allbuttondup

366 Days - FIMO

2012-01-17T07:12:00.000-08:00

FIMO

I made an impression of myself in clay tonight,

a self-portrait of sorts.

My maleable alter ego.

I wish it was so easy to shape-shift,

to make myself into something I am not.

Raven haired

green eyes instead of blue

confident

patient

courageous

enchanting.

It’s often difficult not to catalog my faults

my daily blunders

and imperfections.

The alien was my best attempt

at disclosing my true self--

a sometimes imposter--

a foreigner in my own body.

366 Days - Don't Be Tossed Away

2012-01-12T16:39:00.000-08:00

So it is very deep to be a writer. It is the deepest thing I know. And I think, if not this, nothing--it will be my way in the world for the rest of my life. I have to remember this again and again.--Natalie Goldberg

I figured I'd better check in. I mean I made this big pronouncement about writing a poem a day for 366 days (I think I said 365 but this is a Leap Year so lucky us, we've got an extra day this year) and then . . . nothing.

But it hasn't been nothing. It's been 12 days and I've written a poem every single day. And it's not easy. In fact some days it's darn near like pulling teeth. I find myself whining to myself, "What was I thinking? I have nothing to say. I can't write for shit. I can't think of a topic. Aaargh." And then, I write.

In Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg tells us, don't be tossed away. Don't let the little voices in your head sway you from your goal. Don't be tossed away. Understand your mind and don't listen when it comes up with a million excuses and insecurities. Don't fear failure or success. Just do it. Don't be tossed away.

I was already in the habit of treating my writing as an exercise. After 3 semesters at The Writer's Studio in New York I have learned that not everything (in fact most of what I write) is not precious. It's just an exercise. It's helping me learn to be a better writer. By studying writing, by reading as a writer and not as a reader, by practicing writing, I am becoming a better writer. Maybe I've used one line that will speak to me again. Maybe I turned a phrase differently and another poem will blossom later. Maybe there is simply one word I can use as a springboard on Day 244. My mantra is always, it's just an exercise. Anything else is a bonus.

Another bonus is that I've already found myself looking at the world differently. I mean, I think I've always been the kind of person who notices and appreciates the little things, but now I do so even more. I stop myself multiple times as I glide through my day and wonder, "That's interesting. How would it feel to write about it? What would my first line be? What would my last line be?" I find myself looking at my world more closely, valuing the smallest moments, welcoming a deeper acknowledgment of life and the way I choose to honor it through my writing.

And so I will keep writing so that I won't be tossed away. Here's one I thought I'd share. . . .

I Am Not This Poem

These words do not define me.

They do not even exist, really,

abandoned quickly on the page.

I you we are merely a moment

in time

in space

Carl's blue dot.

These words are a river

coursing through my universe

in a hurry to meet your horizon.

Word for the Year

2012-01-02T18:22:00.000-08:00

I've never been one who makes resolutions. I used to half-heartedly try to do it every New Year's Eve. Exercise, eat right, less drinking, more structure, blah blah blah, but by January 2nd I was already cheating and cringing every time I caught myself in the mirror. The last decade or so I stopped trying.

For the past few years I've watched from the sidelines as some of my friends have adopted a new tradition of embracing a word for the year instead. A word to live by, so to speak. I admired this idea. And still, I was fairly certain it was just a sneaky way to get me to make a resolution.

And it is. Sort of. But the idea intrigues me anyway. So this year, I'm choosing the word PRESENT, or in reality the phrase "to be present" and I'm combining it with . . . you guessed it, a resolution! I am going to write a poem a day for the entire year. I won't be sharing them here in this space, not all of them anyway, that's too much pressure. And a lot of them are going to be crap. I mean total garbage. But the point isn't so much the poem that transpires, but the new way I'll be looking at the world. To be present in the moment, in the minutia, in the everydayness of my life. To start seeing things differently. To ground myself in my present, rather than looking back at the past (with regret) or projecting into a future I can never see.

Reflecting on the smallest details.

Delighting in my surroundings.

Savoring them in a different way, as I leave a trail of poems behind me.

My friend, Allison, has agreed to do it with me. And being accountable to someone else is HUGE in my book. It will help keep me going on the days I feel like I can't pick up a pen. I'll picture her sitting in her treehouse scribbling away and I'll jump to it, even if it's the last thing I want to do because I won't want to disappoint her. And then suddenly I'll realize I don't want to disappoint me either.

I like it.

It's already January 2nd. Two poems written. Still looking myself in the eye in that mirror...

December Views 4

2011-12-05T18:41:00.001-08:00

They said it was my best pot yet...

December Views 3

2011-12-04T18:08:00.000-08:00

December Views 2

2011-12-02T13:21:00.001-08:00

December Views 1

2011-12-01T19:57:00.003-08:00

Not technically from today, but I forgot December Views was starting so it will have to do...

November 30, or The Hell?! I Have a Teenager Now

2011-11-30T18:00:00.000-08:00

I have a teenager now. Hard to believe he turned thirteen today. He begged me to let him stay home from school in order to celebrate this milestone properly and, of course, I acquiesced. We spent the morning lazing in our pajamas and then headed to NYC, our favorite spot EVER. I had the privilege of taking him on his first trip to the Guggenheim. I was excited to show him this New York landmark. I knew he would love the architectural design of the building (after all he has the Lego model!) and the unique feeling of the space itself. And I was right.

It didn't hurt that the exhibit was so fabulous--Maurizio Cattelan, an Italian artist who is renowned for his provocative art and for being a prankster. His art focuses on contradictions in society and is both humorous and incredibly profound. This exhibit itself is like nothing I have ever seen before--123 pieces hung from the ceiling on ropes, mocking the fact that many artists commit career suicide by agreeing to a retrospective of their art, possibly even asking the same question of himself. It was thought provoking and beautiful and a little bit insane. Evan loved it, and I loved that he took his time and really inspected it. We didn't rush. We walked slowly around and around the rotunda viewing the works from every angle and talking about each piece, imagining Cattelan's intent and wondering what the hell he was thinking in some cases. It was great to be able to point things out to each other or suddenly see a certain piece from a totally different angle, whether above it or below it or directly across from it at various points during our stroll.

We checked out the Pop Objects and Icons exhibit and spent a little time looking at the Kandiskys, then imagined what it would be like to live in some of the apartments overlooking the museum and watched the pigeons fly at the windows. We sifted through items in the gift shop, picked up some postcards to send ourselves to commemorate our day and then we headed out. We had lunch at Serafina, a little Italian place that I love. Their pizza is amazing and, of course we had gnocchi. I bought him BuckyCubes in the museum store so we had fun playing with them while we waited for our food. After a leisurely lunch we headed back to Port Authority and took the bus home.

I am always amazed by this kid. He is bright and articulate and thoughtful and funny and creative and kind. He thanked me a million times for letting him skip school and for bringing him to the city. I always enjoy his company and I love getting the chance to spend time with him one-on-one. He is growing up so fast. As we walked through the subway station we passed a young man in his early 20s. I stared at him as he passed and then looked over at Evan and realized how quickly he is speeding toward that next milestone. When he saw me looking over at him he raised his eyebrows in question and I said, "I just can't believe that in 1o years you will be 23 years old." He shook his head and grimaced. He has always understood how fleeting nature of life, even as a really young boy he seemed to recognize how precious and special it is. He put his arm around me, and we shook off that thought and wandered out into the sunlight together.

Happy Birthday, Evan. I am so proud to be your mother, today and every day.

One Week Out

2011-09-25T14:03:00.000-07:00

I cried my way through last Monday. HUGE hiccuping sobs that seemed to come out of nowhere even though I knew their origin exactly.

I wanted to go back. I wanted to be where I was seen and heard and felt in a way that every moment felt like home. The hours with the boys at school felt so lonely it was excruciating. The week seemed to crawl by with no amazing staff to make my meals, no teachers to guide me to create works of art, no friends by the fire at the end of the day to ask me what I'd done or how I felt. Simply back to the grind, making lunches; helping with homework; driving to soccer practice, music lessons, the orthodontist; permission slips; Parent Night; laundry; grocery shopping; the usual day to day.

But then Friday night I attended a fundraiser for Girl Power 2 Cure in Washington, D.C. and I met some amazing families who are struggling with the loss of their beautiful daughters to Rett Syndrome: little girls who were born perfectly normal, but over time lost their voices, lost the use of their legs and their hands, began having trouble eating, having seizures. They are trapped inside their own bodies with NO WAY OUT. All tests and studies indicate that they are perfectly normal, and in fact in many cases, above average in intelligence. So it seems that they are completely aware of their plight. Worst disease ever. Robbed of life before they really started.

Disappearing slowly before their parents eyes. Horrible.

.

Instantly I regained perspective. It's easy to feel lonely or angry or scared or sad when we have experienced something as wonderful and sacred as Squam. But we got to experience it. That's the beauty. There are a lot of little girls out there, like Sarah, who would give anything to be able to walk the rocky paths, swim in the lake, talk and paint with their friends by their side. And so we'll go back again, even knowing we might flounder for a while when we return home, because those moments are so precious, so tender, so joy-filled that it would be worse not to get the chance to experience them at all.

