Author: Mary Camille Thomas

Mary Camille Thomas is a native of Santa Cruz who is grateful to make her home on the California coast once more after living internationally and on the road. She studied comparative literature at UC Davis and received a master’s degree in library science from UCLA, which gave her a way to earn a living while making a life among books. Her poetry and essays have appeared in the Monk in the World Guest Post Series, Moving Force Journal, Presence, Porter Gulch Review, Second Wind, Sisters Singing, and The New Story, and she has completed a novel called What Lies Buried about a man reckoning with his family’s Nazi past.

Why Poetry?

author sitting in the garden writing in a notebok

When children go hungry and migrants have no refuge, when flooding kills thousands in Libya while smoke from Canadian wildfires makes it hard for people in Florida to breathe, when one friend is diagnosed with Parkinson’s and another with cancer, what entitles me to sit in my garden and write a poem? Why make art of any kind when the world is falling apart?

The refugee crisis and world hunger and climate change sometimes paralyze me. What can one ordinary person do after installing solar panels and donating to the food bank? I bake banana bread, read Keats’ “Ode to Autumn,” and drink coffee with my girlfriends— anything to drown out the creeping dread I’m often not even consciously aware of. It eventually finds me in my dreams though: the bus to nowhere, the oncoming wave the size of a mountain, no place to hide from whatever sinister figure is stalking me that night.

When it’s impossible to forget and hard to hope, what can one ordinary person do?

Be curious.

Pay attention.

Resist numbness.

Writing a poem helps me do all three. Close observation and a spirit of exploration are solar power for art-making, and on the occasions when they float me into the zone where I lose all sense of time and place, when it’s just my pen and notebook and me, I get fired up with the exhilaration of the creative process as well as pride in making something. “Do poems make a difference?” poet Jane Hirshfield was asked after a reading at Bookshop Santa Cruz recently. The woman who wrote a book about how great poems transform the world answered, “Any action is an escape from paralysis.” Like signing a petition or composting my food scraps, writing a poem gives me a sense of agency.

Books by Jane Hirshfield including Ten Windows: How Great Poems Transform the World

But it’s not just about me. The poet lights a candle in the dark, both illumination and prayer. Whether I am reading a poem or writing one, it reminds me, in a world that wants saving, I am not alone.

Sleepytime Tea

Seductive valerian and maidenly chamomile,

same herbs my great

great grandmother snipped and brewed,

summer garden wrapped in tissue,

insomniac’s aphrodisiac,

you promise I’ll wake in the morning

like wood sorrel opening

its neon yellow flowers

to the first

touch of the sun.

Come, blessed leaves,

soak in this boiling bath;

release slithers of scent

into steam if you must,

but save every single soporific cell

of sleep-inducing power

for me.

O liquid lullaby,

soother of worry

and dream enticer,

drift away with me

into a nightlong

river of rest.

Crossroads

The same breeze that sifts

through the redwood boughs

and flutters the aspen leaves

also lifts a strand of hair from my face,

brushes my cheek and wrist.

What arboreal aerosols

has it lifted on its way

to trace on my skin?

We can’t see what happens underground,

roots and beetles, tinge and seep of water,

the faint white mycorrhizal threads

doing work beyond human imagining.

The power of the barely there

becomes visible in trunk and leaf,

honeysuckle nectar for the bumblebee.

Like the magnetic pulse that tells

wild geese where to fly,

something is calling you

to the place

where your joy meets

your neighbor’s need.

At this crossroads

in the kingdom of enough,

listen to the gull’s cry,

the squawking of crows,

the warbling coo of mourning doves.

Here is the delight of the realm

singing your name.

With gratitude to Frederick Buechner, who wrote, “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

Hands on the Wheel

During the pandemic I was one of the privileged who could work from home, but for many years I commuted 38 miles from Santa Cruz to Foothill College in the heart of Silicon Valley, a drive that took me across the Santa Cruz Mountains on the toboggan run known as Highway 17. The summer before I started that job, I was helping another woman from Holy Cross Church organize the parish library when our pastor emeritus Father Mike Marini stopped in, and she told him that I would soon be working “over the hill.” With a sympathetic smile he gave me a blessing – which was comforting but at the same time added to my trepidation about the commute I was about to undertake. Although I’d always considered Catholics who kept a St. Christopher’s medal in their car sort of superstitious and old-fashioned, after Father Mike’s blessing I bought one for my Mazda Miata.

Generally, my drive over the hill and back took two hours of my day. During a storm, or if there was an accident or some other incident like a downed power line across the highway or an armed bank robber at large in the area, it could take twice as long. Near the summit of Highway 17, you lose the signal from whatever radio station you’re listening to when you started, and I soon set up my radio with separate pre-sets for the Santa Cruz side and the Silicon Valley side, so I could shift from KAZU to KQED or vice versa without missing a moment of my NPR show.

