An Artist Who Writes
The journey begins
at the point of conception, adoption
there is no turning back
You face
death, breath
hope, fear
elation, exhaustion
pain, joy
dreams, nightmares
tears, laughter
memories
crossing the threshold
to shepherd a life
the path of a mother
May all the mothers reading this be honored on their journey. Relax and honor yourself on this Mother’s Day
We are in the doldrums of winter here in Oregon. Inspiration has alluded me and I am more inclined to curl up with a good book by the woodstove rather than settle down to any creative projects. This has led to a certain amount of guilt and frustration on my part…
But then I got to thinking, dormancy is a normal part of nature. Most of the plants in my garden have died back to the ground. The bulbs have been sleeping waiting for the right time to come up and bloom. Fruit trees are resting before the growing season. Dormancy in the winter leads to flowering in the spring. Even farmers let their fields go fallow to give them a chance to regenerate.
So we humans must rest as well, particularly those involved in creative pursuits. Sometimes the muse just needs a break. So I am bidding Daphne, my muse a nice holiday. I’m to go about cleaning and sorting my long-neglected house and workspacen and catch up on my mending. interesting that during my most mindless moments, my best ideas manifest.
Rest up Daphne…
MUSE Come out & play with me you my best of friends I am happiest when we hold hands & dance our secret dance. Whisper in my ear & fill my head until it is overflowing with sparks & flowers of inspiration. Let’s bring forth from the cauldron of the ethos a new incarnation of matter & thought an offering of our magic to the altar of the earth.
This is my alternative news outlet lately…
The Garden Gazette
Off with the news
out to the garden
plenty of good tidings to report there
The red of ripe tomatoes
peeking from a tangle of foliage
zucchini lurking like green submarines
below the surface of splaying leaves
a raspberry to pluck here and there
the green beans are longer than yesterday
maybe tomorrow for dinner?
dangling cucumbers play hide and seek
eluding my grasp
the sunflowers have opened their cheery faces
to the delight of probing bumblebees
the eggplants are ready to pick!
This is a better way to begin one’s day
in the company of bees
to the whirr of hummingbird’s wings
to the gifts of my labors
the earth brings forth
I have been pondering what the “it” is after reading a post several weeks back from a fellow blogger. We all wonder at times, what is life really about anyway? I wrote the following poem with how I respond to that question…..
The “It”
She wanted to know what the “it” was
A fair question to be pondered on a blog
Several commenters responded “YES, YES, where is the It?
It escapes me!
I sigh
The same question dodged me in my younger years
But with six decades behind me, I know the It
For it is hard to recognize and often takes the passing of time
It can pass right under you like a tsunami in the open ocean
A lulling swell that will gently rock your boat
As it heads toward land to release its energy
Children know the It
It is in curiosity
In play
In friends and in family
In greeting each day like an adventure
It is in nature
And the spirit that resides there and within
It is in risk
And creative expression
Love, giving
It is in the individual footsteps one’s journey
Not the destination
Just remember
Look up from your feet
It seems like just yesterday I was pulling out spent tomato plants & putting the garden tools away for the winter. But here we are again- Spring and my inner gardener is awakened again.
SEED CATALOGS
They arrive like expected guests
In the days after the New Year
A steady parade of seed catalogs
All shapes and sizes
From varying corners of the country
Filled with beckoning colored photographs
Of fruit, vegetable, & bloom waiting to fill the garden
Ready to awaken the winter-weary to a fresh frame of mind
The possibilities of the planting season.
The once elusive stray cat we had named “Phantom” that lives under our house has warmed to us. Her nightly visits for food has turned to a several-times-a-day occurrence. Yesterday she was following us around the yard. As she has outlived her name we now call her “Lizzie.” I find her a delight and a great subject for art pieces. Someday I hope to pet her on my lap. For more on our stray cats, see my Stray Cat post.
Purr
The stray cat cries pitifully at the door
waiting to be fed
a feast of canned food atop dry
with a tiny bowl of fresh cream.
As she eats hungrily
I feel bones protruding
from the soft fur of her small body.