Thank you to my friends who donated their beautiful artwork and some amazing items for the auction. Thank you to my friends and family who couldn't be there but who made monetary donations for the cause. And a special thank you to my family and friends who made the trip with me to be there on Friday night and who make my life a very special place to live.

I am blessed. And I know it.

Champagne In a Tin Cup

2011-09-20T15:38:00.000-07:00

Several Squam Art Workshops ago Elizabeth and her crew put a book in our totebag. A book that chronicles the history of Rockywold-Deephaven Camps where SAW takes place. I admit, I never read it. I put it on the shelf and it sat there with lots of other books and remained unopened. But this year, someone (I’m assuming it was Elizabeth during her opening night remarks, but my memory is shot at this point so I can’t be sure) spoke of it and of the two women, Alice Mabel Bacon and Mary Alice Ford, who began the story that would lead to this camp and eventually to the experiences we all had there this week.

So I came home Sunday and read the book cover to cover. And I was blown away.

I was stilled by their story. The dedication they had to this spot, yes. But also their dedication to serving others, which they believed was essential to living our best life. I was impressed with their vision, their tireless work against prejudice, their belief in tradition and creativity. Their celebration of nature and their understanding that Squam Lake and the Rockywold-Deephaven Camp was a place where families and friends would come year after year to relax, reflect, reconnect, and rejoice. A place where nature would provide spiritual grounding. A place that would be near and dear to so many hearts for decades to come.

One line in the book jumped out at me, a way the camps have often been described, champagne in a tin cup. A place so simple yet filled with the finest bubbles--beautiful scenery, cool mountain air, a clear lake, loon song, coyote howl, warm fires, good healthy food, sturdy docks, a generous and attentive staff, solid cabin walls, stepping stone paths built by many hands a century ago. Spaces to create, to laugh, to cry, to commune, to sit in silence, to meditate, to find yourself broken open. Spaces to put yourself back together again. A place of belonging and inspiration. Frank Perkins, the camp manager during the 1980s, greeted the guests with the words “welcome to your spirit’s home”. Oh, yes, Frank, you could not have been more right.

I finished reading the book and then dug through a box to find a copy of an email I had written to Elizabeth after returning home that first year. I had explained to her that coming to SAW was not simply about the art classes, but also a stretching and pushing myself in a direction I had never gone before. Deep down I knew I would discover something about myself if I could only be brave enough to journey alone to that beautiful spot. So many people have been transformed there during the last four years. I have read beautiful blog posts and emails and letters retelling stories of shifts and changes in many lives, some small and some tsunamis of epic proportions. My own life has gone through a metamorphosis. Sometimes so painful, difficult, and emotional I would think I couldn’t take another step. But I would keep the memories of each of my SAW experiences in the forefront of my mind, remembering the way I had felt seen, heard, and accepted; felt the connectedness with nature and my fellow humans that Alice Mabel Bacon and Mary Alice Ford were intent on creating when they birthed the idea for the camp at the turn of the century--intrinsically knowing this was how I wanted to feel all the time, in every aspect of my life.

And this year in Brae Cove I felt it once again, surrounded by women who get me I was reminded of something I know in my heart: life is simple--take risks, love deeply, create beauty, serve others, respect nature, be brave. I believe there are two women, gone from this earth for many years now, who would be so proud to know Squam Art Workshops has taken up residence in their beloved camp. A place where we let out our hearts. And let go.

I think from now on I'll be drinking my champagne from a tin cup.

Providence

2011-08-15T14:42:00.000-07:00

So this is the image I will have forever in my mind when I think of Providence... I feel like it represents my journey there to visit Elizabeth. See those cracks on the sidewalk? That is the last few months of my life. Cracked. Broken. Spilling open.

And the walls on either side? Yep, got a few hundred of those built up around me, too. They're coming down. Brick by brick, stone by stone. I've begun to tear them apart and made a space to let the light in.

The light. See it there, in the background, surrounding that tree? That light.

It's the hardest work I've ever done. The most intense. Gut wrenching. Soul searching. Dark side of the moon. Blood letting. Shape shifting. Life changing. Facing down my demons. Scary scary stuff. . . .

And then Providence.

I knew I was going to end up there. We had been tossing around dates. I was supposed to head up a few weeks ago and the timing wasn't right. I thought I'd go next weekend. It wasn't clear. I didn't really have a set plan. I read Michelle's post last week during my daily blog meanderings. And a day or two later I had a complete breakdown. The kind where you end up a puddle in a strip mall parking lot talking to a couple of geese who are trapped in the little patch of grass in front of Barnes & Noble. And I knew immediately where I needed to be.

I needed to be with a woman like me. Like the one Michelle described so well. A woman who had discovered her own inner wisdom, her intuition. giving way to a clear understanding that she really does have all the support she needs – family, friends, spiritual beliefs. That she can trust.

And so I headed north to Providence and found her there; the woman who had already walked through the flames and knew just what I needed. She knew how to provide a sanctuary. A respite. Without being asked. A place where I could read and sleep and dream and talk and talk and talk and talk and walk and talk some more. Where we could eat if we wanted to--and whatever we wanted to! Nap if we wanted to. Snuggle beautiful dogs. Feel the breeze. Write. Stretch our legs. Sit in silence. Maybe take a shower. Or talk some more. Intuitive and comforting and safe.

The perfect balance of fire and water. Providence. "A safe haven for those seeking the light."

Open Heart

2011-07-03T18:50:00.000-07:00

I have a technique for discovering the real person.

It goes like this,

using a sharp instrument

make a 4-inch cut in the chest wall,

divide the muscles,

crack open the rib cage,

remove the heart.

Study it.

Memorize the valves and arteries

the aorta

ductus arteriosus

pulmonary vein

vena cava

ventricles

oxygen-rich blood.

Maybe then you will understand

what makes it tick.

Who it loves.

Why it suddenly stops

as easily as it started.

I think I will have elective

open heart surgery

to discover the real me.

Paris. Need I say more? oh happy day.

2011-06-12T19:26:00.000-07:00

www.ohhappyday.blogspot.com

Help Support the Good People of Alabama

2011-05-20T11:44:00.000-07:00

This Saturday, May 21, 2011:

My friend Jamie and her friend Jamie are launching an art auction for Alabamians affected by the Aril 27th storms.

All proceeds will be donated to the Alabama Red Cross Disaster Relief for Countless Crises. There is also the option for auction winners to have their donation to the Alabama Red Cross to be placed in memory of a specific person killed on April 27th, 2011.

Spread the word.
www.facebook.com/artforalabama

Please conitnue to keep Alabama in your prayers as many begin to heal and rebuild.

2011-04-01T11:47:00.001-07:00

The siren, she drags me to her deepest depths

and crowns me like a king

with starfish and conch shells

and the blackened teeth of ancient sharks.

Her seaweed is sharp and bitter,

though she wraps me in it

like a cherished cloak,

and anchors me tightly to her dark and murky sea.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 21

2011-03-02T20:12:00.000-08:00

Wanted

Knock. Knock. she says, holding her breath for a split second

before continuing the task of changing his diaper. Muttering, vampire,

into the waiting silence. Vampire State Building.

She laughs out loud at the absurdity of life.

One morning she could be folding laundry, watching Matt Lauer

climb the sides of Kilauea, mesmerized by fiery lava blasting a frothing sea.

Never imagining catastrophe and ash would soon rain down on her own city,

an armageddon attack turning a beloved space briefly into a war zone.

A different kind of eruption, leaving her husband cracked and spitting,

the molten shell of a man she never wanted.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 20

2011-02-26T07:32:00.000-08:00

William

so much depends

upon

a frayed rope

swing

obscured in gray

shadows

hung under the

maple

Happy 10th Birthday

2011-02-22T18:38:00.000-08:00

Dear Charlie,

I like to remind you each birthday how we worried the night you were born because it was snowing hard, and we didn’t know how we were going to get Grandma so she could watch Evan because Grandpa was stuck in a snowbank. (in his Bruno Magli shoes!) And when we were finally able to get going, we slipped and slid all the way to the hospital. And then you were ready to meet us, and I was pushing so so hard but you were sunny-side up, you wanted to come into the world face first, looking at it all, instead of looking down at the floor. But gosh darn it hurt, with your hard forehead banging my pelvis.

I cursed a lot. Sorry about that.

But I finally did it and you were out and in my arms. And despite the traumatic birth, you were so perfect looking. Such a beautiful little face. No conehead at all. Daddy and I like to say you’ve always had a hard head. You don’t give in easily, which I secretly love. You fight for what you believe in. I love that you laugh really hard and you also cry really hard. You embrace every moment of life like it was your last. That is an admirable quality, even when it drives me insane. I have learned so much from you. And that personality will get you through many tough times--it is enormous. You live your life out loud, and I know it sounds cliche, but you draw people to you like moths to a flame.

I am honored and humbled to be the person in your life you call Mom. I treasure the rest of your days and can’t wait to meet the man you become.

Happy 10th birthday, Charlie Boo.

I love you.

p.s.

