It's been a long, busy Summer. Haven't written in this blog since before Beltane. Now it's Autumn Equinox and it feels like Samhain is coming early this year, judging from the recent signs and messages from the Other Side.
In honor of Autumn and swiftly approaching Samhain, I share this poem I wrote last year "For my Dearly Departed". Lately it struck me that "dearly" is an adverb and therefore must apply to "departed" as a very, not a noun. Not everyone departed so dearly, in fact very few do.
Anyway, here it is, slightly edited from the original poem. It is a Calvera, a Skull Poem traditionally written on the Day of the Dead, usually as a satire. Offerings are made to the departed loved ones on the Day of the Dead, as we also make offerings on Samhain of things the people enjoyed when they were still here with us.
Can kisses come back like ghosts?
I hope yours never do
Because your lips tasted like Kools
And I still hear you wheezing in the kitchen when you laughed
Then you'd light up another smoke.
But here's three packs for you,
I spent the last of my money on them.
Now you can have all you want
And you won't choke.
Maybe one more kiss tonight?
It will taste like heaven.
The poem reflects the mixed emotions I experienced on the occasion of my late husband's demise. There has been some healing with time's passing. Last night he popped up in the middle of a rather mundane, ordinary dream. In the dream I was at Wal-Mart with my sister and my cousin, wandering around the outdoor garden center. My cousin pointed out a strand of unlit star decorations hanging above our heads, Christmas stuff. When I looked up, there was a bright flash and suddenly it was New Years midnight and Jay was standing there, smiling and clear as day. Music started playing (Auld Lang Syne) and we exchanged a New Year's kiss. I wished him a happy 2015. There was no animosity, only fond affection. It was so vivid, I could feel his soft beard against my cheek as we hugged and kissed. Then suddenly he was gone and everything went back to normal. I was looking for my sister's truck in the Wal-Mart parking lot. It doesn't get more mundane than that, does it? Somewhere in the world, they do observe New Year's today, on Autumn Equinox, but I'm not sure where.
On other topics, I'm going to drum class later this evening, which continues through mid-November. Learning to play the djembe. I am not ready to go out and buy one, but I'm having fun and expanding my musical horizons.
Then I'll come home and do a simple Autumn welcoming, a little meditation on the changing seasons, and maybe some more writing.
My front yard has been transformed into the garden I've always wanted. No more lawn! I killed my back, which was not in the greatest of shape for starters, between digging up a tiny herb garden in the backyard (tiny because I ran into some rocky ground and had to limit my original plans), shoveling a whole dump truck of mulch into the wheelbarrow and distributing it through the garden, then to top it off, filling in the center of the garden with one cubic yard of pea gravel, one bag at a time. It was worth the effort, some of it in near 90 degree weather, even if my digging days are over now and I've been advised to use a cane if I'm going to be on my feet for more than 10 minutes at a time.
The Dwelling-Within Time looks like it's shaping up into a quiet time of rest and recovery for me.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Sweet Leilani
She's finally here! Isn't she gorgeous? says great-grandma.
Amber was in labor for about 16 hours. And when Leilani was on her way down the birth canal, she unfortunately (and this is gross, I warn you!) pooped and ingested some of it. She had to stay in Special Care for a week because she was on IVs and oxygen. She has a heart murmur, and is going to see a cardiologist on the 22nd.
She was also born with two thumbs on her right hand! And she's tiny. She weighed just a little over 6 lbs. at birth and is 19 inches tall.
Both mother and daughter are doing fine now. Leilani is eating regularly and gaining weight and strength.
Just look at those dreamy eyes.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Cabin Fever
There
was a glimmer of hope on Imbolc. The temperature went above freezing
for what seemed like the first time in ages. Small blurts of grass were
visible. Watching the sky that morning, I spied a vaguely crescent-shaped cloud
making its way across the freshly washed heavens and it inspired me to
write this "Death Song for Winter".
The rains came down
The mists went up
And Winter went away.