She purrs
I’m always staying tuned for ideas (see my post “Where my Ideas Come From” ) but sometimes they pursue me- relentlessly. Think about wild birds flapping in your head endlessly or like someone tugging on your apron strings constantly. Yes, the ruckus will go away eventually, but not entirely. The inspiration will just go to someone else to be manifested and then pretty soon your muse will give up on you all together and you will be very lonely.
WRITE ME
The poem tugged on my apron strings
Begging for attention
When I ignored it
It crept into the kitchen of my mind
Rattling the pots and pans with such a clatter
I could bear it no longer
“Stop!”I cried
“Don’t you know I wasn’t an English major?”
“Find someone else to write you!”
But the poem persisted with such a fuss
That I relented,
Sat down and wrote it,
Then kicked it out the door to the internet
Sighing with relief
Until I felt another tug
on my apron strings.
‘Well, write poetry, for God’s sake, it’s the only thing that matters.’
I’ve been writing poetry as a practice for over a year now. It seemed to be a natural progression to attend poetry readings. My first was in November and then I attended two this past weekend as part of a local poetry festival. I haven’t been very successful thus far.
As I’ve aged, I’ve become increasingly ADD. Sitting and listening for long stretches of time is torturous. When I was teaching middle school, I always kept in mind those students like me, varying activities & interspersing periods of moving around in the classroom. In the adult world, most of the time there are not those opportunities.
Luckily at the end of both readings I attended this weekend, the poets were very animated, funny and irreverent, and provided material I could relate to.
Here is a glimpse into an ADD brain during a poetry reading……
TAMALES
The speaker’s words begin to melt together
the chair feels increasingly uncomfortable
my lower back aches
I sit up straight, change position
Then as I close my sleepy eyes
I feel the secret portal of my brain woosh shut
allowing no more in
Come on, you can do this, I say to myself
Too late.
Words, sentences, phrases rain down on me
shedding like water off a duck’s back
forming rivulets, then puddles at my feet, then rivers
that flow into the vast ocean of uncomprehended language
I nudge my friend in the seat to my left
I’m done, I say
She says, one more speaker then we get tamales
I sigh and wait for the tamales.
Is it just me? or maybe it’s because this is the first time in a few years we have gotten Channel 8, the channel that broadcasts the Olympics. Whatever the case, I have been spending an inordinate amount of time viewing the Olympics in Peyong Chang and have been so impressed! (I sketch on the commercials.)
CartWheels on Couch
When I watch them on TV
in my warm house
those athletes a world away
flying through the air
turning and turning
head over heels
sliding and spinning
on boards and blades
I am awed
and amazed
me
who never learned to do a cartwheel
does them now on the couch
each time they land
with their Olympic smiles
This year marks the 25th anniversary of living in my home, a 100-year-old farmhouse in rural Oregon. When I moved in May of 1993 with my then husband and 6-year old son, I thought we had made a huge mistake. It was overgrown, musty and dirty from the previous owners who smoked. The interior was dark and depressing (it doesn’t get worse than old brown shag carpet). We froze the first two winters. Over the years lots of changes were made mostly by our own hands. The place is now warm, bright, & inviting. The now ex-husband departed years ago for a younger model and a better man has been with me for the last 18 years My son has grown up and made a life for himself. In the meantime, my roots have grown deep here. This is my beloved home.
Farmhouse
I have no granite countertops
nor hardwood floors
an old white electric range
and portable dishwasher
do the cooking and the dishes
The floral wallpaper
peeling in places lines the walls
above the yellow wainscot
A shiny red woodstove
on a brick hearth
warms the large kitchen
The floor plan is ramshackle
added on as the needs of owners changed
during 100 years of occupation
More than a house
it is a vessel of memories
of people’s lives
including my own
Some would call it out of date
I would agree
but I like out of date
memories of simpler times
when life moved slower
the center of activity the kitchen
rather than an electric device
Yes, I don’t have granite countertops
nor hardwood floors
but the food here is good
and the table invites one to sit
for a cup of tea and conversation
I go about my tasks with contentment
and with satisfaction
knowing that this is the place
I call home
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