Mrs. Pontrella sang it to you the other day when I brought cupcakes to school, but you know the truth, you are my sunshine.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 19

2011-02-16T19:01:00.000-08:00

All I Have to Do Is Dream

Sometimes I imagine I am still sitting

in my lemon yellow room on Alberta Avenue

dressing paper dolls in their fancy clothing--

two-dimensional Betsy McCall visits Pollyanna

under the bright lights of an imaginary Victorian circus tent

or I am slowly sifting through a shiny tin of glass buttons

letting them drop jewel-like through my fingers

as my grandmother pushes her foot down hard

on the sewing machine pedal

speeding through her stitches like a race car driver

laughing at me and my cousins,

the girls all prancing with abandon

dancing in our underwear and Nan’s fancy hats and pearly beads

to Sheb Wooley’s “Flying Purple People Eater”

and The Everley Bros. “All I Have to Do Is Dream”, side B.

Lifting the lid on that little black box

carefully, as if it were a treasure chest,

to flip the record, change the 45, push the needle back again.

Giggling while we switch positions, fall

into the beanbag cushions of each other’s laps

sure of our bodies, our nimble limbs

skin on skin, hands, feet, bellies, intertwined

unafraid of warm human touch, soft caresses,

proud of our budding breasts

and bloodless thighs.

We have not yet met the snake charmer

working at the corner store, the one with oil-stained hands,

and the sickening smell of Wild Turkey and Merit 100s on his breath.

So this weekend I ran with gazelles...

2011-02-14T11:58:00.001-08:00

Gazelle is derived from the Arabic ghazăl. Appreciated for its grace, it is a symbol most commonly associated in Arabic literature with female beauty. One of the traditional themes of Arabic love poetry involves comparing the gazelle with the beloved, and linguists theorize that ghazal, the word for love poetry in Arabic, is related to the word for gazelle.

I spent this weekend in New York with a herd of gazelles. Like seriously, hard core gazelles. These women are compassionate and thoughtful and kind and deep. They ask questions and really listen to the answers. They are grateful for their friendships. They are grateful for the blessings that have been bestowed upon them in their lives. They are equally grateful for the times they have faced difficulties and for the lessons they learned from those dark moments.

They are not afraid of growth and they embrace change, both in themselves and in the people around them.

They are not afraid to set intentions.

They are not afraid to ask for what they want.

They are not afraid to say thank you.

They embrace love and light.

It is an amazing feeling to be surrounded by strong, self-empowered women who own their beauty and confidence. I know that they haven't always and don't always feel this way. They are human and all of us struggle (daily) with our demons, our doubts, our insecurities. But this is why the herd is so important. This is why we need to carve out time with people who allow us the space to nurture the best life has to offer. To walk the streets and follow our hearts. To stop and look and listen and take pictures and read poetry and eat good food and laugh and talk and nap and and soak it all in. This is high quality self care and many women (and men) do not ever take the time to do it. But I believe that it's just as important as air and water and shelter.

This herd, well, this is a herd I am proud to be a part of. This herd is a gift I have been given. And I am so grateful for these particular winter days when I ran through the city streets with beautiful gazelles.

not my words, but i and love and you

2011-02-03T20:30:00.000-08:00

31 Winter Poems: Poem 18

2011-01-31T08:31:00.000-08:00

Dear Eve,

I need to tell you a secret.

It is of the utmost importance--

I can sense that you will understand completely.

There is something leeching out of me.

I cannot tell my family,

and I don’t think they have noticed yet.

They will only make fun of me more

than they already do. They call me Dory,

like the little blue fish in Finding Nemo.

The way something shiny distracts me from my tasks

and I veer off course without looking back

forgetting all about the wet laundry laying on the hardwood floor,

or the half-eaten meal

cold on the counter hours later,

or the car running, door open

and me tearing break-neck down the block

chasing the doe who stumbled

into our suburban neighborhood unannounced.

I am simply making sure the police don’t succeed

in using their tasers to stun her.

I know what that feels like, and it isn’t pleasant.

Believe me.

But anyway, I have deviated too far from the subject at hand

(surely more proof of the pudding).

Let me get back to this substance

that seems to be oozing out of me.

I first noticed it seeping from my scar,

which is the very reason I know you will understand me.

I believe our scars have fallen in love.

It is not clear how they met, but I have been told

they are planning an exorbitant wedding

and are contemplating naming their firstborn Moe,

which I think is an imbecilic idea.

But we have plenty of time to convince them of that.

My scar is S shaped and about six inches long.

It is a bluish-gray color, swollen and dimpled.

I try to avoid looking at it

because it reminds me of a caterpillar crawling

along my belly. I am sure at any moment

it will pop its furry head

out of my collar to tickle my chin.

I swear I’ll bite its head off when it does.

Anyway, again I digress. This green and viscous secretion,

which at first was just a trickle

around the edges of my scar,

is now beginning to gush

soaking my clothes so that I have to change them

several times a day,

not just my shirt but my underpants and sometimes even my socks

when it has begun to pool

in my favorite black boots,

the ones I got at Kmart with a coupon.

I am hoping that due, in part, to the impending nuptials

and the possibility we will be grandparents soon,

you might consider having a word with

that tiny white X on your chest, the one

right above your heart,

to see if you can find out what is causing this mysterious flow.

I am trying to contain it as long as I can

so my family won’t recognize my discomfort or even notice

the witch is back.

She is not riding her broom this time, but her cauldron

is full of hot sauce and something that looks suspiciously

like a cat with only two legs and one ear.

I am convinced you understand my fears and will do your best

to help me in my finest hour of need.

Or at the very least, maybe you can write a play

about our scars

and their fairytale beginning.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 17

2011-01-26T10:08:00.000-08:00

May the Morning Ice Melt In Time to Explore Their Present

Snow and ice abound

surrounding our homes and our hearts.

An icy landscape we can’t seem to escape.

This wintry mix

infects me

dejects me.

If you want to know the truth,

it brings me to my knees.

But the girls,

the brave ones,

they shine brighter.

I feel a melting inside

when I breathe their air

see their joy

feel their love.

I pray they feel it, too.

Winter retreating

leaving us to rejoice

in the sun.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 16

2011-01-21T13:16:00.000-08:00

Who were you in my dream?

Were you the owl flying so low over our car at dusk

or the red-tailed hawk in the tree on the lane

eager to show us how easy it is to fly?

Were you the snow-covered brook

murmuring past the house that Ira built

waiting for us to notice how ebb and flow

still smooth the stones even through the thickest ice?

Or were you that gentle curl of birch bark

lying near the path,

reminding us again how life comes full circle?

I keep asking but you don’t answer,

who were you in my dream?

31 WInter Poems: Poem 15

2011-01-16T19:08:00.000-08:00

My mother has always used religion to explain our lives,

lists of things we couldn’t do

commandments and punishments

sprinkled here and there with peculiar exaltations.

I’ve never felt like I quite measured up to their expectations--hers or God’s.

I seem to remember sitting

on the tiny wooden chairs

in my Sunday school classroom,

the accordian doors closed

protecting the pulpit from our too-loud voices.

While we made tombstones out of Playdoh

to roll away on Easter morning,

I examined the paintings of Jesus

staring down from the walls around me--

wondering how it was possible

that I could have been made in the image of God.

Feeling not so much like a photocopy

but instead like a fax of a fax,

so that even the outline is an approximation.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 14

2011-01-14T21:00:00.000-08:00

Samantha

Julianna

Abby

Cristina

Ava

Raquel

Courtney

and me.

Brave Girls, all of us.

Showing up to prove we belong.

At least that's why I'm going to be there.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 13

2011-01-13T20:07:00.000-08:00

Screw It

i'm thinking right now

might be a perfectly good time

to say screw it

for telling myself

that I am doing it wrong.

i'm thinking it's time

to make up my own rules

and my own shades of brave.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 12

2011-01-12T19:22:00.000-08:00

photo credit: pixomar

desire

sometimes I can feel the ferocious woman pulsing inside me

waking wild eyed from sleep

to face a brand-new day

ready to explore winding roads that line the earth,

wearing corduroys and cowboy boots,

saving conversation for strangers on diner stools

dancing fearlessly in a crowd of revelers,

strobe lights glittering above me while I move in slow motion,

never tiring of the buzz and the beat

diving into the ocean,

swimming deeper past fish and coral and sunken ships,

remembering every sacred breath I have taken.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 11 and 1/2

2011-01-11T17:53:00.000-08:00

Like a marble window, the mountain devours my secret. No memory of my reflection.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 11

2011-01-11T14:16:00.000-08:00

Inspired by the lovely Stef and what comes out of magnetic poetry:

The sun sets upon the ocean like a perfect slice of red velvet cake. Delicious.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 10

2011-01-10T19:55:00.000-08:00

For Katie and Jesus

Here is evidence they existed:

the tilt of his head

her black-and-white dress

a red necktie

40 pairs of high-heeled shoes

love notes from a piano bar

a glass of champagne

a room doused with gasoline

ardor engulfed in flame.