A peaceful passing,
Carried off on carols
Of wren and robin
No more suffering.
Scars of dirty snow erased,
To rise in rainbows
From her face.
No lament,
No regrets,
Just the luminous promise
Of Spring
And that last arched eyebrow
Fading in eggshell sky.
It didn't last long. The few inches of snow that came afterwards are now preserved under a thick layer of ice that is both treacherous and stubborn. After yesterday's fall while trying to avoid a stray dog by cutting across the soccer fields that are now more like a skating rink, I don't even dare to walk Johnny in the park. The backyard will have to do. Both of us are going stir-crazy here.
Johnny is a high energy dog. It's the Border Collie in him. He always has to have something to do, the more lively and interesting the better. His Lab side shines in his appearance only, in his glossy black coat and bright eyes, not in any laid-back temperament. When I finally got the backyard fenced in late last summer, I thought it would give me a break from marching up to the park with him three times a day. Well, now we only have to go to the park once a day - normally. Being iced-in, his yard excursions have dwindled to skittery two-minute trips to the far end where he does his business, then my high energy dog flops down in the snow and lays there, blissfully licking the ice. He could do that forever. He can't run on the ice. So we have to walk up to the park.
Yesterday the ice was horrible but we went out anyway. He was driving me nuts, dropping his Kong Ball on my foot every two minutes, (ouch) throwing his toys at me, even trying to engage the poor ancient cat in doggy games. So out we went. I had no intentions of going into the park, just briskly walking around it, still a good half-mile stroll with lots of scenery and scents for canine entertainment. We'd gone as far as we could go, all the way to the dead end, past the spot where there was a roadkill deer the day before, now removed but apparently leaving its blood-smell behind, past the K-9 training center, past the turn-off onto the path that is a secret back way into the park. Turning around, I spotted a large black dog coming down the road by itself, no leash or human in sight. Naturally it stopped where the deer had been. I prefer to avoid strange, loose dogs especially when they're bigger and bulkier than Johnny. There was nowhere to go to avoid this one except to cut through the park and across the soccer fields.
I quickly discovered that the soccer fields were now an ice rink.I held onto Johnny's leash and let him pull me across the ice. I didn't even have to lift my feet. I was swiftly gliding along with no effort at all. This was good! Until he suddenly sensed the other dog, turned around and started pulling me backwards towards the road. The other dog noticed us and lifted its head, but stayed put. I struggled to control Johnny. Inevitably my feet went out from under me, I sailed up in the air and came down flat on my back, breath knocked out of me. Then I couldn't get up because I kept slipping. My canine companion was no help at all, he was still intent on maintaining his territorial rights on the roadkill traces. Somehow I got up and dragged Johnny across the field, stomping my way through the ice. The only safe way to go was to high-step it, smashing a ragged footprint into the ice with every stride. The stray dog went over the hill. We were home free. Now I have a monster bruise on my back and the sciatica demons are having a party all the way down to my toes.
So finally I get around to writing something in my blog!
The groundhog's prediction this year was of special interest. Not because it was a weather omen. It's always six more weeks of this or that, because there are six weeks until Spring Equinox. This year it was a declaration that in six more weeks I will get to meet my great-granddaughter, Leilani Mae, as she is predicted to make her entrance into our world just in time for Spring.
Will she be an Aries like her daddy or a Pisces, in harmony with her mother's moon-sign? Will she be pale or dark, red-haired or brunette? I hope she'll have her father's eyes, sky-blue, but genetics weigh in heavier for dark brown. Of course we'll all love her, no matter what she looks like.
The rains came down
The mists went up
And Winter went away.
A peaceful passing,
Carried off on carols
Of wren and robin
No more suffering.
Scars of dirty snow erased,
To rise in rainbows
From her face.
No lament,
No regrets,
Just the luminous promise
Of Spring
And that last arched eyebrow
Fading in eggshell sky.
It didn't last long. The few inches of snow that came afterwards are now preserved under a thick layer of ice that is both treacherous and stubborn. After yesterday's fall while trying to avoid a stray dog by cutting across the soccer fields that are now more like a skating rink, I don't even dare to walk Johnny in the park. The backyard will have to do. Both of us are going stir-crazy here.
Johnny is a high energy dog. It's the Border Collie in him. He always has to have something to do, the more lively and interesting the better. His Lab side shines in his appearance only, in his glossy black coat and bright eyes, not in any laid-back temperament. When I finally got the backyard fenced in late last summer, I thought it would give me a break from marching up to the park with him three times a day. Well, now we only have to go to the park once a day - normally. Being iced-in, his yard excursions have dwindled to skittery two-minute trips to the far end where he does his business, then my high energy dog flops down in the snow and lays there, blissfully licking the ice. He could do that forever. He can't run on the ice. So we have to walk up to the park.
Yesterday the ice was horrible but we went out anyway. He was driving me nuts, dropping his Kong Ball on my foot every two minutes, (ouch) throwing his toys at me, even trying to engage the poor ancient cat in doggy games. So out we went. I had no intentions of going into the park, just briskly walking around it, still a good half-mile stroll with lots of scenery and scents for canine entertainment. We'd gone as far as we could go, all the way to the dead end, past the spot where there was a roadkill deer the day before, now removed but apparently leaving its blood-smell behind, past the K-9 training center, past the turn-off onto the path that is a secret back way into the park. Turning around, I spotted a large black dog coming down the road by itself, no leash or human in sight. Naturally it stopped where the deer had been. I prefer to avoid strange, loose dogs especially when they're bigger and bulkier than Johnny. There was nowhere to go to avoid this one except to cut through the park and across the soccer fields.
I quickly discovered that the soccer fields were now an ice rink.I held onto Johnny's leash and let him pull me across the ice. I didn't even have to lift my feet. I was swiftly gliding along with no effort at all. This was good! Until he suddenly sensed the other dog, turned around and started pulling me backwards towards the road. The other dog noticed us and lifted its head, but stayed put. I struggled to control Johnny. Inevitably my feet went out from under me, I sailed up in the air and came down flat on my back, breath knocked out of me. Then I couldn't get up because I kept slipping. My canine companion was no help at all, he was still intent on maintaining his territorial rights on the roadkill traces. Somehow I got up and dragged Johnny across the field, stomping my way through the ice. The only safe way to go was to high-step it, smashing a ragged footprint into the ice with every stride. The stray dog went over the hill. We were home free. Now I have a monster bruise on my back and the sciatica demons are having a party all the way down to my toes.
So finally I get around to writing something in my blog!
The groundhog's prediction this year was of special interest. Not because it was a weather omen. It's always six more weeks of this or that, because there are six weeks until Spring Equinox. This year it was a declaration that in six more weeks I will get to meet my great-granddaughter, Leilani Mae, as she is predicted to make her entrance into our world just in time for Spring.
Will she be an Aries like her daddy or a Pisces, in harmony with her mother's moon-sign? Will she be pale or dark, red-haired or brunette? I hope she'll have her father's eyes, sky-blue, but genetics weigh in heavier for dark brown. Of course we'll all love her, no matter what she looks like.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Crow Lesson
As a bio-regional animist, I profess to live as part of a family that embraces all creatures of nature including stones and plants as well as animals, and humans of all races and creeds. I honor the ties that bind us all. I am pledged to respect each one's role in the play of Life, and honor their right to live and create in their own ways. This is not as easy as it sounds, nor is it always beautiful and bright. Part of this is also acknowledging that there is darkness as well as light, sadness as well as joy, and danger as well as comfort.
A pair of house finches chose to build their nest on the eaves of my porch in the springtime this year. I felt blessed by their presence, especially since this was the first Spring in my new home. First they came scouting out the site. Both of them surveyed one corner of the porch and seemed to discuss it daily, deciding exactly where the nest should go. I was glad they didn't pick the space right in the corner because I knew the drainpipe and gutter dripped there. Wisely, they finally settled on a spot a little off from the corner, hidden behind the top of one of the metal support posts. Every morning I enjoyed watching the nest take shape as the pair busily gathered stuff and put it neatly into place. Home sweet home!
Then the mother bird sat. I knew eggs would be coming soon. Both birds were spending more time in the nest. Then one morning I heard the tiny peeps of hatchlings. There were at least two, maybe three. I didn't want to disturb them by peeking too closely.
The hatchlings were well-fed by their parents over the next several weeks. One morning I was thrilled to see one of the babies flapping their wings, practicing to fly. It wouldn't be long before they would leave the nest. This was a little sad, of course, because I would miss watching them each day, but I was happy to see this wonderful avian rite of passage taking place right before my eyes. It was a joyous, hopeful experience.
I mentioned crows at the beginning of this bit of writing. I think you know what comes next. The same day I saw the baby bird flapping its wings, I went out to walk my dog later and noticed a crow on the porch roof. There are lots of crows around here, but they prefer to stay in the woods across the street or roost in the line of old pine trees behind my house. This crow was watching, listening, and putting together a plan. I could almost hear the wheels turning inside that sleek black head. I clapped my hands and yelled to chase it away. It cawed back at me and flew only as far as a nearby tree, where it remained on surveillance.
It was a gift to be able to watch the finches make a home on my porch and raise a family. This daily story I'd been witnessing ended abruptly when I saw the crow squeeze itself into that small, presumably safe place in the rafters and tear into the nest, taking away one baby bird, then quickly returning for the other. The mother and father did their best to ward off the crow but they were too small to be intimidating.
After the babies were gone, the pair flew away and didn't return for about an hour. Then suddenly they were back - with an entire clan of their fellow house finches! This group of birds swarmed all around the vicinity of the nest, fluttering and twittering loudly, for a good ten minutes. It was like a wake. Then, as suddenly as they appeared, they all flew off at once.
It was heartbreaking, yet I couldn't hate the crows for being crows. I still love them. Now I have a slightly different kind of respect for them.
There's still a happy ending. I thought the house finches had abandoned the nest after the crow-raid. There was no activity for a few weeks. Then one morning I saw what I assumed was the same pair return and take up housekeeping again. Or it could have been a different pair. It doesn't matter. Soon there were eggs, hatchlings, and this time they survived without any threat from crows. Two healthy young house finches left the nest with their parents a few weeks ago.
The song of life goes on, finding its own harmony on the wing.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Connexions and Relations
I learned recently that the braids of Native Americans symbolize connections to the Earth Mother and All Our Relations. Wearing one's hair loosely is supposed to connect one's Spiritual Essence with the Wind Spirits. I never knew the significance of the braids and I don't even know how true it is. Not everything we read on the internet is true! When my hair was longer, I would sometimes braid it, mostly just to get it out of my way, but being a child of the Woodstock generation, naturally I preferred to wear it loosely flowing. Now its too short to be braided but still long enough to flow blissfully.
Do we need to have braids to connect us with our Earth Mother and All Our Relations? No, but to some it may serve as a symbol of that link.
As an animist who professes to live as a part of a family that embraces stones and plants, all creatures of nature, humans of all races and creeds, and honors the ties that bind it all, I am pledged to respect each one's role in the play of Life, and honor their right to live and create in their own ways. This is not as easy as it sounds, nor is it always bright and beautiful. I find it very liberating, though, in many ways.
I grew up with racial prejudice and ethnic jokes as the norm. My mother was born and raised in South Carolina. She had a black "mammy". Need I say more? My dad is probably the most prejudiced person I know. He hates anyone who is not exactly like him. He is constantly drawing lines between Us and Them. I think most of it comes from fear, although neither of them would never admit that. Every door in their house has not one, not two, not three, but four locks which are locked at all times, as if at any moment one of Them will burst in and beat them up and rob my parents, just because they are Them. By the way, they live in one of the lowest crime neighborhoods in the tri-state area. How different things would be if my parents suddenly realized we are all the same, or even opened slightly to that concept.
Less fear in my life is one huge benefit of being an animist. My sister instantly locks her car doors if she is caught at a red light and there happens to be a black man walking nearby. Recently while I was walking my dog in the park, I encountered what appeared to be a homeless man, walking the other way, mumbling to himself. When I mentioned it to her, she insisted that I call the police if I saw him again. Why? He wasn't doing any harm. I just avoided him, stepping a little to the side and giving him his own space. He had as much right to be in the park as I did. Why should I make more trouble for him than he already had, which was obviously quite a bit? More than once in my life I've been homeless too.
Not that I deny there is danger in life. Respecting and honoring the truth and reality of each part of creation includes recognizing the reality of potential dangers. Sure, any man could be a rapist, no matter what color their skin. And any storm could strike you dead with its lightening. I recognize these truths but I don't let them get in my way. I try to be careful but I don't let fear keep me from enjoying the day. Life flows much more easily when energy isn't wasted on fear and pointless hate.
The wind in my hair that I enjoy as an animist makes me feel so free sometimes that I start to feeling superior, especially when I think about people like my parents and sister. Feeling superior isn't right. I should feel humble instead. I suppose their fears and loathings have a place in the world too but am I supposed to respect that? It's hard to respect and honor everything and everyone sometimes.
Take crows, for instance, a bird I admire for their intelligence and cunning. Recently I witnessed a crow take a baby house finch from the nest I'd watched its parents build on the eaves of my porch. Every day I watched the nest take shape, then the eggs came, and just the day before the crow came, I saw one of the nestlings flap its wings for the first time and it was such a hopeful, happy sight. The crow, after several days of surveillance, studied the situation as crows do and figured out a way to get to them. It was heartbreaking to see the tiny baby bird carried off while its parents did their best to fight off the crow, to no avail. Afterwards a very strange thing occurred. From out of nowhere, an entire clan of house finches suddenly appeared and gathered around my porch, singing and flapping around and generally acting as if they were at a wake. No crows attended. I can't hate the crows for being crows. I still love them, but with a slightly different kind of respect.
Being an animist often makes me feel quite ecstatic, almost high or stoned on feeling "the connexion". It's a big rush to open your heart this way. Yet there are always challenges, like the crow incident, that make me pause and sigh. The ecstasy I feel doesn't make me feel superior, just very much alive. I wonder if that's one of the purposes of religion/life-views, though, to make us feel superior (rightly or wrongly). It doesn't feel right, especially when animism is supposed to be based on respect for everyone's and everything's place in life, no one person or thing more precious, important, beloved, or better than another. I shouldn't put myself above any other person, let alone a pebble or a strand of grass.
I believe my path is beautifully summed up in the Thelemic "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. Love is the Law, Love under Will." It is not permission to do whatever you want. It bestows the obligation to find your true role in life and pursue it with all you've got, while respecting (loving) all others' places and roles, trusting that there is a plan to the universe and a holy order where everyone and everything is a star in its own orbit - even, to an animist, the rocks and trees, the wind and the rain. The challenge is to not only recognize these connexions and relations, but to find ways to live in harmony with them without putting yourself above anything. Maybe this is not meant to be over-analyzed or worked at too hard. It might be just enough to enjoy the rush of those freedom winds in your hair and keep your heart open while letting the path take you where it will.
Do we need to have braids to connect us with our Earth Mother and All Our Relations? No, but to some it may serve as a symbol of that link.
As an animist who professes to live as a part of a family that embraces stones and plants, all creatures of nature, humans of all races and creeds, and honors the ties that bind it all, I am pledged to respect each one's role in the play of Life, and honor their right to live and create in their own ways. This is not as easy as it sounds, nor is it always bright and beautiful. I find it very liberating, though, in many ways.
I grew up with racial prejudice and ethnic jokes as the norm. My mother was born and raised in South Carolina. She had a black "mammy". Need I say more? My dad is probably the most prejudiced person I know. He hates anyone who is not exactly like him. He is constantly drawing lines between Us and Them. I think most of it comes from fear, although neither of them would never admit that. Every door in their house has not one, not two, not three, but four locks which are locked at all times, as if at any moment one of Them will burst in and beat them up and rob my parents, just because they are Them. By the way, they live in one of the lowest crime neighborhoods in the tri-state area. How different things would be if my parents suddenly realized we are all the same, or even opened slightly to that concept.
Less fear in my life is one huge benefit of being an animist. My sister instantly locks her car doors if she is caught at a red light and there happens to be a black man walking nearby. Recently while I was walking my dog in the park, I encountered what appeared to be a homeless man, walking the other way, mumbling to himself. When I mentioned it to her, she insisted that I call the police if I saw him again. Why? He wasn't doing any harm. I just avoided him, stepping a little to the side and giving him his own space. He had as much right to be in the park as I did. Why should I make more trouble for him than he already had, which was obviously quite a bit? More than once in my life I've been homeless too.
Not that I deny there is danger in life. Respecting and honoring the truth and reality of each part of creation includes recognizing the reality of potential dangers. Sure, any man could be a rapist, no matter what color their skin. And any storm could strike you dead with its lightening. I recognize these truths but I don't let them get in my way. I try to be careful but I don't let fear keep me from enjoying the day. Life flows much more easily when energy isn't wasted on fear and pointless hate.
The wind in my hair that I enjoy as an animist makes me feel so free sometimes that I start to feeling superior, especially when I think about people like my parents and sister. Feeling superior isn't right. I should feel humble instead. I suppose their fears and loathings have a place in the world too but am I supposed to respect that? It's hard to respect and honor everything and everyone sometimes.
Take crows, for instance, a bird I admire for their intelligence and cunning. Recently I witnessed a crow take a baby house finch from the nest I'd watched its parents build on the eaves of my porch. Every day I watched the nest take shape, then the eggs came, and just the day before the crow came, I saw one of the nestlings flap its wings for the first time and it was such a hopeful, happy sight. The crow, after several days of surveillance, studied the situation as crows do and figured out a way to get to them. It was heartbreaking to see the tiny baby bird carried off while its parents did their best to fight off the crow, to no avail. Afterwards a very strange thing occurred. From out of nowhere, an entire clan of house finches suddenly appeared and gathered around my porch, singing and flapping around and generally acting as if they were at a wake. No crows attended. I can't hate the crows for being crows. I still love them, but with a slightly different kind of respect.
Being an animist often makes me feel quite ecstatic, almost high or stoned on feeling "the connexion". It's a big rush to open your heart this way. Yet there are always challenges, like the crow incident, that make me pause and sigh. The ecstasy I feel doesn't make me feel superior, just very much alive. I wonder if that's one of the purposes of religion/life-views, though, to make us feel superior (rightly or wrongly). It doesn't feel right, especially when animism is supposed to be based on respect for everyone's and everything's place in life, no one person or thing more precious, important, beloved, or better than another. I shouldn't put myself above any other person, let alone a pebble or a strand of grass.
I believe my path is beautifully summed up in the Thelemic "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. Love is the Law, Love under Will." It is not permission to do whatever you want. It bestows the obligation to find your true role in life and pursue it with all you've got, while respecting (loving) all others' places and roles, trusting that there is a plan to the universe and a holy order where everyone and everything is a star in its own orbit - even, to an animist, the rocks and trees, the wind and the rain. The challenge is to not only recognize these connexions and relations, but to find ways to live in harmony with them without putting yourself above anything. Maybe this is not meant to be over-analyzed or worked at too hard. It might be just enough to enjoy the rush of those freedom winds in your hair and keep your heart open while letting the path take you where it will.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Writing off the page
One of my favorite writing exercises is "Writing Off the Page". I can't remember where I learned this. Probably in one of those "How to Write Good!" books. You take a poetry book or use whatever book is within reach, or a favorite one, or pick a random one off the shelf. I've found this works best with a poetry book because it's easy to find a line of appropriate intensity and length. Open the book to any page, take a line from the page, copy it into your notebook or type it into your notepad, and take it from there. If you get stuck writing off the page, just rewrite the first line and start again, continuing your writing, or going off in an entirely new direction. I do this exercise often, sometimes with good results, sometimes not.
This morning I picked a random poem from "A Year with Rilke". It was this one, from his "Book of Hours" set.
"The Beauty of You"
In deep nights I dig for you like treasure.
For all I have seen
that clutters the surface of my world
is a poor, paltry substitute
for the beauty of you
that has not happened yet...
I felt cheated by what felt like an unfinished poem. It felt like just a sketch, a doodle on a napkin. I loved the first line but it fizzled from there, to the last line dropping off into ...
So, being the slightly arrogant poet that I am (all poets should have a healthy degree of arrogance!) I decided to write off the page from the beautiful first line and this is what I wrote.
"The Beauty of You"
In the depths of the dark I dig for you
Like a miner hunting diamonds
Grasping for the glimmer of your heart
Listening for that dancing footfall
With ears attuned to that chance.
By candlelight I scry into shadows
And sigh for a twinkle of eye-shine
Hoarding those emerald memories
Like winter trees hold the gems of Spring.
Then, to take arrogance on step more, I invented a new writing exercise. I took my own poem and reflected it backwards.
Like gems of Spring held by winter's trees,
Memories like emeralds are still green,
Preserved by sighs and twinkles of hope
On a shrine of candlelight and crystals.
Tuned to the music of a chance of a dance,
Dreaming of steps that rhyme in time,
An empty grasp seeks to span the distance,
Digging up diamonds in the dark.
Maybe it isn't the greatest of poetry but it was certainly a lot of fun writing off the page today.
This morning I picked a random poem from "A Year with Rilke". It was this one, from his "Book of Hours" set.
"The Beauty of You"
In deep nights I dig for you like treasure.
For all I have seen
that clutters the surface of my world
is a poor, paltry substitute
for the beauty of you
that has not happened yet...
I felt cheated by what felt like an unfinished poem. It felt like just a sketch, a doodle on a napkin. I loved the first line but it fizzled from there, to the last line dropping off into ...
So, being the slightly arrogant poet that I am (all poets should have a healthy degree of arrogance!) I decided to write off the page from the beautiful first line and this is what I wrote.
"The Beauty of You"
In the depths of the dark I dig for you
Like a miner hunting diamonds
Grasping for the glimmer of your heart
Listening for that dancing footfall
With ears attuned to that chance.
By candlelight I scry into shadows
And sigh for a twinkle of eye-shine
Hoarding those emerald memories
Like winter trees hold the gems of Spring.
Then, to take arrogance on step more, I invented a new writing exercise. I took my own poem and reflected it backwards.
Like gems of Spring held by winter's trees,
Memories like emeralds are still green,
Preserved by sighs and twinkles of hope
On a shrine of candlelight and crystals.
Tuned to the music of a chance of a dance,
Dreaming of steps that rhyme in time,
An empty grasp seeks to span the distance,
Digging up diamonds in the dark.
Maybe it isn't the greatest of poetry but it was certainly a lot of fun writing off the page today.
Friday, April 19, 2013
I should have listened to my intuition
I never liked dining at place which I will, for the purposes of this blog, call That Little Italian Goldmine. It was, and probably still is, my parents' favorite restaurant. It has an excellent reputation and has been in business for ages. They serve traditional "Tuscan" food. As a vegan, I could only order two different dishes there and even then drastically altered to leave off the meat, cheese or other possible dairy products. I still had to drain the oil from sauce with a fork before eating. It was never that great, in my humble opinion. The whole place felt claustrophobic to me, the waitresses all seemed like they shared an inside joke, and it was freezing cold in all seasons of the year. And it always just seemed like way too much to eat. But that's Italian, right?
