poems with wings

Perhaps I conjure up what I want to avoid? Each April I cannot help but hear echoing throughout the gradually warming days:

"April is the cruelest month, breeding

lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

memory and desire, stirring

dull roots with spring rain." 

- T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

Spring rains accompanied ceremonies of grieving and celebration. The month began with a fire ceremony marking the passing of one friend ...

and ended at our city's botanical center with a memorial for our neighbors whose unexpected deaths while on vacation has me stumbling pass their house in continual confusion and disbelief.  Witnessing the rawness of grief in their daughter's eyes has stirred up emotions that had settled to the bottom of my own heart. Each new drop of sorrow and loss is added to a swelling pool: my mother, my aunt, my friend, my neighbors ... the list swells backwards and forwards.

I suppose that is how it is in middle age. The longer my tenure here, the more I will have to say goodbye. It is the balance to so many hellos. What has become apparent to me with the loss of my neighbors is the urgency to making each hello count. At their memorial service I was made aware that I really hardly knew them. I mean, we would often meet while walking our dogs and talk of neighborly things: the dogs, the weather, our gardens. A little residents gossip and updating on local events. We each had busy and full lives and our worlds intersected in a narrow margin at sidewalks and driveways. 

Hearing their children, grandchildren, lifelong friends and colleagues share their memories was a privilege. For it gave me pause to consider: What will my legacy be? What do I hope to create with this, my "one wild and precious life?" (Mary Oliver) For my neighbors certainly lived full, attentive, loving and passionately engaged lives.

By opening myself up to the vulnerability of deep grieving, I discover within that dark pool immense inspiration. Listening to person after person talk about my neighbors what slowly emerged was a picture of life anchored in love and purpose. That purpose was to nurture within each individual their unique passions, interests and gifts. 

Assisting me in uncovering purpose and meaning are my art journals and words. My own words, yes (scribbled in more notebooks) but also the bountiful collection of words, insights and meaning found in poetry. As David Whyte so astutely noted, all poets eventually become philosophers.  So I gather close by those books, those writers like Oliver and Whyte who offer so many thresholds into deeper meaning and living.

"One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting 

their bad advice--"

- Mary Oliver, The Journey

I lay in my bathtub listening to David Whyte recite the above poem along with other favorites (like Wild Geese) ... the water and the words soothing aches of the body and of the heart.  (I believe what I've found is an excerpted segment from a longer recording of  The Poetry of Self Compassion.) 

Still feeling raw and tender, I am easing myself back into everyday routines. I don't want to lose these gifts of insight. Considering what would be the most loving action I could offer myself, I headed out for a long walk.  Inspiring me is the work of Sharon Blackie and these words which I had read the night before from her new and immensely powerful book If Women Rose Rooted:

"We spend out lives searching for meaning in ourselves ... trained to be ever-mindful of what is going on inside us -- our breath, and our thoughts and emotions -- when so much of the meaning we need is beneath our feet, in the plants and animals around us, in the air we breathe. We swaddle ourselves so tightly in the centrality of our own self-referential humanness that we forget that we are creatives of the Earth, and need also to connect with the land. We need to get out of the confines of our own heads. We need -- we badly need -- grounding; we need to find our anchor in place, wherever it is that we live. Once we find that anchor, so many of our problems fade away. And once we find that anchor, so often we uncover the nature of our true work, the nature of the gift we can offer up to the world."

On this day many winged ones greeted me. To truly grasp I share the same space with these powerful and magical creatures is to crack open some secret chamber of hope and possibility within. The fullness of life - life with stunning and unexpected hellos and life with heart-wrenching good-byes - flew up before me. And it slipped quietly below me. All around me ... and within me. 

 

 

a daughter's prayer

-->

My days are filled with tidbits of you.

Things I normally scorn have become sacred relics:

Brummel & Brown spread across my morning host

my face anointed with Ponds cold cream

blue fig body wash to cleanse away my sins

and my regrets.

I lift the white plastic lid from the perfume bottle

and breathe in the scent of bergamot, white jasmine, rose and lily of the valley

incense that brings you immediately to life.

Now I am watched over by the cement gargoyle

you dragged across the country in

that last move.

He resides now in my back garden

his head resting in clawed hands,

wings drooping from the bitter Midwest cold

or perhaps weariness from his task as guardian

and witness to the relentless unfolding of life?

We both seem to be stuck in this moment:

How do we go on?  What do we keep? What do we release?

Packing up your apartment I had hope to find

a message secreted away

a clue to who you are,

how you felt,

words to comfort me in this, my time of need.

