Maybe I have said this before. Galileo was pretty sure the earth moved around the sun instead of opposite. (Insert the noise of chopping off someone's head, here.)
You could be "wrong," as you've stated, about a life path, passion or decision/choice. I guess you could only be truly "wrong" if you played out the years; the hundreds or thousands of years. Right in one time doesn't me "right" in another. (Time being a relative concept--talk to that bouncer at the Irish Bar for clarification.) You could be ahead of your time. You could be inches from the guillotine when they discover that the world really is INDEED round, and not flat. Call the bluff. The worst thing that could happen is being forgotten. The second worst: overdue emulation, a century or two later. Leave that worry to the next generation. I mean, look at Jesus. Still riding on his post-crucifix fame-- think of the staying power!
My only other offering is to commit. Commit to your choice, even it is for the day, the summer, six months or a year(s). Don't spend much time deliberating. The days unfold like "flower petals blooming"--you will see the whole picture in time. Allow for maturation and bloom, if the answer isn't immediately clear. Then, when you feel the impulse, the door opening while the train is moving--duck, jump and roll!
That is all I have. Sleep deprived, slightly delirious, the sunset over George's boat tattooed to the back of my eyelids. Enough said.
Almost. Love and miss you, A.
P.S. What I learned today from my cousin Gail: It's not me. It never was. (What a relief.)
In my own family, I found a soul sista. Ahh...
Scrubs joke: The only difference from a black girl and a white girl, is that when a black girl asks you if her ass is big, you say, "hell yeh!"
Friday, November 21, 2008
Reflection
Thursday, November 20, 2008
When Souls Depart
Eva died today. Around 11am, I heard, though I was nearly to Traverse. Last night, "The Gooch" and I sat by her bed till about midnight listening, as labored breath moved in and out of her body. Tonight, as I visited her empty room, the little dog refused to leave. He sniffed around as though there was something there, and I cannot escape the feeling that maybe there was...
Yesterday, hours before, I stopped by to visit my friend Carrie, to help celebrate her birthday and share a gift. In the passing, albeit brief, she shared with me the story of her morning dream and how she had vividly recalled her birth and the joy her parents felt that day. She was the firstborn, the celebratory culmination of nine years of infertility. Until the 19th of November, one lucky year. Tears nestled in the corners of her eyes, as she recounted the story, the morning of her rebirth, as she realized how exited and open the universe of two--mother and father--were to adventure her birth, this new and glorious life.
For me, stories and lives overlap, layers of cells stacked deep. Archeology of souls, busy excavating the depths, and moments as they are quickly turned to midden. Rejoice for one life! Grieve at the passing of another. Same day. Coming, going, birthing, dying. All in this circle and the concerto drowns out the moaning, floods the hallways of doubt and debate. What we know is that we are here for now. Who cares why? We live to discover, maybe that is the why? In the meantime--celebrate!
Yesterday, hours before, I stopped by to visit my friend Carrie, to help celebrate her birthday and share a gift. In the passing, albeit brief, she shared with me the story of her morning dream and how she had vividly recalled her birth and the joy her parents felt that day. She was the firstborn, the celebratory culmination of nine years of infertility. Until the 19th of November, one lucky year. Tears nestled in the corners of her eyes, as she recounted the story, the morning of her rebirth, as she realized how exited and open the universe of two--mother and father--were to adventure her birth, this new and glorious life.
For me, stories and lives overlap, layers of cells stacked deep. Archeology of souls, busy excavating the depths, and moments as they are quickly turned to midden. Rejoice for one life! Grieve at the passing of another. Same day. Coming, going, birthing, dying. All in this circle and the concerto drowns out the moaning, floods the hallways of doubt and debate. What we know is that we are here for now. Who cares why? We live to discover, maybe that is the why? In the meantime--celebrate!
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Last Days
We are all marked men.
Our days are numbered: some sooner, later. The day ends and Eva breathes, the last to come and still. We wait. Move our youthful bodies by day, but wait. Yielding to death, the dying, only as an after thought. Thoughts of such occurred today, feeding and walking the dog, as usual. Living, as usual. Celebrating a friend's birthday, a young life.
From "Home Burial," by Robert Frost:
The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.
No, from the time when one is sick to death,
One is alone, and he dies more alone.
Friends make pretense of following to the grave,
But before one is in it, their minds are turned
And making the best of their way back to life
And living people, and things they understand.
His character speaks as though in opposition of this stance. As though we have a choice to follow one to the grave--to go as close as possible and risk the falling in, too. Are humans really wired for death? Dying? I mean, effectively embracing the death of another and living beyond?
In this time, it seems that we are more geared for life. Four hundred excuses strong as to why it is better to be alive than dead, when we can and will not know for certain, till then. I recall when my father's wife died, I had not, as of that time, lost any close family members and I felt lucky--young and lucky. I consciously remember considering what it must feel like to lose someone you love; the thought now seems luxurious. What happens to those left behind, I wondered? And then it happened...
Our days are numbered: some sooner, later. The day ends and Eva breathes, the last to come and still. We wait. Move our youthful bodies by day, but wait. Yielding to death, the dying, only as an after thought. Thoughts of such occurred today, feeding and walking the dog, as usual. Living, as usual. Celebrating a friend's birthday, a young life.
From "Home Burial," by Robert Frost:
The nearest friends can go
With anyone to death, comes so far short
They might as well not try to go at all.
No, from the time when one is sick to death,
One is alone, and he dies more alone.
Friends make pretense of following to the grave,
But before one is in it, their minds are turned
And making the best of their way back to life
And living people, and things they understand.
His character speaks as though in opposition of this stance. As though we have a choice to follow one to the grave--to go as close as possible and risk the falling in, too. Are humans really wired for death? Dying? I mean, effectively embracing the death of another and living beyond?
In this time, it seems that we are more geared for life. Four hundred excuses strong as to why it is better to be alive than dead, when we can and will not know for certain, till then. I recall when my father's wife died, I had not, as of that time, lost any close family members and I felt lucky--young and lucky. I consciously remember considering what it must feel like to lose someone you love; the thought now seems luxurious. What happens to those left behind, I wondered? And then it happened...
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Remembering
Van parked out front.
I walk downstairs, passing dining room.
Ewa says to me, "where are the dogs?"
No "good morning" or "hello,"just--
'where are the dogs?'
Like Pavlov's dogs salivating
at the sound of a bell,
Eva's heart palpitates at the
thought of puppies!
I respond, he's not here,
I just drove the van home-
but when the dogs come again,
I'll let them in the room
to lick your face!
Her eyes suggest agreement.
Sin Titilo-Untitled
(What I learned from the art museum)
Maybe there are other lives
reincarnations
other chances to live our truths
Side by side
the paintings
true and vibrant
did not merge into one
Your bold hues:
vivid kindness, fierce independence, self-introspection
Have upon my canvas bled.
Maybe there are other lives
reincarnations
other chances to live our truths
Side by side
the paintings
true and vibrant
did not merge into one
Your bold hues:
vivid kindness, fierce independence, self-introspection
Have upon my canvas bled.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
November Thoughts
Eva is dying. The journey begins first with lethargy and then wordlessness. The mouth moves to speak and nothing comes. Still, if it could, the memory of the thought is lost at the tongue. After all this life, what comes next? Maybe her journey--102 years strong--is just now beginning? Maybe death is life.
The nights come sooner on such an occasion. At beckon call, we hurry, with empathy and adoration, as if all the other days she were not dying, somehow.
To lift ones head to see, one may begin to understand what a solitary process dying is and how the soon to be departed will sometimes cleave to the living, not so much for hope, but as an iceberg, in the middle of the Atlantic, post-Titanic. The end will come, but we will rest here in the meantime, holding on for dear life.
I cannot escape these feelings, today. Although, I am happy. I cannot escape these feelings because clinging to an iceberg seems to be the modus operandi. Holding latitude, there is a good chance it will never melt, and we will never have to change. Never have to change, and still...death comes.
The nights come sooner on such an occasion. At beckon call, we hurry, with empathy and adoration, as if all the other days she were not dying, somehow.
