I have a confession to make: I talk to myself. A lot. All the time. Every day. Even in public places, like the aisles of the grocery store (sometimes especially in the aisles of the grocery store). But according to this article about self talk, this may actually be a good thing. It seems that talking out loud to one’s self is a sign of intelligence that helps boost brain power and improve focus. Which, I guess, is exactly why, about a week ago, when I was getting ready to begin multiple timed processes in the kitchen, I stood there for a minute and then said to myself, “First of all. . .”

I was referring to getting a grain going on the stove, which I did do, but not before breaking into song. So far as I know, the research about self-talk doesn’t say anything about this, but if the instructions I give myself remind me of a song, I start to sing it. In this case, “first of all” is the beginning of an old Peter Paul and Mary song that I loved, that I heard them sing in concert when I was twelve, and that I later on would sing in a folk group, taking the melody. I hadn’t thought about it in years.

But suddenly, it seemed to be all “right there.” It turned out I knew all the words still, and had a great time belting it out as I measured millet and rinsed beans.

Here are the lyrics:

First of all/I would like to say a word or two/I know you won’t be thinking this applies to you/but it’s true/and it do

All your life/you have had to sing your song alone/not believing anybody would have known/but you’re wrong/And you know

(chorus) I’ve got a song let me sing it with you/let me say it now while the meaning is new/but wouldn’t it be good if we could say it together/don’t be afraid to sing me your mind/sing about the joy that I know we can find/wind them around and see what they sound like together/

The song is love/the song is love/the song is love/the song is love

Last of all/I would like to thank you for the word or two/spoken in the moments when I needed you/to see my through/and they do

I’ve got a song let me sing it with you. . .

Of course after I got everything going on the stove, I went to see if the internet would cough up a recording of it, and of course it did, right here, for those of you who would like to listen.

There are so many levels of myself this song calls to rise up. There’s the singing aspect, which was predominant in my early life, and which is not possible in a sustained public way any longer because my vocal chords and other parts aren’t strong enough to project really well. There have been times in the last 21 years I haven’t had enough wind to carry a tune I wanted to carry. When Jon Denver died I had to lay down on the floor in order to be able to project my voice loudly enough to belt out “Rocky Mountain High.” And when I stirred my raspberry jam-in-process, I would let Judy Collins carry the process with her beautiful rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne.”

But now, years into plant-based eating, I can sing to myself just fine. And to the dogs. These are made up little ditties for repeat occasions or requests. A little dog training outside the box, if you will. I have made up spontaneous tunes to “thanks for cuddling in with me,” “help me up the hill,” and “shake shake shake-a-shake-a shake shake shake” for the many times we have to dry off after walking in the rain. Cotton has a special “come” song for the times he hesitates coming in the door. They both seem to like these, and they crack my son and daughter-in-law up. When we were walking up the hill and they asked me what the song for that was, I sang it. “Very straightforward and to the point,” my son said, and I said “yes” and we all laughed. I laughed less because I was using my windpipes to sing help me up the hill while walking up the hill. Romeo and Cotton instantly pick up their pace when I start singing. I guess it’s a version of “whistle while you work.”

My mother gave me my love of music. She was a talented pianist who could reach a 10th (2 notes bigger than an octave) on the keyboard. She was a music educator for all of my life, whether it was teaching piano lessons in our dining room or directing church choir and musicals. When I was 10 she went back to teaching vocal music in the public junior high school, then later high school. She formed jazz choirs and  put on musicals and helped interested African American students form their own gospel choir and she took them on tour. When it was a beautiful day, she’d sing the refrain from “Oh What A Beautiful Morning” from the show Oklahoma! When my sister couldn’t sleep she’d sing her “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music. When I was a pain in the ass with all my questions and arguments, she’d sing, from the same musical “How Do you Solve A Problem Like Maria?” And come to think of it she even made up at least one song, which is where I may have gotten the idea, for me, my sister and herself, especially if there was grumpiness in the car or on Saturday night when we had to have our hair washed and put in curlers. It went, to the chorus of Ta-ra-ra-boom-de ay,  like this: “We are the Maggi girls, we wear our hair in curls, we like to laugh and smile, and have fun all the while!” It would make my sister and I groan, and then sing along ,and we’d all end up breaking into laughter, which is why the song never went any farther than the chorus.

