the dreaming tree.: poems

The River of Life

I have been isolated
Yet I have been surrounded
Each of these a learning curve
Never ceasing to twist and turn
On this river of life
The greatest of fortunes have been brought to me
Though none come easily
The dreariest of days
Have encapsulated my soul
Yet all are worth what they have given
On this river of life
Shallow are the depths of some encountered
But this does not make them less meaningful
Or less brave, or less wise
I have come to find that differences are not just that
Now seeking to learn what is offered
If a chance is given
On this river of life
I have been captivated
Yet I have been challenged
To love and, more, allow it to be received
To let it flow through my mind
And encapsulate my very being
Forgiveness has not been an easy task
As difficulties have arisen, and attacked my depths
Like jumping into a freezing river with no escape
On this river of life
My mind has been flooded
With confusions and externalities
But ever so clear is this river now
Some rivers go a lifetime untouched, unloved, unforgiven for their murkiness
All rivers rise and fall in time
The lessons I have learned from my river of life
And the people who have come to float its course
Have been ever changing, ever loving, ever teaching
Though some as constant as the morning sun
I hope they will always remember the time spent on this river
As it will always remember their visits
And welcome them again
Remember this river as a fun summer vacation, though some summer murkier than others
Although, no river can ever be perfect
And that is just fine
The depths of this river are now hopeful and calm
Yet thankful for the most wonderful visitors it could have encountered
And loving of those who continue to bless its existence
Ever knowing the next wonderful addition to this river of life
Lies just beyond the bend

By Taylor Hines

This is a view from the top of Grizzly Peak, located about a five minute drive from my house in Kensington. And it happens to be my favorite place in the entire world. This picture captures how vast and magical the view of the bay is in my mind. I was given a lot of freedom with this project. We were asked to talk about anything regarding our families or home towns. I knew right away I had to talk about how special Kensington and Berkeley are not just to me, but everyone that has ever stopped through. Every time I get the chance to drive around the Berkeley hills and see the golden gate across from me, my heart swells. I find myself beaming and smiling for no reason at all every time I really pay attention. What I love most about home, is that everyone else is just as proud. The inarticulable love affair is there in everyone. I know this because no one can explain it, only pictures and poems and music make sense of it. No wonder my town is filled with award winning poets, artists and musicians. And no wonder everyone who moves to Kensington, lives there till they die. The landscape and the pure satisfaction that radiates from the bay, make the love affair effortless.

(These last two photos were taken driving down Moser, the street below my friend Margo's house, on the way to Camp Windrush, our amazing hippie middle school in El Cerrito)

And here is a beautiful and incredibly heart-felt poem Margo is letting me read for my project. I'm reading it because it describes the love affair I'm talking about, the one everyone that lives there has.

“Repetitions of Home”
I’ve travelled oceans away from where I learned
to define myself.
I know who I am in California
but now I’ve seen the world
(or at least a new pinpoint on the map)
and I’m not who I was when I left.
California gave birth to me.
California shaped me.
California whispered to me all I know.
I see the world through California eyes.
Golden citrus westward eyes.
I’m happy to be away
but I dream of going back.
Flying through the night over San Francisco
dodging the clouds and peeking at the lights
that flank the bay in silent clusters.
My city is winking hello and welcoming me home.
The undulating terrain below is so familiar
stamped into my mind.
Unforgettable as the face of my father—
burned into my blood.
My blood that pumps California through my fingertips.
My blood that paints California in my toenails.
My blood that heats my cheeks with California.
I know who I am in California
but who does that make me here?
If I meet you now you cannot possibly know me
until you know me
in California.
There’s a void in my chest when I’m away from home.
I asked Tony Bennett to keep his eyes peeled
because I’m sure I left my heart
in the same spot that he did.
California makes my hair grow.
California glues my joints together.
California keeps this new air flowing through my lungs.
But the air here doesn’t taste like California.
I miss the scent of clean fog on green redwood trees.
I miss the freshwater and saltwater mixing at my feet
in an opposite embrace.
Flowing in and out
in and out
beneath the brick-red bridge that I love.
California is my random luck.
California is my secret wish.
California is my reason to smile.
A single speakable Spanish word
buried at the foundation of centuries of dreams.
Doesn’t everyone want to be home in California?

-By Margo Winton