Live

If I have a purpose, it is to live fully—

to listen,

















to notice


















to honor

















to appreciate


















to enjoy

















to comfort

















to embrace

















to wonder

















to savor














to sing.

Dress Wrestling

I thought the dress quite pretty. The price was attractive, too. No need to try it on—the day was hot and muggy, I was sweaty, the tag said L. I brought the lovely thing home.

Later that evening, after a rain cooled the out of doors and a lukewarm shower cooled me, I pulled the new dress over my head. It was a tiny bit of a struggle to maneuver both arms into the snugger-than-they-looked sleeves. There was no zipper to give the dress ease, nor slashes to loosen the sleeves but I persisted. The rest of the dress fell smoothly over what a kind woman once called my “sturdy” frame.

“A little long for this heat,” I murmured, looking at myself in the mirror but that was no problem, really. I could cut off a few inches at the bottom and put in a new hem. Sweat beaded my newly washed upper lip. I turned this way and that. The dress was a lovely shade of green shot through with earth tones. Cream-colored flowers bloomed across the bodice, a waterfall of subtle stripes cascaded to my ankles.

“Perfect,” I said to my reflection. I was to go to Florida at the end of the month for my daughter’s beach wedding and the moment I got off the plane, I was due to go to dinner with her soon-to-be in-laws.

Though the dress was made of sheer cotton, I was growing warm. Perhaps this wouldn’t be the perfect dress to wear on the airplane, after all. While I was trying on things, perhaps I should scour my closet for something a little less—well—snug.

I crossed my arms and grasped the material just below my arm pits in order to lift the dress over my head. Without a zipper I certainly couldn’t wiggle it down. The dress didn’t budge. I let go and tried pulling the sleeves down a little to loosen their grip on my upper arms, then grasped wads of the skirt again and tugged. There was a slight movement. I tugged a little harder. The bodice of the dress moved up to cover my face, and the skirt flipped over my head, but the arms held fast. I hurriedly uncrossed my arms and pulled the clinging fabric away from my nose and mouth, scraping the skin from my nose with a fingernail. But the moment I drew in a gasping breath, the dress strained in an alarming way. I was being clutched to death by those cream-colored flowers and lovely earthen stripes.

The dress and I struggled against each other for a few more minutes before I finally dislodged its death grip on my shoulders and arms. I hauled it over my head and flung it to the floor, gulping for air and wiping the sweat from my purple face and a smear of blood from my smarting nose. Then I went for the scissors.



My newly renovated new dress hangs serenely in my closet, waiting for its first airplane ride. The sleeves have neatly turned and hemmed slits in the under arm seams, there’s a zipper down the middle of the back, and the skirt falls charmingly to mid-calf. All that shows of our tussle is the bright red scratch on my nose.

Signs

I believe in signs. It can be the worst of days, a day when everything goes wrong, when a favorite thing breaks, a relationship goes awry, something ends that I was hoping would go on forever. The rain keeps falling. And then right in front of the window where I’m sitting, waiting for the sky to stop weeping, a catbird skims in for a landing and perches. It looks at me, flicks its tail, opens its beak and sings its catbird song, and suddenly I feel better. It’s a sign. My mother used to whistle that same song to the catbird that nested in the lilac by the door. “Sing,” the catbird reminds me, “even in the rain.”

Thanks, Mama.



photo credit: www.birdnature.com

Blooming Without Me

"We should all do what, in the long run, gives us joy, even if it is only picking grapes or sorting the laundry." --E. B. White

So, I am gardening in between two jobs (and falling asleep the moment I sit down) and writing for a local publication when I am awake, and reading blogs though not writing much for this one. School is winding down. Soon I will have a little more leisure time. Meanwhile, here's what my flower garden is doing while I rush about.

A Job Well Done

Love Letter to My Daughter As She Graduates










Commencement. The word means beginning, genesis, advent, dawn. Out there beyond the familiar boundaries of home and school lie the somedays of your dreams. You walk toward, and in doing so, you walk away from. That's the way of things. Here are some thoughts to keep in your heart as you travel your new path.

"In all your thoughts, and in all your acts,in every hope, and in every fear. when you soar to the skies and when you fall to the ground, you are holding the other person's hand." - A.A. Milne

Always remember that you are loved. You were such a sweet little child with your big blue eyes and flaxen hair and that deep, throaty chuckle. You held my hand when we went for walks and your talk was full of whats and whys and whens. "What comes down in spring?" you asked, watching winter's snowflakes spiral to the ground and "When will I be big?" you asked, watching with longing as your siblings climbed the steps of the yellow school bus. I would have held you small and needing me, but my heart knew better. Now that you have become a young woman, the time has come for me to let go. It is time for you to make your own way in the world.

"You yourself must set flame to the torches you have brought." - Anonymous

Remember that you have a purpose. You may not be sure what it is, even though you've wanted to be a teacher since you were six. Crowd into your days every possible experience, every adventure. Live your life to the uttermost. Grow as much as it is in your power to grow.

