safe passage (and happy anniversary to us)


Thirty-eight years. It doesn’t even surprise me anymore. We’ve been married longer than not, and loving each other for pretty much all of our adult lives (though the adult thing is open for interpretation). It’s a great gig, and we’re lucky to have it. The other night I was thinking that the thing about a long term marriage (or at least mine) is that you know when to leave each other alone. Or maybe that it’s ok to leave each other alone. I know that doesn’t sound romantic, but it’s just the flip side. Romance still shows up (doesn’t it?), but sometimes it’s simply paying attention to each other. Like how I paid attention to Steve’s love for his homegrown lettuce and kale, and am gifting him with the very romantic OXO salad spinner this year. And how if he loves me, truly loves me, he will bring me coffee, silently, and not say a word until I have finished the second cup.

We’re headed, as usual, to Point Reyes to celebrate. A few months ago, I wrote a poem that started out to be about bridges, and ended up being about marriage.  It goes like this:

Safe Passage

When the space feels too vast
between your breath and mine,
your courage and my fear,
or the other way around,
one of us has a map, already in hand.
That is how we’ve done it, all these years.
That is how we’ve crossed the bridge.

What made us say yes, oh yes,
under the oak tree in the meadow
before our family, friends and three dogs
in their festive bandanas?
We were so young, how did we know?
How could we imagine the span
we needed to build and cross?

Yes, oh yes, to safe passage,
a bridge, and the trust to keep going
through this life, and the next, and even the next.

You’ve been my bridge, and I’ve been yours.
We’re not yet to the other side.
Come. Hold on. Walk with me today.

wedding_2 wedding_3 wedding_4 wedding_5

the forgettables


The Forgettables

The big ones get all the glory.
Unforgettable moments,
firsts and lasts and in-betweens.
Never shy, always bold,
as they rearrange every molecule in our being.

But it’s the forgettables that matter.
Sly moments, uninvited and unattended.
They work undercover, acting alone on our behalf.

When the morning sun rises, bearing only light.
Long days that never end, because boring isn’t as bad as it gets.
Scraggly grass and rocky dirt that won’t hold a flower.
Dining with baseball for company instead of each other.
A twenty-minute commute for twenty plus years,
without incident, accident, sometimes not even a song.
All the days my daughters are alive.

The taste of toast, buttered not burnt.
The smell of sunscreen and chlorine, many pool-years ago.
The squirrel in the tree, eyeing me, right now.
The feel of a new notebook, fresh pens and a fine enough idea.
The neighbor boys and basketball noise, outside my window on every ordinary night.

The moment you bring me coffee,
(especially) when I point instead of ask,
and you love me anyway.

The forgettables
quietly, reliably, sincerely
rearranging us,
one tiny molecule at a time.


Like the Hawk
I heard a famous poet say
the hawk doesn’t ask who he is,
why he flies or if he should.
He’s just a hawk and does his thing
without question or doubt.
So why hesitate and deny
who we are and what we do
to survive this flight of life?
Why we love or grieve,
show up ready or stay in bed,
all day and the next?
Is it too soon to pry open
eyes and hearts,
too late to shed sorrow
(and the extra 20 pounds)?
Is it the coward’s way to return
what wasn’t intended
for our beginning and becoming
something new?
Should I get the tattoo (maybe),
buy the good wine (yes),
forgive and forget (perhaps not yet)?
Why measure and judge
(ourselves and others)
for being human,
flawed and fabulous?
For living too much or too little,
grounding ourselves in fear?
Is it possible (please say yes)
to accept what is,
and simply soar
when the air is right
where we are?



Photo by Kim Tackett, Vashon Island, WA

I’m taking an online writing course called Dive Into Poetry, offered by Jena Schwartz. It’s kind of amazing to discover something you thought you knew, and realize there’s so much more to learn.  You should check it out.

while you were gone

spring oak

Three and a half days. It’s been a while, since you were there and I was here.

I thought it might be fun to be alone. You know, so I could do stuff.

The first night I accidentally woke at 3:30 in the morning, thinking it was 6:30 and made a pot of coffee, enough for two, before I realized that it was darker than dawn.

I drove to the wine country and held Ali’s baby, just a little, since you know how I am always a little afraid of breaking them. It was a long drive and for four hours I listened to podcasts about poetry and spirit and life and longing. I drank champagne and ate cheese with Kathy, and we congratulated ourselves for making it from ages 15 to 60 with wonderful daughters, son-in-laws and our own marriages intact. Chuck gave me sunflower seeds, two different kinds, for your garden.

The hills were so green, I thought they might swallow me up (and I half hoped they might).

I bought a few new clothes, and then returned most of them. I realized I was the oldest person in that particular store, both times. That might have been the problem with the clothes.

Ate avocado toast for dinner the first night, popcorn the second and a spoonful of peanut butter the third.

Spray painted the patio chairs so bright they glow. They might fade, or I might repaint. Or I might learn to love the glow.

I read and wrote and did laundry and put a new shoe rack in your closet. I cleaned up the dead plants, and potted a few more. I moved the jars of rocks outside, because nine jars of rocks in one house might be too much.

I only forgot to water your stuff once. Maybe twice. Let’s say once.

Replaced the upstairs shower curtain, straightened the book piles by our chairs and hung three new bulletin boards in my studio. Watched some baseball, painted my nails and read every page of the Sunday New York Times.

I went to bed early and got up with the sunrise. I snored. Without you here to annoy, my snoring had only me to annoy. It was lonely, snoring without you.

It wasn’t as much fun as I had imagined, being alone. It was ok, but it’s better when I am there and you are here, and better yet when we’re both here or both there.

I can’t wait for your plane to land tonight.

Love, Kim



gathering good :: 31 march 2017


It’s spring, it’s Friday, it’s time to get stuff done, or let stuff go. But first, a few links:

In celebration of the lovely Iris.

Podcasts are my new addiction. Curated Podcast Playlists.

For the easily distracted (and if you’re here, then you are). Flowstate is for those of us who can’t stay on task. You write, and keep writing for 20 minutes. It doesn’t save your work if you stop. Yikes.

Celebrated writers on keeping a diary (BTW, I just heard Maria Popova on Krista Tippett’s podcast, On Being….really great!)

Powerful Pioneers | 10 Groundbreaking Creatives, delightful and fun.

I smile every time this couple shows up in my Instagram feed. Also, Steve and I dress the same on accident all the time. Guess that happens when you only wear black t shirts and jeans!

Another grin-inducing Instagram feed I discovered this week is Aesthetics of Joy.

If I were the kind of person to buy stuff on whim, I’d buy myself this. Just saying.

The world’s coolest passports (which wold also look good in the bag, noted above…again, just saying).

Icons for change, for the graphic resister in you (or maybe, you).

We’re delighted to have our postcards included in the website, Cards to Congress. Free art for your postcard endeavors.

In praise of the Dansko clog.

Since I have clearly identified myself as a “mature” person, this list cracked me up (since I am one of those people who counts the minutes until 10:00 when I can go to bed).

And to finish, just beautiful pictures from above.

See you on the flip side.