Going on vacation and numerous repercussions.

Santa Fe street art August 2017

Becoming an avid traveler, going places I once only dreamed of, and doing it alone, has taught me many valuable things about myself but one stands out larger than all the others: I do best as a creature of habit.  I am all out-of-sorts and finding it difficult to get back into a writing routine. What to do? Oh! what to do?   

Well, two new excursions are booked. Oh bother! This is one lesson not learned very well but the excitement of driving 1000 miles one way to see my daughter in Boston (Scituate MA) is, well, all worth it.  So I wait diligently for autumn colors and the wind in my hair!  

As for writing, perhaps a few days will warrant something of value. If not, I am cool with that just as long as the view before me keeps on changing.   Next up, U2 in Indianapolis.  

Desert dream, August 2017

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.

Some thoughts before…

Heading to Santa Fe
again
to study -poetry
in the dirt, sky and man

reading V. Woolf -Atwood
wondering if anything lies within me
to surrender
in words
this extracted life in 2-dimensions

just
yes -still perplexed
by fear
fear of living
sidelined -choking

and Leonard
her husband calls her critics
less sophisticated
-hmmph, he shuts a voice down
while she belittles
Rossetti, Mansfield & Browning.

while she may have
a place to complain
-be irritated
her critics stand shoulder-to-shoulder
on their ladders

Oh, yes!
today is another day
to work
just -let it all out
this quietedvoice
is stronger than all others.

Happy to spend July 28-August 5 with Gina Franco and a class of peers looking to refine who we are as writers.

Just -yes just another day to be.

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

Chester (& Toby)

Chester came home today in the neighbor’s car.  She waved and I waved back, busy unpacking from our trip. I heard her laughing, turned to see Chester stretching in the back seat. Today I realize how easily I am replaced in his sphere but happy he loves life.

Toby is quiet. Hanging around the back door being quiet. He survived the four days I was gone. 

The neighbors are warming up to our furry friends.  They know not to bother us with their whereabouts. Chester & Toby are free-range and no one gives us a difficult time, albeit are they cold or hot, hungry or otherwise. If they do I send my husband to fix their attitude.  

People listen and respect men. Me? Not so much.  Feeling a bit like Toby hanging around the back door.  J