Before I was making up songs for my dogs, I did it for my son when he was little, and was afraid to have a small part in the play at his school. The words were “Give it a try when you feel shy, and you’ll fly around the room” It had to be silly super hero enough for him to go for it. Even though he laughed he’d sometimes say, “Mom, we need to sing the ‘give it a try’ song” or I’d start singing it when he’d tuck his head into his shirt and say “I feel shy!”

All of these shenanigans are, to me, a way of expressing the gestalt of that old Peter Paul and Mary tune, “The Song Is Love.” As I sang it to myself in my kitchen by the sea, I thought of my first boyfriend, who accompanied me on the guitar when I sang it, and how he did it just like they did, he was that good. And that when my Mom died, he was there to be a pall bearer, and came to kiss me after the service as I sat in my mother’s wheelchair. We barely spoke. We didn’t need to. He was all smiles, and just swooped in to plant a big one right on my mouth before I could get a word in edgewise.  As he came up, I pushed back my hair, pointing to my earrings and said, “Look!” I was wearing the pair of earrings he gave me when I turned 13. Tasteful dangles with little fishies and orange beads, from a store in downtown Sacramento now long gone called The Eye. Now, though, we are on opposite sides of the national political divide. I went to find him on facebook a couple of years ago and his feed was filled with angry gun’s rights memes supporting the NRA and denouncing President Obama. I couldn’t bring myself to friend request him. It’s even worse now, from the perspective with which I view the world, at least–memes about how the Clintons and Obama collaborated in murder, how Medicaid is illegally funded and more. So, there in my kitchen, I sang the song for him, and for hope that someday we will all remember the love we share and have shared is greater than the lies that divide us.

Singing is also a comfort for me in the aftermath of a big scare. A few evenings ago, the dogs and I were down at the beach just below our neighborhood’s access, where there’s a stairway and a cabana and benches and picnic tables for people sit up on the bluff and watch the surf. A few of my friends were up there. We had gone down for a very quick “run.” After our initial scare  his first time on the beach back in early October when he chased a seagull into the surf and then froze there, I’ve worked extra special hard with the advice of a self-directed dog trainer to teach Cotton where and when it’s safe to run and to make it super rewarding to come back when called. I had just let him off the leash for a quick “spin,” which he executed like a pro, coming right back for a high reward treat when called. I was tired and about to call it quits but for some reason I thought I’d let him go one more time. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some crows up the beach but he hadn’t seemed interested, so I let him go anyway, thinking they were too far away. He shot out like a rocket after those birds and was running so fast he couldn’t do anything but fly in chase. He turned sharply down towards the water and ran, literally, like lightning, along its edge, ignoring my calls. By this time he was easily 200 yards or more up the beach from me and I could only watch and pray he kept himself out of the water. A sea gull had entered the race and he was almost right on top of it as it veered down near the water, turning just far enough out–on purpose, it looked like, to toss him right into a big wave about to break. He disappeared into it.

For a moment, I was in total surrender. It seemed as if I was watching the death of my dog, and so were my neighbors. From my vantage point on slightly higher sand, he was just gone. Then I saw him come up, shake himself and run like hell away from the water and further up the beach, instead of back toward me. He must have been frightened to death.

Romeo and I slid down the small sand hill and tried to run after him, calling him to come. Way up the beach near the south end of our neighborhood he finally turned around, and came back to where I was waiting. He was absolutely soaking wet and he eyes were wild with adrenalin. But he came back.

I think that brush with death was so frightening that I just shut down. I petted him quietly and thanked him for coming back and led him back to the steps at the cabana with Romeo, who had done a little jumping jig toward him when he finally came back, so I knew he had been worried too. He doesn’t expend that kind of energy unless he really means it.

