unweaving the nest

the butter thief

There is a story from the Hindu culture that I have enjoyed reading again and again. It is a story of Krishna, the blue skinned god of infinite incarnations, when he was a young boy. I am not an expert on Krishna by any means, so my summary of the story is simply paraphrased from different accounts that I have read...but in this particular incarnation Krishna was known as Gopala. Apparently he was a handful as a child, delightfully mischievous. He would take every opportunity to sneak into his mother's kitchen to steal sweet butter, breaking the pot instead of just lifting the lid and dipping his fingers in. Soon, he was sneaking into other kitchens in the village to break pots and steal butter, and by the time he was five he had become the scourge of the neighborhood. And yet he always claimed innocence of any wrong doing. There is a reason that his stolen good of choice was butter, as it is the essence of the milk produced by the sacred cow: the symbol of ultimate sweetness of Divine Love hidden in every illusion. Now remember, Gopala was a God. Everything divine is already his. So why would he need to steal it?

One time his mother caught him red-handed in the butter pot. She asked him, "Why are you doing this? You know I would give you anything. You just have to ask. Besides, it all belongs to you, anyway." His reply? "Then how can you accuse me of stealing, when you have just said it belongs to me?"

Why would a God resort to thieving in the night, breaking the pots to get at the sweet butter, in secret, when it all belonged to him anyways? It is explained that he broke the pots to awaken the household from which he was stealing, his mother's included. And that it's often the case that we wake up from our illusions only after they have been shattered by painful experience.

Like the person who wakes up to different priorities in life after a serious illness. Or when mistrust, anger or pain enters into a relationship and makes you see it as it really is. Or when someone suffers some kind of great loss and learns the hard way what the essentials of life really are. All things that get at the truth, the essence behind the illusions. Things that break wide open the beliefs and concepts that we create for security and comfort and the mirage of a reality that really isn't there at all. The butter thief comes and steals what we think is important so that we are forced to wake up and remember what is real.

I've had my own share of butter pots broken wide open in my life, and I'm sure I haven't seen the end of them. For instance, just recently I've experienced for the first time, really, having unexpected expenditures arise and leave me with 23.76 in my checking account and little food in my cupboards while I wait three days for my next paycheck. And I am in no means in dire straits...it's a very comfortable life here on my little plot of land compared to most of the world. But it surely broke the illusion of always having what I used to think was "just enough". What I had then was more than enough, and what I have now is also more than enough...but now I have to always be aware of something I never really had to think about before when I had someone else's income to rely on. Maybe that is not a great analogy, but it's a lesson I've been learning. What I used to take for granted, now is much more real...and also much more respected and appreciated.

Take for instance something not so concrete as money. How about love? I was in a marriage for almost 24 years that, yes, had it's moments of glory and brought great gifts into my life...my children, experiences, and a journey that made me who I am today with all of my strengths and my flaws. But for the majority of its duration it was an illusion at best. It took a big crashing pot to come down right in front of me for me to see the truth of it. Five years of depression and denial and hope and pain to finally get to the point where we could let it go and move beyond it. We both played our parts in the illusion. And I think of the false comfort and sense of identity that was tucked into that jar we tried to protect for so long. How you can really believe that by keeping it safe and intact life will be much easier than by letting it finally crash to the floor and break wide open for the whole world to see the truth of it? But what I'm learning is that the truth eventually leads to peace, and sets things right. Even though there might be quite a mess to sift through and clean up. Even though there might be ripples and jolts of aftershock to deal with. And I believe that even though reality might cause a shake up at first, people are usually receptive and understanding when you tell the truth.

The other day I was walking home from a friend's party and a woman that I know, but don't really know, stopped to give me a ride. I accepted and we had a nice chat. She asked me about my children..."Oh, isn't your daughter is going to be a senior this year? Where is she going to college?" For a moment I played along and then I decided to just tell it like it is. I told her this: The truth is folks, my daughter may not be going back to high school this year. She had a difficult time this past school year, some of it beyond her control, and some of it very much her own doing. Some of it the fault of her father and I and our circumstances. Some of it just part of who she is. After much discussion and thought and heartache on all of our parts, with one another and the counsel of school vice-principles and others, we have decided that her course will be a different one than we had planned before. She is going to get her GED and go right to community college to begin classes towards a transfer to a 4 year degree at a state university. She knows what she wants to do, as much as any 17 year old could know. And believe me, it has been keeping me up at night, filling me with anxiety and regret, and finally coming to a place of understanding that it doesn't always turn out the way you think it will...but who is to stay it's not the right way for her?

