The Day After Christmas

I awaken to the stuttered
cry of a crow strutting across
my driveway, lecturing me
on the fractured frost
of subfreezing temperatures.
Almost rhythmic, isn’t it,
how people trip through our lives
year after year like the nick
and lisp of the wind
tapping the pines?
Christmas is one of those times:
there will always be
old friends who disappear—
their stars fading from my life
like the dry petals
of a dogwood in July.
And new friends who startle
me with generosity
and tenderness.
Christmas—a divine exercise
in the ebb and flow
of love, the spiritual
practice of letting go.
A perfect opportunity
to seek the fruit of patience,
mastering the ability
to watch the water
muddy itself, confident
the sand will settle in time,
and the sun shall once again
reflect the open cup
of the sky.

–Laura Stamps

About My Memoir

In a time of butterflies
and bluebirds, when the moon sifts
the dark sands of the night,
and the sun simmers
in the sky’s hot hand, I dream
of cool sheets, the soft sigh
of a black kitten warm in my arms,
and time to listen
for the wisdom hiding beneath
the blue waters of silence.
There is so much to unlearn
in this world, a daily practice
as daring as the desire
to untangle the milky lace
of a meadow parsnip.
The greatest gift I give
to myself is to live each day
as if I have no past—
that musty book of names
and dates begging to be buried,
a burden I no longer carry.
This morning, in the darkness
before dawn, a rowdy congregation
of Canada geese honked
across the house, turning
every furry head in the room.
Let it be said that I lived my life
in the moment with no regrets,
light as the wind-flutter
of a butterfly or a bluebird,
my wings cluttered
with nothing but love
and the golden shimmer-dust
of the sun.

–Laura Stamps

Here We Are

During the last week
of November, ladybugs hatch
in the eves of the house,
hurling themselves against windows
and doors, hundreds
of festive guests dressed
in the red and black of the season.
Not unlike this gerbera daisy
still blooming in late November,
flexing its scarlet wings beneath
the white eye of morning frost
and the sun’s day-glo leaves,
while the holidays wave their fire-sticks,
gloomy personalities looming large,
and ghosts from seasons past rise
and flap their soiled robes at us all.
Curious, isn’t it, how cleverly
we sculpt our lives?
As if chiseling a sculpture from the blue
marble of our thoughts and actions.
We are all sculptors—
some creating a monument to crankiness,
others a masterpiece of joy—
a confusing task at times,
like trying to unravel the turquoise
thread of the meadowlark’s tune.
I walk through my days
as if at an artist colony, watching
the craftsmen at work—
day and night the marble takes shape,
dust-flight stinging their nostrils,
chisels in hand, tapping diligently
yet unaware—we are all
sculptors at life.

–Laura Stamps

These Days

At seven-thirty the sun
wrestles through violet clouds
and slaps the windows
with its fiery tail, hushing
the cats and their scatter-dance,
leading them as if in a trance
to the top of the stairs
where it opens its white coat
and ushers them in.
I walk through this day bedazzled,
startled by the concept
of life as spiritual practice:
the sacred act of stepping back,
allowing stressful words
and situations tossed my way
to travel through me,
no tattered residue left
behind, this miracle
of heavenly transcendence.
My ministry is simple—
to seek the love and peace
lining the hidden pocket
of the present moment.
And the walls of resistance
in my body continue
to crumble, as my soul
slowly uncoils like a cat
pulling itself from a sunny nap—
these days spent in the lap
of sweet surrender.

–Laura Stamps

Tranquility

In the kitchen before dawn,
the cat sings a song
that sounds more like squealing tires
than a plea for beauty, a screeching
soliloquy even my youngest cat
has learned to ignore.
No matter how busy I am,
dashing across the wild
and fertile fields of my day,
something deep within me simply
flows—my spirit, I suppose,
floating on its back, humming
a little, as relaxed as a cat
simmering in a sunny window.
How comforting to know
there is a part of me that remains
unmoved and cannot be scratched
by the friction skittering
through this world.
Darkness before daybreak,
the frost spinning lawns and cars
in its white loom, and my cat
combing the air with her cries,
while a part of me hovers
in its changeless state—
the weight of glory,
the immutability of light.

–Laura Stamps