But always the mother,

you artfully slip out of spotlight ...

All I find are

my letters, notes and mother’s day cards

bundled together with the same red yarn ribbon 

tied upon every suitcase handle our family owned.

My prayer is that you

carry my words with you,

wrapping them about your soul

to warm and feed you on your journey.

You are the best mother ~

Thank you for being my best friend ~

I love you ~

I miss you ~

I can’t wait to see you ~

cracked wide open ...

Yesterday was the kind of a day I want to sandwich between sheets of waxed paper and laying a heavy book on top (how about my Treasures of the Louvre - one fat and heavy mama of a coffee table art book!) press and preserve the multitude of rich details as a remembrance to carry me through leaner days. 

It began with a morning more like early April than July: there was an unexpected chill to the air and gentle breezes under crystal clear blue skies. The day held a sense of freshness that only a cool, dew damp early morning can offer. I went running and came upon a flock of wild turkeys, fourteen in all.  I moved to the side of the road and they slowly streamed by me and then slipping into the woods, they vanished.  I stood in the street, locked in my trance until a neighbor moving his trash cans broke the spell.  

Minutes later, a hawk swooped over me and landed on a roof top.

All before my morning coffee. I figured I had had my fill for the day.

Spontaneity is not my normal habit, but it is something I crave and try to practice.  Although my list was long, my list is always long.  So when I discovered magic might be happening less than an hour's drive away, I bundled Cowgirl into the car and we set off on a little road trip.

I had meant to pack my camera, but in the haste to get out the door and into an adventure, it was left in the mudroom.  Which is just as well because some days can only be captured by the sensitive medium of the heart. 

Road trip in the Midwest means miles and miles of grass, cows and sky.  Road trip over The River (which for us is the Mighty Mo or the Missouri River)  and into Iowa means rolling hills like sleeping giants keeping you company for much of the journey. Years ago I used to toss my bike into the back of my dark blue pick up truck (oh yes, move to Nebraska and at some point you own a pick up) to make this drive to the Wabash Trace, a 63 mile bike trail running down the profile of Iowa  to the border of Missouri. It's a beautiful trail that dips in and out of farmland with refreshing stretches tunnel-like through groves of trees.  And hills.  Lots and lots of hills.  Thankfully there are local ice cream stands situated right by the trail.  

While I wasn't on this trail today (although now that I am remembering it, I am storing the idea away for future adventures with Cowgirl) others were.  We were traveling to meet them.  "How would you like to visit two poets who are riding their bike across Nebraska to share their love of words and books?"  This surprisingly lassoed Cowgirl in, although in all honesty, she is always up for spontaneous adventures even when they may sound oddly vague or baffling.  Poets? On one bike? (I had to explain the tandem concept to her) Opening up libraries?  (again, explanations on the Little Free Library)  Why not?

We arrived well before Maya and Amy, so we had time to make new friends while sitting outside the quaint Glenwood Public Library (the kind of library you knew as a child - or wish you had known - its big stones steps lifting you up to the treasures within).  Did I mention it was a glorious day?  We walked to the town square (oh yes, this is a true small town folks) to find something cool to drink, the orange Fanta raising Cowgirl's spirits even higher, so by the time the poets arrived, she was doing cartwheels on the sidewalk and playing tag with her new friend.

Then the fun began.  Meeting new and old friends (faces remembered from art workshops long ago and in more woody scenes), the treasures of the traveling Tiny Book library (seeds for future play) and then what we had come for: our poems.  

We actually brought artwork - a Cowgirl original drawing of an Ice Dragon - to trade for poems.  Maya and Amy set up on one of the benches outside the library, their typewriters on their laps, a stack of index cards by their side, and one by one we filed up and gave them our word which they expanded into poetry.

This is where things cracked wide open.  Or maybe it was just me cracking apart.  

After completing the poems, each writer would read out loud her poem to the recipient, while all of us gathered leaned in closer to witness the miracle of words capturing deep soul truths and gentle wisdom. Each poem felt intensely private and intimate, as if we were receiving with our poem, a blessing. We were given our poem cards, but we also were given a glimpse into the fuller possibility of our word and the meaning it embodies for ourselves and for our lives.

dragon by Maya Stein

It's funny how something that looks so dangerous can turn out to be so gentle. It is easy to be misunderstood, to see claws  when all they are is hands, to see fire when all it is is breath. If I could give you any advice, it would be not to worry if someone shies from your scales, if your sharp, wise eyes frighten and intimidate.  What's beautiful about you is what's beautiful about YOU. Hold this close to your big green heart.

