It’s finally here and I couldn’t be more pleased!
the sum of small things
The booklet featuring photography and poetry on a wide variety of topics: creative, challenging, introspective, uplifting–much like you’ve read on my feed for some time! Order yours today for $US 19.95 + s/h e-mail me at poetryjpz@gmail.com for information on how to receive your copy!
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Photo credit (background to book): Olesya Grichina via http://www.unspash.com
Do not curse the fog,
treat this soft blanket
of protection, this cover
for the chilling, harsh
depression of the
earth and
the soul
with reverence.
Do not curse the fog,
for without it all is dry
dormant
singed
scorched
burned to the bone—
as the core of the
earth is molten,
so the core of the
soul lies blistered.
Do not curse the fog
for its silent sanctuary
offers sustenance until
spring’s first kiss lights
upon frozen dormancy,
filmy gauze nestles to
safeguard the
comatose soul
before its awaking
from the
dead.
No, no, do not curse the fog.
it is your hope
your salvation
your kind caress
in the dark night;
its velvety drape of
wonder
will not judge
never deceives
cannot betray.
it is the cocoon
of metamorphosis.
©️ Julia Penner-Zook, 2024
photo credit: a morning in Fresno, CA Julia Penner-Zook
follow me on IG: @julia_penner_zook
What would you think if, in a dream, you were challenged by the message, “face into the headwinds”?
Hardly reassuring, right?
This happened to me; I offer my response.
***********
“face into the headwinds,”
she says.
that is all.
her voice is
steady,
resolute.
compelling.
no shadow of doubt.
“face into the headwinds,”
she says.
nothing more.
why?
why now,
and why the
urgency?
her message is
indisputable;
ill-defined;
devoid of emotion.
face into the headwinds.
a threat?
a challenge?
a moral imperative?
what is this headwind?
is the message for me?
should i pass it along?
is there imminent
danger or does it
define
forward
movement?
face into the headwinds!
visions of
chilling winds and
blinding rain.
blurred vision and
impaired judgment
paralyze the soul.
face into the headwinds regardless!
let the posture of
the mighty bison
be your guide—
confident;
powerful;
unflinching.
face into the headwinds.
do not reel at its fury
do not shrink from its force
do not falter before its bluster.
the storm will not last,
the storm is not eternal,
the storm will
blow
itself
out!
face into the headwinds bravely.
join together,
take your neighbor’s arm,
explore the face of the wind together,
breathe in holy awe
inside its gusts and growls.
face into the headwinds valiantly.
to turn your back
prolongs the storm;
to show your face
hastens its decline.
face into the headwinds fearlessly.
“face into the headwinds,”
she said in the dream.
that was all.
©️ Julia Penner-Zook, 2023
photo credit @sterlinglanier via unsplash.com
follow me on Instagram @julia_penner_zook
Traveler,
you walk the edge—glorious folly—
knowing not what gift the
breeze that rises from valley floor
seeks to bestow.
Traveler,
you choose the dark—glorious folly—
instead of intoxicating noonday light
convinced that revelation awakens
as evening glow fades.
Traveler,
you avoid open meadows—glorious folly—
inhaling inspiration from
craggy cliff and curious composition
transfigured as if on a potter’s wheel.
Traveler,
you climb sheer rock—glorious folly—
a head-thrown-back, closed-eye invitation
to provocation and impediment
as purifying fire
Refusing to distinguish
between the elements of trinity—
inspiration, revelation, provocation—
all braided into single strand for one
who revels in the glory of folly.
****
Inspired by 2 Antonio Machado poems: “Last Night As I Was Sleeping,” and “Traveler, your footprints.”
©️ Julia Penner-Zook, 2023
she can do hard things—
anything, really—
as long as her mind is clear
and her words weave
possibility out of things
that never were
and her song vibrates
through the threatening
night.
there was nothing
she shied away from,
her vision sharp
her heart aligned
with the colors of
the universe
as it exploded
into shimmering
rainbows of hope.
her heart stitched
life-lines and flung
them to the four
corners of the wind
again and again
and again.
against all odds
she summoned
faces from
unusual places
fashioned spaces
to envelope those
seeking a home.
she skirted
detractors
malicious attackers
poised to siphon
oxygen from
her lungs,
believing her song
could enchant every
soaring bird before
it plummeted,
her vibrancy
could cascade through
inkwells of
obliteration,
her passion
could dissuade
the vultures
from their fatal
dive.
she swore
the rumblings of her soul
could be
would be
should be enough.
she did hard things—
anything, really—
until she was
no longer master of
her creation—
cruelty pounding
the door of
her mind,
derision playing
a dirge
while the light
flickered—almost
extinguished.
but it wasn’t
it won’t be
it can’t be.
it lives in her soul,
it lives in
the song that
hums gently
or throbs incessantly
it lives in the words
of her crystalline
melody calling
those
who are faceless
placeless
spaceless.
she will do hard things—
anything, really!
