life

Spiritual journey: A word

/ Fran Haley / 10 Comments

I have reached a gray season.

Not in terms of this January morning, with its oyster sky and neutral-colored doves settling into the birdbath under the naked crape myrtle as I write. Not the frenzied darksilver squirrels darting about with their elegant question-mark tails. Nor the grass, which isn’t gray, just seemingly unable to decide if it wants to be brown or green, dead or alive.

Gray, but not the concrete driveway or my husband’s secondhand silver car…replacing the trusty car we had for almost fifteen years, totaled at summer’s end. A driver ran a stop sign at the crossroads nearby. My husband was driving our old car. He wasn’t injured. He is a survivor of so many things that it would take a book to tell it all.

Survival. A word worthy of contemplation. But it’s not the word I have in mind this morning, nor is the word gray, really. I am just describing what I see through my own window. The way things are in this moment. My now.

When I say I have reached a gray season, I mean an in-between point, like when the holidays and their glittering festivities are over (although my Christmas tree is still up; my husband likes the lights on these long winter evenings). A point when another year has gone and a new one is unfolding with who knows what hidden in its folds for us all. A taking-stock season. A reevaluation of priorities through the lens of what I am able—and not able—to do now. Not what I will do tomorrow, next week, this summer…or in the indeterminate days or years of life remaining to me, when youth is gone and aging gets to write the rest of the story.

People tell me I do not age. My body tells me otherwise. Minor aches and pains are the telltale signs of Time. I am incrementally slower than I used to be. More deliberate and careful. Not to mention presently shaking off mild bronchitis. I have a friend who stayed physically active and kept working hard because, in her words, “I refuse to get old.” But she did, she is, and dementia has taken control. So much for living nearly a century. I have lived well over half of one and feel the weight of it. Paradoxically, people ask when I plan to retire. Fun question. Most retirees I know are still working. Staying alive is expensive.

So I come to a plateau of asking: What is truly worth my time, my energy, my money? What is necessary? What is not? What is wise? A shedding-place, you might say. Born of a desire to get rid of material things I do not need as well as thoughts, perspectives, ideas, failures, vanities, even (shocking my own self with this) memories and losses that I am tired of carrying.

If I strip all this away (envisioning long strips of bark peeling off the crape myrtle as it grows), what do I find?

My spirit, ageless and weightless, eternally longing for God who breathed it in the first place. The Author of everything I ever truly loved in my whole life’s journey, the Giver of every good and perfect gift, miraculously drawing me along. God who sustained me to this point. God who will see me through the rest of the journey, ever how weary and unable I become. God whose sovereignty is absolute, even when I cannot see it or sense it.

As I write—not making this up, honest—the sun pierces the grayness outside my window.

Let me reveal the word I had in mind when I began this post.

Amen.

Technically it means so be it or truly. It is a word signifying acceptance.

It just so happens to be the word on a silver necklace one of my sons gave me for Christmas.

It comes at a time when day-to-day plans take a backseat to my husband’s ongoing health issues and my own limitations. A letting go, to keep on going. A not quite here-nor-there-time. A time of finding freedom within the very constraints of Time. I’ve even decided—again surprising myself—to let my gray hair grow out because I am tired of fighting the inevitable.

So, yes, literally a gray season, in so many ways.

My now. I am learning to embrace it.

Amen.

with thanks to Margaret Simon for kicking off the 2026 Spiritual Journey gatherings on the first Thursday of each month, and for this new logo, which I love. I am posting two days late, on Saturday, as it took me awhile to get to this. So be it (Amen).

To Life and Lafo

/ Fran Haley / 8 Comments

A haiku story poem inspired by today’s prompt over at Ethical ELA, with thanks to Amber, our host.

The snow is too cold
and powdery for packing
but it’s the first time

in her three sweet years
we’ve had enough snow to try
making a snowman.

We scrape buckets full
as her little hands turn red.
She has no mittens.

I give her my own.
They’re far too big and floppy
but she doesn’t mind.

Face aglow with glee
she lugs the snow bucket to
her big sister who

creates a snow-heap.
Shifting, slippery, shapeless…
but we still love it

our tiny snow-mound.
Red and green Hershey’s Kisses
make a shiny smile.

Green olives for eyes.
A tiny tomato nose
(I’m out of carrots).