To lift ones head to see, one may begin to understand what a solitary process dying is and how the soon to be departed will sometimes cleave to the living, not so much for hope, but as an iceberg, in the middle of the Atlantic, post-Titanic. The end will come, but we will rest here in the meantime, holding on for dear life.
I cannot escape these feelings, today. Although, I am happy. I cannot escape these feelings because clinging to an iceberg seems to be the modus operandi. Holding latitude, there is a good chance it will never melt, and we will never have to change. Never have to change, and still...death comes.
Amnesty for November
We looked up to them
Rising near the clouds,
Lifting our heads to see
underbellies. To see
Wings flapping. To see
Freedom, the way it
held them up, retained
against gravity, the force
of hope.
We looked up to them
in admiration, and in the
end, delivered them earth
bound, for sustenance.
Rising near the clouds,
Lifting our heads to see
underbellies. To see
Wings flapping. To see
Freedom, the way it
held them up, retained
against gravity, the force
of hope.
We looked up to them
in admiration, and in the
end, delivered them earth
bound, for sustenance.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
AS YOU LIKE IT
William Shakespeare
Jaques: I do not desire you to please me, I do desire you to sing.
ACT II. SCENE V.--Another part of the forest.
Jaques: I do not desire you to please me, I do desire you to sing.
ACT II. SCENE V.--Another part of the forest.
Practicing Perth
Ever green grass
blanketing the fields
soft for lying, recovery
I dream,
not so much of resting
in the meadow
in the coolness
of the damp and dew
But, beside the cool water
gently holding
(along with the amoeba)
the Infinite.
blanketing the fields
soft for lying, recovery
I dream,
not so much of resting
in the meadow
in the coolness
of the damp and dew
But, beside the cool water
gently holding
(along with the amoeba)
the Infinite.
Cardialgia
for Luigi
Were your lips not pierced by breath
Or mark and madness tattooed upon your face
I might have thought you a Ken doll
The way your hands are cupped and caught
The way you gather goods pinched in lobster claws
And scoop like salad tongs the chattels of your life.
Emerging in three dimensions
As mimicked model, half your age
Intellectually fecund, dashingly dapper
Steadfastly determined to face another day
Ceasing yet to smile upon the world
To save one less heart from breaking.
Were your lips not pierced by breath
Or mark and madness tattooed upon your face
I might have thought you a Ken doll
The way your hands are cupped and caught
The way you gather goods pinched in lobster claws
And scoop like salad tongs the chattels of your life.
Emerging in three dimensions
As mimicked model, half your age
Intellectually fecund, dashingly dapper
Steadfastly determined to face another day
Ceasing yet to smile upon the world
To save one less heart from breaking.
Crocodile Hunter
for Lane
When Steve Irwin died
People were really sad
“What a shame,” they said.
But I did not see it that way.
How many of us have ever
Wrestled a crocodile?
Or thought not to tame
But observe in awe
Our wild being.
When Steve Irwin died
People were really sad
“What a shame,” they said.
But I did not see it that way.
How many of us have ever
Wrestled a crocodile?
Or thought not to tame
But observe in awe
Our wild being.
Thirst
If friendship were a litmus test
Sam’s would have a pH of 7
Like water, he is neutral:
Clear
Cohesive
Vital
Sam’s would have a pH of 7
Like water, he is neutral:
Clear
Cohesive
Vital
Eulogy for Intimacy
For Rebecca
You were about to toss the carcasses of lifeless feline,
when you hesitated momentarily, before the pre-approved disposal
To deliberate the black bagged bodies, navigating their aerial trajectory
Just as a thousand found objects, used and abused,
for pleasure or pain or unsightly, over-achieving hair follicles
What is the meaning of one life observed?
And the life of lab cats? Born to mother’s with dreams and destinies
Destines maybe only Darwin judges defensible; but motives, nonetheless.
If you paused to reflect upon cats whose service was more in death than in life, would you also contemplate one moment of my existence? Could you not see the soul’s light of your friends and family, in all its fallible ways and tendencies?
Could you grant us one passing thought before our misrepresenting bodies—impersonators of our souls—serve to nourish the earthworm or the lilac.
