Facing your Fears – a few seconds of Mindfulness.

Facing your fears.

Once there was a young warrior. Her teacher told her that she had to do battle with fear. She didn’t want to do that. It seemed too aggressive; it was scary; it seemed unfriendly. But the teacher said she had to do it and gave her the instructions for the battle. The day arrived. The student warrior stood on one side, and fear stood on the other. The warrior was feeling very small, and fear was looking big and wrathful. They both had their weapons. The young warrior roused herself and went toward fear, prostrated three times, and asked, “May I have permission to go into battle with you?” Fear said, “Thank you for showing me so much respect that you ask permission.” Then the young warrior said, “How can I defeat you?” Fear replied, “My weapons are that I talk fast, and I get very close to your face. Then you get completely unnerved, and you do whatever I say. If you don’t do what I tell you, I have no power. You can listen to me, and you can have respect for me. You can even be convinced by me. But if you don’t do what I say, I have no power.” In that way, the student warrior learned how to defeat fear.

Pema Chodron



From Rachel Kellys’ 12 days of Christmas.

Life’s a Journey (Eskimo prayer) Traditional.

And I think over again

My small adventures

When with a shore wind I drifted out

In my kayak

And thought I was in danger.

My fears,

Those small ones

That I thought so big,

For all the vital things

I had to get and had to reach.

And yet there is only

One great thing.

The only thing,

To live to see in buts and journeys

The great day that dawns

And the light that fills the world.


From Rachel Kellys’  Day 7 of 12 days of Christmas.

2 poems to Perfection: Oh! My Baby by mauveone, and Perfect Imperfection by Brianne Broughton.

Oh! My Baby – first born

I look at you, you look at me.

What do you see?

I see you are perfect,

I have to check your tiny toes

I check your tiny fingers,

Your fingers grasp mine.

You open your eyes,

They are blue, intensely blue

Staring at me, deciding I am

Your mother.

Oh! My baby.


Brianne Broughton Nov 2014

Perfect Imperfection

Stop striving for perfection.

It can never be reached.

Perfections is…




                 inevitably uninteresting.

My dear,

You are perfect

In every single imperfection you have.



Climbing my Grandfather by Andrew Waterhouse.

Climbing My Grandfather

by Andrew Waterhouse

I decide to do it free, without a rope or net.

First, the old brogues, dusty and cracked;

an easy scramble onto his trousers,

pushing into the weave, trying to get a grip.

By the overhanging shirt I change

direction, traverse along his belt

to an earth-stained hand. The nails

are splintered and give good purchase,

the skin of his finger is smooth and thick

like warm ice. On his arm I discover

the glassy ridge of a scar, place my feet

gently in the old stitches and move on.

At his still firm shoulder, I rest for a while

in the shade, not looking down,

for climbing has its dangers, then pull

myself up the loose skin of his neck

to a smiling mouth to drink among teeth.

Refreshed, I cross the screed cheek,

to stare into his brown eyes, watch a pupil

slowly open and close. Then up over

the forehead, the wrinkles well-spaced

and easy, to his thick hair (soft and white

at this altitude), reaching for the summit,

where gasping for breath I can only lie

watching clouds and birds circle,

feeling his heat, knowing

the slow pulse of his good heart.

Climbing My Grandfather by Andrew Waterhouse, reprinted by permission of The Rialto.



“March” by Margaret Avison.

12 of 12. “March”.                               

A Caribbean airflow

shampoos the brook.

The deepsea deepwarm look of

sky wakes green below

amid the rinds of snow.

Though all seems melt and rush,

earth-loaf, sky-wine,

swept to bright new horizons

with hill-runnel, and gash,

all soaked in sunwash,

far north, the ice

unclenches, booms

the chunks and floes, and river brims

vanish under cold fleece:

the floods are loose!

The sullen torn

old skies through tattery trees

clack, freezing

stiffens loam; the worn

earth’s spillways then relearn

how soaring bliss

and sudden-rigoring frost


without all lost.


— Margaret Avison

NOTE:   This is the last in the series of 12 poems for March. I hope you have enjoyed them.


Three Things That Make Me Outrageously Happy in March.

11 of 12. “Three Things That Make Me Outrageously             

Happy in March”

Begin with the evergreen Clematis Montana. Shy

about opening blooms pulse into view

a few at a time against the night sky. Some

morning, a creamy tsunami

sweeps over the chain-link fence in a spring

seizure of yearning. Drenches the passerby in

dizzying scent and charges winter’s

dark air without warning

Next, the black umbrella

ribs of Styrax japonica open to rain. Their

delicate green incipient leaves

reverse the gradual losses of autumn. remember

this overture to the Japanese Snowbell

symphony in May when it’s time to clean up

the carpet of dried flowers and pods, time to

cart uprooted seedlings away.

When navel oranges

kissed by lazy California sun, glow like

moons in every supermarket, I go

crazy, but all I can carry. At home, they

tumble from the sack to kiss my eager lips, and as

that nectar of the gods floods my veins, I live

in lovers’ paradise every juicy moment

of Seattle rains.

— Madeline DeFrees


If I Could Paint Essences by Anne Stevenson. 10 of 12.

10 of 12.”If I Could Paint Essences”           

(Hay on Wye)

Another day in March. Late

rawness and wetness. I hear my mind say

if only I could paint essences.

Such as the mudness of mud

on this rainsoaked dyke where coltsfoot

displays its yellow misleading daisy.

Such as the westness of west here

in England’s last thatched, rivered

county. Red ploughland. Green pasture.

Black cattle. Quick water. Overpainted

by lightshafts from layered gold

and purple cumulus. A cloudness of clouds

which are not likie anything but clouds.

But just as I arrive at true sightness of seeing,

unexpectedly I want to play on those bell-toned

cellos of delicate not-quite-flowering larches

that offer, on the opposite hill, their unfurled

amber instruments — floating, insubstantial, a rising

horizon of music embodied in light.

And in such imagining I lose sight of sight.

Just as I’ll lose the tune of what

hurls in my head, as I turn back, turn

home to you, conversation, the inescapable ache

of trying to catch, say, the catness of cat

as he crouches, stalking his shadow,

on the other side of the window.

— Anne Stevenson