Well, the woman I told this to, this almost complete stranger, was a little taken back with my honesty. It wasn't the answer she expected. But you know what? She was silent for a moment and then she said, "You know, we've actually had a little of that uncertainty with our oldest while he was in college. And eventually he went back to school. Things work out the way they should. I guess we have to remember that there's more than one way to get somewhere." It was a pretty cool moment in which we connected as mothers who just want the best for their kids, even if it's not what we wished it might be. I was happy to have told the truth and not just glossed over it like I normally would, just to keep things comfortable. Because you know what? My daughter is not perfect, and either am I. But I'm proud of who she is, and who she is becoming, as a human being. Not as a super-achiever, or a star athlete, or even a very gifted artist (which she is), but as a young woman who has a nurtured heart and a broader perspective of what is real. I believe that will serve her and how she lives her life, for her lifetime. Especially the hard lessons she is learning about things not always being what they seem, and not always working out like they should...but that even when what you thought was real, like your mom and dad's marriage, or even being a high school student on the standard path, comes crashing in on you and leaves you disillusioned, we can learn from it, and lift ourselves up and move forward. And we can be forgiven.

Write to me...

endless rain and negative capability

We have had relentless rain and thunderstorms here in Western New York, but you would never know it from these photos my daughter and I took while on a walk Wednesday night. There have been teases of gorgeous sunlight and cool breezes...a full day of sunshine, as was the case yesterday...and then the sky turns suddenly and opens up and just pours. Thursday night at around 8 it was hailing quarters. But tonight it's clear and soft and it looks like it will stay that way...at least for 12 hours or so.

 

Thursday, with the constant weeping of the rain, left me feeling about as blue as I go. I couldn't shake it.  SO many things were surfacing, making my eyes well up, leaving me unsettled and longing for sunshine and the company of people I love. I spent a lot of time with my daughter, and then she had plans for the night. I was not looking forward to an evening alone, and then by some sort of grace my friend Lily called, said she was having a melancholy kind of day and wondered if I would be up for a couple of beers at the bowling alley later that night. I wasn't sure, I had quite a headache that wasn't gone yet, but I said to call if she went and I'd see about walking down for an hour or so.

 

Well, she did, and I went...drove a quick quarter mile in a torrential downpour, pulled my hoodie up over my head and ran for the door. The lanes had flooded inside; they were shop vac-ing inches of water off of the floor. But the music was good, lots of familiar faces, and it was probably the best thing I could have done. I didn't end up leaving until after midnight, and I don't think I ever had to pay for one beer, always a plus ;) especially when your wallet is empty. But I went home feeling much lighter than I had all day, and certainly lighter than I would have had I stayed home.

 

I wrote a poem on that blue day, and sent it off to my mentor, just for her to read. I have been gathering some new work to send off to her when I get some money together, but now and then I will shoot one off to her and she will give her impressions. This one has some interesting progress in it, for me. "How far you've come in such a short time" she wrote. One of the major things I have been trying to learn is what John Keats called "negative capability". See, I have this habit of trying to tie things up too neatly, which might be desirable when writing an essay, but not so effective in the more visceral realm of poetry.

Negative capability is not such an easy "term" to describe. I think the two words he chose to name this concept are vague and confusing...but interestingly that might be just the point. ;)  Negative capability was described as  “the spirit of disponibilité before What-Is which permits us simply to let things be in whatever may be their uncertainty and their mystery." In other words...not everything has to be explained, or even explainable.

Not everything in life can be resolved, or even remotely understood. This fact has at times driven the deeper thinkers of the world into madness. Keat's philosophy on it turns that dilemma into a certain kind of understanding...that the unknowing can be its own state of understanding and acceptance. A place in which we are capable of being in uncertainty.

 

In poetry, this is the most desirable place to be. It leaves openness for the reader, for the mind, and allows them to move on past what has been written on the page into their own experiences and understandings of what the words have evoked in them. Again, it's that word 'visceral'. An emotional, abstract understanding of something bigger than what language allows for. At least that is how I perceive it.

It is a very difficult thing to do well. Even to do at all. I think that is the underlying force behind the desire in me to write poetry. To one day be able to put the unspeakable things in life, those mysteries, into some kind of language that will evoke the same inner response in the reader, even though they may relate it to very different experiences. My mentor has called it 'the universals in life'. I'm telling you, it is very, very difficult to achieve.

 

And the best part of something being next to impossible to achieve is that it fills me with the desire to try. When I look back over my work from the past year that I have been studying with her, I can truly see great changes in my initial drafts. It is becoming easier to find the words. And sometimes, it is almost maddening to have the feeling, the experience I am trying to evoke, inside of me and not find a way to convey it in words. This happens just as often!  It is this dichotomy that makes the work so satisfying, and so necessary. It is almost addictive. There are not many days that I can go without poetry work of some kind. 

