Jim's Poem a Day 2026

At MerleFest this year, Sam Bush teared up when he introduced “Mama Don’t Allow” as the final all-hands-on-deck jam of his set, remembering how he always hated that song— until he played it with the late, great Doc Watson, who imbued it with such pure joy and delight that no one could resist its corny charm. Thanks, Doc, for all the happiness you keep bringing into this world even after your death.

It’s hard not to sense the genial ghosts of Doc and Merle Watson as we listen to beautiful music here in Wilkesboro, nestled in the foothills of North Carolina. Every guitar riff, every heartfelt ballad, every warm greeting and friendly smile bring to life the spirit of the Watson family and their love of a familiar tune, picked and played with care in good company.

We’re on our way to the place we called home before we came here, where the skies are blue, and where bluegrass will fill the air for four days and I will try to let go of things that are not mine to solve or carry or allow to weigh down my mind. Music hath charms as doth sacred space and time.

Life’s never easy, so when it feels easier than usual, we distrust it and thereby keep ourselves from fully enjoying and appreciating those rare moments when things flow almost effortlessly and all seems to harmonize with all else.

Even here in the suburbs, the cycles of nature are on full display. Just as I was marveling at the miracle of leaves—the way they appear and alter the landscape so dramatically— a red-tailed hawk passed directly overhead, a robin in its mouth, moving with purpose and speed, in perfect harmony with everything.

There are deeply shadowed parts of my past that remain hidden much of the time, except now and then when I find I must look at them to understand the painful patterns of my life, the recurring downward spirals I experience. It is perhaps the hardest work in the world and  it makes things worse before they get better, but it is the place where transformation begins. Traversing the valley of the shadow is one part of the journey toward the overflowing cup of life.

It begins with a vibration,  a gentle but insistent disruption of air, of quiet, a sound that grows  in fullness and volume until it is recognizably a note of music, an artistic expression manifested in real time and space, brought to life by skill, by practice, by intention. And, as the notes change and build, something comes into being out of stillness out of silence, out of human imagination. Let us pause for a moment of shared silence to open ourselves to a renewed awareness of what may come to life in this moment and in all the moments of our lives. May we remember to pause to listen to the music of life. May we be renewed and refreshed in our pausing. And may we create from stillness and quiet a beloved community that holds and celebrates each and all. Amen!

She died at age 97, nearly blind and ready to go, greatest generation school teacher, church founder, mother of three, energetic until the very last few years, dedicated to service and the idea that the real enemy is to do nothing, so she stayed busy even  in the retirement home, leading classes, looking after those worse off than she, sending meticulously handwritten notes of thanks and concern and condolence, understanding in her bones that life is hard but that’s life and we do our best no matter what, not so much with a song in our hearts but with steel in our eye and a fierceness of purpose and resolve.

If you root for the underdog long enough, it feels weird when the team starts winning, and you begin to doubt reality, you begin to wonder if the wins are just flukes or dumb luck, and you begin to feel anxious. It was hard to watch the team lose but it’s also hard to watch them win.

Spring’s sudden violent breaking through and bursting forth, its seesaw of sun and rain, its ever-longer days and profusion of pollen, its startling manifestation overwhelms and tires my consciousness, which yearns for simplicity.

April grass grows faster than my capacity or willingness to mow it, faster, it seems, than in years past, faster than is good or right, but exactly as fast as everything else that I cannot quite keep up with, including time itself which grows faster with each year. Alas, just as I am the grim reaper for the grass, so time is the reaper that comes for us all.

Rain is coming, or so it seems, as distant morning skies darken and breeze whispers through leaves so new and small the sound they make is almost imperceptibly tiny and quiet. Everything is so beautiful it makes me wonder why anyone ever want to work, as I prepare to go to work for the day.

Baseball commentators have a lot of airtime to fill during every game— 162 times a year, two or three hours each day chatting, citing statistics and occasionally  mentioning what is actually happening on the field of play. They love stories, compelling tales, moving narratives that humanize the players and make them likeable. Some of the athletes are described as wise, old mentors (at age 35); others are spark plugs or jokers. But, more than any of the rest, I long to be one of the “good clubhouse guys,” who make life bearable and even fun. The world needs more of these guys.

Let us pause for a moment to breathe together, to stop the endless running up and down, to cease moving in never-ending circles, to simply be present: present to this moment, present to one another, present to whatever calls to be known. Let us pause now for a moment of silence. May we remember to be present to the moment and to one another and to whatever is before us. May we strive to be open to transformation in all its forms. And, together, may we lean into love and justice in all that we do. Amen!

Thursday afternoon I cut the grass, along with hundreds of dandelions. Friday morning they were back, perhaps even more than before. If you want to understand something about resistance and resilience In community, look to the dandelions!

As busy as this day might be, I hope and pray  that I might pause to breathe, to sing, to look  life in the eye and not just trudge ahead,  careworn, head down, dead-eyed, and unaware. A day on earth should really be much more than simply getting through and getting by.

Not concerning themselves with whether a not a war might be just or necessary, the MBAs who rule the world judge the success of a war using key performance indicators— or at least that used to be the case, but now even KPIs are discounted or ignored as trillions of dollars are wasted and millions of lives are ruined for no good reason. Instead, the powers that be timidly, stupidly, spinelessly watch the ups and downs of financial markets and opinion  polls and hope for the best as the bombings continue and dead bodies pile up.

Having overslept, I sit to write my morning poem, aware of time as a scarce and valuable thing— not so much a commodity but something that, once it is gone, cannot return, cannot be exactly recreated, cannot be purchased at any price.

Already the grass needs to be cut, even though it’s still chilly early spring and I haven’t yet come to terms with the changing of the seasons. How quickly our yard begins to go wild with tall grasses, weeds and wild flowers! How quickly the earth works to erase all signs of centuries of human presence  and the damage done by our industriousness! “Mow the lawn, mortal, and mow it again! See just how insignificant you are in the face of great nature’s dominion!”

Life’s hard, then you die, but it’s also filled with joy  if you embrace all.

Breath is spirit, and spirit breath. In Latin, spiritus ; in Greek, pneuma ; in Hebrew, ruach ; in Sanskrit, atman or prana — all of these words mean both breath and spirit. Spirit is breath, and breath spirit. As we breathe in, spirit enters us. As we breathe out, spirit is released. Each breath animates and enlivens us. Each inhale and exhale brings us closer to pure spirit and closer to all living things. Let us pause for a moment of silence to breathe— to breathe in peace and breathe out love, to sense, in our breathing, the spirit of life. May each breath remind us that we are sprit-filled beings. May each breath remind us that life moves through us. May each breath remind us that we are active participants in life and not just breathless observers. Amen! \

Does the path I think I have followed  really exist, or has it all been  mere meanderings in the vicinity  of something  like a path? All I really know is taking  the next step.

Like many things in the world,  our neighbors’ tree looks like  it may fall down soon as it is old and no longer healthy, with leaves on only the uppermost branches and ivy that covers most of its bark. It’s a hazard, really, and could cause damage to our house and our neighbors’ should it unexpectedly come crashing down, could destroy our roofs. And yet, part of me hope it stays for a while longer, as I have just begun really looking at it, really seeing it.

Morning mist sympathizes with muddled morning brain as windless stillness prolongs damp, fresh, fuzzy fog of spring.

After the rain, clear, after the thunder, silence, after now, more now.