"You wake up in the morning and lo! Your purse is magically filled with twenty-four hours of the unmanufactured tissue of the universe. It is yours..." - Arnold Bennett

Pay attention to the present. All the days leading up to this day make up your past. The future, all that lies ahead of you, begins now. The fleeting moment in between is, in reality, eternity. When you were small, you knew instinctively how to focus on whatever you were doing. You learned to lose yourself in a book or a game or a daydream. You poured every ounce of your being into the moment at hand. Distractions will come your way. Remember to spend your hours wisely each day and tomorrow will be taken care of.

"Home is the place where,
When you have to go there
They have to take you in.
I should have called it
Something you somehow
haven't to earn." - Robert Frost

Home is where the heart is. You've had several homes: the little house in Connecticut where you were born; the rented house high on the hill in Walden, Vermont where you used to catch snowdrops on your tongue when the wild wind brought one snowstorm after another and the log cabin in Danville that you helped to build; the houses on Barnum and Silver Streets in Massachusetts; and finally the dormitory at college where you've spent the last four years. Now that you are setting off to far places, remember this: as long as we are in each other's hearts, you are never far from home.

Love,
Your Momma

*note from a proud Momma: This letter was written for my youngest daughter as she graduated with her BA a few years ago. This past Friday, she earned her Masters Degree in Higher Education and has been accepted into the doctoral program for the coming school year. She received an award for outstanding achievement and was recognized as "possibly the finest writer this program has seen."

On the Other Side of Grief

I have been following a fellow blogger's arduous journey toward and through her father's last days. TICA details with such strength and compassion her bedside vigil and her dad's struggle with life and death choices. A few years ago, a close friend of mine lost someone she dearly loved. TICA's posts reminded me of this column I wrote of my friend's journey through grief.


Life on earth is at best a chancy thing. You cannot know the exact moment when you will leave the land of the living or if your dreams will die before they've been fully lived. One thing is certain—if a loved one leaves before you, whether by accident or design, you will travel to the strange land of grief and you will go alone. The winds of change will swirl about you, pick you up, transform you forever, and set you down in another place.

It is not only the departing who are changed by leaving. The living, the survivors, the ones left behind must become someone else in order to cope, to grow and finally emerge into a different life—the life without. It is a lonely walk through an unfamiliar land, this land without. Things that two did together one does now. There is nothing so empty as the other person's chair pushed up to the table, unless it's the stairwell that no longer echoes end of day greetings and eager footsteps, or the bed that suddenly seems vast and cold and too lonely on either side of the middle. There is nothing so quiet as a room with one person in it, the silence absolute after the death of conversation and shared confidences. There is nothing so solitary as a single plate on an empty table or a single towel hanging folded and desolate on its too wide bar, or a lone toothbrush standing solitary guard in its cup. There is nothing harder than being one when you have loved being two.

Someone dear to me recently lost someone dear to her. She was so happy, so loved, so alive while her loved one was with her. Now she looks and feels as though she's been struck down and in a sense, she has. Grief has her by the heart and for a time she must wrestle with it, pushing her way through the pain to unlock the reservoirs of strength and faith she accrued in happier days. I watch her struggle to come to terms with her loss, to find a place where she can lay her sorrow down long enough to eat, to sleep, to think of something other than what has befallen her.

She tells her story over and over, trying to make sense of it, to fit it in with her own picture of what her life is all about. Perhaps her peace will lie in the creation of a new picture, a new story, a tale that embraces this grief as a gift that, when opened, reveals all the words and colors she will need.



photo credit: Jean

Imagine!

I recently spent two days celebrating with a wonderful friend as she turned 100. She was a schoolteacher, a farmer’s wife, a gardener and, when in her 30s, learned to pilot a small plane. She and her husband were married for 70 years. Lora still loves to fish, lives alone, reads and drives her car without the aid of glasses, will admit (reluctantly) to being a little hard of hearing, but is still sharp of mind and good of heart. Here’s a portrait of her for Totally Optional Prompt’s suggestion: write about a person.


Lora Remembers

100 years of mornings,
of sunrises that spilled liquid gold
down Vermont’s rugged hillsides;
dew that sparkled on a million
summer spider webs; a cow’s warm
breath on her hands and the warmer
milk; fishing the wily creeks and still
ponds at her father’s side;
running up the hill to school;
McGuffy’s First Reader and lunch in a blue
lard bucket; boarding as the teacher;
rain that turned dirt roads to mud;
riding a hay rake, a baler, a plow;
70 years of marriage, of cooking and
washing and mending, of quilting
and knitting and sewing;
driving a Model-T;
flying solo in a small plane;
barn raisings and song fests and gramophones
and new-fangled radios; television and jet planes
and a cruise to Alaska 85 years after
that first morning 100 years ago.

She remembers 100 years of evenings,
of listening to the nightjar whistle,
of scarlet sunsets and sparking fireflies;
dashing to the half-moon door in the
darkness; carrying a lantern up the cold
back stairs; woodstoves and hand pumps
and knee-deep snows; sugaring-off in spring;
summer nights so hot you slept on a blanket
on the lawn; darkness so pure you could
count the stars; nights of terror when fire
struck; nights of music and dancing, of kitchen junkets;
of family suppers; lonely nights, nights of weeping
and missing her man; nights of wondering, pondering
the future, the meaning of it all; nights of remembering
family and old friends gone on before—

100 years of living behind her. Now she looks ahead.