Dragon by Amy Tingle

What do you like about dragons, Clara? Is it the way they can breathe fire or their sharp claws, or the whipping of their tails?  If I had to guess I would say it was their wings. I can picture you soaring about the snow-capped mountains or crossing an ocean on wings of your own. Letting the thermals carry you when you need to rest, flapping hard when you have somewhere to go. Oh, Clara, close your eyes and feel your wings grow.



dandelion by Maya Stein

How they stood by the Nebraska back roads like little soldiers, how the wind never seemed to disturb them, how their tufts held firm and reminded me to sit a little deeper in my seat, and hold the reins with a lighter touch. It is a different thing than trees, their rooted loyalty to the earth. The dandelion says, it is alright to bend and sway to the elements. It is alright to wave from the side of the road and, sometimes, blow a kiss to whoever passes by.


Dandelion by Amy Tingle

On the side of the road in Colorado we saw dandelions with heads as big as a grapefruit. I thought of how many things I could wish if I stopped to blow on one. I'd wish for good health and bigger adventures. I'd wish my daughter would grow to be strong and true. I'd wish for a peaceful heart and a peaceful world. I'd wish for patience and creativity and trust and truth. I'd wish for more wishes, wouldn't you?


What more can I possibly say?

I can say this: driving home we both were quiet for awhile, each of us wrapped up in the magic of an afternoon that seemed like a dream from summer nap. Before we pulled into the driveway, I asked Cowgirl what she thought about the people we've met this summer - the people like Katherine Dunn and Maya and Amy  - who have fashioned lives and work from what they love doing and what they feel passionate about.  I wondered if she recognized that theirs are not standard job titles listed under careers, but ones they created for themselves.  She was quiet in that way that tells me she is chewing things over.  It is a conversation I intend to continue ... for both our sakes.
   

hello Valentine!

We've been busy getting ready ...

So much I want to say, this being such a contradictory holiday ... the commercialization, the treacle factor in the Hallmark cards, the worn-out cliches and heart-shaped chocolate boxes and toxic roses ... 

but underneath it all I am still that kindergartener excited for her first school sponsored Valentine's celebration with construction paper hearts and puppies with butterflies cards.  (who would have believed the shlock of my childhood would be preferable to the cheapo Sponge Bob  and Minecraft cards popular today?)

Rather than dwell upon the forelorn and crash aspects of this day, I choose to infuse this holiday with deeper meaning.  I choose to celebrate the joy of love, the pleasures of sharing my heart with another, and the honor of receiving expressions of love crafted by small hands and eager hearts.  

I choose to embrace the honest and simple, the expressions of love given with a heart thumping with excitement and anticipation.  I will gleefully (and shamelessly) receive the unimaginative and but appreciated (and soon-to-be-devoured) box of chocolates, understanding that each indulgent bite is a wish from my beloved that I remember myself as sweet and rich, my life as bountiful and as varied as an assortment of confections.  (dare I go there?  I dare! in honor of the day - "life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get." So true Forrest, so true.  Except I take small nibbles and if I don't like what I pick, I select another chocolate!)

It is a matter of choosing, enjoying, and yes ... sharing in that sweetness.

And if I could have sent out Valentines to all, I would want mine to convey something along the lines of this: 

Pocket Poem by Ted Kooser

(from Valentines)

If this comes creased and creased again and soiled

as if I'd opened it a thousand times

to see if what I'd written here was right,

it's all because I looked too long for you

to put it in your pocket. Midnight says

the little gifts of loneliness come wrapped

by nervous fingers. What I wanted this

to say was that I want to be so close

that when you find it, it is warm from me.

May your Valentine's Day be filled with the love of sunshine, birdsong,  or snowflake blessings and the delight of discovering heartshaped leaves tumbling across your path. 
xo

HeartFull Living begins on Monday but there are special Valentine's treats awaiting all who gather in that space.  There is still time to sign-up ... all the gooey details are here. 

spontaneous moments (poem it out)

My to-do list could plausibly read

“build backyard pyramid”

I am that out of control,

as I attempt order and control

all the while furiously declaring

“Spontaneity will be mine!”

There is what I want to do …

what I need to do …

and what you inspire in me …

 

 

Today I will toss the mail onto the towering pile,

walk over a floor more hairy than the dog,

sift through a mound of laundry to retrieve

our two swimsuits.

There is no list expansive enough to contain

the joy of watching your Kool-Aid orange crocs

dance across the pavement,

the diving board soar,

cool water splash,

and the bloom of your smile

floating in all that turquoise freedom. 