I  couldn’t speak, let alone face the gaggle of neighbors, so I resolved to just wave and walk back home. But one of my friends was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. “Are you alright?” she said. “No,” I said, which was all I could manage. And she gave me a hug.

Cotton remained wet through the skin far into the next morning, even though later in the evening I dried him with the blow dryer after toweling him down when we first got home. He slept. He was submissive and exhausted. I didn’t know what I would do the next morning, or what he would do. I decided not to freak out and just trust enough to let each moment unfold with the needed discernment.

Although he has since run on the beach and today even chased a gull I missed (which, thankfully, flew toward the bluff and not the water), the very next morning after being rolled into the wave, he stayed on leash with me almost the entire time, never asking to run. When we got to the creek that’s one of our landmarks I let him off momentarily to go get a drink. He came back immediately when I called him.

When we got back to our access, we sat on the sand for a while and listened to the waves. The dogs like to do this. They cuddle next to me and nap, or sometimes Cotton looks and smells and follows after sand fleas with his interested eyes. That morning he backed right up against my leg and went to sleep. I  was thinking about how he came to me in the Fall and that now it had just turned Summer. A song came to me, another  Peter Paul and Mary song, called “Autumn to May.” It is a wistful fanciful lullaby type of song, usually sung for children and I’ve always loved it. It begins with this verse: “Oh once I had a little dog/his color it was brown/I taught him for to whistle/to sing and dance and run/his legs they were 14 yards long/his ears so very wide/around the world in half a day/upon him I would ride/sing derry oh day/sing Autumn to May.” I sang it to Cotton and petted him while I sang it. Later I changed the words a little bit and sometimes would sing “once I had a big white dog/his color was like snow/he loved to twirl and leap and run /and chase after a crow. . .”

Later I did a memory sketch of Cotton running down at the edge of the surf, fast as lightning. Terrified as I was, there was still a sliver of room in my heart for the wonder of how absolutely beautiful it was to see him in flight like that in the late afternoon light and mist. The drawing and the singing slowly brought me back to myself, and to knowing each connection to love and wonder, each moment we feel it, while fragile or fleeting, is real. And it helped me write this post. And remember that the tiny abstract painting in the photograph you see at the top was painted many decades ago by my beloved first art teacher, that first boyfriend’s mother. She painted it for me, so I would remember. I have carried it with me throughout my life. It’s always been where I can see it in every home I’ve lived in.

This morning, I let Cotton off the leash and he ran up to and then around a young woman with bright red hair walking up the beach with a backpack on. I stopped to chat with her and asked if she was walking up the Pacific trail. She was. Her car was waiting for her in Astoria, she said. I wished her a safe trip. But first, of course, she asked me about my dogs. “They are so beautiful,” she said. “At first I thought he looked like a horse when he was running toward me.”

I loved that she felt comfortable to share this distortion. It reminded me of the fanciful animals in “Autumn to May,” and how “real” life tricks us into magical states of wonder all the time, just as it can also leave us bereft, confused, lost. Life is so very full of contradiction and paradox. When he’s on duty, Cotton is the picture of a perfect service dog, sleeping beneath the dentist chair or waiting patiently in the check out line at the grocery store. But there’s a wild streak in him when he’s allowed to run loose, that can awaken without warning, when the shadow of a gull passes over the sand.

Sometimes the only way for me to negotiate all of that is to listen for the song in my heart.

Maria (moonwatcher)



Koi, chalk pastel, by Maria Theresa Maggi

One of my favorite things about my yoga practice is the way it surprises me each morning during my time on the mat. I’ve written before about how that mat feels like a magic carpet ride at times, and the time I am about to tell you about is no exception. Yet instead of the far reaches of my mind or the universe, this surprise came more along the lines of Ram Daas and his famous words “wherever you go, there you are.”