Lives extinguished

and only love remains.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 9

2011-01-09T18:31:00.000-08:00

Shultis Farm Road

only whiteness in front of us,

directionless

expectations at the end of the unknown path

senza parole

suddenly the road opens before us,

unkept perfection

speaking across seasons

no barriers,

untouched by reason,

constantly flowing

the eyes do what they can

embarking on a journey

cosa vuoi che sia?

clearing,

unburdening assumptions

31 Winter Poems: Poem 7 (and 8)

2011-01-08T09:14:00.000-08:00

I am a silvery strand of web

spinning in the sunlight high up in the tree.

I am the bright red wing of the bird perched before flight.

I am the tall strong branches of the oak

bending slightly in the breeze.

And the acorn that has fallen to the ground below.

I am the orange impatiens bowing toward

the earth in prayer.

I am all of these things and more.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 6

2011-01-06T19:04:00.000-08:00

I'm all out of words.

They must have slunk away

while I was dancing for a mermaid

who was born on this day.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 5

2011-01-05T13:30:00.000-08:00

photo credit: Michelle Meiklejohn
A blueberry bush for a tombstone would have been more appropriate for Mary

than the silent, somber slab that sits above the place where her head must lie.

Something catches inside me when I stop to imagine her there, suffocating under acres

of thick brown dirt--the only other covering for her bones, some thin, brown grass.

I prefer to remember her as she was, kneeling gently beside me,

picking wild blueberries on the path that led to the dock

where her small boat roosted and rocked with the tides.

Always, she showed me that it was best to eat the bluest berries

right then and there, saving the sour globes

for the pancakes and muffins we would bake together later,

silently telling me it was alright to take what we want

and protect ourselves from the rest.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 4

2011-01-04T09:54:00.001-08:00

self portrait by: mccabe russell

Dear Diary,

Why did Cinderella bend to the will of her wicked stepsisters?

What made Snow White eat the poison apple?

Why didn't they simply say, "NO!"

Then again, why didn't I?

Maybe what we accept

gives us the backbones for our story,

even when it's wretched.

Sincerely,

31 Winter Poems: Poem 3

2011-01-03T14:41:00.000-08:00

Sisters

I stare at their faces in the photograph.

Two young girls,

so much alike they could be twins,

standing on either side of their father.

Pressed white dresses with

shoulders starched like tiny wings.

He sits, arms crossed, on a wooden chair

dragged from its usual spot at the table

to this place beneath the rose trellis.

When I peer into this garden scene

my body is flooded with sadness

at the loss between them, its weight

shadowing their eyes

their downturned lips

his lazy smirk.

A mother

a wife

somewhere in the world

too tired, too broken, too ashamed

to stay.

Her departure already shaping them.

I imagine the way they must

vigilantly listen for her voice.

Darning their socks, shining his shoes,

washing her red enamel cup again and again.

Their unknowable future blooming before them.

31 Winter Poems: Poem 2

2011-01-02T07:17:00.000-08:00

the cold hard shovel

rears it’s ugly head

breaking the snowy landscape

31 Winter Poems: Poem 1

2011-01-01T06:03:00.000-08:00

First Since 1638

Moon

a serious red

eerie and bright

on your descending node

bring me

your warrior’s light

and a brave heart

Where the Spirit Meets the Bone

2010-12-16T12:55:00.000-08:00

It was over dinner,

certainly red wine, a simple risotto.

You were talking to me

about your father’s tears

how they spill so easily

and the reason why,

empty shoes lying next to a well,

a memory of tired summer grass

and I was looking past you

at the jade plant on your windowsill in a pot

next to the basket holding three oranges,

an avocado overripe in it’s skin.

The evening sky

beyond a complicated tangle of stems and leaves.

While you were talking,

pouring wine, explaining

I thought only of what lies beneath

the connective tissues, the muscles and tendons,

a blackness deep below our naked nerve endings.

The place where we all remain untouched.

Even after I have forgotten

the bark of your black dog

my middle name

what month or day it is,

I will carry in my mind

the vein of this particular conversation

a thread, connecting us to each other,

to your father and his suffering,

an echo from that deep hole,

to the place where the spirit meets the bone.

Intentions

2010-12-02T10:15:00.000-08:00

Intention; [in-ten-shuhn] –noun 1. an act or instance of determining mentally upon some action or result. 2. the end or object intended; purpose.

Some of you know a little bit of my story, some of you know a lot, others none at all, but today I want to share with you my intention. I’ve learned a lot the past few years about the power of intention and the possibilities that exist for all of us within the universe if we envision what we want for ourselves.

When I was a girl I knew I wanted to grow up to be an artist and a writer. I was sure of it. There would be no stopping me. But somehow along the way I began to doubt myself. Like many girls, I began to think that art was a hobby, not a career. I would only be wasting my time if I pursued such a silly dream. And so I quit. Cold turkey. I put my completed portfolio in a closet, tossed out the art school brochures and applications, and stopped taking classes. I barely even doodled.

But I couldn’t put my desire to rest forever, and so after I had my children I began to create again. I took classes at the local adult school, at the museum in the next town, and eventually ended up in New Hampshire, nestled by a lake with over 100 other women who felt led in the same direction. And my world opened up again. It wasn’t too late!

Over the last three years I have continued to feel led, almost as if someone I couldn’t see was ahead of me on the path dropping breadcrumbs. I began playing with different mediums and collecting supplies. I read articles and magazines and books and blogs for inspiration. I started making jewelry and began to sell it. I made small gifts for family and friends that I created with my own hands. I began painting and drawing again. A sense of confidence and belonging began to slowly creep back in to my psyche. I was being led somewhere for sure, although I still couldn’t figure out exactly where. Little things happened that didn’t quite add up--a conversation with a stranger on a bench, a poem that cracked me open, an essay that made me understand who I am and made me cry for the girl I was, a chance meeting on an airplane, an amazing friend who listened without an ounce of judgment--all of these things and a million other small moments began to pile up. And then, in October, a mermaid crossed my path and suddenly I knew. I knew without a doubt.

Art classes for young girls. A space where they could be free and play and express themselves. A magical place where they could be bold and brave while they draw and paint and write. Talk if they want to talk or not speak at all. Have fun. Wear tutus. And wings. Hula hoop. Take pictures of themselves. Take pictures of each other. See their beauty. Dance. Get the opportunity to watch women creating in their studios or homes. Understand that art is real and worthwhile and it can change lives and take them places they never imagined.

And so Brave Girls Art is my intention. My friends Ruth and Andrew are “lending” me their amazing studio. And hopefully some families will lend me their girls every Saturday morning for an hour or two. We’ll paint and draw and and listen to good music and make mistakes and create the lives we want for ourselves. I’ll teach them all I know, but in the end I think they’ll teach me, too. We’ll empower each other.

So I’m laying out my intention here for you in hopes that you’ll send me some good vibes. Or maybe a great idea or two. I’m telling you this because I’m a little afraid (and, of course, brave girls admit when they are afraid) and I know you’ll encourage me. I’m telling you this in case you are cleaning out your closet or your kid’s room or your studio and you find something you think I could use for a project. I’m telling you this because if you are an artist or a writer (and lots of you are!) you might want to make a video for these girls to watch--maybe one of you creating art in your own space--or write them a letter or send them a secret message. I’m telling you this because, honestly, I’m usually really quiet about my endeavors. I’m afraid of failing, and I don’t always believe in myself--but this time I’m writing down my intentions and asking you to hold me accountable and encourage me. I’m telling you this because I’m almost 42 years old and I am finally realizing I am an artist and I am a writer and I am an emotional creature.

And I love, hear me,

love love love

being a girl.

A brave girl.

Classes start in January and you can follow us at www.bravegirlsart.blogspot.com

For Nella, on Pax's 8th Birthday

2010-05-21T03:15:00.000-07:00

birth day

a rite of passage
if you are one of the lucky ones,
cake and streamers
a balloon
some ice cream
new shoes
a party dress and dancing,
a celebration.

if you are luckier still
someday,
something new.
And the one who lay
curled beneath your heart
swimming in a salty sea
arrives.
Suddenly
the earth turns
and you are born again.

5/21/2010

My gravitational pull

2010-05-18T07:24:00.000-07:00

I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.

I want to free what waits within me

so that what no one has dared to wish for

may for once spring clear

without my contriving.

If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,

but this is what I need to say.

May what I do flow from me like a river,

no forcing and no holding back,

the way it is with children.

Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,

these deepening tides moving out, returning,

I will sing to you as no one ever has,

streaming through widening channels

into the open sea.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~

Tsunami

2010-05-16T18:47:00.000-07:00

I can feel a storm rising inside of me.
It's forming slowly
cresting very far out at sea,
waiting for the right moment to unleash itself.
I wonder if it will be like the tsunami in Thailand
when the people on the beaches were completely unaware
that in a split second the sea would rush away,
leaving boats stranded
and fish flopping helplessly on the sand
eyes bulging, mouths gaping open and closed;
bits of flotsam and jetsam
exposed in the bright sunlight.
And then suddenly, a wall of black water
slamming back against the shore.
A storm no one saw coming.

