Quiet Communion

Quiet Communion

Can you feel the snap of fresh snow

beneath your boots as you trudge

through woods to empty the compost,

the chicken bones and moldy bread,

old spinach and celery tops that will feed

so many unseen creatures this winter?

Can you feel the scraps slide in a steaming

heap from the bin, and do you kneel

to touch the forked tracks of crows

and paw-prints of coyotes leading to

and from this weekly feast, placing

a gloved hand on top of them in a quiet

communion of hunger for more

and more time here on Earth?


I received a message from a dear friend out of the blue the other day, as if she somehow sensed what was lingering in the darker corners of my mind. “Take a breath. Stop scrolling. Go outside,” she said. And so I did, taking the compost with me out into the woods. Trudging through the foot of snow still on the ground, I felt myself easing back into my body, and a question sprang to mind: Are you really here? I realized I had not been present to my life all day, until I listened to snow snap and squeak beneath my boots, and felt food scraps sliding from the plastic bin as I piled them on the ground. I noticed the paw-prints of what I thought must be coyotes around the pile as well as the forked tracks of crows’ feet intertwining, both animals now accustomed to the offering of this weekly feast. I knelt to get a closer look at the tracks, knowing that voles, mice, and other unseen creatures also pass through here, and no doubt the owls and hawks who hunt them. I don’t know why, but I placed my gloved hand above the prints, as if I might feel the warmth of the animals who made them, as if I might absorb their quiet power. It dawned on me then that we share a deep hunger to stay alive, to feed ourselves in all the ways we can, to be free of pain and suffering. Though struggle seems an unavoidable part of our path, it is not the reason we are here. Following my own tracks out of the woods, I looked up at the sun beginning to sink down, now perched at the top of a stubby tree like a candle flame left flickering for me to find my way back home.


Invitation for Writing & Reflection: Begin with the question, “Are you really here?” and see what emerges for you. What embodied actions and practices help you to stay in touch with your humanity and generosity, reminding you that all beings share the same universal desire for survival, safety, and the communion of a simple meal?


If you enjoy these free weekly emails, please consider making a donation here, or become a sustaining supporter by upgrading to a paid subscriber here on Substack.

If you’re looking for some creative communion this winter, please consider joining me for Writing for Refuge: 4 Week Poetry Retreat via Zoom with Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, Tuesdays at 12pm ET starting 3/10. $250 to join, Half-off Scholarships available; just message me for more info:

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/writing-for-refuge-an-online-poetry-retreat-tickets-1980633751869?aff=oddtdtcreator

If you’re looking for an in-person retreat that includes access to yoga classes and amazing food, please consider joining me at Kripalu in Stockbridge, Massachusetts in early spring for a weekend retreat that will promise community, meditation, and creativity offered in a gentle, supportive format. You do not have to be a writer or poet to join; this retreat is appropriate for people of all backgrounds and skill levels, but there are only a few spots remaining:

https://kripalu.org/experiences/love-all-us-writing-self-compassion