The Temple Builders

The Temple Builders 

The temple builders

are mostly tired I think,

not visionaries,

so much as laborers.

Moving one stone at a time

with calloused hands

and long ropes—

using strength and

leverage and hope.

One lifetime,

one corner,

one stone,

is not the scale

we aspire to.

We want the finished temple

before us at the end of the day.

We want to stand back

and admire our finished work,

certainly not our daily labor,

one simple stone.


It isn’t some higher calling

that gets them up each morning.

No, it is the old woman

who lived through

the dark years, the dark days,

when no temples were built,

except deep, deep in the heart

where they could not be found

or destroyed.


She knows,

though they do not,

why they must build the temples,

shifting them out of their hearts,

and onto the soil,

one stone at a time.

 

In morning dark,

she rouses them without apology,

for she knows

that without them

the temples will crumble

and be buried in the hearts

of those who have

carried them for so long.


Now is the time for labor,

she says,

and she hands them

a pail of rice.

This has built temples for centuries,

she says,

and she doesn’t mean the rice

Someone must hold the vision,

she says,

and she doesn’t mean the temple,

or at least not the whole temple,

but the single stone

they will move today.

© 2025 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

 


 

 

Looking for Light

In December my friend and I sat in the car in the dark and the cold looking out over a migratory bird sanctuary in Fairbanks Alaska waiting to see the Northern Lights. It was -28 outside and the car fogged up with us sitting there. We stared out over a frozen lake. We were so hopeful, but we in the end didn’t see them. We were there too early in the night. And maybe they wouldn’t have appeared anyway. We saw some beautiful stars and perhaps a planet. But no aurora.

Looking for light in the winter in Fairbanks makes sense—as the sun rises near 11 am and sets near 2:30. The long darkness make any light you see more special.

And anyway—isn’t looking for light—in any of its forms—something that is just programmed into our souls? Lights in the windows, lights on the trees, starlight, candlelight, the light in someone’s eyes.

Last week was the lunar eclipse—and I found myself searching for the light again. A lunar eclipse is both: light and dark—and the weather report said that it would be clear where I was so I set my alarm—hopeful again.

It was dark, and really cold at 2 am, and I threw on a coat and boots and headed outside. I couldn’t see anything. I walked toward the street, and up the block a bit. Nothing—in any direction. It occurred to me that it was cloudy. There weren’t even stars. There would be no lunar eclipse sighting.  

Disappointed, I went back to bed.

It’s ancient, and primal this love of and search for light. It means there might be fire and warmth. It means I can see and know the way.

It’s so hard to remember that Northern Lights are actually always there even if the conditions aren’t such that we can see them. And last week the lunar eclipse was there even if I couldn’t see it myself. When you can’t see or feel the light, it’s hard to remember that the light is still there.

On rainy travel days, I forget that the sun will shine when the plane suddenly breaks through the clouds. In the same way that I can forget on days when I have a lot of grief or darkness, that those feelings aren’t forever, I forget that the clouds will break—and sun will shine though again.

And sometimes when we can’t find light within ourselves that spark needs to come from others around us. Or from art, music, poetry. From something that makes you smile or laugh.

And I think we forget that regardless of whether we can see the light, we can be that light or spark for others. We can remind them that the light is still there.

On that dark night in Fairbanks with so much hope and no Northern Lights—we didn’t get the lights from the outside we were seeking. But we got the light of friendship and good company. We got the light of laughter at our relentless hope.

Sometimes you can find the light. And sometimes you can bring the light. And sometimes it is enough for you to be the light by simply be being good company in the dark.

© 2025 Gretchen Schmelzer, PhD

 

 

Middle Aged. New Born

Middle-aged. New Born

Look! I have ten fingers and ten toes!

Isn’t it exciting?

 

I am a woman born anew. 

 

For years I have thrashed

in the seas of cruelty and hatred

in a boat that finally

and mercifully

cracked.

 

And now I am shipwrecked on a new land.

It is quiet. There is peace. And I am here.

Middle-aged.

New Born.

 

Oh, how new parents crow over their newborns!

They beam over each hand and foot and

coo with each yummy roll of flesh.

All these riches! All of these things to love!

 

And maybe I appreciate the miracle even more

looking at my hands and feet,

to find myself still whole,

still capable of beauty and love.

Still able to reach, and kick and cry and laugh.