 

It has also brought another element into my life...the ability to see extraordinary things within the simple, every day things. When you read a lot of poetry your experience of things becomes richer. Once we read and assimilate a metaphor in a poem, it alters the way we perceive whatever 'thing' that metaphor was attached to. Your mind is filled with metaphor and simile and it becomes natural to begin thinking that way in the way you see even the most common things. For instance when I was walking the other evening, the eye on this beech bark was instantly the wise, yet resigned eye of a zoo elephant. When I stood there looking at that tree, it filled me with the same feeling I get when I have been at a zoo ( I hate zoos, almost as much as I hate the circus) and I look into an elephant's eye.

The strange thing is when I take the same walk with other people, I sometimes believe I have really taken a completely different journey. I notice things that other people don't notice. I believe a big part of this is from reading so much poetry. Try reading some Billy Collins and then going about your day with blinders on...it's impossible!

This is the gift of poetry. To see the world with x-ray vision. To give words to images that evoke the unspeakable from within our hearts. The truths found only in our deepest, hidden places. The ones that access the cracks in the universe to our imaginations just a little bit more.

"The truths found in the imagination access holy authority. Such authority cannot otherwise be understood." John Keats

Write to me :)

treasure

I have a wooden bowl that sits on a table in my cozy room (our name for the living room, which has always been my room, the reading room and music room, in our house) that holds treasures that I have collected along my walks throughout the years. Sometimes I bring home things that will not last forever, like these two brilliant, glowing blossoms that pulled at my heart this morning. I put them in my front window until they die. But the lichen covered bark will stay there a while before it makes its way into the bowl.

There are all sorts of things...beach glass and metal, tiny bits of driftwood, seashells, stones, domes of moss, shards of pottery that broke and I could not bear to part with forever, acorns, walnut boats, feathers, chestnuts and wee little pine cones. When my children were little we would make tiny faeries and gnomes of wool and felt and appoint their homes with all the treasures we would find on our walks and in our back yard. I still have the little people we would make; some of them are quite beautiful. Oh the faery houses we made in the woods! My favourite was one we made in winter at the edge of a tree with wonderful house-like roots. We made a pathway of icicles that grew taller as they reached the door, crossing over one another at the top like a Gothic cathedral window...I miss making them. What magic.

 

I was thinking this morning towards the end of my walk how I have not found a robin's egg this year. The colour of a robin's egg is my very favourite. I have a pottery bowl in my kitchen window just that hue...it looks so beautiful next to any other colour, especially the deep glossy brown of coffee beans. I'm kind of sad that I did not find an egg this year...and I'm always looking.

Today I picked a bouquet of several types of ferns to put in the vase in my front window. I will take a photo of it in the early light tomorrow. It looks so gorgeous next to the lichen and the bark. Makes me want to knit a shawl in all of the same textures and colours to wrap up in for walks in the crisp autumn air.

But how can anything we could ever make compare to the beauty of the real thing?

I think today I will take a basket of rustic wools and silks to work and crochet a hat. I feel so fortunate to live in a place where the natural landscape is so rich with inspiration...

Write to me about your treasures...

just thinking out loud

Child-rearing just does not have a happy ending. (At first) The little ducks leave...as they should...and you are left with an empty nest. Not an easy situation if your life has been filled with kid-stuff for years and years, and especially if you were a stay-at-home mom for almost all of them. If you're smart, you'd better learn to find happiness and purpose and, yes, yourself, somewhere else beyond the finish line. Yes, there is a finish line. Yes, yes, yes. Some days I REALLY look forward to that finish line. And others, well, I just get incredibly afraid to start the next mile that brings me one step closer to it.

Maybe it feels different if you're in a good marriage. Then you'd have that freedom to look forward to. Time to take off on road trips together, to do fun, spur of the moment grown-up stuff on weeknights or weekends. Even sleep in (or just stay in bed) until noon on a Sunday, reading the paper, making a team effort at the NYT crossword puzzle, breakfast in bed (and then some). I mean, all that sounds lovely. And I really do hope that's me having breakfast in bed with a man I love and newspapers and pencils one day. The reality of it is, my empty nest is approaching, and it looks like it's going to be just me, myself, and I...and my cats...for a while.