EARTH HOUR

People all over the world will be turning their lights out from 8-9 PM to support Earth Hour. (go here: http://www11.earthhourus.org/ for more information and to sign up). My first thought was, "Hey! That's cool! I can do that." My second and third and fourth thoughts were, I think, what contributes to the general malaise and indifference in this country. They were: "I might be ready to sit in bed to read then," followed by, "So many other people will be doing it my one little light can't matter much," and worst of all, "Come on. How is that really going to make a difference?"

I was stopped in my tracks by the "it's all about ME" tone of those thoughts. So, I went online and watched the video. Now I am going with my first thought, my gut thought, my initial "I can do that" thought. I will turn off my lights because, while my one little light alone would not make a difference, my one little light along with millions of other lights will. I will be part of a social act, not one person alone butting her head against the world.

Last year on March 31, the inhabitants of one city - Sydney, Australia - joined with the WWF, agreeing to turn out their lights for one hour. Social activism encouraged corporate action. 2,100 corporations joined the effort. 2.2 million people turned out their lights, causing a 10.2 energy reduction in the city, the equivalent of taking 48,000 cars off the road.

Go watch the video (and check out Reducing our Human Footprint. The numbers are mind-boggling). Then turn off your lights and join the global effort to save our planet. It may not be all about me but it surely is all about us.




photo credits: www.actnow.com.au; slovenian.wunderground.com

What are you reading?

Ruth D picked me for this meme:

1. Grab the nearest book of 123 pages or more. 

2. Open it to page 123. 

3. Find the first 5 sentences and write them down. 

4. Then invite 5 friends to do the same.

So I picked up Doubt and Certainty edited by Tony Rothman and George Sudarshan. The first five full sentences on page 123 are...

"At the time of self realization
at the moment of insight
arises the conviction truly
that you are, in essence, the World.

Many of us have had such experiences when, after long study, we suddenly understand a difficult problem in mathematics, or when embarking on a novel the structure suddenly materializes and the story, like a landscape, unfolds before you. At such moments the ego dissolves and there truly arises the conviction that you are, in essence, the World.

In the Upanishads, moments of illumination are associated with waking from the state of dreamless sleep into a fourth, superconscious state - turya. Here the "I" dissolves into union with the atman, the universal Self, the Brahman."

So there you have it.

What are you reading, Meggie, Barbara, Roberta, Frankie, Dave?

Meggie has honored me with a Blogging Mentor award. I really enjoy posting, partly for the fun of the writing itself and partly because it's so interesting to see how others react to what I write. I'm not sure I've mentored other bloggers but I do thank you, Meggie, for thinking of me.

The Art of Zen

An old post written a couple of years ago as summer faded into autumn, but perhaps worth repeating for this week's Writers Island prompt: magic


I have a small paper board, square and framed, made of magic stuff. There is a tapered Chinese paintbrush near it and a shallow bowl that holds water. When you dip the brush and pull it slowly over the paper, the lines appear almost black. They gradually fade to grey and then disappear altogether.

It’s called a Zen Board. No matter what you paint there–a mistake or a masterpiece–the lines become paler and vanish. Nothing stays, no matter how unsatisfactory, no matter how perfect.

It’s a concept I struggle with, that of inevitable change. I don’t mind when the flawed pictures I make fade out of existence. In fact, the lines disappear so slowly that often I become impatient. When I create a thing of beauty, however, I am loath to see it recede. I am using the Zen Board to teach myself to let go of both with equal ease.

Nature is appraoching that same space now as one season ends and another begins. Its Zen Board is the foliage. The maple leaves will soon trade their summer green for the brighter hues that last only a short time before fading into nothingness. Sumac will burn briefly scarlet, poplars will flaunt their yellow banners before dropping them to the ground in pale heaps, and the tall meadow grasses will turn golden under the waning sunlight.

As beautiful as summer is, with its warm days and fragrant flowers, its symphony of bird song and cricket chirps and frog chorus it, too, will pass away. Winter will draw new lines, starker ones, and paint the landscape in shades of grey and of deep purple and sable brown. Then, even as we watch, the dark marks made by the winter months will in turn fade and spring will take up the brush to paint the leaves and flowers anew.

If we let it, nature can show us that impermanence is not bad in and of itself. Knowing that something is fleeting can ease an intolerable situation and give us hope of respite. We may yearn for what has gone or wish for more time to savor what we don’t wish to lose but we are also shown that we can treasure the moment. We can look around us and realize that now is the time to appreciate and that now includes the past and the future as well as the present.

Endings teach us about beginnings. Beginnings teach us that all things come to a close. As we cycle in and out of all our life stages, the lines we drew so darkly at first (as though they were permanent self-borders) become hazy, making way for new perspectives, new horizons. We find that our very lives are Zen Boards and the brush strokes that trace our thoughts will fade and be drawn again, over and over.

Desire

An American (17 syllable) sentence for the Writers Island prompt: desire

All I ever wanted was to know the why and wherefore; why can’t I?

Coming of Age

My landlady, neighbor, and most of all good friend, Eileen, has been learning to blog. When she first expressed frustration about using her computer it wasn't hard (once I showed her my own set-up) to talk her out of her old PC with dial-up and into an iMAC and DSL. She purchased a state-of-the-art combination printer/fax/copier, too. Weeks later she confided, "I am still feeling frustrated with my computer. All I ever use it for is email."