Chicken Little

2010-05-12T11:54:00.000-07:00

Ever since happiness heard your name, It has been running through the streets trying to find you. --Hafiz

Do we seek happiness or does it seek us? Interesting question and one that I like to ponder once in a while. Some people seem to live with a black cloud perpetually over their heads. It seems like bad “stuff” happens to the same people over and over again. They get sick, they lose their jobs, their homes get robbed, their children get sick, their houses fall apart. I’m not saying that some of these things don’t happen to all of us at times, but I’ve noticed that I have friends or family members who have an inordinate amount of bad luck. And it makes me wonder, do they live with the intention of being happy and these things just occur anyway, or do they live waiting for the sky to fall and so, in some way, bring it down around their ears? In other words, do we somehow reap what we sow? Do some people just have bad karma, whereby the individual is considered to be the sole doer and enjoyer of his karmas and their “fruits.” Or rotten fruits, whichever the case may be?

And how does innate happiness play a role? Are some of us predisposed to be happy souls, and therefore bring about cheerful, good things to our lives, while others are generally unhappy and unfulfilled and then somehow bring about the negative? And can we change this for ourselves? Can we become happy and bring about better luck? I know of a local woman who was fairly generally known to be a negative person. She wasn’t really approachable, had few friends, was looked at by others as “snobby,” but always said it was because she was shy. But her few friends even said she was a complainer and a bleak spirit--always looking at that glass as half-empty and exuding quite a bit of negative energy.

She was diagnosed with breast cancer a few years ago. She beat it, but nothing really changed. She still carried that negative energy with her. A few months ago she was diagnosed with brain cancer--inoperable, death-impending brain cancer. She found a man, a sort of guru, who began helping her change her energy. She started to see how the negativity was draining her of experiencing life in a healthy way, and she decided she didn’t want the time she had left to be so gloomy. So she adjusted her attitude and began to live her life in a grateful manner all the time. She made a conscious effort to be happy. The doctors cannot explain it, but her tumors are shrinking and the cancer is heading for the shadows. It’s not gone, and she still may have limited time, but amazing, good things are happening in her life. Could it simply be due to her attitude adjustment?

I have always loved the story of Chicken Little. The sky is constantly getting ready to rain down on her. She just cannot see how it could stay pinned up where it belongs, around the clouds and sun and moon. Disaster is constantly imminent. In the end, Chicken Little realizes it takes courage to live without fear. It takes courage to choose to be happy, even in the face of disaster that befalls us all sometimes.

It takes courage to make yourself happy, to stop running through the streets ignoring the sound of your name. . . .

things i've seen this month (so far) . . . .

2010-05-10T09:53:00.000-07:00

1. red red tomatoes and green basil

2. a blue heron next to a rainbow in a fountain

3. two hawk's riding the current in two different skies

4. my best friend's smile

5. a night sky so blue it didn't look real

6. the brightest yellow goldfinches on my feeder

7. the movie Babies (which was adorable, inspiring, and comforting)

8. wind blowing the tree branches until I thought they'd break, but they held fast

9. my child's tears

10. sombreros

What makes a mama?

2010-05-09T12:26:00.001-07:00

Dear Italy,

2010-05-05T07:17:00.000-07:00

It hasn’t been that long since I last saw you. Not even a full year yet. But I felt the need to tell you today how much I miss you. I feel the need quite often, actually. Nearly every day. But today is the day I have chosen to write you a love letter. I am hoping you might hear me more clearly this way.

Yesterday, I read my journal entries from when we were last together. And the day before that I watched a slideshow of the photos I took of you. You look even better than I remembered. The evening sunlight in those few from the Residensa della Signoria in Florence? Those are hot. I mean you look amazing--despite what those silly boys said about you. What do they know? They're only kids. Someday they’ll appreciate you the way I do.

Tomorrow I may take out my suitcase and try to see if I can catch your scent, which would be impossible with all the trips which have come between. But maybe, buried down in the corner somewhere, I can get a whiff of the peaches from Tony's garden, or the smell of the sea in Roseto. Just a tiny bit to keep my heart from bursting with missing you.

I'm sure everyone who has met you says they love you most, but I hope you know I am the one who truly does. They can say all they want, and I know it's not really a contest or anything (but I'm still the winner).

Did I tell you I'm learning to speak your language? It's not easy. I mean, no one said it was going to be, but I'm no spring chicken and we all know it would be a lot easier if my brain was still a sponge like my kid's. But I'm determined not to come back until I can tell you in your own words that my storia d'amore with you is endless.

Arrivederci a presto, Italia!

Those feelings the full moon brings...

2010-04-27T17:31:00.000-07:00

feeling hollow

the waxy chocolate Easter rabbit
a colorful spring package
wrapped in cellophane.
thrilling
until you bite off the ears
realize it's empty
tasteless
bland;
a closed body
containing only space and air
not the sweet confection
you imagined

when you held it in your hands.

Breaking the Silence

2010-04-26T14:44:00.000-07:00

It seems I took an unintentional/intentional break from blogging. I had been thinking about it. Wondering if I could do it. No writing, no reading, no catching up and wasting time linking and linking the day away, albeit under the guise of "inspiration". But I hadn't actually committed to the idea, when it just happened. I stopped cold turkey.

It's been almost a month and it's been strange. For sure I missed the writing part. I don't love the pressure of coming up with the idea of what to post, but I love the craft of writing and the personal expression. And, of course, I missed not knowing what was going on in my little blogging world. But I didn't give up all forms of social media, so I kept abreast of what most of my friends were up to, and I realized that the rest of it, well it's just gravy. And the world spins madly on, whether I read about it or not. There's plenty of places to find inspiration, including watching the waves roll in again and again on the shores of Miami Beach during a quick, spur-of the-moment girl's weekend or in the branches of the 100-something year old oak tree in my backyard.

And I realized that it's in these quiet moments that I can think my best thoughts. That I need time and space to formulate an idea and I need to give myself the gift of breathing room and that I need to make time to ruminate and write. I realized I like journaling more than I ever thought I did and that my blog is a different kind of journal, but an important record of my feelings and thoughts and writing.

And so I'll be showing up here again. And reading blogs again, but not as frequently. I need to look inward more often for my inspiration. I need to know that I am good enough, that my words are good enough. For me.

Check out this giveaway: HURRY!

2010-03-30T05:02:00.000-07:00

Found this beautiful artist through Pixie, an amazing spirit herself! Enter to win some really lovely jewels. Go now!

http://stonespirit-izzy.blogspot.com/2010/03/march-giveaway-ok-so-im-late.html

Where will it take me?

2010-03-25T18:37:00.000-07:00

I have a serious love affair with travel. I mean, I ADORE the smell of the airport. I like the plastic molded chairs in the waiting area. I actually don't mind taking off my shoes and putting all my stuff in a plastic bin and standing in line and tossing my half-empty water bottle that I just paid $4 for in the garbage and delays and lost luggage. All those little hassles. It all means I'm going somewhere. I'm seeing something new. Or something I've seen before, (although I prefer new) but either way, it's an adventure. A new road traveled. New people to meet. Amazing scenery. An open road. A meal I've never tasted. A bed I've never slept in. An experience like no other.

I swear, I could be a nomad. I looked it up. Traditionally nomadic behavior is increasingly rare in industrialized countries. Nomadic cultures are split into three categories; hunter/gatherers, pastoral, and peripatetic nomads.

Now let's face it, I enjoy my fruits and vegetables from the co-op share I participate in; but I don't want to gather the seasonally available wild plants and game, even if it is by far the oldest human subsistence method.

And there aren't a whole lot of sheep or cows in Nutley, so the pastoralist type doesn't seem to be my gig. Although it does sound peaceful. All those hours spent alone, outdoors, just you and your thoughts. But then the rainy, cold days would be awful. And I don't really like sheep or cows or the way they smell.

But peripatetic nomads--the ones who offer the skills of a craft or a trade to those they travel among, well that just may be me. I mean, it's not like I know what I would offer.... Maybe just a laugh and a story and sharing a glass of wine with you. Or using a crayon to color in your coloring book. Or holding your baby while you fold your laundry. Or making you some granola so you have a decent breakfast. Or listening to your story because I know you need to tell it.

But peripatetic, that's me. I could pack a bag and just go. I want to buy an RV and jump in without a map and see where it takes me. I want to experience it all. Just hit the gas with arms and heart wide open and go. REALLY go. It's a big world out there.

Where will it take me?

Female Blogger: Needs Inspiration

2010-03-17T19:38:00.000-07:00

Help! I've begun to realize that I spend more time reading in the blogosphere than writing. And I always begin reading with the thought that it will inspire me to write my own post, but by the time I'm finished reading, I'm too tired, cranky, over-inspired, sure that I'm not as good, etc. etc. and I give up before writing a word. Last month my poetry experiment helped because I had a goal and some sort of deadline, and even though I didn't stick to it exactly, it was helpful. I'm a deadline kind of girl. I need to be pinned to a wall and staring at the clock, racing it to the final moment with that panicked breathiness and fear that I will not make it in order to complete a task. Phew. That is not great for blogging. I get caught up in the what should I write about, I don't have a photo, I can't get the words right, my life is boring kind of gremlins and then I don't write anything. I need a little inspiration. I need someone to give me some tips. How do you do it? How do you decide what to write about? What makes you sit down and write? What makes you come back to the keyboard and JUST DO IT?

Tattoo Me

2010-03-09T07:32:00.001-08:00

Regarde mon beau tattoo, originally uploaded by Benoit.P.

Sailors had ink beneath their skin
so loved ones would recognize
their bloated sea torn bodies
long after they had drowned.

Nazis used ink to identify
their prisoners, grotesque numbers
meant to help them forget
Jews were human, too.

Tribal groups choose ink
for magical qualities,
believing in the power
of protection over charm.

Status, rank, devotion,
fertility, love, punishment.
Cosmetic, sentimental.
Amulets and talismans.

I want a tattoo for bravery;
a clear message to prove
that my invisible ink
has finally been erased.

One for March

2010-03-02T14:35:00.000-08:00

Dreams

give way to morning light,

plain and gray.

Tender rain waits.

Like a pain, ancient and ghostly,

it drums against the glass.

Grief rises like a delicate perfume

but in this sweet darkness

I let myself go.

A Poem a Day

2010-02-28T18:49:00.000-08:00

A poem a day was a tall order
too tall, really.
The burden of proof was heavy
especially for a budding wordsmith,
whose skills are rusty
who has too many blank pages between then and now.

But a poem a day is easy
for the secret woman I am inside.
The woman who lives in the tiny apartment
above the Florentine plaza,
where the afternoon sun settles
in the loveliest spot
and she writes, uninterrupted,
until it is time to walk downstairs,
ask the woman in the café below
for a bottle of wine,
some cheese and prosciutto.

She sits still and silent,
letting her eyes rest
on the men and women passing her table.
She imagines the places they live,
the jobs they love or hate,
how their bodies look in various stages of undress,
what they whisper to their mothers,
children, landlords, lovers
at the end of the day.

A poem a day was too difficult here.
But the secret woman I am inside,
well, she memorizes the stories of strangers
while she eats her supper,
chews her words carefully
turning them over and over in her mouth,
taking the time to get the sounds just right
before she returns upstairs
to sleep.

A Jubilant Countdown

2010-02-23T04:25:00.000-08:00

If I was to choose
one moment in time
from these first nine years
then I would tell of how I loved you in Italy
where you clamored for more gelato,
a better seat on the bus,
breakfast of bacon,
one more minute to swim in the Adriatic Sea.
In Pisa,
where you beat your chest à la Johnny Weissmuller
and Buster Crabbes,
there was no mistaking
your intent.
Like a gusty wind pushing through the clothes,
your howl conveyed what you had stubbornly decided—
your opinions were clear.

Here is the truth
your rage makes me love you more.
You are alive with a fire for this world,
a flame I smothered in my own heart
long before you were born.
But on the ancient streets of Rome and Florence
you veraciously taught me
how to ignite it again.

Day 22

2010-02-22T15:33:00.000-08:00

come into my cell
make yourself at home
slip through the bars,
dark and rusty
try not to snag your dress
on that sharp steel
that barbed wire there
shake loose your freedom
lean close and look
for a sliver of moon
outside my dusty window

The Circus

2010-02-21T17:39:00.000-08:00

I remember an ear infection
when I was fifteen or so,
pain so terrible I whimpered
first
then gnashed my teeth
screamed
then screeched
like a wild thing.
I lay stretched out in the back seat
sure I wouldn’t make it
one mile further
sure I would lose my hearing
my outer ear no longer vibrating
no longer sending sounds
the nerve endings stretched to their absolute limits
my balance compromised,
turning my life upside down
until the prick of a needle
drained the pain into a cup.
life is like this
bringing us to the brink
again and again
forcing us to be acrobats
taking us to dizzying heights
spinning us
around and around
until we find ourselves standing on solid ground
once again.

Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T05:50:00.000-08:00

Sometimes this is love

as simple as a pancake

saying so much more

Flood

2010-02-13T14:31:00.000-08:00

How did Noah’s wife feel
after the flood?
The waters abated
puddles of mud left in their wake.
All of those animals
must have needed tending;
must have been hungry, thirsty, filthy,
with their braying and screeching,
kicking and shitting
wedged tight in that vessel.
When was the last time she had slept?

I imagine her spirits were buoyed
when the rains ceased,
when the dove returned
with the olive leaf held in its beak.
At her first glimpse of land
was she desperate to escape,
tearing at her clothes,
muttering to herself
not nearly as proud of her righteous husband
as she had been a year before
when god chose him
and sealed her fate, too.

One More on Day 11

2010-02-11T16:16:00.001-08:00

snow showers at night
branches of bamboo bent low
forcing us to slow

Migration

2010-02-11T14:58:00.001-08:00

[Damn. Snow days. Made me miss a day. Oh, well. This one was a little bit of fun!]

From near the water's edge, I watch
a boy digging a hole in the sand.
Slowly, methodically
he shovels and scoops,
tossing some by the handful
over his shoulder.
I step closer.

The hole is wide and deep
and filled with salty water.
A whale hides near the bottom.
I ask the boy if I may dive in,
have a word with the whale.
He says it's okay with him
if I do.

The water is colder than I expected.
And the whale refuses
to answer my questions.
Silently swimming in circles
simply watching me
tread water,
until my arms are too tired to go on.

Day 9

2010-02-09T11:53:00.000-08:00

Like a souffle, his smile collapsed.
He suddenly understood what she had been trying to say.
Her voice was so slight
And her gestures so flustered.
It took him nearly a year
To realize she was leaving.
In fact, she was already gone.

A Few of My Failures

2010-02-08T06:31:00.000-08:00

Soccer, my dad was a coach and my sister a natural athlete; I had two

left feet and didn’t make the team.
And math word problems were so confusing. Mr. DeMarco always had

spittle in the corners of his mouth. I couldn’t concentrate

on all those numbers.
And being Laura’s friend. She was smarter than me, but shy and quiet.
I made Russell Nelson moon her on the playground at lunchtime and then
I never spoke to her again.
And keeping a diary, although I loved that little book with its Holly Hobbie
cover and tiny lock and key, I only wrote six entries the first year
and two the next. All the other pages are blank,
but I wrote about loving Ted Trainor. He rode his moped to my house

after school. He wrote me poems and cried when I broke his heart,

too afraid to tell him what was happening to me.
And having faith only meant that I liked singing the hymns
and the quiet rhythm of sitting and standing and sitting again.
But I couldn’t believe Jonah was able to breathe in the belly of that whale,
or that someone would choose to die for my nameless sins
thousands of years before I was born.
Then there were those babies; four of them, dead before fourteen weeks.
Scraping and scooping the lining of my uterus

in the sterile operating room
was not the same as eulogizing their lives,

standing next to an open grave.

Suddenly Everything Makes Sense*

2010-02-07T16:18:00.000-08:00

Around 1988 I’m working as a waitress at a German restaurant on July 4th. The chef gets angry and walks out in the middle of dinner service. We are all panicking. I want to walk out, too, but we apologize to the customers and watch the fireworks over New York City from the picture window.

Around 1971 we live on Alberta Avenue next door to the Ruhf family. Ricky and his brothers have a secret clubhouse in the woods nearby. I like to spy on them. They accidentally burn it down with a cigarette they aren’t supposed to be smoking. I long for a big brother just like Ricky.

Around 1978 I find a sand dollar on the beach in Sea Bright. It’s late winter and much too cold to swim. We live in a tiny rental house on Ocean Avenue. We call it the cracker box. Mrs. Rooney lives next door and sells hot dogs from a Sabrett cart. I think the tiny bird-like shells inside the sand dollar are heartbreakingly beautiful.

Around 1985 I spend the summer taking care of another family’s children. Their mother, Meg, has breast cancer and loses her hair after chemotherapy treatments. My friend Michael mows their lawn and we play Wiffle ball with the girls. I make cheese sandwiches every day. A few years later Meg and Michael are dead.

Around 1975 my sister is dancing on the side of the tub while we are taking a bath. I tell her to stop or she will get hurt. She slips and knocks herself unconscious. She is drowning. My father does mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on the small pink carpet. He saves her life. I cry myself to sleep that night.

Around 1982 we drive to Virginia to stay with my grandparents. My dad plays Kenny Rogers on the eight-track player all the way there. I sit in the front seat so my sister and I won’t fight. I know all the words to "The Gambler".

Around 1976 my parents give us a tape recorder for Christmas. It has been recording our voices while we open our presents. When we play it back later my mother is screaming because I have opened the only gift she gets that year—a dress she doesn’t really like.

Around 1987 I shoplift shampoo and a lipstick from the Five and Dime. I carry it out in the front pocket of my raincoat. The sun is shining.

Around 1983 my cousin tells me my grandfather is an alcoholic. We are playing hide-and-go-seek. Suddenly everything makes sense.

Around 1978 my grandmother sits next to me on the bed and gives me Saltines and a cherry pop. I have a high fever and I am delirious. Her cool hand on my forehead and soft murmurings make me feel safer than I have ever felt in my life.

(*homage to Terence Winch and Deborah Harding, and many others I'm sure)

No time yesterday, 2 haiku for today

2010-02-05T11:10:00.000-08:00

dark river water
floating with pale jellyfish
two girls on a raft

on a cold winter night
take leave of inhibitions
she watches me dance

February 3

2010-02-03T19:30:00.000-08:00

He filled the tall glass again
with amber-colored liquid, tipped
back his head and drank
so quickly, I don't think
he could have swallowed.

