Rocky Friends

in the quiet
under the huge rock
so many bedfellows

Aurora Borealis sighting

dipping far south
the bright pink Aurora--
leaf sounds in wind

One of the advantages of working at night is that you occasionally see celestial events that you would probably just miss--an almond-colored crescent moon, the bright green tail of a meteorite breaking apart, the full moon winking one eye, Jupiter's bright steady stare, etc. Last Monday night, as I cycled up the hill home, one whole side of the sky shone a bright pink with quivering sky flames. My first thought was that it was the Northern Lights but since I had never seen any that colorful or dramatic here, I listened for fire engines, thinking perhaps it was a great fire. But the evening was silent. I stopped cycling and just watched the incredible sky show.

When I reached home, I told my husband to hurry outside, but by the time he put on his shoes, and stepped out to the lawn the color had disappeared. There were still a few white aurora flares but he was unimpressed. We had lived for a year in the Arctic where we saw the most dramatic and beautiful aurora displays on nights too numerous to count. But Indiana's pink aurora sky surprised me, bringing its gift of unexpected beauty as though a greeting from the north country I so love.

Opportunistic Birds

hiking alone—
above one turkey vulture soars
five others zoom in

We're learning more and more of the fragility of nature, its vulnerability especially under massive resource depletion and CO2 emissions, but one thing that fascinates me about nature, is how perfectly tuned so many of its systems are: rain to field to creek to river to sea to cloud to rain again. Also, the way vultures sense our and other animal's vulnerability. How often have you driven down a country road to discover crows already feasting on a freshly-killed squirrel? They fly off as you past, then swoop down again.

Once in Florida my sister and I canoed the Rainbow River. At dusk, we headed back to the Marion County Park. As we paddled near, hundreds--if not thousands--of vultures were returning from hunting. They landed on every tree, every fence, even the concrete steps down to the lake. The park closed at sunset and we were the only people around. It was eerie seeing their large bodies float down over us, hearing their cries and the sinister thrashings of their wings. But it was also reassuring to discover them all gathered there, leaning into each other, seeking rest and comfort from the night.

Aware, Observant, Open

braided, cascading
roots in a forest--
the coolness of shade

In a 2006 interview conducted by Robert D. Wilson in Simply Haiku, Scott Metz described how taking up the art of haiku had changed him, "Since finding haiku and its path, I'm more aware, observant, peripheral, open, watchful, both of the nature outside of me and the nature inside of me..." I love the way Metz used the word "peripheral" here. It's not a word that focuses on the straight arrow, the goal directed, the unveering route. Rather it's more like the erratic path of a Brood X cicada, cumbersomely flying off to your left, then by some amazing feat of heat-seeking, executes a quick strike to your shoulder or chest.

When interviewer Robert D. Wilson asked Metz what appeals to him about haiku, he said that he felt, that haiku "awakens the child inside of me. Haiku can give us back the child that was once in all of us."

"Aware, observant, open" these are really important characteristics to work toward in writing haiku. And in fact, to live life fully and in communion with the world around us.

Yesterday, in Equality, Illinois, I sat on a bench outside a bank, enjoying the first warm sunshine of an autumn morning. Two older woman walked past in turn and shared their thoughts of the day. All three of us felt lucky to bask in the October warmth knowing how quickly it would fade. There was a moment of receiving nature's grace, two moments of sharing, followed by the sound of a cane tapping down the sidewalk.

A Long Winding Hiking Path

D. T. Suzuki, a Zen Buddhist writer, once said that a “haiku does not express ideas but puts forward images reflecting intuitions.” But how do you hone that intuitive ear or sensor? Yesterday I went hiking, and though I was surrounded by amazing images: crimson maple leaves, chiseled grey rocks, yellow bushes set against a backdrop of a forest burn, cerulean sky, a passel of yellow butterflies, I had only images. No haiku.

Perhaps, my restless hiking made the deep seeing necessary to creating good haiku hard--if not impossible--to accomplish. True Basho walked that narrow road to the interior, but he did stop for moon viewing, cherry blossom pilgrimages, and frog tête-à-têtes. So for now all I have is this brilliant fall vista to contemplate and sore ankles and knees along with a refreshed spirit.

Autumn Moon

moon, stars, darkness, wind
even the mountains forget
their names


Modern American haikuist Clark Strand wrote, “My Japanese Zen teacher used to say, ‘No dress rehearsal!’ He meant, ‘This is it! Now! This moment of life is unrepeatable.’” For me this evokes the contradictory emotions of being both scared and relieved at the same time. Kind of like that moment when the roller coaster clatters up to the station and you and the other thrill seekers all jump into the little metal seats at the same time. Hurry, hurry the moment is leaving...

October Indiana--Such a Grand, Glorious Canvas

in my pocket
yesterday's leaves--
sough of wind


We offered our haiku workshop yesterday at the library; it was co-sponsored by the Writers' Guild at Bloomington. Nancy Long organized and led an interesting outdoor exercise. She sent us to record five or more images that we noticed near the library and then advised us also to search for things that looked totally out of place or were unexpected. Funny when you turned on your radar to scout for them, it was amazing how many unusual things showed up.

Even though it's been very dry for days I noticed a large, almost water-like stain coating the sidewalk. Also, spilled and solidified around a light pole, I saw what looked like dried chocolate ice cream. Also, a bit out of place, were two vultures soaring right over downtown. The leaves were all crimson or sported that flamboyant last-blast yellow. I couldn't help wandering how the leaves looked to the raptors flying above.

The workshop participants came back and wrote about what they saw. I was impressed with the "deep seeing" that everyone did. And how people wrote about the same image with such an individual touch.

In preparation, I read haiku books and articles for days--saturated now but in a nice way. Haiku snippets from across the centuries reel through my head as I stroll through a world riotously autumn.

An Early Female Haiku Writer

on the ebb tide beach
everything we pick up
is alive

--Chiyo ni

I mentioned earlier that there were four great Japanese haiku masters: Bashō, Buson, Issa, and Shiki. Well, I've recently discovered a fifth, Chiyo-ni, the only woman. The long chain group poems, hakai no renga, from which haiku developed had been written only be men. Japanese women--the few during this medieval time period that learned to read and write--wrote in another form, tanka.

Chiyo-ni was a contemporary of Buson; she lived between 1703-1775. According to critic Jane Reichhold, her real name was Kaga-no Chiyo and she was born in Matsuto. She taught herself haiku when she was only fifteen--she had no choice, because she was a woman no haiku master would instruct her. Later in life she met and worked with other haiku writers but by this time she had fully established herself as a great haikuist. In later life she became a Buddhist nun. She was also an accomplished painter, something you might infer from her choice of evocative images.

Here are a few more of her haiku:

the coolness ---
on the bottom of her kimono
in the bamboo grove

waterweed
floating away, despite
the butterfly’s weight on it

again the women
come to the fields
with unkempt hair

leaves like bird shadows
desolate---
the winter moon

the lake knows
where she is going--
why don't I?


I love the play of light upon water, and how even a man-made lake such as Monroe can give a feeling of wildness, of possible journeys.