slips below the horizon. My sauntering has brought me to holy ground.
flaunting herself in pastels
Wildflower Maiden
Text and photo © 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Photo: Northern Arizona
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Spawning Bedtime Tales
When I visit Zacatecas, I depend on Antonio Muro to drive me from the airport to the hotel. After I collect my bag from the carousel, I see Antonio waiting for me patiently beyond the security checkpoint, holding a sign with my name on it.
He shepherds me to a nondescript, battered vehicle of uncertain vintage, and we begin the half-hour drive into the city center. I can see little through the passenger-side windshield, because it is shattered. (Has it been hit by a bullet? Have the drug wars come to Zacatecas?)
I fish my camera from my pocket and aim it at the spider-webbed glass. I need proof that I survived this dangerous journey. Antonio laughs and keeps on driving, although how he manages to hold his vehicle on the road—no suspension, lousy steering—is a milagro!
multiply in Mexico
spawning bedtime tales
Text and photo © 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Photo: On the airport road, Zacatecas, México
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First Flowers of Spring
For weeks I stumble through dark clouds of grief, after losing my little point-and-shoot camera to an ignominious death. My constant companion on nature walks no longer functions—the lens will not retract—and I slog through my beloved wilderness with unseeing eyes.
Yet a new day dawns, with a new camera, and I am ready again to romance the little things that others spurn.
I slip through a fence with a sign that warns against trespassing, my heart beating wildly. Will this be the day that my transgressions are discovered?
But I have no time to worry, for at my feet I spy some tiny, reddish-purple flowers. Willing the wind to pause in its pummeling of the delicate blossoms, I fish my camera from my pocket, kneel, and focus the lens for the first photo of the day.
nourished by underground streams—
we drink together.
Text and photo © 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Photo: Southern California
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Nature’s Songs
“I hear America singing,” Walt Whitman wrote, “the varied carols I hear.”
I too hear singing, but instead of coming from throats of carpenters, masons or boatmen, it comes from sky and star and stone. It comes from weeds and wind and wild things. It comes from crow and cricket and cottonwood. It is the singing of the high desert, and like the Siren songs that seduced Odysseus and his companions, I cannot ignore it.
I hear it as I help a student proofread her essay. I hear it while I confer with a parent about his son’s behavior. I hear it while I am grading papers.
At day’s end, I slip into comfortable clothing and walk into the nearby wilderness. The stones and weeds and dust greet me with rejoicing. They knew I would come.
three stones confer with the wind—
my house is too small
Text and photo © 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Photo: Northern Arizona
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Nature Walk
As I shuffle through the arroyo, I keep dropping to my knees. An onlooker might mistake me for a pilgrim making my way to Lourdes. But the healing I seek cannot be found at some distant holy shrine. It is here in the dust at my feet: cedar twigs snapped off by storms; summer’s leftover flowers; small stones trying in vain to fatten themselves on wisps of winter sun.
I aim my camera at a clump of wasted wildflowers, remembering words from a letter written long ago: “God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are…” (1 Corinthians 1:28, RSV).
Low and despised is winter’s detritus in the arroyo, but it heals my battered spirit as I kneel in awe and wonder before it.
I search for underground streams—
three crows bear witness.
Text and photo © 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Photo: Northern Arizona
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Draught of the Spirit
Juan Diego prefers draft beer, but when he’s desperate, as he was last night, he’ll settle for a bottle. Fortunately, he chose me.
For an hour or more, his lips caressed mine as he tipped his head back and sipped my contents. By the time he emptied me, Juan Diego was no longer sure what he was doing. (I’m not the only bottle whose lips he caressed with fervor and passion and perhaps even a pinch of patriotism.) He left me here outside Antonio’s door with cucararchas and wilting flower petals.
And look at me now: No longer empty, I am filled—with a house! A reflection, yes, but at least it is not cerveza! Of all bottles, I am most blessed!
That’s what happens when you’re empty: Mysteriously, something comes along to fill the void.
with things greater than myself—
draught of the Spirit.
Text and photo © 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Photo: Along a callejon, Zacatecas, México
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Little Bird of Doubt
The churches of Zacatecas have one thing in common: a pervasive darkness.
In Templo Santo Domingo: shadows on the altar, shadows lurking behind the crucifix, shadows hovering like ravens above the baptismal font. The opening words of Genesis seem to presage the scene: “…and darkness was upon the face of the deep….”
But how much darkness can I endure? How long can I consort with shadows? My soul cries out for light.
I run to the church’s massive front doors, peer out into the sunlit street, and see for myself that “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5).
One glimpse of the light is enough. I turn back to enter the gloom and to embrace the darkness that dwells in me, and in all of us.
I caught you in the darkness,
fed you crumbs of light.
Text and photo © 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Photo: Templo Santo Domingo, Zacatecas, México
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Romancing the Wild
You can’t step into the same river—or wilderness—twice. Something is always shifting. Something added today will be subtracted tomorrow.
Winds fray the grasses. Blowing sand burnishes the stone. A hungry hawk hovers overhead and the mouse runs for cover, leaving tiny tracks.
A midnight snowfall dusts tumbleweeds and junipers, cacti and spent wildflowers. I walk through a sparkling wonderland that yesterday was brown and barren.
In the desert, snow doesn’t last long: wonderland today, mud tomorrow, dust the day after that. Yet in all seasons, I love this wild place.
Romancing a place takes dedication, just as romancing a person. You set yourself to the task for better or worse; for richer or poorer; in sun or in snow, praying that indifference never tames the wild longings of your heart.
are singing in the washes
snowflakes kiss the notes
Text and photo © 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Photo: Northern Arizona
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