I watched him swipe
the back of his hand across
his wet lips, and turn
unsteadily, toward me
his half-focused eyes staring
at the tiny patches of my bikini.

Reaching into his breast pocket,
"Here," he said, "go get yourself a cherry cola."
And so I ran barefoot
across the gravel lot,
knowing even at this early hour
the cold glass bottle would soothe me.

I drank it, slowly
watching the pigs,
rooting in the muck oblivious to me there,
peering through the slats
listening to the distant sound
of a combine in the field nearby.

Years later, we sat side by side
his sallow skin and rail thin thighs
next to mine, rocking
the porch swing slowly in the midday heat.
Reaching into his breast pocket,
"Here," he said, "you're a good girl."

And I knew my silence had soothed him.

*disclaimer

2010-02-02T14:15:00.001-08:00

* I should have said this earlier, before I began this monthlong exercise, before I set my first poem before you, but here's the thing: I'm enthusiastic about this project, yet I'm more than a little scared that it will be too hard or that sometime in the middle of it, I'll get a bad case of nerves and forget my lines and the gong will sound and that will be the end of my experiment. But I'm going to try to write a poem a day for the month of February. Some of them may be okay and some of them may be terrible. None of them will be completely finished because I might not know much, but I do know that good poetry requires tireless revision and so what I write here is only the beginning of my process. It is only the first place I will write these lines, what happens to them next remains to be seen. But I am giving myself permission to write poetry, to try to write every day, and most of all to have fun.

And so begins Day 2.

The Largest Organ

My skin is just a layer
that protects organs and bones,
mere millimeters thick.
An insulator.
A regulator.
A communicator.
One glance at my ectodermal tissue
and even a stranger can easily tell
if I am well or sick,
afraid or embarrassed,
ugly or attractive.
But am I comfortable in this skin?
No one else may be able to see it
but the scar tissue is ropey and thick,
a furious red,
discolored and depigmented.
It wasn't a pot of scalding water
or a fire igniting the house around me,
but a slow burn
moving inch by inch
blanketing thousands of nerve endings
until I could feel
nothing.

Day 1

2010-02-01T14:09:00.000-08:00

Envisioning what to write,
how to fill up a page,
the perfect words to expel,
which story i will choose to tell;
i ponder the minutiae of my daily existence.

No one cares about my piles of dirty laundry or the groceries i didn't buy,
or the painting i didn't paint and the dishes piling up in my sink.
No one cares about the noses i wiped
the floors i swept
the bills i paid
my walk to the park with the dog
or the mail piling up on my desk,
tipping precariously near the edge,
daring me to add one more envelope.

No one cares about the clouds in my sky
the peach-colored glow I admired,
those silky purple undertones
and the darkest hints of gray where rain must have been collecting.

No one cares to hear the song
i have played over and over again
until it’s words became my mantra,
Say you’ll wait, say you won’t
Say you love me, say you don’t
I can make my own mistakes*

Not even i care.

But what i have come to realize
is that maybe
somehow
picking up my pen
and putting all of this down in black and white
will remind someone
that it is these simple things
which band us all together.

We are not alone.

* lyrics from Before It Breaks, Brandi Carlile

pink, to chase away the winter blues

2010-01-26T18:37:00.001-08:00

after a long day sitting in a gray drab courthouse, doing my civic duty as a juror, i thought it would be fun to play along with Liz and put a little pink in my world...one from the archives (cause you can't bring a camera to court!!)

Stretching

2010-01-23T11:33:00.000-08:00

I can't believe how quiet I've been here this month. Maybe it's because I participated in Nablapomo this year. And then December Views (a spottier record, but still an effort) and then January rolled around and the new year left me feeling still and silent and I haven't been able to find my voice.

I've been reading. A lot. More than I have in a long time (other than blogs, that is). I read this. Which left me heartbroken and feeling a bit helpless in the face of so much pain. And I'm reading this and this simultaneously, because something about reading a novel and short stories at the same time feels right to me. And in between I am reading this, for inspiration.

And when all the books are done, I'm thinking about trying to write a poem every day for the month of February. No pressure, just an attempt at stretching my creative wings in a different direction. Seeing where the road leads...

Speechless

2010-01-13T14:39:00.001-08:00

2010 has left me quite speechless so far. Can't come up with the words I want to speak, here or anywhere. But a painting I worked on yesterday and this beautiful bird of prey I was watching from my yard today brought forth these words, so I'll leave them ... for now.

We may never know what made Robert Book
take out his microscope to stare intently at a piece of cork.
But I am fascinated by his clear impression,
his comparison to a monk’s spare cell
and I wonder
how those thin walls create such a barrier
against external forces.
How those same thin walls prevent my cells
from expanding
from bursting.
I can only wish that someone
within my long ancestral chain
had made such a discovery,
left me the genetic code--
a way to place my fragile heart
into such a rigid envelope.

Day 27, Another Year Over

2009-12-27T03:49:00.001-08:00

Day 25, Merry Christmas

2009-12-25T06:39:00.000-08:00

Christmas, circa 1972

That's me on the floor in the red dress.
I loved that red dress. It was velvet and bright red.

May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmas wishes come true!

Day 24, Christmas Eve

2009-12-24T18:12:00.000-08:00

Day 23 A Look Back

2009-12-23T13:58:00.000-08:00

The holidays are hard. It's not easy to make everyone happy. There is too much pressure to make it perfect. Too much stress and not enough time. Too much of everything. I feel like I'm barely keeping it together, ready to burst into tears or run for the hills at any moment. I want my kids to experience the magic I remember from childhood. I'm sure my parents must have been under the same kind of pressure, but they made it look easy.

I never knew.

I hope my kids don't see the cracks. I hope they remember the miracles. I'll take a minute here and now to remember the best moments from this year. The ones that make me smile the hardest. The ones that help me keep it together for just a minute longer....

Merry Christmas to you all and may 2010 be as bright and shiny as a new penny!

Day 21, Morning Sky

2009-12-21T09:14:00.000-08:00

I live my life in growing orbits,
which move out from the things of this world.
Perhaps I can never achieve the last,
but that will be my attempt.
I am circling around God, around the ancient tower,
and I have been circling for a thousand years.
And I still don't know if I am a falcon,
or a storm, or a great song.

--Rainer Maria Rilke (tr. Robert Bly)

Day 20

2009-12-20T12:47:00.000-08:00

Day 19

2009-12-19T09:15:00.000-08:00

Impatiently waiting . . . .

Day 18

2009-12-18T10:59:00.000-08:00

1 week until the old man arrives . . . the stockings are hung by the chimney with care and two little boys had better beware! Best behavior!!!

Day 17: The Light of Friendship

2009-12-17T07:16:00.000-08:00

I joined this challenge today. A photo from the archives and gratitude for the friendships that sustain me. . .

" Light and darkness. Darkness makes us feel that we are nothing and can do nothing, that we are useless. Light makes us feel that we are everything, that we can do everything, that we can become everything. " --Sri Chinmoy

December Views, 12

2009-12-12T10:53:00.000-08:00

HOLIDOG

December Views, 9

2009-12-09T05:07:00.000-08:00

Lunch with a friend = $16
Parking and coffee in Montclair = $10
Seeing the world through her eyes = priceless

Day 8

2009-12-08T05:26:00.000-08:00

Day 7

2009-12-07T09:40:00.001-08:00

The New York Botanical Gardens Holiday Train Show
my favorite thing to do every year to get in the holiday spirit

Now in its seventeenth year, visitors to the Holiday Train Show get a birds-eye view of nearly 150 miniaturized five borough landmarks (including the Statue of Liberty, Grand Central Terminal, St. Patrick's Cathedral, and the Bronx's own Yankee Stadium) that are brilliantly recreated entirely from natural materials like twigs, seeds, tree bark, and berries. More than a dozen model trains, from late-1800s steam engines to modern high-speed passenger trains, make their way throughout the recreated landscape.

December Views, 4, 5, and 6

2009-12-06T17:59:00.001-08:00

Away for a long weekend so I have to lump them all together . . .

4

5

6

Day 3

2009-12-03T06:03:00.001-08:00

I had to share a little piece of this gorgeous day. It's almost 70 degrees here in New Jersey today. A small gift from Mother Nature before the cold of winter. Blue sky, bright sun, happy day.

Day 2

2009-12-02T12:53:00.000-08:00

Day 1

2009-12-01T06:28:00.000-08:00

Dear Evan,

2009-11-30T06:58:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday, my beautiful boy. You are eleven years old today. It's hard to believe that it has been eleven years since you were born. I remember so clearly the moment you arrived in this world and Doctor DeGraaf said, "It's a boy!" I cried when I finally held you and saw how perfect you were. You looked like an eskimo baby, everyone said so. And you were so good. You didn't cry much. You ate and slept when you were supposed to. I couldn't stop staring at you. I memorized every hair on your head.

You have grown and changed, but some things remain the same. You have such a sweet, sensitive nature. You are compassionate and caring, always hugging my friends, remembering to be polite and courteous, thankful when you receive something; such a gentleman. I hope you will always be a gentle man.