Like many senior citizens, Eileen is hesitant to enter the accelerated age of technology. Speed, constant contact, and the quirks of electronic gadgetry aren’t high priorities for her. Teaching, making purposeful conversation, and having quiet time to ponder—these hold more meaning. Her ability to converse, to think things through, to make silence a part of her day, are the very things that drew me to her and make her the marvelous person she is. But, she told me, she wants to participate in this era, in this new way, as well. She has never been afraid to learn something, to explore possibilities. And besides, she would be moving before the end of the summer and wanted a way to share her new life with others.

So began our Sunday morning lessons in word processing, photo importing, and blogging. I showed her my own blog and my daughter’s and a few of my favorites so she could see how using her computer could enlarge and enrich her life.

Eileen's current post reflects both her resistance to change for change’s sake and her uncertainty about the efficacy of what she calls the evolving electronic age. Having for years eschewed television for books and cell phones for uninterrupted quiet time, she effectively distanced herself from what many of us, especially the younger generations, have come to take for granted. Her old computer was her first concession to the age of electronics but it was slow and clumsy and she was untrained in its use. As she learns to master her new one, she is discovering a way to tap her creativity and share it in one fell swoop. We are both excited by her progress.


photo credit: base10blog.files.wordpress.com/.../ blogging.JPG

Here Be Dragons

My landlady and good friend Eileen is a sculptor. Her gardens, her house, her breezeway, her friends houses all host some of her delightful wood and stone figures. It snowed the other day and when the plow was finished with the driveway I went out to find Eileen poking her shovel at the piles of snow mounded on one side of the drive. "There's a dragon in here," she said when she saw me, "and I'm trying to let it out."

I came home from work today to find a huge, white dragon, it's head guarding the front door, it's wings at rest, it's large hind foot bracing the lumpy, winding tail that curved down the length of the drive. I ran for my camera and took some shots in the waning light. I'm not as good a photographer as Eileen is a sculptor, but here is the Driveway Dragon that will protect us until next week's promised warm temperatures drive him away.

"Here be dragons" is a phrase used by cartographers to mark dangerous or unexplored territories. My driveway is hardly either but by Sir Patrick, here be a dragon...

First Big Snow of the Season

It's snowing!












Yippee!


Ermmm...hooray?


But it's so lovely!













Happy Dance!

LOVE LETTERS

Mother of Invention commented on Love Letter to My Daughter Who Is Far Away at Christmas (below) that I probably wrote love letters to all my children. She was right. At some point in their lives, I have. Here is the one I wrote to my younger son at Christmastime seven years ago when his first child and my first grandchild was a newborn.








Dear Ken,

This is the first Christmas you will celebrate with your new daughter. And as it is my first Christmas as a grandmother, a Memeré, I wanted to give you both something from my heart.

When you were just a small boy you had a book called "Let Papa Sleep." No sooner would Papa Bunny lie down for a nap than Baby Bunny would beg for a pickle, a story, a drink of water, a game. You will discover as you spend the rest of your life being a father that there are things you will trade—naps for playtime, hot meals for emergencies, time alone for time spent with your children, business meetings for school plays, peaceful nights for nights of worry, toys you want for toys they want. There are some things I've learned as a parent that I would like to share. I offer here, as a gift to you, these things I've come to know from being your mother.

CHILDREN TEACH US ABOUT UNCONDITIONAL LOVE - Love without obligation, without judgment, without end—that is the kind of love children offer until they are taught differently by the world. Recognize it, revel in it, know that it will change but that it will never completely vanish. It will be the bedrock upon which you will build your relationship with your children, the look in their newborn eyes that says you are the most wonderful person in the world.

CHILDREN OFFER US A FRESH LOOK AT THE WORLD AND RENEW OUR DELIGHT IN SMALL THINGS - We develop blinders as we grow older. We say it is because we must be responsible adults or because we are too busy or that we have learned differently through our own experience. Children open our eyes to the possibilities inherent in life. They teach us about choices, about delight in the ordinary, making it extraordinary for us once again. They remind us to laugh with abandon, to play as though anything is possible, to weep as though the world was coming to an end then be elated to find that it didn’t.

CHILDREN GIVE US A SENSE OF SELF - We are defined by a number of things—by our families, our work, our communities, our heritage, our genetic make-up, our thoughts about ourselves, our reactions to the thoughts of others. Children hold up mirrors. We see ourselves reflected in their eyes, in their behavior, in their development. Your actions will speak louder than any words you ever say to your children. If you see yourself through the eyes of your child, you recognize the best aspects of yourself. Likewise, you will be made aware of those things that need changing.

CHILDREN TEACH US HOW TO LET GO - Nothing is harder, or more rewarding, than sending your child out into the world. You hurt with every hurt they endure, you glow with every triumph, you laugh and cry with a depth of feeling that will enrich you immeasurably if you let it. And when the time comes to let go, you realize that the bond you share does not disappear with their absence from your daily life. What a wonderful feeling it is to finally understand that, no matter how far they roam or how seldom you see them, there is no distance between you at all.