Since I’m not a pro at perfect form by any stretch of the imagination, my efforts in poses often come in through a side window or a back door. One of those is my innate curiosity about how a pose got its common name. Always, when I think of such things, I inadvertently pull my  mouth back toward my ears (otherwise known as “smiling”) and correspondingly my chest expands, making even the most humble or brief attempt at a pose ever so satisfying because then I have truly breathed into it without effort. It doesn’t matter to me how long or short the duration of this experience is; the point is to feel the relaxation and expansion in my body (and spirit).

Fish pose is one of those poses that really sparks my imagination. For the life of me, I somehow “get” that looking at things upsidedown somehow makes a fish face, and perhaps my arms are fins–or if I do the version where my legs are in full lotus, then my legs are somehow the back gills or one big fancy tail. How I know this is a mystery, and feels quite ridiculous, which makes those corners of my mouth head toward my ears and my chest open up yet again.

One of my favorite childhood reads was Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories, in particular “The Cat That Walked by Himself” and “The Elephant’s Child,” as told by Sterling Holloway on an old LP that we played until it was so scratched you could barely hear the words. But by that time I knew them so well it hardly mattered they were being obscured.

So it was in that playful spirit that I decided to go ask the internet one morning how the fish pose got its name. And what I came up with did truly surprise and delight me, which is, as I have often said, my favorite state of being. At this page, The Mythology Behind Matsyasana (Fish Pose), I giggled to realize for me this myth echoes both the biblical flood story, and the Dr. Seuss book “A Fish Out of Water”–(or more likely, Dr. Seuss was tapping into that ancient narrative). Lord Vishnu, disguised as a little fish, asks to be taken home by a good king, and then keeps growing out of her containers. When she reveals herself to be Lord Vishnu, she warns the king that a great flood is coming. But unlike in the Biblical Flood Story, the inventory for what should be brought on the boat is more in the spirit of minimalism. Seeds from all the plants in the world and the subtle bodies of all the world’s creatures, and, of course, the Vedic texts.

The compact nature of the cargo that gets carried into the new world in this story indeed reminds me that good things come in small packages, or the start of something large and significant is often seemingly quite insignificant and small, even invisible. Or that maybe no matter what changes on the outside, my essential self remains no matter where I end up.

Some mornings it’s much easier than others, though, to sit on the top of my head, shoulders up, looking “behind” me. Some mornings I’m in full swing and others I’m only there for a few seconds–usually the morning after I was in full swing the morning before.

This is true of almost every pose that requires some balancing or unusual positioning. I know it, and yet it’s still hard for my heart not to fall just a tad when it’s one of those mornings where I just can’t “get it” for very long.  No matter what morning it is, the part about putting the top of my head on the floor always gives me a little bit of pause. In my house here at the coast, there’s an added dimension to this involving sliding glass doors on the bedroom closet, behind where I usually place my yoga mat. Any posture I do that involves turning or looking back may find me staring right at myself. I know the mirror is there; nevertheless it’s always a bit of a startling surprise.

One morning several weeks ago, I was facing front, toward my bedroom window, where, when I attempt to balance in tree pose, I get some energetic tutoring from the hemlock and alder just outside. If I look at the trees, I somehow “feel” their encouragement to stay centered, especially when I am attempting to balance o my right foot, the one affected by the mild cerebral palsy. One morning in particular, for just a flash, the alder seemed to send me a message about the stability of a tree trunk. I felt what it is like in my own trunk, to have the strength of a tree trunk, and how my toes and the bottom of my foot were like “roots.” It only lasted  a flash, but after that I have always felt that when I look out the window during my practice and see and feel those trees against the morning sky, I am not doing yoga alone, but with friends.

So I guess it might make it even a little more uncertain to get down on the mat and upend the crown of my head onto the mat, seeing instead what is behind me (my clothes and whatever else has collected on the closet floor, since I’m terrible at closing doors) rather than the trees and the sky before me I often use as reference points to help me ground. So imagine my surprise one morning when I brought my head back above my arms to rest the crown of my head on the matt, only to discover that the closet door was closed, andpositioned in such a way that the scene in it I saw of the reflected window was exactly the same scene of tree trunks, branches and sky I had left behind when I finished my standing poses. Only I could also see myself, so thrilled to be seeing it upside down, which in the amazing way of paradox, made it right side up.

For weeks I have struggled to finish this post, to explain what that felt like, and why it was so very significant, almost like being reminded that I won’t die until it’s my time to die. I still am not sure how to say it, but it blossomed along the lines of something I have long  maintained: that I’d much rather be surprised and enlightened than “right.” “Right” doesn’t have that sense of expansiveness or  even confirmation that can come with a new revelation. Sometimes a revelation returns me to the comfort of something I know I can rely on, and trust. I just don’t know I’m going to get there until I do.

Perhaps, too, there’s a physiological piece to this experience, born of my years of low fat plant based eating. I never know when I bend over or turn around how long it will take my nervous system to “catch up” to where I have moved myself in space. There’s always a little lag. That’s why it’s important to go slowly, or to put a hand on Cotton or Romeo as I re-establish where I am in space. In the past it has been treacherous to hurry that, especially if it’s hot. I could fall, or even lose consciousness if I rush. So the “pause” that comes when I turn my head back and upside down is expected. But what wasn’t expected was to see reflected back to me everything I needed to recognize and get my bearings. Not only that, but I was able to recognize it while my head was back at an angle and upside down. I wasn’t stuck in trying to figure out where I was now that I was upside down; in fact I was so delighted to see myself and the trees that it felt like I was right side up. After having lived a lot of the last two decades moving in space as if I’m groping my way through a darkened room just to get from point A to point B, that’s pretty amazing, even if my form is in the toilet or I can only hold it for a minute. That “speed” of recognition only began to improve when I changed the way I eat so many years ago, and it keeps showing up in the most unlikely moments, even when I worry it’s not what it used to be because I’m so busy adapting to all my new surroundings and stimulation.

So much is topsy turvy these days in both our personal lives, the nation, and the world. I found it unexpectedly comforting that looking at myself in the mirror upside down nevertheless allowed me to see that same background of trees and light was not only still there, but immediately recognizable, and continued to give me good vibes through its reflection. It definitely was a “wherever I go, there I am” moment. But most importantly it was one in which I knew that even when things get turned upside down, and even when I do, the light of recognition can dawn in the midst of it.


Maria (moonwatcher)








A State of Wild Grace

May 26, 2017

Recently a dear long time friend drove all the way from the Palouse to visit me here on the edge of the continent. It was special magic to have someone who’s known and been there for me for over 20 years come all this way to giggle and play and commune with nature with me […]

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Raccoon Medicine

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At The End Of The Rainbow

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It’s barely visible, but if you look closely at this photograph, there is a fading rainbow just above the tops of the trees. And it you look even more closely, you’ll see the residue of another  one above it where the clouds are breaking through. It is the Spring of 2014 on the Palouse. This […]

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At Home in the World

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  Several years ago a man who broke my heart told me that somewhere in the Casteneda books, the wise man told the seeker that if you’re in love with the world you’re never lonely. This man said he thought that I was one of these special people, that I was in love with the […]

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Thinking About My Things

February 11, 2017

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A Hummingbird And A Seagull Made Me Do It

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Wrapping The World in Light

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Happy Solstice Dear Readers! I have performed a little pastel magic to wrap our beautiful blue ball of earth in light. Wherever you live on it, we are all on a threshold through the longest night, or reveling in the longest day. It seems to me to hold such opposites in our hearts is exactly […]

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Blood Oranges and Slow Miracles in Poetry

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On December 1st, Blood Orange Review, an online literary journal at Washington State University, announced its newest edition, volume 8.2, was now live. That edition includes a poem of mine called “As If We Were Solid and Did Not Go On Forever.” This poem is about an experience I had over 20 years ago that […]

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