She proudly chooses
these facial features herself,
bringing her snowman

to life. I find twigs for arms
under the pines and Sister
crafts a tuft of hair

out of pine needles.
We name our snow-dwarf Lafo
(Olaf’s name scrambled).

Lafo has few days
as temperatures go back
to the seventies.

Traces of him stay
longer than I expected.
The Kisses fall off

and I salvage them
(as wild creatures shouldn’t eat
foil and chocolate).

Each day, the remains
of Lafo remind me of
my beloved girls

and that our time here
together is brief as snow.
Let us pack it well.

Our little Lafo

*******
with thanks also to the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life community

The greening

/ Fran Haley / 1 Comment

The Greening

On Christmas, my firstborn son
brought me a white poinsettia
from the altar of his church

I set it by the window
in the kitchen, facing east
expecting it would die soon

but it lives on, lush and green
from the abundance of light
and my increased watering

For reblooming, it must go
in the dark, thirsty and dry
but I can’t, I can’t do it

It’s the only poinsettia
I haven’t managed to kill
and my boy gave it to me

Let it stay pure emerald
drinking all the light it can
in its summer of content

growing a little bigger
every day, like my spirit
while my leaves begin to fall

*******

with thanks to Denise Krebs for the inspiration and septercet poem form in today’s Open Write at Ethical ELA

Life’s a cupcake

/ Fran Haley / 25 Comments

Some time ago, I had my nails polished in a pale color delightfully named “Life’s a Cupcake.”

I’ve been hanging onto that, in case I ever decided to write something out of it.

—Why not today?

If Life’s a cupcake
then use real sugar.

If Life’s a cupcake
then add your own flavor.

If Life’s a cupcake
then try not to burn it.

If Life’s a cupcake
then savor the filling.

If Life’s a cupcake
then frost it thick with love.

If Life’s a cupcake
then offer it to others.

If Life’s a cupcake
then eat every crumb.

My sweet Scout, summer before last

*******
Composed for Day 15 of the Slice of Life Story Challenge with Two Writing Teachers

–oh, if you’re curious about the nail color, check it out: Life’s a Cupcake polish.
Note the brand name, “Creative Play”—how fitting!

Bluebirdology

/ Fran Haley / 5 Comments

This spring, a pair of Eastern bluebirds raised a brood in a birdhouse on the back deck. From the windows I watched the whole process. I learned much from my avian teachers.

Bluebirds are curious; they want to know everything, including what humans are doing. When the finch nestlings died a couple months back, necessitating that I dispose of the nest, Mama and Papa Bluebird sat side-by-side on the fence, solemnly watching my every move. Bluebirds are all about family. Their fledglings stick around. When this first brood left the next, the parents became fiercely territorial. They attacked the kitchen bay window and cars in the driveway. No matter how far down the driveway my husband parks, they still take over his car; I even saw the father bluebird killing a worm on top of it one morning, like a mighty hunter on some holy mountain. I wondered if that worm was a meal for his children; the parents continue to feed them for a while after departing the nest.

Lesson One of Bluebirdology: protect your young at all costs.

Mama Bluebird takes over the hummingbird feeder, frequently looking in the kitchen window: What are those humans up to?

Papa Bluebird in all his blue glory, patrolling the fence.

The baby bluebirds are juveniles now, and over the last few weeks I’ve seen three or four them at any given time in the grass or lined up on the fence.

Lesson Two of Bluebirdology: Persevere.

One of the juveniles getting its own breakfast worm: Ta-daa!

What I find most remarkable is how the juveniles help to prepare for the next brood. I watched Papa Bluebird carry new nesting material into the birdhouse; in a moment, here came one of his children with a bit of straw.

Lesson Three of Bluebirdology: Teach your children well; survival is a community effort.

This weekend my seven-year-old granddaughter and I watched Mama Bird sitting on the fence watching us through the window, when out of the blue came Papa Bluebird. He landed beside his mate and fed her an insect in his beak. “They look like they’re kissing!” exclaimed my granddaughter.

They did. It was a sign, for sure…

I suspected, with the recent activity around the birdhouse, that new eggs were on the way. Here’s the thing: That birdhouse has only one little opening where the birds enter and exit. No way to peek in and verify anything or even to clean out a used nest.This is where the plot really thickens: My husband and I are about to embark on much-needed deck repairs. I needed to know: What’s in that birdhouse? If it is an active nest, by law we cannot disturb it. And if there are eggs… well, to me that makes it a sacred place. Not to be desecrated.