CHILDREN ENLARGE OUR BOUNDARIES - They will go places we have not gone, do things we have not done, and experience a life at once so familiar and yet so foreign to us that our eyes will open in wonder. If we give our children the same freedoms we would want for ourselves, the world becomes a boundless place filled with potential—theirs and ours.

CHILDREN ARE BOTH AN ANCHOR AND A SAIL - Every seaworthy craft has both. You may find times when you feel weighed down by the responsibility of being a parent, overwhelmed with the challenges that come with raising children, anchored to home and a way of life that can seem becalmed and stifling. But those same children will also be the sails on your life craft. They will catch the winds of hope, of new experience, of enchantment, and you will want to be sailing along behind, just in case they need you.

I can’t think of anything more wonderful than being a parent. You are one of the best gifts I ever received. May your children be the same for you. Merry Christmas, Ken!

Love,
Mom

Poetry Meme

I am off for a few days to celebrate Thanksgiving with family. I read this meme in several different places and thought to add my own suggestions. Feel free to feel tagged.

Enjoy your holiday.



List at least four things you think a beginning poet should attend to and four mistakes you think a poet should avoid.

Do:
1. have fun with words; write often and with joy
2. read aloud the poetry of others. When you’ve written some yourself, read that aloud, too
3. overwrite, then edit
4. try as many forms as possible to familiarize yourself with the differences between poetry and prose, then experiment

Try not to:
1. be too clever; write the way you speak then spice it up or tone it down or let it be
2. use unfamiliar words; familiarize yourself with them first and use them everywhere until you are comfortable with them
3. overstate the obvious or repeat your point in several different ways so the reader will “get it,” or dress your blue jeans poem in rhinestones
4. force a rhyme at the expense of the rhythm


photo credit: www.thewritersworkshop.net

Haunting Memories

It’s been years since a ghostie or goblin or even a Power Ranger has darkened my doorstep; longer still since I’ve been one myself. But night falls earlier now, and a chilly wind is blowing. It’s almost time for the spirits to be abroad.

I remember only one Halloween night that every child on my street did not meet after supper to begin our siege of the neighborhood. Usually we planned our costumes for weeks before the 31st, discussing the disguising properties of masks over face paint, homemade outfits cobbled together from whatever we had or could pilfer from our parents’ closets versus store bought costumes we’d have to talk them into buying. But this one particular year, the year I was eight, a town party was planned, and we were all expected to attend.

When a ritual is interrupted, something changes. In previous years the matter of my costume was left up to me. This year, because of the party, and because the party had a theme, I was forced to narrow my choices. Children were obligated to dress as a book character.

When my mother told me this, my first thought was to be a pirate, a la the mustachioed, swashbuckling Captain Hook from Peter Pan. I was practicing my “Ahoy, Matey!” and swinging an imaginary sword over my head with gusto when she dropped the other shoe. I had to be a girl from a story.

There is nothing worse than having to be what you already are on Halloween. The one night I could be anybody or anything I had the imagination to disguise myself as lost all its magic. That settled it. I wasn’t going to any adult-planned Halloween party. I would go trick or treating by myself. I would be a lone hobo, face blackened with a burned cork, a mop on my head for hair, one of my father’s shirts buttoned over my own.

“Who are you going to get candy from?” my brother asked. “Nobody will be home.”

I hadn’t thought of that. Bad enough to have to tromp the street in the scary dark all alone. Worse still to do it for nothing.

The night of the party, my brother appeared as Captain Hook. He wore a black patch strung over one eye, a tri-cornered cardboard hat, and a large metal hook screwed cleverly into a cork projecting from one sleeve. I was in one of my school dresses, complete with white tights and my Sunday shoes. The only concessions to costuming were the two bright circles of pink painted on my cheeks and a braided wig of yellow yarn on my head. Alice in Wonderland had never looked so forlorn, I’m sure.

That may have not been the last town party, but it was the last one we ever attended. The next Halloween saw half a dozen ghosts, hoboes, and zombies (and one swashbuckling pirate) armed with paper sacks, knocking once again on neighborhood doors.

Prompted by this week's Writers Island suggestion of "haunted."

back to back memes

I accepted Snowsparkle’s tag to this meme though I’ve altered it a bit. The first part is an acronym using the first letters of one’s middle name but I don’t reveal that so here are some that go with my first name instead:

P erceptive
A rgumentative
U pbeat
L aughs easily
I ntuitive
N eat
E ver appreciative

The second part of the meme consists of the following questions:

1. If you could have superpowers, what would they be? There is no obligation to be unselfish, save the world etc.

I want the power to undo wrongdoing, to commune with the dead, and to travel through time…

2. Stranded on a desert island with a CD player and 10 CDs, what would they be?

1. JJ Cale and Eric Capton’s The Road to Escondido
2. Emmylou Harris, Anthology
3. The Most Relaxing Classical Album in the World
4. Simon & Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits
5. Paul Simon’s Graceland
6. Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Chronicle, Vol. 1
7. Bluegrass Breakdown
8. The New Christy Minstrels’ Ramblin’
9. Misty River’s Willow
10. The Fabulous Johnny Cash



3. If you were a smell, what would you be?

Balsam

4. If you were a bird, what kind would you like to be?

A red-tailed hawk

5. If you were a bird, whose head would you poo on?

There are some things one has little control over...