 

It has been an amazing month.  Thank you Liz Lamoreux for the inspiration and The August Break for the excuse to indulge myself completely.  

the words we need (poem-it-out)

 

What you need to hear

is that you are so very wanted.

and have always been

wanted.

You have forgotten

arms were eager to receive you.

Hope followed by loss followed by

cotton dresses

cupcakes

dandelion crowns

a single silver charm

inscribed with the date

of you,

welcomed.

Even though those arms

uncircled and hands let go -

New hands

tiny starfish hands,

sticky with rice and sweat and juice of summer hands,

reached out across oceans and plains and oxen plowed fields

to find you

to pull you deeper in.

What you need to remember -

slip into your pocket to find on a day

of idle hands -

is the promise of a future

sea of hands rising up,

a universe of blessings waving at you

ready to greet you,

squeezing your hand in recognition

as if to say:

“We have waited a long time for you …

We are so very happy to have you

here, finally

among us.” 

(poem inspired by prompt in Poem-It-Out new course listed! images inspired by life.)

 

 

poeming (august break)

Discomforting

the juxtaposition of this $5 plastic basket of figs

bundled in a canvas tote

nestled securely within the passenger's seat of my car

and the man standing firmly upon the narrow sliver of roadway island

on this 93 degree August day

a cardboard placard held towards me while

his gaze discreetly avoids

the sun and my shame. 

poem and photograph inspired by Poem It Out with Liz Lamoreux 

("We will face the blank page and say, “Bring it” and write the words that are ready to burst out of us. We will stop everything to Poem It Out." - Exactly!)

dream traveler (August Break)

 

Who do you become

when the streetlight switches on

and the sun slips below the screen of wheat and corn?

Does Jade Rabbit’s smile

beaming across the night sky

ignite your dragon’s blood?

Do you join the mermaids

swimming upon white percale

or do you grab your sword,

a ninja clamoring over

cedar shingle roof tops?

You abandon yourself to a sleep

deep and dark,

on journeys I cannot follow -

When the monsters come

as they always do,

whose hand do you reach for?

Whose eyes do you seek for confirmation

you are you,

safe and whole?

In what language do you hear the words

Mommy’s here … you’re alright …

(written for Poem It Out  with Liz Lamoreux - a juicy course and we're only on day three! There's still time to join if you want to come play with me! This month I am also participating in the third annual August Break.  Info is here if you want to join in on the fun.)

dog dayz of summer

For the record, I am not a hot weather girl.  This past week I feel like the ground squirrel who lives in our back yard: darting out for necessary but brief trips, and quickly returning to my dark hole. Even with air conditioning I still wake up more tired than when I went to bed.  Something about 3 AM brings on a spike in body heat and I wake up tangled in the sheets, hot and frantic for some air.  I toss and turn, eventually dropping back into a sleep from which I can barely surface come morning.

I have been cracking the proverbial whip as I have been invited to contribute paintings to an upcoming exhibit at the yoga center where I teach.  When I accepted the invitation, it seemed like summer was a long stretch of road I could meander through with plenty of time to noodle about and paint.  Now I have just 2 weeks in which to complete 4 pieces in various states of incompletion.  

And all I want to do is nap, drink mint ice tea and read novels.  And poetry.  In preparation for the ecourse Poem It Out, I've returned to a daily writing practice.  Hence all the poem-y bits floating about this space in recent weeks.

Thinking about the heat, my general ennui, and the texture of my life these days, I wanted to put down how these summer days feel to me.  Moose dog is not a fan of this weather either, so our morning walks have been the only respite from our otherwise heat-induced comas.  So Moose, this poem's for you.

 

today  

I had planned on waking early 

giving myself time to notice the textures and sounds of my morning, 

to place myself within this day.  

but instead I hit the snooze 

repeatedly 

unable to disentangle from a dream where 

I was painting  - my hands running across the surface of the board 

smoothing and spreading color and paint – 

clutter of bags and brushes and books and notes 

blocking me from moving forward in the dream and into my morning.  

today 

I feel the heaviness of the weather, 

of emotions stooping my shoulders 

filling my heart 

while thoughts crowd my head.

before stumbling downstairs I check in and see 

my girl adrift in her own shadowy world of dragons and Scooby Doo 

a starfish beached upon tumbled sheets.  

I head out into the sprinkler-saturated morning 

camera in one hand, leash in the other 

attempting to capture something of this day 

to string together the moments  that will guide me 

out of my fog and into spacious being. 

tomorrow

i will try 

again.