Except for the occasional jerk, commuters are competent and well mannered. I realized I’d truly become one of them when I drove Highway 17 on the weekend and noticed how erratic and disorganized it seemed. Drivers unaccustomed to the twists and poorly banked curves drove too slowly for my taste, while impatient or overly confident drivers went too fast, zigging and zagging in a way that put everyone in danger. This realization gave me a sense of camaraderie with my fellow commuters and filled me with a perverse pride.

Even in the best of situations, though, I often thought about how many assumptions any of us make when we set out in a car. For everything to go smoothly the way we expect to it – even on a short trip to the grocery store – every driver on the road must know the traffic laws and how to handle their cars; they must be sane and sober, attentive in a world filled with distractions. We hope no one has just had a fight or worse, is in the middle of one. It’s a lot to ask for. On the road, strangers isolated in our separate vehicles become a community utterly dependent on each other’s skill and good will.

I retired at the end of June, filled with profound gratitude for my career as a librarian — and for surviving my commute over the hill for more than twenty years. Thank you to St. Christopher and Father Mike, to my guardian angel, and to everyone who shared the road with me.

The Beauty You Love

open notebook lying on a bench in dappled light

Dappled light on a blank page,

breeze sifting through pine boughs

faint as a whispered prayer

invite a spray of words

to fill these vacant lines —

an empty universe waiting

for stars and stones,

crustaceans and curlews,

waiting for the endless

bubbling up to begin

yet already longing

for a still point

within the hurtling.

When the Holy One commands us,

love me with your whole heart,

and with your whole being,

and with your whole strength,

doesn’t She also mean,

adore the pine tree whose shade you sit in

and worship the sun that feeds you?

Praise them worthily, She says,

and you will praise me.

Title from a poem by Rumi

In Praise of Handshakes and Air Kisses

When I was growing up, shaking hands seemed like a formal, old-fashioned custom to me, one I mostly saw in old movies. In real life it was reserved for introductions and making bets, rarely used by children or teenagers – until I moved to Germany during college for a junior year abroad. There a handshake was the customary greeting, and to my surprise I came to embrace it (pun intended).

Does this speak to a prudishness in me that I didn’t realize was there? No, I’m not a prude, but I do appreciate clear rules, and I liked not having to worry about what was appropriate. Are we familiar enough for a hug or a kiss? In Germany you didn’t have to wonder: the handshake was always right. It covered a broad spectrum of relationships from newly introduced strangers to good friends, including the gray area of acquaintances one might not feel comfortable hugging — polite and unobtrusive yet expressing friendly openness.

Several years later I ended up in the Netherlands as an expat. While my knowledge of German helped me pick up Dutch, I had a new greeting etiquette to learn. Here, acquaintances quickly progressed from handshakes to air kisses, which I’d never encountered in real life and associated with superficial city socialites. I mastered the art about as well as I did speaking Dutch, which is to say, with an American accent. At first it felt awkward, but gradually I became comfortable with the three air kisses, left right left, the soft brush of cheeks. It made me feel sophisticated and continental. Even if I sometimes fell prey when kissing someone who was also wearing glasses to the nose-jarring bump of our eyeglass frames, at least I learned the Dutch phrase for this incident which assured me it wasn’t uncommon: brillen kussje, little kiss of the glasses.

I love the complement of ways our different cultures developed to express affection and connect through touch – from embracing to air kissing, from the handshake to its casual, hipper cousins the high five and fist bump. But what do we do now? In the same way that moving overseas dropped me into a dance of unfamiliar customs, Covid landed the whole world in a brand-new culture where none of us know the rules. We can’t learn by watching and doing the way I did in Germany and the Netherlands; we have to make it up as we go along. But just as we learned early in the pandemic to recognize the smile behind a mask from the crinkle in a person’s eyes, we are figuring this out too.

Having grown up in a culture of hugging, I was surprised during my year in Germany by how much warmth and affection a clasping of hands could convey, so I hope Dr. Fauci was wrong when he famously suggested in April 2020 that Americans should never shake hands again. Sure, the way we make eye contact and our tone of voice when we say hello can reveal a lot of emotion, but I don’t think that’s enough for most of us in the long run. Human beings are mammals. We evolved to be in physical contact. As I emerged newly vaccinated from pandemic isolation, I quickly learned to ask friends when we met for the first time, “Are you hugging?” (Mostly the answer was yes.) Maybe our post-Covid etiquette will involve a more complicated ritual of asking How are you? and then waiting for a real answer. As much as I like a clear set of rules I don’t have to think about, sensitivity and mindfulness in the way we say hello is not a bad thing.