6. Are there any foods your body craves?

Whatever I’m eating at the time…

7. Favorite time of year?

Spring for the scent of wet earth
Summer for the delicious warmth and the long days of light
Fall for its bright colors and hazy, sunlit afternoons
Winter for the tang of new snow and the dusky, muted colors

8. Favorite time of day?

Sunrise and sunset and the half hours just before and after

9. If a change is as good as a rest, which would you choose?

Rest for a change

10. If you could invite five people living or dead, past or present to a dinner party, who would they be?

Author Richard Bach, Gandhi, pilot Doug Stewart, poet Ron Koertge, and scientist Fred Alan Wolf.

Borrowed Meme

Never in my life have I - learned to swim underwater but it’s on my list of things to do before I die

When I am nervous - my stomach flutters

The last song I listened to was - Green Eyes by Misty River. It has a haunting melody that I can’t get out of my head

My hair is - almost long enough to be donated to Locks of Love

When I was four - I broke my collarbone falling down the stairs

Last Christmas - I celebrated three times in three different places

I should be - cleaning the cottage right now but here I am, playing

When I look down I see - where my feet are going


The happiest recent event was - reading my poetry aloud to a crowd of congenial poets at an open mic night and just before that was a surprise shoreline cruise on an ocean liner and right before that was an afternoon-long motorcycle ride through the hazy autumn sunshine and before that was the trip to Oregon where my son and I camped among the redwoods. I’m happy a lot


















By this time, next year - who knows? It’s the mystery that keeps me going

My current distress is - wanting to retire but having to work

I have a hard time understanding - quantum physics but it fascinates me nonetheless

If I won an award, the first person I would tell is - whichever of my children answered the phone first

I want to buy a - new winter coat, down-filled with a fur-trimmed hood

I plan on visiting - my grandchildren. My granddaughter will be seven at the end of the month

The world could do without - hatred born of fear

The most recent thing I bought myself is - a pair of Crocs

The most recent thing that someone else bought for me was - a shoreline cruise ticket

My middle name is - not about to be revealed

In the morning I - sip tea and watch the sun rise

Last night I was so tired I - fell asleep with the light on and my book still open and unread

There is this guy I know who - is teaching me to fly

If I were an animal, I would be a - cat, independent and sleek and jungle-minded

A better name for me would be - you know, I’ve never liked my name but I’ve never come up with one that fits, either

Tomorrow, I am - having homemade pea soup. The stock is simmering on the back burner now

Tonight, I am - going to sit up to read…

Advice From a Tree

I've been a tree hugger since forever. A longtime friend once told me he thought I might have been a tree in a former life - me with my head in the clouds but my roots sunk deep. I found this piece on a wall in my sister's house and copied it down. Written by Ilan Shamir, it's worth sharing.







Advice From a Tree

Dear Friend

Stand tall and proud
Sink your roots deeply into the earth
Reflect the light of your true nature
Think long term
Go out on a limb
Remember your place among all living beings
Embrace with joy the changing seasons
For each yields its own abundance
The energy and birth of spring
The growth and contentment of summer
The wisdom to let go the leaves in the fall
The rest and quiet renewal of winter

Feel the wind and the sun
And delight in their presence
Look up at the moon that shines down upon you
And the mystery of the stars at night
Seek nourishment from the good things in life
Simple pleasures
Earth, fresh air, light
Be content with your natural beauty
Drink plenty of water
Let your limbs sway and dance in the breezes
Be flexible
Remember your roots
Enjoy the view!

Gifts

In response to the prompt, The Gift, from Writer's Island:












Brendan, my first-born, arrived on Father’s Day – an appropriate gift. He was a tiny, pink, frowning replica of his father. His head was covered with a thatch of golden curls and his blue eyes had the intensity of a summer sky. He would gaze at me so long and questioningly as he nursed that I would have to look away or cry. I loved him wildly. I still do.

He was an inquisitive child, and a happy one until the first day of school. I opened the front door at mid-morning to find him crying on the doorstep. He had walked the mile home from school at recess. His teacher called in a panic when she couldn’t find him. As I walked him back to school, he solemnly explained to me, “Six hours is far too long for a child my age to be away from his mother.” No kidding.

When he was seven, I put him on the bus to Boston with a chum from school. They were going to visit the friend’s grandfather and Bren was beside himself with excitement. I was beside myself with worry. In his suitcase I packed Sammy Sock, his favorite toy, thinking that it would help him be less homesick if he had something familiar with him. When he came home two days later, he confided that he had been having a wonderful time until he opened his suitcase to get his pajamas. Seeing Sammy made him so homesick he couldn’t sleep. It was an important lesson – never presume your child feels the way you do.

As Bren grew, he seemed to stretch. Always thin, he soon towered over me like a young sapling. I remember a day I was scolding him over some trivial thing. He looked down fondly on my upturned frown and said, “What did you say, Shorty?”

Incensed, I dragged a chair over and stood on it, forcing him to look up at me. The absurdity of it struck us both at the same time and we collapsed in a giggling heap.