*************
is this you? could it be you?
don’t let anyone throw you away, or kick you while you’re down. you deserve better.
believe in yourself and believe in those around you. hold space for others whenever you can.
#hardthings
#createbeauty
#hurdles
#holdspace
#createspace
#persevere
#believe
#nodistraction
©️ Julia Penner-Zook, 2023
photo credit: tsukiko-kiyomidzu via unsplash.com
Follow me on Instagram @julia_penner_zook
There has been fog,
but even so,
we’ve had
enough light
to see,
to greet
fellow travelers
on a shared path,
we’ve recognized
identifying markers,
reassured by a string of
lights,
smiling,
guiding us
home.
There has been enough this year—
enough of most everything.
enough adventure
to lift flagging spirits,
enough hurdles
to cajole us into dusting
off dormant skills,
learning the rules of new games,
adjusting our vision
so we can see farther—
in this lingering fog,
enough sprints and
sputters to keep us
hopeful and
humble.
Sometimes enough has seemed like too much.
enough loss—
enough, we’re certain,
to last a lifetime—
loss so deep that
our souls have wept
burning tears
into the pulsing
chambers of our
crushed hearts.
Alone.
Afraid.
Alienated
from all that has
offered solace
and sanctuary
in the past.
Even there we’ve had enough—
barely, it seems—
just enough
to breathe once more,
to care for a child or to
grieve their absence,
to walk the dog,
prepare a sparse meal
or send a disjointed text;
just enough life remaining
in the shells of our bodies
to take one more step
away from the
edge of despair.
We’ve had
enough light.
enough Presence.
enough grace.
In the fog we’ve needed to gather our
cloaks of compassion and humanity
firmly around us rather than succumb
to apathy,
cruelty,
or the despair of
cynicism.
Still there is fog,
sometimes dense enough
to cause us to
instinctively rub our eyes,
thinking our vision
will somehow clear.
It will not!
sometimes the fog will bring us
to a complete standstill
for so long that we
impatiently tap on
the steering wheel of our life,
test the fog lamps,
throw the gearshift into “drive,”
trying to inch into the
darkness.
We cannot!
gradually our heart rate calms,
breath slows,
eyes adjust
without revealing more
light nor offering
orientation
or direction.
Sometimes we are grounded
and yet we have enough—
we are enough.
A new year shimmers beyond the fog.
We see only outlines now:
ghosts of our nightmares?
visions of our hopes?
caricatures of past failures?
glowing lanterns that beckon
us onward?
We’ve had enough,
we will have enough
—sometimes without surplus,
sometimes with extravagant abundance—
we are enough as
we move with the Light
into the unknown—
knowing it is enough.
©️ Julia Penner-Zook, 2022
photographer unknown
In the frenzy of
holiday cheer and
shimmering lights,
carefully choreographed
to numb our fears
and mask our plight,
we hallow our
programs and parties,
prepare our packages with flawless precision
all while ignoring the dissonance—
the clanging of bells no longer in tune,
the core of our being
precariously pulled
like a frayed,
overextended cord
we no longer trust to hold us together.
slow down, notice, listen—
we are honored guests
invited into stillness
afforded as light gradually
shrinks
fades
retreats into its own hibernation
of rest and restoration and resurrection.
somehow we have believed the
seduction of noise and light
posing as heralds of merriment
and festivity,
a culmination of frantic weeks
of consumerism and distraction.
we adorn our world with
sensory overload,
convinced that within our spirits
joy will dance as a good servant
monitored by a demanding master.
far from being a season of stillness
paralleling the dormancy of
Mother Earth as she gives
herself to the embrace of
fallen leaves or fog or snow—
far from being a season of reflection
in which we ponder songs of angels,
welcome a promise of good news,
allow ourselves to look at the birth
of a baby embodying hope—
we have been lured by
more
brighter
shinier
louder
missing the melody
that quiets the soul,
unable to catch the
cadence of calm,
too weary for wonder,
too fragmented to hear
the whisper of stars
that bid us wander.
come, see, hear—
in the longest night
your eyes will see brilliance,
your mind will recover,
your spirit will become still enough
to know that the Divine truly does
live among us.