Sit With All Your Senses Alert

Thank you to my friend Kim Woodland for this guest post. I met Kim in Carolyn Flynn’s writing group and have had the pleasure of hearing her work for many years now. A naturalist and retired teacher, Kim shared the experience of outdoor education with kids from preschool to high school, and now I’m delighted to share with you a view of my garden through her poetic eye.

My Friend’s Backyard

the sun

bathes my skin in warmth

like the steam curling up

as I sip my morning chai

on this cool spring day

winter rains have resurrected

last autumn’s chard,

dark green leaves flutter

on four feet of ruby red stems

individual asparagus

stand like sentries

in the oblong wooden rimmed

garden bed

some tipping their heads

like snakes ready to strike

the oak titmouse,

a small gray bird

with a fancy crest,

flies proudly from tree to tree,

a chickadee visits the suet feeder,

turning like an acrobat

to find the choicest bites,

a golden crowned sparrow

flits nervously in a bush

waiting for its turn

while the Bewick’s wren

trills a daring song

and waggles its stiff,

upturned tail feathers

I sit with all my senses alert

as I observe the neon yellow

petals of the oxalis

reflecting the sun’s color

back to the giant star

the smell of jasmine

arrives on a warm breeze,

my feet are solid on earth

as I sit in my friend’s garden

breathing it all in

each atom

vibrating its own story

connects me

to my place

within the infinite

and the microscopic

as they swirl and twirl

into one.

By Kim Woodland

Brigid’s Cross on Saint Patrick’s Day

Clock vines cover the wooden arch my sweetheart built in our garden, and this March, on a sunny Saint Patrick’s Day following storms that flooded rivers and knocked down trees, a few orange blossoms peep bravely from the lush greenery. Back when this jungle was just two small starts from one-gallon pots, back in the early days of the pandemic, a friend sent me a green stone plaque with a golden Brigid’s cross to lift my spirits. We hung it on the arch, and at first, the plaque stood out in the wooden latticework, but within a year vines caressed the edges and leaves curled provocatively around its corners. Then leaf and vine went wild, and now the flamboyant growth almost hides the human-made artifact, but even if unseen, Brigid’s cross hangs there still.

Hallow this arch, ye Irish saints. Make it today a portal, more than a gateway from path to garden. Let it harbor the stone boat that will take me to my great-great-grandmother’s hearth, she who knew what it took to keep the fire stoked during a long winter and how to bake bread in a stone oven, who could milk a cow and churn butter. She knew too the secrets of bog and well, flower and fern. Like her I want to practice lectio divina on what the cedar preaches to the sparrows and transcribe poems the sweet pea bush proclaims to the rock rose.

Come, let us walk through this Brigid-blest arch to the wedding of heaven and earth.

Author standing next to the bare wooden garden arch where the plaque is hung

Clock vine with orange flowers growing up the garden arch, plaque still visible

Written after listening to a passage from Dreamtime by John Moriarty

At the Edge of Spring

All fall and then all winter

I meant to prune

the spent asparagus ferns.

Now, hidden beneath the dry stalks

and lush encroaching oxalis,

Tom and I discover fat spears

pushing up from the earth.

A white tulip peeps from under the hopseed,

and jasmine shares the first fruits

of its fragrance with the bees and me.

Workdays that began and ended

in the dark two months ago

are now bookended by light,

and the slate blues of my winter doldrums

are yielding to pastel hues.

Within me optimism stirs

like a chick inside an egg

who hears her mother’s chirps and coos.

This school year,

my last as a college librarian,

is exactly half over,

and I feel change coming

like the light

slowly swelling the days.

What used to weigh heavy

is starting to slip away.

Already I delete incoming emails

that no longer apply to me.

Soon I will shred papers,

give away office curios,

and on the last day

surrender the keys

that have been for twenty-one years

in my safekeeping.

For now, though, I am waiting

as I started to wait

when I planted bulbs last fall.

What colors will bloom?

Which flowers will flourish?

With gratitude to Lea Haratani for the title

Each Dawn a Surprise

From the dark place despair dropped me

may I rise up like oxalis

after the first autumn rain,

push through

wildfire ashes and

soaked cedar bark mulch

into this enticing

day-following-night world.

Let me sip sunlight

and feast on my own green,

unfold cloverleaves as if

the sun would return

tomorrow

and tomorrow

and tomorrow.

All winter long

buried,

I dream of rising up,

of becoming flowers

so yellow I am

joined to that light.