On Being Here

On Being Here

No one belongs here more than you,

walking beside the newly planted

apple orchard, a bluebird twitching

its tail feathers at you from the fence post.

Once, you felt unwelcome on Earth,

would have been too afraid to stop

in the middle of a country road to admire

the faded hawk painted on a mailbox.

You might have scoffed at those who find

peace in the way first light glimmers each

drop of dew gathered on blades of grass.

But now, you know this ground you walk—

this path made by walking—is yours too

for a time, and you pay your rent each day

by giving attention to the many small

thresholds through which you may enter

this life: fog that swirls like unformed

thoughts above the surface of Long Pond,

a sprinting rabbit, grape vines wrapped

around a power line with the fierceness

of desire itself. You feel it now, how

the world has always wanted you here.


We stay close to our integrity, hold onto our wholeness, when we keep finding those islands in the stream that provide us with brief reprieves from the noisy, nervy rush of life. This sounds pleasant, but in truth, such fierce presence requires vulnerability to speak up for what brings us pleasure, to practice what we love in the face of outer pressures that would rather we simply go along with things and conform. I think of my own practice of writing, how when I was growing up, the TV was always blaring in the next room, and I had to wear earplugs or headphones whenever I sat with a notebook in my bedroom. Having told my family I was finishing my homework or reading for school, when I was really working on a poem or story or dreaming in my journal. A life, and especially a creative life, is made of such small braveries, victories over shame and embarrassment. Even now, stopping in the middle of an unfamiliar country road in upstate New York to admire a mailbox with a faded hawk painted on it, can feel exposing. And while we have to stay vigilant, aware of our surroundings; while we humans are unpredictable, often misbehaved creatures, I also believe that, below all the ways we can hurt each other, the world is still essentially a kind place. This is not always borne out in the ways I might wish, yet I trust that we are held by the Earth—by bluebird and apple orchard, by fog that rolls across the surface of a pond, the wild grapevine wrapping itself around a power line. We are held by what we choose to notice, by where we place our attention, and even if our fellow humans can so often disappoint us, the more-than-human world reminds us we belong here, too, by its simple unfolding presence alone.


Invitation for Writing & Reflection: What are some of the ways you feel held, encountering a sense of belonging in the more-than-human world? You might begin with the line, “No one belongs here more than you,” and see what images and sensory details filter in to prove this.


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June 23 & 30
The Blessing and the Wound: A 2-week poetry retreat on zoom with Rosemerry and James

In a time of deep loss, uncertainty, and bewilderment, how do we find refuge in writing and the potent act of creativity? How do we allow our blessings and wounds both to become our teachers? This two-week poetry retreat, held via Zoom , meets on Tuesday June 23rd and Tuesday June 30th, from 12-2:00pm Eastern Time (EACH SESSION WILL ALSO BE RECORDED AND SHARED). Each week, James Crews and Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer will engage in sacred conversation, sharing poetry and insights, and then inviting participants each session to engage in writing and ask questions of their own or share about their process. Cost: $161.90, some half-off scholarships available, to register and for more info, visit here.

photo credit: Brad Peacock