You were about to toss the carcasses of lifeless feline,
when you hesitated momentarily, before the pre-approved disposal
To deliberate the black bagged bodies, navigating their aerial trajectory
Just as a thousand found objects, used and abused,
for pleasure or pain or unsightly, over-achieving hair follicles
What is the meaning of one life observed?
And the life of lab cats? Born to mother’s with dreams and destinies
Destines maybe only Darwin judges defensible; but motives, nonetheless.
If you paused to reflect upon cats whose service was more in death than in life, would you also contemplate one moment of my existence? Could you not see the soul’s light of your friends and family, in all its fallible ways and tendencies?
Could you grant us one passing thought before our misrepresenting bodies—impersonators of our souls—serve to nourish the earthworm or the lilac.
Dream of Red Lentils
Snuggling in glass jar
Carbon copied
Versions
Anticipating the same fate
brothers and sisters
kindred spirits
soul mates
Wait
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
How Heavy Metal Saved America
The children were fighting...well, actually, they would have been. I call them children because they were younger, but they were teens: testosterone-laden young men, unsure and unsettled. Under heat and pressure, such a concoction becomes volatile. Can a man be contained and not explode? Such expectations as these are stranger than fiction. Ample space is required to move and to breathe.
So the "boys" live in a town and they consume as they have all their lives. Eat food. Drink water. Hunger for knowledge, thirst for life. Suddenly, their bodies are changing. Their minds are changing, they are growing up and out of their skin. Word on the street is there are places to go, people to meet--chics--but for now they are temporarily detained. Angrily, maybe, one strikes a blow. Maybe two. A punch thrown here; there. Punches flying everywhere!...And then, suddenly--stopped!
This is maddening, they say. What a waste. This is hurting my hand, and your face isn't looking too good either. Your face actually sucks, and hey, I'm sorry about that, buddy. Here, borrow my guitar. No, better yet, keep it. I have two. Instead of punch-face, the man-boys decide to collect themselves a band. One guy doesn't have much talent for instrument, so he's the front man with a microphone, and they all decide to play together. Instruments are electrified. Bodies marry instrument, marry music and wage war on something other than faces and guts and groins. Angst travels as vibration and waves, pounding hearts not heads and grounding the source of anger into a pool of electricity at the souls of man-boy feet.
So the "boys" live in a town and they consume as they have all their lives. Eat food. Drink water. Hunger for knowledge, thirst for life. Suddenly, their bodies are changing. Their minds are changing, they are growing up and out of their skin. Word on the street is there are places to go, people to meet--chics--but for now they are temporarily detained. Angrily, maybe, one strikes a blow. Maybe two. A punch thrown here; there. Punches flying everywhere!...And then, suddenly--stopped!
This is maddening, they say. What a waste. This is hurting my hand, and your face isn't looking too good either. Your face actually sucks, and hey, I'm sorry about that, buddy. Here, borrow my guitar. No, better yet, keep it. I have two. Instead of punch-face, the man-boys decide to collect themselves a band. One guy doesn't have much talent for instrument, so he's the front man with a microphone, and they all decide to play together. Instruments are electrified. Bodies marry instrument, marry music and wage war on something other than faces and guts and groins. Angst travels as vibration and waves, pounding hearts not heads and grounding the source of anger into a pool of electricity at the souls of man-boy feet.
Harvest Moon
"Remember who you wanted to be." (Bumper sticker in Cedar today.)
Remember and go fearlessly. Remember. Remember and shiver. But, remember. Remember and smile and hearing a Stevie Wonder song play in your ear and tap your toe. Remember. Remember and laugh at how far you have come, how off the mark the dart, and laugh and laugh some more.
Here is my compass. Here is my map. What direction did I want to go, again? Along the way, maybe the compass, oriented for Mars, you landed and lacking gravity, your feet would not stick to earth and you levitated far above--you were no longer grounded. Hovering there, you looked around and checked the compass at it had sorta gone bonkers: needle spinning, complete mess. So there you are with your map and your compass and your feet lacking gravity boots and you have no direction. Mars is a strange place when you have no bearings, you have no direction.
Next step: Orientating self. Acclimate. Establish location. Adapt.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The Day Before Tomorrow.
