Nearly three weeks ago, while visiting Ridgefield, Washington, I slept with the Sandhill Cranes. Nestled in my bedroll, out in the field beneath the stars, I felt the chill rising out of the ground just before dawn.
And then--- they began.
A lovely morning song rose from all over the area. As the purple drape of sky faded to lavender hinting gold, group after group waved their way above me. A glimpse of Sky and Earth merged, with me sandwiched in-between.
Field Game ~
A splayed prone cross on the stubbled field
arms are finger tip stretched recalling flight
I imitate the mewing bands of flop-legged
Sandhill Cranes who've just arrived in this
Washington field of dropped corn
swooped down from the far north
my heart beat and heat surge
beyond the reach of this gentle Chinook
wind in western attire
we whisper and laugh up the dawn
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
In The Circle Game
I was eight months pregnant with our first, young Micah to be. You called to let me know that your father was in the hospital fifteen miles from Jeff's parents, where I'd been staying to safe guard this high risk pregnancy.
I'll never forget the sense of trepidation I felt walking down the halls of The Brush Prairie General hospital. The stories shared from your girlhood perspective, to meet for the first time the one who I'd held responsible for all your rage, the unresolved anger and hurt that would splash onto us, your children. But you asked that I go.
I rounded the corner and an ancient, tiny, man, afloat within the hospital bed, looked at me and called me by your name.
And there you were, Thursa May, our mother, peering out from the face and body of your father, my only grandpa. He thought I was his daughter, unseen but somehow, unaged, for forty years.
I had vertigo. It was quite a moment.
I haven't asked what your grandson might recall.
I'll never forget the sense of trepidation I felt walking down the halls of The Brush Prairie General hospital. The stories shared from your girlhood perspective, to meet for the first time the one who I'd held responsible for all your rage, the unresolved anger and hurt that would splash onto us, your children. But you asked that I go.
I rounded the corner and an ancient, tiny, man, afloat within the hospital bed, looked at me and called me by your name.
And there you were, Thursa May, our mother, peering out from the face and body of your father, my only grandpa. He thought I was his daughter, unseen but somehow, unaged, for forty years.
I had vertigo. It was quite a moment.
I haven't asked what your grandson might recall.
Monday, June 22, 2009
A View From Afar
The great path has no gates,
Thousands of roads enter it.
When you pass through this gateless gate
You walk freely between heaven and earth.
- Mumonkan
The young people of Iran, who's loss of life now hangs draped in symbolic metaphor, stand beside the countless eons of planetary loss from absurdly, misguided "human" behavior.
We're still crawling out from the belly of the beast and have a long way to go. Predator and prey, within our own species?
Our ability to behave with "deep humanity" goes back to the beginning, on our Mother's knee. The life giving, planetary existence on Earth absorbs our blood and renews our chances to survive with each new day.
As much of this hemisphere is celebrating Summer Solstice 2009, perhaps we can use the moment as a point of demarcation. To honor the dead by valuing the living, in perpetuity.
Life and death and the immediacy of our time well spent.
Monday, June 15, 2009
June's Delight
Sisters entwined in a closeness only they can describe
Joey gets the hand cranked forge warmed up for bar-b-que!
"Dear Lady, it's 48°F today (which means the mosquitoes aren't so bad, a plus). A good day to bake. Your recipes are wonderful Mona. Our middle daughter Merrick, has become a baker extrordinare. Last night, we joined she and her honey out on the Chilkat Peninsula for Rhubarb Pecan pie. A small outside fire and a delightfully corny joke session followed. We took turns passing The Pretty Good Joke Book about. It was a lovely simplistic reprieve. You were there, in my heart."
The gathering assembles at Merrick and Joey's patch of green-ness for her 24th birthday.
Merrick's new potter's shed (complete with a piano!), on axles for easy relocation.
It's a Southeast Alaskan Garden Party!
Joey gets the hand cranked forge warmed up for bar-b-que!"Dear Lady, it's 48°F today (which means the mosquitoes aren't so bad, a plus). A good day to bake. Your recipes are wonderful Mona. Our middle daughter Merrick, has become a baker extrordinare. Last night, we joined she and her honey out on the Chilkat Peninsula for Rhubarb Pecan pie. A small outside fire and a delightfully corny joke session followed. We took turns passing The Pretty Good Joke Book about. It was a lovely simplistic reprieve. You were there, in my heart."
The gathering assembles at Merrick and Joey's patch of green-ness for her 24th birthday.
Merrick's new potter's shed (complete with a piano!), on axles for easy relocation.
It's a Southeast Alaskan Garden Party!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Begin The Beguine
Fearful of death, I walked in the mountains.
By meditating on its uncertain hour,
I conquered the immortal bastion
Of the immutable.
Now I am far beyond fearing death.
- Milarepa
The immutable... that which is unchangeable.
Though the course is not set, I sneak peek around the corner and see just which tones and colors will lure me towards my endgame. I'm hoping you'll be there.
We could steal our way into the midnight performance, sit quietly up above and watch the live connections between the stage and adoring audience. It'll remind you of your best shows, the entertainment you assembled that had them standing in the aisles, roaring for more.
It'll flush me with joy, the kind I feel when reminded just how great people are, in spite of being human.
Maybe we'd belt back a couple of tall cool somethings before folding into one another's arms, tickling each others fancy, and turning out the lights.
New dawn, we'll awaken refreshed and begin different lives.
Or, we won't.
IF we do, hopefully we'll recognize each other from a distance. I'd really like that. I'm starting to get a big kick out of what we share. Shall we finish this round out, with dare and pizaazz?
I think of Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night"
By meditating on its uncertain hour,
I conquered the immortal bastion
Of the immutable.
Now I am far beyond fearing death.
- Milarepa
The immutable... that which is unchangeable.
Though the course is not set, I sneak peek around the corner and see just which tones and colors will lure me towards my endgame. I'm hoping you'll be there.
We could steal our way into the midnight performance, sit quietly up above and watch the live connections between the stage and adoring audience. It'll remind you of your best shows, the entertainment you assembled that had them standing in the aisles, roaring for more.
It'll flush me with joy, the kind I feel when reminded just how great people are, in spite of being human.
Maybe we'd belt back a couple of tall cool somethings before folding into one another's arms, tickling each others fancy, and turning out the lights.
New dawn, we'll awaken refreshed and begin different lives.
Or, we won't.
IF we do, hopefully we'll recognize each other from a distance. I'd really like that. I'm starting to get a big kick out of what we share. Shall we finish this round out, with dare and pizaazz?
I think of Dylan Thomas, "Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night"
Monday, June 1, 2009
Night bird, open Love's narrow, cloistered, thrill
"Grace changes us and change... is painful." Flannery O'ConnorFlannery O'Connor described herself as a "pigeon-toed child with a receding chin..." and a "you-leave-me-alone-or-I'll-bite-you complex."
When O'Connor was six she taught a chicken to walk backwards, and this led to her first experience of being a celebrity. The Pathé News people filmed "Little Mary O'Connor" with her trained chicken, and showed the film around the country. She said, "When I was six I had a chicken that walked backward and was in the Pathe News. I was in it too with the chicken. I was just there to assist the chicken but it was the high point in my life. Everything since has been anticlimax.” (borrowed from Wikipedia)
Night bird, open Love's narrow, cloistered, thrill... To conjure an introduction to Ms. Flannery O'Connor is a new interest... "everything that destroys also creates", a rather Taoist take from her devout Catholic stance. She 's also noted for having said "Write not about character but with character."
I'm learning how to melt into other forms that character and characters might emerge.
Louise Erdrich, E. Annie Proulx, and maybe Ann Lamott are stepping up to the plate tonight as well as, Uh oh... Shirley Jackson just walked in!
Welcome to the cloister...
Monday, May 25, 2009
T'aint Fair Jim McGee
Stuck in reverse can reach beyond all restraints of time. To decide whether to make use of family history, that near bottomless and ever renewable resource, is dependent upon how the memories have been held and by whom.
A story that's been long kept in the vaults of disregard, can lay quietly gathering strength, like metamorphic layers.
Tess tried to stay composed through the melting process as she lay on the ground between the buildings. She'd crawled out her bedroom window, knowing the narrow strip of green between the houses was glimmering as intensely as her room.
She'd soon be missed in all the chaos. But it was lovely just laying there until then.
The ground was the first damp coolness she'd felt against her skin since January when she'd laid with Fred, hands tucked behind their heads, elbows flared, smoking cigars. The black sparkles of the night dew reflected across the wind shield of his baby-blue Barracuda. They'd just found each other's rough edges and had turned everything to velvet; velvet as in the silky dark skin, her cheek across his belly. Velvet along the backs of his ample thighs. Velvet like the warm newly wet underside of her, laying together happy and naked.
"Darlin' for having been an astonishingly well-kept virgin in these heady times, I firmly declare that you are quickly developing a sweetly defined style of romance. Ahem! And your bass line..."
"Well," he laughed, "my cap's tipped in your direction Madam. You make it easy to be a fine lover; pass that I.W.Harper m'dear, would you?"
The new year was off to an interesting start.
She couldn't resist, "Fred, my God! Do you ever think of the beautiful babies we'd create?"
He had. And he was certain the world wasn't ready for them. Nor was he really ready for the two of them as a couple. Just trying to get past his family would be absolutely impossible.
Tess loved that his brakeman's job with the Southern Pacific Railroad, between Bakersfield and Barstow, were as dear to him as the chamber orchestra and choral group he was helping to initiate at East High.
She knew his plans might include family some day. But she also knew that he'd never be ready for the battles of a mixed marriage. The world was too filled with hatred and Bakersfield, sure as hell was no exception. Fred was a lover, a writer, and a musician, not a warrior. That's what she loved about him.
"Ladyfair, what you were confronted by last week in school is a fraction of what our kids will be fighting every day of their lives."
Tess easily recalled the bitch slap, that one she hadn't seen coming. Nearly brought her to her knees. She'd held her cool, knowing she was seriously out numbered. These girls packed knives. They were however, only delivering a straight up message. "White bitch, back off!."
"Tess, I adamantly want to spare you the ugliness that you're going to be met with on the front porch at my folk's place. Your family is bizarrely different, and God knows I love them all."
"Well then, my darling hunk of gorgeous humanity," she flung the words off rakishly, into the blackening sky,"would you kiss me with the love you feel and please say goodbye?" She'd become a nun.
Her whole life she'd believed if a person held tightly to every shred of focus that was available to them, working endlessly to expand that, that things would start to change. Will power with a sizable helping of intense passion piled on ever so thickly, just for entertainment along the way. Upon reaching the right level, the very fabric of reality would begin to meld and be reshaped. Much as her mind and emotions merged when loosing herself into another's body. Or performing beautifully before a rapt audience.
Like the time she flew as an eight year old under the full moon.
Luke was coming home though he'd only be there long enough for a weekend visit. He was leaving for real this time.
When he joined the Navy, she knew he'd be done in four years. He'd be home on leave often. She'd be just a year short of graduating when finally they could get some time together! It would be like when they were kids.
Those four years had brought so much change. Best was the birth of their youngest brother Barry. Tess called him "her little brown berry", and he loved her completely with the toothless delight of an infant. The joy that this new baby brought her, and to the rest of the house seemed to pull every one together, even their folks.
Tess wanted badly to blame Mom. Sheliah had always provided the rage, filling the house with yelling and dramatic plate throwing while Poppa would sorta laugh and stretch out among the babies on the living room floor, refusing to fight.
You knew better than to crawl in with Pops, even though he was just as crazy about playing with the little kids as you were. Hell, you couldn't leave Momma flailing about with all of that anger; it just wouldn't be fair. Shelia would stand in the doorway with her hands on her hips, furiously hollering, "just get the Hell up off that floor and fight this out with me, God Dammit!"
Pops would flatly refuse, holding a flying baby above his prone chest, "Sheliah honey, as of today, I'm through fighting with you."
A few weeks before, all four of the girls went with Pops to the florist's shop. They'd been given huge arms full of flowers to parade into Mom, all in a line according to height, crooning and crowing "Happy Birthday To You..."
Poppa brought up the tail, with a very large, very soft package tucked under his arm. Tess knew it was a wonderful floor length terry cloth robe; white with satin trim. She helped him pick it out at the shopping center. Macy's no less! It was nearly a hundred bucks!
But Mom surrounded by kids and flowers could only muster a Poloroid photo-happy smile. The fire that was dancing in her violet eyes was not the kind that filled your heart with joy. Serious trouble was brewing for her 40th birthday.
By late that fall they were living in The City. Mom was already back to work and they were now sharing the old Victorian with another family; Dad's mistress and her three kids.
The three adults worked for the State of California doing "Public Relations work". You weren't too impressed with that bunch were ya kid? Lot's of office parties with people who weren't anywhere near as much fun as the old newspaper crowd.
But it was wild having eight kids together under one roof. Now that you were the oldest by six years, you always had lot's of babysitting money and playground time. You practiced switching back and forth between Mary Poppin's magic, and Peter Pan, doing battle with pirates while rampaging Neverland. Always, waiting for Luke's leave home.
His last few letters said he'd finally found a mid-western girl to marry. He'd be driving up from San Diego in his '61 Plymouth, and not just on leave. He'd finished his four years with Uncle Sam's Yacht Club.
It'll go like this...you'll all spend the weekend draped around the kitchen table, telling old stories. Dad will be down from San Francisco and Luke will have everyone laughing so hard that Mom will have to tightly criss-cross her legs and pull off her glasses to wipe the tears again and again.
And you're never going to be able to let him know how you really feel. After all, you're brother and sister! So what if you've been this crazy about him your whole life? He's getting married, and moving to Wisconsin for Christ's sake.
Oh Shit! It sounded real this time.
A couple hundred crickets are singing in unison all around her as the melting begins. It starts very slowly out at the far edges of her extremities; her toes, up and along her legs, across her flat downy belly and beneath hungry breasts; rubber arms with still, tingling fingers, earlobes light and hot, free of all jewelery. As she softens in through her scalp and out along her long black hair the bedroom window is quietly closed. Melting alone.
It's all humming now as it worms its way easily down into her core, penetrating quite deeply.
She's pretty certain it's going to be a full moon... Shhh... stay focused.
Concentrate all of your will...
A story that's been long kept in the vaults of disregard, can lay quietly gathering strength, like metamorphic layers.
Tess tried to stay composed through the melting process as she lay on the ground between the buildings. She'd crawled out her bedroom window, knowing the narrow strip of green between the houses was glimmering as intensely as her room.
She'd soon be missed in all the chaos. But it was lovely just laying there until then.
The ground was the first damp coolness she'd felt against her skin since January when she'd laid with Fred, hands tucked behind their heads, elbows flared, smoking cigars. The black sparkles of the night dew reflected across the wind shield of his baby-blue Barracuda. They'd just found each other's rough edges and had turned everything to velvet; velvet as in the silky dark skin, her cheek across his belly. Velvet along the backs of his ample thighs. Velvet like the warm newly wet underside of her, laying together happy and naked.
"Darlin' for having been an astonishingly well-kept virgin in these heady times, I firmly declare that you are quickly developing a sweetly defined style of romance. Ahem! And your bass line..."
"Well," he laughed, "my cap's tipped in your direction Madam. You make it easy to be a fine lover; pass that I.W.Harper m'dear, would you?"
The new year was off to an interesting start.
She couldn't resist, "Fred, my God! Do you ever think of the beautiful babies we'd create?"
He had. And he was certain the world wasn't ready for them. Nor was he really ready for the two of them as a couple. Just trying to get past his family would be absolutely impossible.
Tess loved that his brakeman's job with the Southern Pacific Railroad, between Bakersfield and Barstow, were as dear to him as the chamber orchestra and choral group he was helping to initiate at East High.
She knew his plans might include family some day. But she also knew that he'd never be ready for the battles of a mixed marriage. The world was too filled with hatred and Bakersfield, sure as hell was no exception. Fred was a lover, a writer, and a musician, not a warrior. That's what she loved about him.
"Ladyfair, what you were confronted by last week in school is a fraction of what our kids will be fighting every day of their lives."
Tess easily recalled the bitch slap, that one she hadn't seen coming. Nearly brought her to her knees. She'd held her cool, knowing she was seriously out numbered. These girls packed knives. They were however, only delivering a straight up message. "White bitch, back off!."
"Tess, I adamantly want to spare you the ugliness that you're going to be met with on the front porch at my folk's place. Your family is bizarrely different, and God knows I love them all."
"Well then, my darling hunk of gorgeous humanity," she flung the words off rakishly, into the blackening sky,"would you kiss me with the love you feel and please say goodbye?" She'd become a nun.
Her whole life she'd believed if a person held tightly to every shred of focus that was available to them, working endlessly to expand that, that things would start to change. Will power with a sizable helping of intense passion piled on ever so thickly, just for entertainment along the way. Upon reaching the right level, the very fabric of reality would begin to meld and be reshaped. Much as her mind and emotions merged when loosing herself into another's body. Or performing beautifully before a rapt audience.
Like the time she flew as an eight year old under the full moon.
Luke was coming home though he'd only be there long enough for a weekend visit. He was leaving for real this time.
When he joined the Navy, she knew he'd be done in four years. He'd be home on leave often. She'd be just a year short of graduating when finally they could get some time together! It would be like when they were kids.
Those four years had brought so much change. Best was the birth of their youngest brother Barry. Tess called him "her little brown berry", and he loved her completely with the toothless delight of an infant. The joy that this new baby brought her, and to the rest of the house seemed to pull every one together, even their folks.
Tess wanted badly to blame Mom. Sheliah had always provided the rage, filling the house with yelling and dramatic plate throwing while Poppa would sorta laugh and stretch out among the babies on the living room floor, refusing to fight.
You knew better than to crawl in with Pops, even though he was just as crazy about playing with the little kids as you were. Hell, you couldn't leave Momma flailing about with all of that anger; it just wouldn't be fair. Shelia would stand in the doorway with her hands on her hips, furiously hollering, "just get the Hell up off that floor and fight this out with me, God Dammit!"
Pops would flatly refuse, holding a flying baby above his prone chest, "Sheliah honey, as of today, I'm through fighting with you."
A few weeks before, all four of the girls went with Pops to the florist's shop. They'd been given huge arms full of flowers to parade into Mom, all in a line according to height, crooning and crowing "Happy Birthday To You..."
Poppa brought up the tail, with a very large, very soft package tucked under his arm. Tess knew it was a wonderful floor length terry cloth robe; white with satin trim. She helped him pick it out at the shopping center. Macy's no less! It was nearly a hundred bucks!
But Mom surrounded by kids and flowers could only muster a Poloroid photo-happy smile. The fire that was dancing in her violet eyes was not the kind that filled your heart with joy. Serious trouble was brewing for her 40th birthday.
By late that fall they were living in The City. Mom was already back to work and they were now sharing the old Victorian with another family; Dad's mistress and her three kids.
The three adults worked for the State of California doing "Public Relations work". You weren't too impressed with that bunch were ya kid? Lot's of office parties with people who weren't anywhere near as much fun as the old newspaper crowd.
But it was wild having eight kids together under one roof. Now that you were the oldest by six years, you always had lot's of babysitting money and playground time. You practiced switching back and forth between Mary Poppin's magic, and Peter Pan, doing battle with pirates while rampaging Neverland. Always, waiting for Luke's leave home.
His last few letters said he'd finally found a mid-western girl to marry. He'd be driving up from San Diego in his '61 Plymouth, and not just on leave. He'd finished his four years with Uncle Sam's Yacht Club.
It'll go like this...you'll all spend the weekend draped around the kitchen table, telling old stories. Dad will be down from San Francisco and Luke will have everyone laughing so hard that Mom will have to tightly criss-cross her legs and pull off her glasses to wipe the tears again and again.
And you're never going to be able to let him know how you really feel. After all, you're brother and sister! So what if you've been this crazy about him your whole life? He's getting married, and moving to Wisconsin for Christ's sake.
Oh Shit! It sounded real this time.
A couple hundred crickets are singing in unison all around her as the melting begins. It starts very slowly out at the far edges of her extremities; her toes, up and along her legs, across her flat downy belly and beneath hungry breasts; rubber arms with still, tingling fingers, earlobes light and hot, free of all jewelery. As she softens in through her scalp and out along her long black hair the bedroom window is quietly closed. Melting alone.
It's all humming now as it worms its way easily down into her core, penetrating quite deeply.
She's pretty certain it's going to be a full moon... Shhh... stay focused.
Concentrate all of your will...
Friday, May 15, 2009
Out In It
Smack! The middle of May and all of the protective shielding from the land of cool and moist has been burned away. Heat radiates from the softened asphalt, clinging to my drooping pace.
Hot city grime comes creeping up my legs, finding the salt of my earth, each stride met with thermal updraft.
The new straw broad-brimmed holds yards of hair and shades burning blackened shoulders, but nothing shields the ears or cushions the blare of a downtown five star alarm.
The blasting sirens, fire trucks led by ambulance, haul through mid-town traffic.
Babies in strollers instinctively cover their ears. They rock back and forth, wailing their own alarm, tiny stars suspended inches above the swelter.
Hot city grime comes creeping up my legs, finding the salt of my earth, each stride met with thermal updraft.
The new straw broad-brimmed holds yards of hair and shades burning blackened shoulders, but nothing shields the ears or cushions the blare of a downtown five star alarm.
The blasting sirens, fire trucks led by ambulance, haul through mid-town traffic.
Babies in strollers instinctively cover their ears. They rock back and forth, wailing their own alarm, tiny stars suspended inches above the swelter.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Grand Canyon Suite ( a visit to the dentist)
Diminutive was never an aspect of our mother's personality.
Intellectually robust, dignified, and not afraid of much. I've always viewed our mom as I've imagined the Grand Canyon: perilously beautiful and deep. Resistant... Challenging... Difficult.
A timeless, rugged elegance with pink and mauve undertones.
The wheelchair backs into the dentist's examining room. A soft-bottomed, black spine-crusher with her elbows made chicken wings... Being accommodated?
Any movement makes her lavender eyes very large. She remains in the chair, seated... Pressed and vulnerable?
Her tiny, hammer-toed feet are swathed in a pair of fuzzy-chenille socks. Hot-pink Mary-Janes... Lost pride and dignity?
The upper front tooth went with the lost lower partial... practical humility, overly expended?
Tall and silver... Dr. Sullivan.
A straight-up wit from an era who still appreciates lithe and swarthy. He's easily seventy-six. He's been the family's only dentist for forty years. Both kind and smart he's wielding a zesty, lemon grass charm.
He's effectively flirting with her. Mom's eyes have begun to mist. Her mouth is confused and trembling. Her chin is chattering from stimulus overload.
He remembers 1968 when she first arrived in town and is now asking after each of her six adult kids, those he worked on. He frames any question with the answer conveniently built in.
He recalls her many post-retirement efforts with honest admiration.
She's only required to speak with her eyes. Those mercury quick pools of light are sparkling confidence and intensity.
Our Mama, diminished?
She's become capable of being ineffably fetching. She's charmed, and utterly fathomless and is only continuing to gain in grandness as attrition makes for added depth.
Sure kept a great dentist; the one who's stayed for over half her life.
Silk sleeved and turning from within, she's slowly winding down.
And there seems to be no end in sight. She's making a divine descent, enjoying the interesting view.
Intellectually robust, dignified, and not afraid of much. I've always viewed our mom as I've imagined the Grand Canyon: perilously beautiful and deep. Resistant... Challenging... Difficult.
A timeless, rugged elegance with pink and mauve undertones.
The wheelchair backs into the dentist's examining room. A soft-bottomed, black spine-crusher with her elbows made chicken wings... Being accommodated?
Any movement makes her lavender eyes very large. She remains in the chair, seated... Pressed and vulnerable?
Her tiny, hammer-toed feet are swathed in a pair of fuzzy-chenille socks. Hot-pink Mary-Janes... Lost pride and dignity?
The upper front tooth went with the lost lower partial... practical humility, overly expended?
Tall and silver... Dr. Sullivan.
A straight-up wit from an era who still appreciates lithe and swarthy. He's easily seventy-six. He's been the family's only dentist for forty years. Both kind and smart he's wielding a zesty, lemon grass charm.
He's effectively flirting with her. Mom's eyes have begun to mist. Her mouth is confused and trembling. Her chin is chattering from stimulus overload.
He remembers 1968 when she first arrived in town and is now asking after each of her six adult kids, those he worked on. He frames any question with the answer conveniently built in.
He recalls her many post-retirement efforts with honest admiration.
She's only required to speak with her eyes. Those mercury quick pools of light are sparkling confidence and intensity.
Our Mama, diminished?
She's become capable of being ineffably fetching. She's charmed, and utterly fathomless and is only continuing to gain in grandness as attrition makes for added depth.
Sure kept a great dentist; the one who's stayed for over half her life.
Silk sleeved and turning from within, she's slowly winding down.
And there seems to be no end in sight. She's making a divine descent, enjoying the interesting view.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
A Christmas Gift From 1979
We had no notion of the scale. Of what really lay beyond the treacherous currents at the gates of the World Ocean.
Our old fat Captain, we’ll call him Pythagoras, is plastered in the corner of the wheel house. He’s madly calculating the surface of a sphere, the one he still hopes we’re navigating. I can tell though, by the yellow fear blathering in his eyes, that it's more likely two wings and and a prayer that he's digging for.
When doubt clamps on, clinging tightly to scurry up his toga as terror, he retreats to his stateroom bunk to solemnly strap himself in. We least experienced crew are now left to "hold course", meaning: "come to terms with life as you've known it."
The engines chug on as we tow the empty fuel barge, corking a thousand feet behind us. It rises far above the horizon like Noah’s mountain-ed ark, then to plunge out of sight beneath the siege of waves.
My senses are on alerted arousal. It’s as though my core has become snagged by tectonic force; a consummate lover is testing my worth. I know that a show of fear is a futile ploy and would dispel this mood so tenuously constructed. Endurance is foreplay within this consensual arrangement.
I find my position in the dogged, oval hatch. My hands brace upward above my head. My legs are splayed and timbered as I ride fluidly, wave upon wave and the boat pitches violently foreword and aft, starboard to lee.
Our deck light turns blackness to bottled sea glass. When the boat’s bow burrows beneath the mountainous waves, tree sized logs glimpse at momentary light then pummel on their way, past our wheel house windows. The swirling foam and buffeting wind continue to plunge us hour after hour, past the suggestion of day.
As the onslaught thunders rapturously down upon us, I realize Heaven is now fully unzipped. It’s openly pouring water from the sky on us and around us for a million years without abating. The clock strikes again, and again, 24:00, three times around.
Somewhere within this I’m melded and molded to a place of accepting that both tragedy and joy are life. That an absence of either; the void.
I’m gifted a transfer of power and clarity: Okeanos’ inherent passion of the unpredictable. Chaos lies within creativity and order, and are partnered in this marriage of existence.
The beauty of blueness, this marvelous globe, ...and that I am here to witness this miracle? Astounding.
After which, the sea was spent.
We limped our way into Port Hardy, B.C. My, you should have seen the galley floor!
Our old fat Captain, we’ll call him Pythagoras, is plastered in the corner of the wheel house. He’s madly calculating the surface of a sphere, the one he still hopes we’re navigating. I can tell though, by the yellow fear blathering in his eyes, that it's more likely two wings and and a prayer that he's digging for.
When doubt clamps on, clinging tightly to scurry up his toga as terror, he retreats to his stateroom bunk to solemnly strap himself in. We least experienced crew are now left to "hold course", meaning: "come to terms with life as you've known it."
The engines chug on as we tow the empty fuel barge, corking a thousand feet behind us. It rises far above the horizon like Noah’s mountain-ed ark, then to plunge out of sight beneath the siege of waves.
My senses are on alerted arousal. It’s as though my core has become snagged by tectonic force; a consummate lover is testing my worth. I know that a show of fear is a futile ploy and would dispel this mood so tenuously constructed. Endurance is foreplay within this consensual arrangement.
I find my position in the dogged, oval hatch. My hands brace upward above my head. My legs are splayed and timbered as I ride fluidly, wave upon wave and the boat pitches violently foreword and aft, starboard to lee.
Our deck light turns blackness to bottled sea glass. When the boat’s bow burrows beneath the mountainous waves, tree sized logs glimpse at momentary light then pummel on their way, past our wheel house windows. The swirling foam and buffeting wind continue to plunge us hour after hour, past the suggestion of day.
As the onslaught thunders rapturously down upon us, I realize Heaven is now fully unzipped. It’s openly pouring water from the sky on us and around us for a million years without abating. The clock strikes again, and again, 24:00, three times around.
Somewhere within this I’m melded and molded to a place of accepting that both tragedy and joy are life. That an absence of either; the void.
I’m gifted a transfer of power and clarity: Okeanos’ inherent passion of the unpredictable. Chaos lies within creativity and order, and are partnered in this marriage of existence.
The beauty of blueness, this marvelous globe, ...and that I am here to witness this miracle? Astounding.
After which, the sea was spent.
We limped our way into Port Hardy, B.C. My, you should have seen the galley floor!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
Spring's Shadows
The tips of her fingers hold shadows delicately; her touch speaks of a gentleness, a deep compassion that belies her ferocity and sense of right. I can only stand back in surprised wonder as I watch the woman that she's becoming, unfolding from the little girl who rode on my back as a wolf pup.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Remembering the Giddy In Grunt
Spring by our standards in the area of Haines, South East Alaska, were met head on today.
Light, snow flurries mixed with diffused shots of sun and the occasional blast of cornflower blue and direct yellow. It kept it beautiful to be out in and the trail conditions just right for being on top of.
The remaining snow depth is also measured by local standards and this year would be considered moderate. That's to say if you had legs ten feet long, you'd only sink in
up to your crotch when you punch through after stepping off to the side of the trail.
With legs of a regular length, there remains that suspended above a bottomless abyss feeling that I find rather exhilarating.
And when your boot gets stuck, which invariably happens, it's an aerobic workout getting back up with one leg extended back behind to keep your exposed sock from getting wet.
Then, as I bent forward on the well supported leg to try and fish the cemented boot out, my ham strings which have been forgotten for much of this winter sang the hallelujah chorus. Thrilling!
This was on the way to the barn to tend to triplet lambs born early yesterday evening.
The jerry jug of warm water for the new mama and her barn mates was bumping up against my thigh sloshing pleasantly. My biceps have turned to oatmeal this year as well. But it'll come back. I promise myself.
Today went well and for the first day of serious grunt and I'm glad to say that I took it at a reasonable pace. Now that things are thawing, I'll pull the sled full of barn material out onto the garden compost areas five times again tomorrow.
Daughter Hannah's bringing out fresh bedding for the new comers and the others who are pending birth in the next few days.
Somehow my love for this crazy lifestyle has always won out over the occasional season of inertia. Hoping to make an old timer's comeback this year (I hope, I hope, I hope).
The babies are still a bit scruffy looking but darned cute none the less.
(For my own use and any one else interested, here's a link for Strongwomen.com. High time I get the weights going, a sort of "do or die" effort, emphasis on the "DO".)
Friday, March 27, 2009
In The Splendor That Is Spring
I delight in the darkness of the new moon.
Gifted by my Hannah Rose, this lovely necklace creation to adorn my shadow dance. I'm loved.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Back Among The Angel Birch
The week is moving by so pleasantly.
Traversing along our snowy trail, the light and feel of sunlit peaks, chilled smell of cottonwood, willow and river, the music of thawing breeze all so familiar, I get vertigo.
I'm moving through my own body.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
A Dance, Beloved, For The Price of A Poem
A surprising warmth greets Mason and I, our long explore tired
The snow stays quite stickily on my red heeled shoes.
Barn friends are still waiting for clear ground;
their pointy cloven hooves, starving to join us
down in some green leafed out bower.
Just as my voice hits a high note, a tremendous slide
blind crashes ice shattering off the roof.
The red expanse looks at us gratefully; the smoke stack spared.
I'm again impressed with gravity.
(A wonderful Writer's Almanac with Redoubt and Volcanic Spew)
The snow stays quite stickily on my red heeled shoes.
Barn friends are still waiting for clear ground;
their pointy cloven hooves, starving to join us
down in some green leafed out bower.
Just as my voice hits a high note, a tremendous slide
blind crashes ice shattering off the roof.
The red expanse looks at us gratefully; the smoke stack spared.
I'm again impressed with gravity.
(A wonderful Writer's Almanac with Redoubt and Volcanic Spew)
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Shadow Sister's Time of Lament
She said..."You know, back then at night the city would have this stunning silence which I adored, until the wretched times. Then the slamming, switching cars and squealing train brakes were my own personal Hades, clawed yet comforting.
It was like all the rage I forbade myself to express, found outlet nightly with the train's chaotic symphony, gently greasing down into my body with the radio's smoky FM style.
Darkest heaven on Earth."
They really didn't know how to reply. Back then she was offered another babysitting job and the lure of the open road after graduation. Which she took, grateful to leave them in peace and go to find her own somehow.
It was like all the rage I forbade myself to express, found outlet nightly with the train's chaotic symphony, gently greasing down into my body with the radio's smoky FM style.
Darkest heaven on Earth."
They really didn't know how to reply. Back then she was offered another babysitting job and the lure of the open road after graduation. Which she took, grateful to leave them in peace and go to find her own somehow.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Image Reader
A wonderful contribution and conversation recently transpired on Gather.com.
The Maiden's Journey is mythically portrayed in the art photography of Patrisha McLean's Flower Girls Blossom, and has been shared in an article by Ann Image Reader. Access is linked in the title.
Sally Mann, also known for the sensitive and insightful photography of her children and sentient landscapes she loves, has assembled a new body of work, What Remains.
Sally's beautiful work takes an artistic look at the dying process, death and...well, what remains. A descriptive coverage of the documentary on this new phase in her unique and controversial career can be seen with the link provided.
Once again, it's the stories of our lives and passages shared and portrayed where cultural evolution can be glimpsed. Hope you enjoy.
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