My second son was born a year and a day after his brother. For the first two days of his lfe he was known as Baby because his dad and I couldn’t agree on a name. Finally in desperation I began reading aloud from What to Name Your Baby. When I got to Kenneth, I looked down at baby. He looked back and gave me a ghost of a smile. I didn’t care what we called him as long as I got to keep him. I loved him wildly. I still do.

Ken was a rugged little boy with a mop of yellow curls and a mischievous grin. He liked to move fast and climb high. When he was two I went into the kitchen one morning to find him sitting Buddha-like on top of the refrigerator. When he was five, a neighbor called in a dither because she’d seen him climbing among the branches of a huge pine in her front yard. I strolled over to fetch him.

“Hi Mom,” he called from his hiding place twenty feet up.

When he was old enough to get his driver’s license his standard excuse for a speeding ticket was, “But my car just goes too fast.”

Jennifer was born two months after Ken’s first birthday. Her hair was as soft as swan’s down, her eyes the color of violets. Her brothers adored her. I loved her wildly. I still do. She was enchanting – a butterfly child who sang to herself every morning while waiting to be lifted from her crib. One Christmas, my mother came to spend the holiday with us. She brought a miniature Christmas tree trimmed with blinking lights for the kids’ room. Before going to bed she plugged the cord into the socket. She woke to find Jennifer sitting on the foot of her bed, watching the lights blink on and off, on and off. “Isn’t it pretty, isn’t it nice?” piped Jen. We still say that when entranced by some unexpected beauty.

Jen loved being center stage. “Watch me dance!” she cried at age seven, pirouetting around the dance studio. “Watch me twirl!” she sang at twelve, throwing her baton high in the air. “Watch me do cartwheels!” she yelled from center field during half time. “Hear me sing!” she crooned, standing in front of a microphone at her high school graduation. Where did this extrovert come from, I wondered.

Cassie, the caboose baby, was as sturdy as Jen was elfin. She had the same golden hair and wide blue eyes as her siblings, and a deep, throaty chuckle. The day she was born, my father stood over her examining her fingers and toes. “Look,” he said, “at her perfect little fingernails, her perfect little feet. Every time, it’s a miracle.” I loved her wildly. I still do.

“Don’t see me Mommy,” was her favorite admonition growing up. She was an intensely private and self-reliant child. “Born old,” people said of her and it was true. She seemed to possess some ancient wisdom that gave her an enviable self-assurance. When she was thirteen, I put her on an airplane flight from Vermont to California where she was to meet my sister. From there they would fly down under, spending the summer backpacking through Australia and New Zealand. I got dizzy every time I imagined the soles of her feet meeting mine from the other side of the earth. “Dear Mom,” one bloodstained letter began. “I can write now that my cuts are almost healed…” Of the two of us, she was (and is) the one with admirable aplomb.

Because of them my life is enriched beyond measure. I loved them wildly. I still do.

Favorites


This comes from a comment by Jujee on Lee’s site.

My favorites often don’t come in singles.






1. Favorite past-time? I love reading, hiking, piloting a small plane, writing, planting things, drawing, painting, dreaming. Whichever of those I’m doing at any given moment is my favorite.

2. Favorite item of clothing? An old blue sweater I’ve had for years. I bought it twenty years ago when I moved back here to live. It’s warmed me during the chilly winter months, comforted me when I needed a hug and no one was around, and cuddled me when I was ill and needed cuddling. It’s frayed and mended and shapeless and it’s the first thing I reach for when I get home.

3. Favorite jewelry piece? I don’t wear jewelry. “Ever?” asked an astonished friend. “Mostly never,” I said, and it’s true. But I have one necklace from my children that I wear when I get gussied up and another from my mother when I have a formal occasion to attend, which is hardly ever.

4. Favorite month? Like the past-times above, my favorite month is the one I’m in. I love warm weather, rainy weather, blustery snowy weather, weather on the cusp of change, hot and humid weather. I’m terrified of lightning and cyclonic winds. Otherwise, I’m happy with whatever the day brings.

5. Favorite number? Seven.

6. Favorite year at school? The last year of my masters degree – it was challenging and exciting and a time of furious learning. I loved it!

7. Favorite season? Summerfallwinterspring.

8. Favorite hair length? Long, ponytailed


9. Favorite expression on self? Smile

10. Favorite expression on others? Smile

11. Favorite chips flavor? As in potato chips? Sweet potato!


12. Favorite ice-cream flavor? Starbucks Coffee Java Chip

13. Favorite time of day? The hours between 4 and 7, both a.m. and p.m. The day is either beginning or coming to a close, and there is a pervading silent peace.

14. Favorite day of the week? Friday – the week is behind, the weekend ahead.


15. Favorite movie genre? Any non-violent, thought-provoking, laugh producing, emotional response evoking, 
story telling production.

Time: 9:24 p.m.
Date: 9/15/07
Setting: my cottage

Fear Is the Backbone of Courage

Poetry Thursday has become a traveling show. This week's theme was confronting fear. I chose to look at something other than my own...




Does the fear of not
blooming become a flower’s
reason for a stem?

HOME!

Home again! Spent two weeks along the Oregon and California coasts, visiting family and camping with my son (here with me on Lagoon Creek Beach). It will take some time to process it all. Meanwhile, enjoy the view.

A 12-hug redwood!