And so I bought a little endoscope and ran the wire camera into the birdhouse.

There are four bright blue eggs in a bed of pine straw.

I am not sure when they were laid. It could be a week or two from now before they hatch. Then it will be about three weeks before this next brood fledges and begins to fend for itself (I am imagining a whole army of bluebirds on the offense at that point, with Brood One still in the wings).

The deck repair will have to wait a bit, alas… not sure how I am going to explain this to my husband or our builder but I will take my chances with them over the bluebirds. In honor of life.

Heeding Lesson Four of Bluebirdology: There’s no place like home.

One of the juveniles still hanging around its natal home.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge

For my finch followers: hatching

/ Fran Haley / 14 Comments

When death
is all around
be still, listen
to the sound
of birds

to hopes lost
and found

here in the song
life and grace
abound


Backstory: House finches return year after year to build nests on my front door wreath. Every spring and summer, my porch becomes a bird sanctuary and nursery; I, a present but uninvolved custodian, watch it all unfolding from the periphery. This winter the little finch pair actually roosted in the wreath at night. That is a first. I imagined them nestled together in the grapevine, keeping each other warm, dreaming dreams of life to come. They started awfully early this season, building their nest in the wreath and laying at least four eggs before the last week of February. It was still cold. March arrived with gusting winds and sustained freezing temperatures; I worried about the tiny life on my door. During winter’s only snow this year, well before before spring officially arrived, the baby finches hatched. Because of the cold, I stayed away; I didn’t want to startle Mama Finch, who needed to be on the nest keeping her babies warm. I saw the hatchlings when they were a day or two old and didn’t check again for about three weeks…expecting they had fledged and possibly gone, as the happy singing and trilling bird-talk at my door had ceased. When I came around to check the nest, I found one fledgling dead, its little head drooped over the front of the nest, and another beautiful fledgling, so tiny, with such perfect little wings, enmeshed with the nest at the back—almost becoming part of the nest. This is another first: in all these generations of finches I’ve not known any babies to die. In fact, they usually stay in the nest after they can fly, seemingly unwilling to leave. I marvel at how they can still stuff themselves into it. Home sweet home…until now. Not wanting to leave the dead baby finches and fearing there were parasites or some disease in the nest, I removed the babies, placed them deep in a bed of leaves by the woods out back, and destroyed the old nest.

It broke my heart.

The parents must have been watching me…I read that birds mourn for their little lost ones.

They began rebuilding immediately. With urgency, Soon there was a perfect green nest artistically adorned with a long gray feather from some other bird, lined with layers of the softest, whitest fluff —wherever do they find this? And a week before Easter there were five—five!—new eggs.

They began hatching yesterday. I’ve been keeping close watch…and this is the first time I’ve caught a glimpse (just the very quickest glimpse) of a finch actually hatching.

The poem at the opening was inspired by one shared for VerseLove on Ethical ELA yesterday, coinciding with the hatching of these finch eggs: Why Do You Write Poems When Death is All Around Us?

The answer, for me, is a matter of awe: Life is all around, somehow overcoming, even singing at the door.

*******

with thanks to Andy Schoenborn for sharing Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre’s poem yesterday
and Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Slice of Life story sharing-place

and to the finches
for infusing my days
with so much awe
hope
and notes
of joy


Finch elegy

/ Fran Haley / 21 Comments

I forbore
checking the finch nest
in the wreath
on the door

after three
maybe four
little finches hatched

in the cold

I knew that February
seemed too early
for laying

that sustained
freezing in March
could take a toll

but I heard Mama
and Papa House Finch
chattering all along
with babies’ bright voices

until a day or so ago

they’ve fledged and gone
already, so
I told myself

when it is warm,
I will check the nest
(don’t disturb them
in this cold)…

Today, it is warm
like spring should be

with the earth bathed
in watercolor pastels
a blossom-spattered mosaic
after soft rainfall

and so I came to see
if the fledglings had gone
at last

not prepared
for what I found

one
hanging backward
over the front
of the nest
open mouth and closed eyes
pointing to the sky

another
wedged in back
against the door
essentially fused
into the nest itself

they are
too tiny
and new
and perfect
to be dead

but they are
they are

seems
a sibling or two
must have made it
to the skies

but these
sweetest little wings
I’ve ever seen
shall never rise

so now I lay
these lost ones
down for keeps

rip away the
beautiful nest
and sweep
and sweep

in silence
where there was
so recently
such happy song

not knowing what
went wrong

(and never will)

it is just
The Way of Things

nevertheless
my heart wrings
in two

and cries



A couple of my hardy finch fledglings in a previous year

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Story Challenge

Zest

/ Fran Haley / 18 Comments

noun

keen relish; hearty enjoyment; gusto.

an agreeable or piquant flavor imparted to something.

anything added to impart flavor, enhance one’s appreciation, etc.

piquancy; interest; charm.

liveliness or energy; animating spirit.

the peel, especially the thin outer peel, of a citrus fruit used for flavoring: lemon zest.

