Mary van Balen

"I think you have a cricket in your basement," my sister said after spending the night in "the guest room," a queen bed in the, thankfully dry, basement.

I investigated, and sure enough, the cricked was chirping loudly and stopped abruptly for a few moments when I turned on the lights. Her hiatus was brief, and then her song bounced off the cement block walls once again.

Today, I found her, clinging to the side of an old brick next to the wall behind the dryer. I moved the dryer and she stopped her fiddling. We looked at each other. Well, I imagined she looked at me. I know she knew I was there.

"Thank you for your song," I said, "but you can't keep playing in here."

I walked upstairs and returned with a plastic container that had held treasures from my trip to the Northwest. I gave a slight bow to my guest, managed to guide her into the container without damaging her delicate instruments, and carried her upstairs and out the side door Read More 

Since my house
Burned down, I now own
A better view
of the rising moon

Masahide


For three nights the moon has been a crisp white disk shining in dark, blue skies. Cold clarifies the air and the sight stops my breath before it escapes in tiny white puffs. At such moments I could live on sky.

I think of Masahide and his burnt down house. The tragedy held a blessing: he had a better view of the moon. Perhaps so beautiful that he forgot he had no place to sleep, and gave thanks that the building no longer hid the rising moon from his sight.

I hope for Masahide's acceptance of life's unexpected hardships and his willingness to discover that sometimes, whatever is lost is not as great as what is revealed by its passing.

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