Campground breakfast guest













Crater Lake













My brother and sisters

3 MORE QUESTIONS

From Illusions by Richard Bach: “If God spoke directly to your face and said, ‘I command that you to be happy in the world, as long as you live,’ what would you do then?”

Question 2 reframed: What keeps us from being satisfied with our own stories about us?

Question 3 reframed: Most people think that fear of failure (at work, say) or the threat of dying from an illness exacerbated by lifestyle would be enough to make major changes for the better. Which would impact you more – being told that you were going to fail or die if you didn’t change, or that you could live a joyful life if you changed?

3 QUESTIONS

Too much blog reading, too little alone time, too much work, too few cool breezes, too much pondering, too little poetry have resulted in 3 questions:







To what do we give the power to make us happy?

Why are we so often satisfied with other people's stories about us?

Is joy a more powerful motivator than fear?




photo: www.youthchg.com/ wgirl2.gif

WE'RE REALLY ONLY WORDS APART...

Two friends and I were just lolling about one hot day last week, nursing sweating glasses of iced tea and talking about whatever came to mind. One was describing an acquaintance. “He’s just a big teddy bear,” she said, giving the air in front of her a descriptive hug. Then she laughed. “Did you ever pay attention to the categories you use to describe people? I’m always alluding to folks in animal terms. I was raised on Thornton W. Burgess—remember Sammy Jay, Chatterer the squirrel, Paddy Beaver? I know some toads, some weasels, a few packrats. I’ve even met a snake or two.”

I’ve known a couple of snakes myself, people who looked at me with calculating, beady eyes before they sank their fangs in. I saw what she meant. The other friend thought people were either warm or cold. She lives in Northern Vermont so that could account for her tendency to think of people in terms of temperature. I’ve know some warm and friendly people, too, who have immediately set me at ease. I’ve known others who have turned a cold shoulder, whose glacial expressions and chilly indifference made me shiver.

After this conversation, I started asking around. One woman said she sees others in terms of intelligence. People can be smart, she says, or they can be dumb. They can be gracious or they can be crude. I’ve known intelligent people who act both dumb and crude. Of course, I’m measuring them from where I stand. Another fellow I know says he thinks of others as either nice or not. I confess I do that, too. The gauge always seems to be, how do I feel in their presence? “She’s so nice,” we say when someone shares our values and our views. “He’s not a nice person at all,” we say of someone who doesn’t.

One man I know likens people to fruit—a bad apple, a peach, a sour grape. Another says he would broaden the category to include more foods. He knows fruitcakes and cupcakes and several good eggs. I kind of like this idea. People can be sweet or tasteful or saccharine or even unsavory. Some are delectable and a few are downright yummy.

This can be tricky business, this labeling game. How do you characterize people?



PHOTO CREDIT: Farm1.static.flickr.com/ 22/26044351_fa9bf19dc

One-Word Responses

Tagged by riseoutofme


1. Where is your cell phone? car

2. Relationship? passionate

3. Your hair? upswept

4. Work? unceasing

5. Your sisters? delightful




6. Your favourite thing? sunwindrainsnowearthsky

7. Your dream last night? startling

8. Your favourite drink? tea

9. Your dream car? gas-free

10. The room you're in? office




11. Your shoes? off

12. Your fears? named

13. What do you want to be in 10 years? well-rested

14. Who did you hang out with at w/e? friends
15. What are you not good at? sports




16. Muffin? pass

17. Wish list item? cash
18. Where you grew up? rural

19. The last thing you did? laundry

20. What are you wearing? pjs




21. What are you not wearing? shoes

22. Your pet? Parker

23. Your computer? MAC!

24. Your life? fun

25. Your mood? cheerful




26. Missing? sleep
27. What are you thinking about? children

28. Your car? fast

29. Your kitchen? miniscule

30. Your summer? blooming




31. Your favourite colour? rainbow

32. Last time you laughed? today

33. Last time you cried? today

34. School? Limiting

35. Love? Yes!


A long, long time ago...

Snowsparkle wrote about renewing her interest in sketching and about considering the idea of posing in the nude, allowing an artist friend to capture her as she is now before gravity has its way with her. I've always wanted to have one of those bodies that make people gasp but even when I was young and taut and lithe I didn't have classical lines. Still, as a teen I modeled for a local artist and his sketch group. Being youngsters, we were not allowed to model in the nude (we wore leotards) but we were drawn and sculpted as such. Recently, the son of that now deceased artist unearthed some of his father's statues. He contacted me and gave me this - I haven't seen this statue for almost 50 years but I can still feel the quiver in my arm muscles from holding the pose.

Lee and Dave have done the workspace post, giving us a look at the places where they spend creative time. Jumping on board with my own, though because I live in a tiny cottage where the single large space is divided by furniture, I needed separate photos to show my bookshelves (“library”) and my computer (“office”) which are divided by a sofa (“living room”). Don't go past the china cabinet to the right of the office or you'll be in the dining room.

I haven't the strength of will for Dave's suggestion of getting rid of an old book when a new one comes in (definitley daft, Dave) so I just keep adding bookcases. I am contemplating getting rid of my old phonograph records. That would make space for another dozen or so books. And if I also sold the phonograph player, there'd be room for another dozen more. Life is full of sacrifices.