—Dictionary.com

I’ve been thinking about “zest” recently.

Truth be told: I needed a “z” word anyway for my post title today, as this is the 26th day of the March Slice of Life Story Challenge and I secretly decided to stick with the abecedarian approach that worked for me last year. “Ta-daaa,” as my sixteen-month-old granddaughter would say.

But there’s also the fact that I haven’t felt much zest for anything of late, having battled viral congestion for the last four weeks, in the midst of this already extremely challenge-riddled school year. One really cannot have zest for sleep, right? It’s an oxymoron. I did crave citrus, however, for one zest-ish connection. Last week I stocked up on clementines and three kinds of juice; nothing has been more restorative than drinking giant glasses of pure o.j. on ice throughout the day. Clearly I needed the vitamin C, for I am almost well now. That plus time…

It just so happens that I’ve been reading about zest being part of necessary human strengths as defined by positive psychology, which focuses on eudaimonia, Greek for “good spirit.” Turns out that zest, or enthusiasm, is linked to courage and other traits necessary for individual happiness, satisfaction, mental health, and living life well. It’s a relatively new and accordingly controversial domain of psychology… yet I hear a ring of truth in it.

Maybe I should say I can taste the truth in it.

Consider these phrases from the Dictionary.com definition of zest: keen relish, hearty enjoyment, gusto; anything added to enhance one’s appreciation; piquancy, interest, charm; liveliness or energy; animating spirit...

In short, a person must have positive experiences to look forward to (akin to hope) that bring true enjoyment. The very knowledge is energizing; so is the savoring of the experiences. In its own way, zest is the antidote to the inertia of despair. If we are zest-deficient, what can we do about it? It’s different for different folks…does it mean finding a new job or career, or being an agent of change where you are? Does it mean taking up skydiving, parasailing, horseback riding, or volunteering in a place where people are suffering? Is zest in itself an end goal, or does it forge a path to a different kind of fulfillment tied to purpose and value?

All food for thought. In the end, zest is a motivator for something intrinsically rewarding. There are people with a zest for cooking, gardening, sports, hiking, biking, singing, building, redecorating… the greatest connective tissue I see is energy. These are physical activities.

I think about writing. I love it. I work at it. I set a goal to write a meaningful post every day last year and I accomplished it. Yet I cannot say zest was often or even occasionally involved…which brings me to ask myself: Where is there zest in my life? Once upon a time, people might have jokingly mentioned the soap; remember the slogan “You’re not fully clean until you’re Zestfully clean”?

As soon as I ask, an image begins forming in my mind…

A birthday party a few years ago, with extended family. The guest of honor, turning sweet sixteen. Dark eyes sparkling, cheeks rosy from all the attention on this special day. She loves acting, her grandmother informed me. Wants to perform onstage.

She could have been me, years ago. I relished performing in plays at her age…I wanted to do it for the rest of my life. Zest!

It is not what happened for me, but as cake and ice cream was served, immense gratitude for the life and family I have flooded my soul.

Zest, by the way, is also linked to gratitude; a savoring, as I mentioned.

I took my plate of cake and ice cream, which I expected to be vanilla, but—oh!

“Is this lemon ice cream?” I asked. I knew it was. Unexpected and amazing. Not tart. Just sweet silken cream, with a breath of light lemon fragrance…

“Yes,” came the answer. “It’s homemade.”

I had to have the recipe. I thought immediately of two people for whom I wanted to make it: my daughter-in-law and my sister-in-law. They love lemon. I like it, say, in old-fashioned (real) lemonade, in my ice water, in pound cake…not so much in meringue pies. This ice cream, though, was divine.