© Julia Penner-Zook, 2022
PC: Eszter Naujoks via unsplash.com (open source)
how i miss you
though our paths
crossed all too
briefly after
years of
individual
pursuits.
you had gone
your way;
i mine.
how much i lost,
oblivious to
the possibility that
time was not
limitless.
we were robbed
of the window
into the soul
where memories
are exchanged,
wispy clouds that dreams
are made or caught,
no invitation to
search each other’s
eyes for glimmers
of truth.
your words were
silken—
each flowing syllable
filled with
curiosity,
celebration,
vibrancy.
they were
soothing
as salve, even
when life’s
hallelujahs
were broken.
was life as
effortless as
the enticing
dishes you
prepared with
seeming ease
day after day?
was the
whimsical
smile
that blessed
your friends
and sons
and wee ones
as carefree
as we thought?
what were
the fractures
you hid
so well—
those cracks
that let
the light
in?
might
they have
become
exquisite
golden
veins—even
more luminous
in their
repair?
did you
sense the
frailty, the
finality
as you
watched
frosty breath
plume before
you while
capturing
shimmering hues
at sunrise
that brooding,
crisp morning?
should we have
known, were
there signs,
could we have
beckoned—
each from
our distant
places on
this troubled
globe?
we cannot know now—
how could we have then?
we are among those
left to carry on—
reluctantly
remaining here—
each of us
given the task
of picking up
one small
shard of
jagged,
gleaming
glass which
casts light
upon the path
that could
still feel your
footsteps,
had you not left us
too soon.
© Julia Penner-Zook, November 25, 2022
Photo Credit: Shannon McInnes via unsplash.com
Remembering Lorna who passed
unexpectedly
prematurely
inexplicably
on this day
in 2020
On my recent travels I had the opportunity to hear many stories. Some were frustrated stories, others joyful, yet others wistful, recalling another time in life.
Every person has a home; every person has a story. The universality of home is not defined by the structure in which we live or do not live. The universality of story isn’t confined to those narratives that are broadly known or frequently shared.
Home and story are carried inside each human—sometimes explored and celebrated; sometimes troubled and buried.
We cannot truly find the embrace of home until our story is heard and honored. The opportunity to talk about some area of our life, whether it’s a current snippet, a memory from our past, or an overarching theme, offers a place to belong. Home is belonging.
When we take time to listen without judgment, with patience, suppressing outrage and resisting the urge to offer advice, we give the gift of home to another person.
Let’s offer an extravagant welcome to stories of home.
© Julia Penner-Zook, 2022
Photo Credit: John-Mark Smith, @john_mark_smith; Lviv Ukraine via unsplash.com
“Rest,” they say.
rest? now?
when the air
dissolves asphalt
and scorches
thick ranges and pastures,
when turbulent winds
topple ancient
structures
and uproot majestic
forests?
“Yes, rest,” they repeat.
rest? how?
when children
are gunned down
in classrooms,
on playgrounds
on family outings
at parades
in shopping malls
in neighborhoods—
collateral damage
inexplicably deemed
legitimate in the name
of freedom in
an unfree world.
how can we rest?
our hearts beat erratically,
pumping too much blood
through pulsing veins,
lungs shriveling from
shallow breaths,
thoughts crumbling into
meaningless fragments.
where is there rest?
nothing is serene
as the face of
an empire grows
menacing and
maniacal.
“Yes, rest,” the sages urge.
the mantra feels hollow
out of step—as if
lodged in another time
altogether.
this is no time
for rest.
we cannot let go
close our eyes
clasp our hands
in our laps;
we will not survive if we do.
“You will be lost
if you do not.”
rest is not withdrawal
detachment
retreat.
rest is CPR
for the soul
a transfusion
for the senses,
inebriation
for the spirit.
So rest!
bow at the shrine
of the full belly laugh,
the deep throated song,
the exuberant dance.
stride through
groves and gardens,
throw wide the gates,
lighten your gait.
let the smile
of the heavens chisel
new contours
into your face.
wrap yourself
in the rainbow
instead of garments
of gray.
rest is fuel.
rest is hope.
rest is the elixir
for the human journey—
with no cost
no expiration date
not subject to inflation.
“So, rest.”
© Julia Penner-Zook, 2022
Photo Credit: Aline Nadai via pexels.com (open source)
Life Matters 