Sleep has been an illusive friend the past few days. My body and mind have been restless. I churn and turn and tumble over and over in my bed--night visions dancing, minus the sugar plums.
When and how do we open? Open to the mystery? Suddenly religious, we move in this direction of palms wide-open and the world open to us, ready to be embraced. Can we welcome this new world with an old mind? Thinking that, in fact, this cannot be so. The mind must change and open and we must venture forth from this new place: renewed, revived, reborn.
Of course, all this comes to mind for a myriad of reasons. The hundred plus birthday; the autumn, the waning hours of daylight. Worlds are coming together, joining; hearts are converging and minds are melding, and meanwhile, we all have to vote for a president and pretend to save the world by looking out the window. "Quick, the hole! Don't just sit there, fill it with something!" I wonder what the whales are saying about how we operate around here?
When and how do we open? Open to the mystery? Suddenly religious, we move in this direction of palms wide-open and the world open to us, ready to be embraced. Can we welcome this new world with an old mind? Thinking that, in fact, this cannot be so. The mind must change and open and we must venture forth from this new place: renewed, revived, reborn.
Of course, all this comes to mind for a myriad of reasons. The hundred plus birthday; the autumn, the waning hours of daylight. Worlds are coming together, joining; hearts are converging and minds are melding, and meanwhile, we all have to vote for a president and pretend to save the world by looking out the window. "Quick, the hole! Don't just sit there, fill it with something!" I wonder what the whales are saying about how we operate around here?
Yurt Love
On this trip to Wisconsin, I was able to share my friends Rebecca and Greg with Peggy. Northland Greg shared his yurt and strawbale constructed house, lending them as temporary abode, liberating us from the cooling autumn temps of the north woods.
Peg would have done fine in the tent, or in the van or under the tree. Cherie would have slept in a tree limb next to him, but she does enjoy the sensation of mattress under her skinny bones. Plus, she becomes uber cranky if she doesn't get her beauty sleep. Sleep deprived, she lacks radiance.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Painter's Mind: Old Dogs, New Tricks...Who Said it Couldn't Be Done?
Wisconsin turned everything upside down. Here Painter gives advisory lessons on Enjoying Life 101, or How to Empty a Head of Useless Thoughts. I'm sure if it were not for his lacking opposed thumbs, he would be all over the manual and would be happy to offer of good, sound advice to anyone willing to listen....And though he endured momentary glimpses of imminent abandonment, he remained as poised as a meditating monk with a fly crawling on his face. Unflappable.
Nearly November
Days pass
and still I dream
at night of
nothing, but
creatively caged in
an ordinary existence,
bleached free of color,
purpose removed.
Waking wearily,
I should have
read the label:
Wash warm,
gently agitate
do not bleach
fluff to dry
Iron as needed.
and still I dream
at night of
nothing, but
creatively caged in
an ordinary existence,
bleached free of color,
purpose removed.
Waking wearily,
I should have
read the label:
Wash warm,
gently agitate
do not bleach
fluff to dry
Iron as needed.
How Old is Old?
Manic about the possibility of being considered--"middle-aged"--when a 102 year old sighs and breathes her night's journey a simple floor below. Suddenly, the rumination seems futile. What point is it to worry that you will be old? That you will grow old and die and have to have someone else cut your meat. Frankly, your meat has been cut before; your eggs scrambled soft for your baby tender teeth, so there is really no point in struggling or allowing the thought to plague you, lest you sprout one gray hair. Cut your own meat while you still can! Gnaw the potatoes, bite by bite by bite, and savor the flavors that come bursting into your palate while you are still ALIVE!
Ewa is 102 this week. Last year I greeted her at breakfast on her 101st and said, "Ewa! Your a 101!" She replied, "Cherie, I just remember really wanting to be 16," as if the last 86 years have been more or less a gift that wasn't requested, and quite possibly a burden.
Ewa is 102 this week. Last year I greeted her at breakfast on her 101st and said, "Ewa! Your a 101!" She replied, "Cherie, I just remember really wanting to be 16," as if the last 86 years have been more or less a gift that wasn't requested, and quite possibly a burden.
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