And so I’ve made it several times since, usually as a topping for blueberry cobbler straight from the oven. Last time I made it was at the beach. My sister-in-law arranges for our families to vacation there each summer. She started doing this after her brother, my husband, had a massive heart attack and was almost taken from us. And so we celebrate togetherness and the good life (another translation of eudaimonia). I sat at the big wooden table in the upper room of the beach house while my nephew-in-law cooked dinner. Everyone was laughing and talking, we were hungry from having been in the sun all day, the ocean sparkled like diamonds beyond the windows, and there was a faint taste of salt on my lips as I grated the lemon rinds to make this ice cream.

Zest. For my family.

My sister-in-law took one spoonful and said, “That’s the best ice cream I’ve ever had in my life.”

It’s also the simplest…as the best things in life are.

No machines, needed, just a bit of work and a willing spirit, ready to share.

Of course this post would not be complete without the recipe…

A bit of zest for your day, friends, on the wings of wellness.

Lemon Ice Cream

1 pint whipping cream
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons lemon zest
1/3 cup fresh lemon juice

Combine whipping cream and sugar; stir until sugar dissolves

Stir in lemon zest.

Sir in fresh lemon juice.

Pour into freezer-safe container, and freeze.

Savor.

lemon ice cream. jules:stonesoup. CC BY 2.0.

A president, a poem

/ Fran Haley / 1 Comment

Today on Ethical ELA’s Open Write, Stacey Joy invites participants to lift a line of poetry and use it in creating a Golden Shovel poem.

I was thinking about it being President’s Day, so I went in search of poems written by our presidents. This led me to Jimmy Carter, the first U.S. President to publish a book of poetry in his lifetime. He is our longest-living president; at age 98, he has just entered hospice care. I have lifted a line from his verse.

“To hear the same whale’s song” – Jimmy Carter, “Life on a Killer Submarine,” Always a Reckoning and Other Poems

Homeward Hymn

when my life draws to
its close I imagine the last thing I hear
will be cicadas rattling high in the
green oaks as I pass, fervently calling, calling the way, same
lost and found returning sound of whale’s 
pulsating destination song

If Whales Could Fly. Christopher.Michel. CC BY 2.0.

Goals

/ Fran Haley / 2 Comments

What shall I say of my goals, as the year comes to its close?

I had a few. Some I accomplished. Some I didn’t. A few were work-related. Most were not. These I never articulated; they were just on my heart every day, from my rising to my sleeping.

That’s the thing about goals: personal commitment-keeping. They’re desires of your own heart. Aspirations. No can set them for you. They come from within. They become your own bar to reach, for the stretching of your own wings, as far as you wish. The extent of your growth is up to you.

I learned much by watching birds this year. This was an unplanned goal. One hummingbird materializing by the pines in my backyard, hovering long enough for me to take note, led to the purchase of a hummingbird feeder (and another, as more hummers appeared) and an incessant thirst to know more about these endlessly fascinating creatures. Day by day, my sense of awe deepened.

Awe is a vital element for vibrant life in this world. I looked for it and it found me. Like that hummingbird. For two years running, awe has been my guiding idea-word and its payoff, beyond compare. I find it everywhere but not in everything. Not in material things, for they never fully satisfy and pursuit of them potentially enlarges the void. In my previous post I wrote about the universe being a dark place (check out the jellybean analogy from the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics). Yet there is light. I am awed by the stunning brightness of the planets each night; Jupiter, Mars, and Saturn have become like family. I’m always looking for their return. They inspire the same thirst in me as the hummingbirds: can I get closer to them, know more about them, learn from them?

In the end awe, for me, is about the divine design of things, the Creator’s reflection in the created. There are intrinsic, intricate, infinite lessons to learn and my time above the Earth’s crust grows shorter. There’s a sacred interconnectedness to it all… from a solitary hummingbird to the solar system to the scent of baking bread to the ability to love and be loved and my own DNA so evident in my baby granddaughter’s face… every particle a poem, a song, a ribbon of light.

My ultimate goal for every day is to keep myself open for awe and to be grateful.

I have done so. I am doing so.

I didn’t create an official list of resolutions or goals for 2022. I carried them in my heart and lived them, as I will for this new year on the cusp.

But I did write a few things… this is my 365th post of the year. Something I’ve never accomplished before.

Day by day, moment by moment, the story of life unfolds. Goals are attained the same way.

My wish for you: Believe. Let awe weave itself around you and through you.

And write.

See how you grow.

The unused goal page in my my planner…a bit of seed, if needed