You are smart--a voracious reader, always with your nose in a book. You are good at math and spelling and science, it all seems to come naturally to you. And you seem to enjoy learning, you are curious and interested in the world around you which is a wonderful quality.

You are creative. I love to watch you draw. Your doodles are hilarious and you have filled notebook after notebook with your creations. I never want to throw any of them away, even the tiniest scraps of paper I save because they were drawn by you.

You are a loving brother. I know every kid fights with their siblings sometimes, but you go out of your way to include Charlie and to be kind to him most of the time. You enjoy being with your little brother and take time for him. I hope you will always be close. And you are a respectful and sweet son. I love that you will still cuddle with me, that you will still kiss me goodbye in front of the school, hold my hand when we are walking somewhere, and want me to sing to you before you fall asleep. This will all change one day soon, but I think you will always be soulful and kind. I hope so.

I sit here on your eleventh birthday and wish on your candles as you blow them out: there will be times when you are met with disappointment instead of success. Life won’t always turn out the way you want. This is something we all face, but instead of letting these things get you down, push on. Accept disappointment and learn to persevere, to pursue your dreams despite pitfalls. Learn to turn negatives into positives. Life is a journey. Make it a journey of happiness, of constant learning, of continual improvement, of love.

And most of all, love yourself. While others may criticize you, learn not to be so hard on yourself, to think that you’re ugly or dumb or unworthy of love--but to think instead that you are a wonderful human being, worthy of happiness and love--and learn to love yourself for who you are.

That is what I wish for you today. I just want you to know how proud I am to be your mother.

Love,
Mom

Dear NaBloPoMo,

2009-11-29T05:50:00.000-08:00

Just wanted to say thank you. Tomorrow is our last day together, and as it is also my son's birthday, I'll want to blog about him tomorrow. But today, it's all about you--how you have taught me things about myself, like how to stretch and push and dig deep to write every day. How it wasn't easy; some days it was really hard to think of even a single word, but that it felt so good to try. It felt great to accomplish something, even if I had to borrow words from someone else here and there. And it was fun to take more photos knowing I'd need them to complete you. How much I like seeing my images here and learning more about my camera and my computer and the visual effects I can create. Thank you for your patience, 24-hours each day to complete my "assignment"! And your persistence, staring at me from your little space, gently reminding me that I needed to fill your pages.

It's been an eye-opening, heart-widening experience, one I think I would try again next November. I hope that I am a better writer, a better blogger at least, and a better person for having stretched my wings this way to fly.

Thank you. It's been a fine month.

Hidden

2009-11-28T09:02:00.001-08:00

If you place a fern
under a stone
the next day it will be
nearly invisible
as if the stone has
swallowed it.

If you tuck the name of a loved one
under your tongue too long
without speaking it
it becomes blood
sigh
the little sucked-in breath of air
hiding everywhere
beneath your words.

No one sees
the fuel that feeds you.

Naomi Shihab Nye

The Day After

2009-11-27T20:42:00.000-08:00

Girl

She said she collects pieces of sky,
cuts holes out of it with silver scissors,
bits of heaven she calls them.
Every day a bevy of birds flies rings
around her fingers, my chorus of wives,
she calls them. Every day she reads poetry
from dusty books she borrows from the library,
sitting in the park, she smiles at passing strangers,
yet can not seem to shake her own sad feelings.
She said that night reminds her of a cool hand
placed gently across her fevered brow, said
she likes to fall asleep beneath the stars,
that their streaks of light make her believe
that she too is going somewhere. Infinity,
she whispers as she closes her eyes,
descending into thin air, where no arms
outstretch to catch her.

by Lisa Zaran

Thanks Giving

2009-11-26T05:24:00.000-08:00

Today I give thanks for many things:

a successful surgery for my boy
the graceful hands of the doctor who took such care
the kind nurses who walked us through, made us laugh and kept us calm
the love and support from near and far

soup
bread
comfort

family and all that it means: joy, pain, laughter, hurt, anger, bewilderment, kindness, fun, hilarity, support, patience, understanding--the good, the bad, the ugly and everything in between. I am blessed to be a part of mine.

friendship. I have amazing women in my life who give me things I didn't know I was missing.

eyesight
hearing
taste
smell
touch

ART
inspiration

shelter, food, water, clothing -- the basic things that so, so many people do not even have. I cannot believe how lucky I am to have the things I do.
I know that.

I give thanks for all of this.

Not just today, but every day.

Grateful.

In preparation . . .

2009-11-25T14:49:00.000-08:00

for a very grateful tomorrow, I'm feeling the need for silence here today.

For now, just listen to this and dream. . . .

">

I Love You the Reddest

2009-11-24T18:03:00.000-08:00

Charlie,

"... I love you the reddest!
I love you the color of the sky
before it blazes into night.
I love you the color of a leopard's eyes
when it prowls through the jungle,
and the color of a campfire at the edge of the flame.
A wide open hug. The swirl of a magic cape.
The thunder of a shout."

--Barbara Joosse, I Love You the Purplest

Exquisite Corpse

2009-11-23T07:36:00.001-08:00

Untitled/Untitled/ Rooted, 2009, by artists: Agnes Debethune (Jersey City), Alaine Becker (South Orange), and Leah K. Tomaino (Randolph) Graphite, collage, watercolor, chalk, pastel crayon, fiber, acrylic paint on paper Courtesy of the artists and the Paul Robeson Galleries, Rutgers University

I cannot wait to see this exhibit at the Paul Robeson Gallery. If you’re not familiar with the term, Exquisite Corpse, here’s what Wikipedia has to say:

"The technique was invented by Surrealists and is similar to an old parlour game called Consequences in which players write in turn on a sheet of paper, fold it to conceal part of the writing, and then pass it to the next player for a further contribution. Surrealism principal founder André Breton reported that it started in fun, but became playful and eventually enriching. In a variant now known as picture consequences, instead of sentences, portions of a person were drawn.

Later the game was adapted to drawing and collage, producing a result similar to children’s books in which the pages were cut into thirds, the top third pages showing the head of a person or animal, the middle third the torso, and the bottom third the legs, with children having the ability to 'mix and match' by turning pages. It has also been played by mailing a drawing or collage — in progressive stages of completion — to the players, and this variation is known as 'exquisite corpse by airmail', apparently regardless of whether the game travels by airmail or not.

The name is derived from a phrase that resulted when Surrealists first played the game, 'Le cadavre exquis boira le vin nouveau.' ('The exquisite corpse will drink the new wine.')"

For this exhibit, 92 local artists were invited to play the game by mail, like a chain letter. The starting point was a 30-by-22 inch sheet of paper folded in thirds. One artist did the top, another the middle and the last did the bottom third. Little marks left at the crease of the paper told the next artist where his or her predecessor had left off. The artists had 2 weeks to complete their sections and none of them saw the finished product until the show opened last Thursday.

I can't wait to see what they did.

And I want to play the game, don't you??

Silent Sunday

2009-11-22T18:45:00.001-08:00

Listen and Look

Another Surgery

2009-11-21T04:57:00.000-08:00

"My baby had surgery today. We had a two hour wait in the surgical holding room with him before the doctor and anesthesiologist came to talk to us. He was so brave, but toward the end of the long wait he started to cry and said he just wanted to go home. I didn't blame him, I wanted to go home too. But we had to put on a smile and tell him that it would all be over soon and we could go home together. It is absolute torture watching your child get hooked up to an IV and monitors, put that little mask over his face and drift off. Then to walk away and wait for the moment the doctor comes back to tell you it is all (hopefully) okay. . . . I am so grateful C is okay and that it wasn't serious. I feel such compassion for anyone who has a child with a serious illness. To have to be in a hospital all the time, experiencing that fear and helplessness, I don't know if I have the strength--and I hope I never have to find out. It was also difficult on a second level because his surgeon works out of the same hospital where I had all 4 procedures when I lost the babies, so it brought me back to some dark places that were not easy to forget as we sat there in those same hallways and rooms. I couldn't help but remember my own terror as I was wheeled into that cold, bright operating room, staring up at those weird sci-fi machines, listening to the noises, trying not to feel my heart beating so hard it felt like it was ripping out of my chest. I was so grateful when they let me go into the OR with C so that he wouldn't be alone with all those strange masked faces staring down at him as he fell asleep; grateful mine was the familiar face he was looking at as he drifted off. As an adult it was bad enough to go through that alone, but if I had known my child was going to have to be wheeled away from me to face that I would have clung to his gurney as they pushed him down the hall. Thank goodness they have compassion for mothers and children."

Digging into the archives from almost exactly a year ago I reread what I wrote about C's surgery last year. He's going back on Tuesday to have the same procedure done again and I am grateful for knowledge. For the knowledge that we are using the same surgeon and we trust him with our child--he did a good job last year and we know he will take the same care this time. Grateful that this time we know C is allergic to latex so he won't suffer the swelling and discomfort that he did last year because we didn't know. Grateful that we know what to expect and while we'll still have anxiety just because it's surgery and anesthesia, we know the procedure and we know the timing and so some of the fear factor will be alleviated by that knowledge. Grateful that we know our son is healthy and strong and brave and he'll be just fine. Again.