Currently I am recovering from a horrible week-long bout with what the MedExpress doctor called a "type of botulism that results from food not being stored at the proper temperature". He wanted me to go into a hospital overnight for IV hydration but I argued that no one could take care of my pets, (and besides, I have no health insurance!) so he released me with the solemn promise that I would do nothing but rest, constantly have a glass of water or other clear liquid beside me to drink, and nibble on bland foods like toast or crackers until I felt better, which should be in just a few more days if I followed the plan.
Without going into the extremely disgusting details, I will simply say that never in my life have I been so sick. All because of the marinara sauce I substituted for cream sauce on the pasta primavera, thinking it was a healthier choice. My dad, who also had marinara, was violently ill for a day or so but quickly recovered. Plainly, it was the sauce that did us both in. My mother ordered chicken salad croissant without eating the croissant, as usual (I think she just likes to say "Croissant"), and my sister got some sort of cheese drenched monstrosity. They escaped unscathed.
Was my intuition trying to warn me, all the times that I felt those creepy sensations when I walked into the, um, Little Italian Goldmine? Or was it just my turn to be poisoned? And why did my dad, a rather feeble old man in his mid 80's, bounce back like a champ while his daughter, healthy as a horse, almost landed in the hospital? At any rate, I'm never going back there again.
Today I feel almost human again for the first time since Saturday night. Being a philosophical person, I keep asking "What is there to learn from this?" There must be something, since it was such an intense experience. Or was it merely the fickle finger of fate giving me the bird? No matter how wisely you think you are eating, you can still get sick as a dog (sorry, Johnny! I wouldn't wish this on any canine or other living creature) from someone's carelessness at a restaurant.
I promise that my next blog entry will be better, as my digestive tract returns to normal. Right now, though, I am in the mood to grumble, which proves my health must be improving.
Currently I am recovering from a horrible week-long bout with what the MedExpress doctor called a "type of botulism that results from food not being stored at the proper temperature". He wanted me to go into a hospital overnight for IV hydration but I argued that no one could take care of my pets, (and besides, I have no health insurance!) so he released me with the solemn promise that I would do nothing but rest, constantly have a glass of water or other clear liquid beside me to drink, and nibble on bland foods like toast or crackers until I felt better, which should be in just a few more days if I followed the plan.
Without going into the extremely disgusting details, I will simply say that never in my life have I been so sick. All because of the marinara sauce I substituted for cream sauce on the pasta primavera, thinking it was a healthier choice. My dad, who also had marinara, was violently ill for a day or so but quickly recovered. Plainly, it was the sauce that did us both in. My mother ordered chicken salad croissant without eating the croissant, as usual (I think she just likes to say "Croissant"), and my sister got some sort of cheese drenched monstrosity. They escaped unscathed.
Was my intuition trying to warn me, all the times that I felt those creepy sensations when I walked into the, um, Little Italian Goldmine? Or was it just my turn to be poisoned? And why did my dad, a rather feeble old man in his mid 80's, bounce back like a champ while his daughter, healthy as a horse, almost landed in the hospital? At any rate, I'm never going back there again.
Today I feel almost human again for the first time since Saturday night. Being a philosophical person, I keep asking "What is there to learn from this?" There must be something, since it was such an intense experience. Or was it merely the fickle finger of fate giving me the bird? No matter how wisely you think you are eating, you can still get sick as a dog (sorry, Johnny! I wouldn't wish this on any canine or other living creature) from someone's carelessness at a restaurant.
I promise that my next blog entry will be better, as my digestive tract returns to normal. Right now, though, I am in the mood to grumble, which proves my health must be improving.
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