 

Today it is my turn to pick myself up

and hold this new born sense of wholeness

against my heart, breathing with her as she rests.

 

Now I can look at her beautiful face as she sleeps

knowing I have all I need: just love.

Love of the simple fact of having

ten fingers and ten toes.

Love of the simple fact of being whole.

© 2025 Gretchen Schmelzer, PhD

Life After Loss

I lost a teacher this week. A therapist. A mentor. A parent. A loving and kind presence.

I took a morning walk to the Pacific Ocean. I am here for work and arrived early to get settled in before the week begins. It was cold and I was dressed in layers of fleece with a windbreaker—and a wool hat. The wind blew strong, and I leaned forward as I walked. The sun shined through clouds casting rays. I could hear the ocean before I could see it. A gull flew behind me.

Wood Sorrel covered the hillside with little delicate cones of yellow among bright green leaves. Red Passion Flowers climbed the fences. The colorful blossoms a welcome respite from winter back in New England. I breathed in the cool air.

If the poet Mary Oliver had been a therapist, she would have been my therapist, Gail. Gail had a poet’s attention and reverence. Mary Oliver said, Attention is the beginning of devotion.  And Gail used her attention like a musical instrument. Her attention had different melodies—sometimes quiet, sometimes louder—and sometimes wide open.

You don’t automatically think of endings being beginnings. But they are. Death comes with a lot of firsts. As I made my way downhill, I was hit with the realization that this is the first work trip I am taking since she died last week. And that means that this is the first trip, since cell phones allowed us all to share pictures with each other, that I won’t share with her.

My work with Gail was long and slow. It was the only way I could absorb the learning. And the only way I could learn to weave, with her help, the fabric of attachment. It was a relationship not marked so much by big moments or insights (thought I certainly can recall them) but rather a constant weaving—of a shuttle of thread going back and forth. Warp and weft. Not everyone needs this kind of work. And not all therapists (or clients) have the patience, or attention, or devotion for this kind of work. But we did, and for that, we have both said at different times that we were lucky.

So much of this weaving was in the form of repetition: letters, emails, poems. And once the technology had been invented: texts.  We texted a lot. Often daily. Mostly light. Funny. Playful.

Gail was a photographer and a lover of nature and animals. I loved gardening and traveled for work and was always deep in the writing process—finding quotes or articles that were interesting. I sent her New Yorker Cartoons. She sent me photos of herons and foxes. I sent her pictures of Alaska and Cambodia. She sent pictures of France and Florida. She sent photos of squirrels. I sent her squirrel memes. I sought connection. She sent back words of reassurance and reminder: We both live under the same moon.

I made it down to the ocean and looked up to the high cliffs overhead. I looked out to the waves rolling and crashing on top of each other. I took pictures knowing that I was capturing images I was not able to send. Seeing landscapes I would never share.

Anyone who has had or worked with kids knows this dynamic keenly: watch me. Watch me dive. Watch me jump. Watch me knock down the tower. If you don’t watch, then it didn’t happen. It’s not a game, it’s existence. We like to think that we outgrow this. But this dynamic just transforms: we are as the psychologist Jean Baker Miller says selves-in-relation. Much of our existence is woven into the lives of others. Our memories, our stories, our strengths. When we lose someone, we lose, for a time, these pieces of ourselves. The losses create holes which we work to patch and repair. Our fabric is changed. We are changed by loss.

I walked home from the beach along the same path looking out for the sorrel and the passion flowers. Bird song caught my attention. I could hear but not see a red wing blackbird. And a robin hopped along the high fence next to me flying away and appearing a foot or two ahead of me in a game of tag. He had me in his attention. For a brief moment, I was the object of a robin’s devotion.

During the pandemic, instead of meeting in an office, when I was in town, Gail and I would walk to a nearby lake, or she would bring folding chairs, and we would sit under trees there. Her attention on our conversation, and also on the birdsong. Or the heron in the cove. Listening. But also never missing a chance to see beauty. To catch the divine in nature. One time in the middle of a difficult conversation, she said, “follow me.” We walked down a dirt road to a nest of swans. Cygnets swam around. The conversation disappeared. We simply watched.

I couldn’t send the pictures this morning. But I could hear the blackbird. And watch the robins and the junkos. I could see the Passion flower. And learn the name of the wood sorrel. She could no longer see the world I was looking at. But I realized that the world I was now looking at had changed because of her.  

© 2025 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD