Three things changed that. Covid sent crowds of people to campgrounds, most of whom took house-sized campers with them with compressors humming and buzzing all night and campfires so large the flames and smoke destroyed the night-vision of other campers near them. The crowds necessitated the need for preregistration months in advance; no more spur-of-the-moment weekends away. The third thing that changed was the sociopolitical climate. The mood of the campgrounds changed. People no longer cared to leave their stress at home. They brought their arguments with them, and thought nothing of airing their dirty laundry in public, as my mother would say, in loud voices that sent me to my van to sleep.

This was not the case a decade or so ago. On one occasion I found myself camped in the middle of a ring of pine trees, where scouts had long ago held sway. On this weekend, I had arrived early to a women’s outdoor event. Although the event did not begin until the next day, I had permission to arrive early and camp the night before in this park where camping was not usually allowed. A hard October frost had eliminated the insects a week ago. Indian summer set in, with nights once again a comfortable sixty degrees. The warmth filled my little tent until, snug in my sleeping bag, it became too warm for the sweats I was wearing.

An owl called. Knowing there was no one about for a quarter mile, and the low sweeping boughs concealed me anyway, I slipped out of the tent with just my sandals on. The owl fell silent, perhaps on the wing. Walking to the center of the ring of pines, where wooden benches still surrounded a firepit, I looked up to a sky full of stars and a moon peering through the branches. A bit of breeze stirred the dry leaves on the ground. Curiosity sated, I slipped back into my tent and the warmth of my sleeping bag. I grabbed a notebook and wrote.

Walking Naked Beneath the Moon

Cooling breeze on bare skin
Insects gone to rest
Grass and twig underfoot
Call of hunting owl

Starshine telling ancient tales
Musty deadleaf scented sky
Secrets hide in bending bow
Dewfall freshens fading bloom

I turned my back

on the warmth and glow

of late October’s campfire

Walked away

into the cold and dark

far beyond its sway

Saw the stars shine

with great clarity

uncountable

2011

Today

     more children and teachers
die in a school
     more boys and girls
die by their own hands
     more violent actions
draw cheers from bystanders

I sort my camping gear
(tent, hiking poles, bear spray)
put it away for the winter
wonder if I will ever
make use of it again

October 16, 2026

                  To Do
              A List Poem

The TBR stacks are growing
	(there’s a lawn for mowing)
Poems bounce through my head
	(laundry to do instead)
Chapter Three needs an edit
	(I haven’t even read it)
A cross stitch is finally done
	(must now start another one)
Rain has finally stopped falling
	(muddy puddles are calling!)

And now for the question: Please comment any additions to the following that come to mind!

What happens when monkey mind and squirrel brain combine to eat a herd of elephants?

An explosion of ideas
A plethora of projects
A creative crossover
An inundation of inspiration

So many ingredients in the soup… can there ever be too many?

Eighteen years ago, with encouragement from The Society of Great River Poets, (actually it might have been more pushing than encouraging) I put together a little chapbook. The cover was card stock, the blurry photo one of mine.  After printing the pages at a local shipping shop that had do-it-yourself printing, I sorted, stapled, and trimmed by hand  The title was a word I coined to describe the poems inside. Some were haiku, some were linked haiku, some were neither, but all were inspired by nature. If I ever locate the cover photo, I'll post it here. 

                Haikuesque

   Words of solitary moments
     filled with predawn song
          spill from my pen

       With syllabic fluidity
        of sparing richness
and carefully chosen rhythms
     they avoid the past and
     emote the sensory now

          I give birth alone
   hearing the silent language
          of a tilted world

But I wondered how much of a hassle that must be, to locate a device from deep in a pocket (which coat is it in?) or buried in a purse or, even worse, from whatever couch cushion had swallowed it. I had worn a watch from third grade on, a rite of passage in my family. The pasty stripe on my wrist speaks to over fifty years of bearing Time itself.

I made some adjustments, setting calendar alerts on my phone so I wouldn’t miss any of my many meetings. I quit wearing my watch and looking at it every ten minutes, although the analog shelf clock in the corner continues to tick – my writing companion. My back is to it as I sit at my desk, and the numbers are small and too far away to read accurately. It is mostly ignored.

Time actually seemed to slow down, become larger. I no longer live by the minute, but rather for the moment.

Subscribe now

That was the word of the afternoon December 31, 2024, as a group of creative people met to discuss the end of one year and the beginning of the next. Intention: not resolution or goal, or even plan, but intention. So here I am, an hour past my usual bedtime, getting my first post online before midnight, while it is still January 1, 2025.

Accomplished is another word I am admittedly not familiar with. I’m more of a dabbler than expert in any one pursuit. I can crochet a granny square, write a poem, bake a cake from a boxed mix, and translate basic Spanish into English as long as I don’t have to translate English to Spanish and the dreaded subjunctive case isn’t involved. Bits and pieces and more bits that add up to what I know. I can throw together a somewhat coherent post way past my bedtime if I put my mind to it.

In that same meeting, I was asked what my creative life will look and feel like in 2025. The first thing that came to mind was a sunflower. A sunflower? What the heck? I’m not a sunflower kind of person. I never even grew a sunflower before last summer. I tried planting four from three-inch tall plants late spring, two by the mailbox and two where I could see them from the living room window. The two by the mailbox almost disappeared at one point, until they finally managed to grow to a meager foot or so and gained a couple sad looking flowers. Maybe they needed more sun or better soil… being more of an avid gardener than an accomplished one I can’t say for sure.

But those sunflowers outside my living room window! Those grew and grew and grew on sturdy stems, turning toward the sun that bathed them much of the day. They branched out, each bearing multiple blossoms. The hummingbirds and bees loved them as much as I did.

So this is where I am tonight. Writing about becoming that sunflower, growing swift and strong and turning to the warmth of inspiration. Sharing what it produces with those who will benefit from it.

I just need to remember to care for that sunflower, being careful to settle its roots where the soil is rich and fertile and sunshine plentiful. I think I can do that. It is my intention anyway.