Roots (questions)

A feminist as Virginia Woolf?
I should say
my concern is not
as you think I should be
rather, I climb the hayloft to dream
passing cautiously
the tangled bull cow
desperate to be free.
A Room of One’s Own
she declares
I hardly agree
despite this venturous
solitude of heart
only room for words
fictive and unconventional.
So which am I?
I suppose
I garner to know
more than my acquaintence cares
each walking briskly -past
as an autumn leaf
we turn to be and become.

Roots (a million dust particles)

Collage  Have you made yours?  Written your book of life?  It will serve you well.

 

Childhood school 3rd-5th grade.  It is now for sale. 

Memories are stepping stones to future endeavors and concurrently sticking points to moving on.  I would go out on a limb and say most of us have recollections somewhere tucked away, perhaps yours in the back of the mind.  Memories are the collage of  life and when painted, varied and unique.  Mine would be a mixture of social responsibility and natural endeavors.

“For myself, the only way I know how to make a book is to construct it like a collage: a bit of dialogue here, a scrap of narrative, an isolated description of a common object, an elaborate running metaphor which threads between the sequences and holds different narrative lines together.”  Hilary Mantel

I am a country and city girl and one without the other would be unacceptable.  One scenery fulfills the needs the other could never replicate.  My father was a farm boy, the middle child and the first to do many endeavors.  He was the first child in his family to be bused to school, was a terrific student but with a will to be independent he took off to explore.   He worked odd jobs to buy his first piece of cool transportation.  That car triggered his solo flight to somewhere, anywhere, leaving his mother to mourn his departure.  My mother was a city girl who touted education as a way to success.  Their individual outlooks on life seem to clash but it worked for them.  They eventually sharpened the other to be respectively educated and likewise garner a love of the natural world.

The foundation of life was set long ago, centuries to be exact.  The million dust particles are but the sand dunes we are destined to crawl through.  I believe it is education and a love of reading, inquiring philosophically, psychologically and spiritually, regarding man’s destiny, that serves us well.  And when we need a break we can rely on the beach waves to take us far, far away.

“Suppose within each book there is another book, and within every letter on every page another volume constantly unfolding; but these volumes take no space on the desk. Suppose knowledge could be reduced to a quintessence, held within a picture, a sign, held within a place which is no place. Suppose the human skull were to become capacious, spaces opening inside it, humming chambers like beehives.”  Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall

Click here should you like to hear Hilary Mantel’s five Reith Lectures, Resurrection: The Art and Craft.
 

 

 

Roots (storyteller)

“Are you a teller?”

“Do you mean a confessor?”

“No. I mean a teller. A teller of stories?”

It seems fitting one should stop here and think, am I? Are we?  Someone once encouraged me to be a writer. She was a shield from the world. I hid behind her in fear. 

**********************************

Eyes pierce through tender skin, skin as transparent as vellum. One could see through the intricacies; blood flow and muscle tissue forming that lacked strength. Passersby would watch the skin peel away each day, parting a course for a larger skeleton that housed parts of her most ignored. Everyone but me. I saw more than I wanted to know. 

One in a million (along the seashore 7-11-2017)

Roots (endless conversations)

“Bet you dont know?” smirks a friend.

“No, i dont.”  A splendid confession I was proud to concede as honesty has always been a good friend.  The problem was doubt sunk in.  “What should i know?”

“I dont know.”  A pause ensues and confusion from both parties.  Together we pondered “What is there to know?”

From there we politely parted ways, perplexed as to what next to do with our respective lives. 

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Do any of us really know our purpose?  I recall as a kid having a myriad of dreams. I wanted to be a teacher, lawyer, school counselor, dancer and even a missionary in the inner city for single moms and their kids. I am none of those. I am exactly the opposite in all regards but as I head into the second act I return to my roots. 

All dreams stem from seeds and what heart is fertile produces endless blossoms.

Illinois prairie restoration 7/7/2017

With no further ado, bow

Eight years is a long time to be boxed in by walls. Forty-nine years is even longer.

Losing a loved one is difficult.
When the culprit is suicide you are a foreigner.
That you remains a memory.

Moving on becomes a battle.
The walk is painful.
Legs are weighed down and moving is impossible.

Choosing to live is an obstacle.
Thoughts of ending your life becomes reality.
Numbness shows in your face.

Then, one day arrives, and the sun shines, and your eyes adjust.
Slowly your heart allows
Eyes gazing the distance.

Tears stream.
You are afraid to catch them.
You let the person go.

For too long I have been locked away, inside a dungeon. I have tortured myself long enough.I choose to believe I am worthy of life. I am loved. I have a purpose. I struggle but the struggle does not define who I am. I am nobody and I am somebody. I choose to be.

John 10:10…I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.

I believe in sin and that belief  brought me to my knees. And on my knees I found love, grace and peace. In humbleness i serve others and not myself. I love everyone as much as I love me. I feel pain because I am not hugging my brother, but I am. His smile lives on.

I allow the ocean waves to rock me and not threaten. I allow the bird’s song to be sweet and not a call to be earth. I allow me to be seen. I allow the rain’s cleansing. I…

Now I adore my life
With the Bird, the abiding Leaf,
With the Fish, the questing Snail,
And the Eye altering all;
And I dance with William Blake
For Love, for Love’s sake.
Once More, the Round (1964)