Fortunately, I enjoy solitude. I can honestly say I am one woman who doesn't know what the word "bored" means. There are so many...SO MANY...things I love to do and never enough time to do them all. I keep busy. Maybe that's because I didn't really have what I felt was a true partner in my life during all of these years of child-rearing. When it came to my own time, my personal life beyond my children, I was on my own. And I learned to make the best of it along the way. I wonder how that independent streak in me would settle into a daily relationship with someone I actually enjoy being with. It would have to be someone who has that same kind of independent streak, someone who wouldn't pout or feel offended when I needed to be alone. Someone who has their very own roots and can stand on their own. You know, like Kahlil Gibran wrote:

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

Yes, he'll have to be an oak. I know an oak. And he knows a cypress. Well, maybe not a cypress. Actually, definitely not a cypress. I'm more of a shady sugar maple who loves her winters. And maybe one day the oak and the maple will wake up together on a Sunday morning. But for now, right here today...this tree is learning to make her own shade, and half-finished crossword puzzles will have to suffice. And there's nothing wrong with that.

I have at the very least one or two more years with my girl at home with me. Maybe one or two more after that. But oh these years go fast. And while she is the best company I could ask for in so many ways, it's just not enough, or right, to put all of my eggs into that one basket. Because she's going to be leaving it, and we'll have a whole new way of being mother and daughter after that. I'm experiencing that with my son, and it's really okay. But somehow it's different when it's your baby. Your last one. And furthermore...we never know when the last of anything will be. That is life. That is where the real reality sets in...to make the best of what good graces you have been given.

I've already become comfortable with the art of being alone. But I don't think I want to be alone forever. I'm hoping that the finish line is the start of a whole new journey. I am finding gratitude in the fact that I have this time to dig my roots even deeper and learn to stand on my own before I am ready to share ground with someone else. The most satisfying thing? Knowing I will never stand in someone else's shadow again. I know the difference now. God I think of the difference every single day! SO unhealthy. Sometimes I regret that we didn't just let out the truth and have an agreement years earlier, but it happened the way it did, and I've learned along the way. Perhaps steeped in misery and bone loneliness and longing for what wasn't there...but necessary. Necessary because now I know the difference. I am thankful for that. But you can't get back time. Although, at least we didn't drag it out ten more years.  But you know...if we would have ended it ten years sooner, I would not be the person I am today, and my life could be a whole different ballgame. So, things are just the way they are supposed to be. I have to always try to remember that, and to let go of regrets. It's natural, and human, to feel the weight of time, though. The uncertainty of tomorrow. I guess that's where faith comes in.

Right now, the sun is slowly falling behind the trees out my window. An hour or so of daylight left. We are going for a walk at the farm and hopefully will be back in time to watch the bats make flight in the yard. These long evenings are precious, especially when my girl is home with me. She just finished her chores, and mine are done enough for today...so signing off for a day or so. Hope you are all enjoying these lovely, yet fleeting, mid-summer eve's.

xo

Write to me :)

colr play

 

My daughter and I found a great website called colr.org. It's a virtual playground for colour lovers. One of the neat things you can do is type in a website address and it gives you web hex numbers for the colours used on that site. I typed in unweavingthenest.com and it came up with these images that match the colours I have used in the design of my site. I thought it was pretty, and nifty...

Try it yourself...

www.colr.org

walking the poem

I love the three elements in this photo: the dead branch of oak barely touching its reflection in the still water, the mirror of pond, and the full green leaves and one luminous weed, one reflected, the other captured at the fringe of where earth meets water. There is a poem in those images. Maybe I will write it.

There are seeds of poetry everywhere on my early morning walks. They are as necessary to me as anything else in my life. All people have their landscapes, their dreaming places, and certainly I have found mine.

One of the many things I brought back with me from Vermont is an article from The Washington Post. It is called "Walking With His Muse, a Poet Becomes His Own Destination", and was written by Edward Hirsch. It starts out as so:

"Poetry is a vocation. It is not a career, but a calling. For as long as I can remember, I have associated that calling, my life's work, with walking. I love the leisurely amplitude, the spaciousness, of taking a walk, of heading somewhere, anywhere, on foot. I love the sheer adventure of it, setting out and taking off. You cross a threshold and you're on your way. Time is suspended. Writing poetry is such an intense experience that it helps to start the process in a casual or wayward frame of mind. Poetry is written from the body as well as the mind, and the rhythm and pace of a walk can get you going and keep you grounded. It's a kind of light meditation. Daydreaming is one of the key sources of poetry---a poem often starts as a daydream that finds its way to language---and walking seems to bring a different sort of alertness, an associative kind of thinking, a drifting state of mind."

He goes on to talk about entering the body, and also leaving it. Being both HERE and THERE. Observing while thinking of something else. I must have been born a poet, because I am a living, breathing example of being in two places at once. Very present and yet my mind can be a million miles a way. If I look back at my school report cards there is a common thread in the comments from teachers: "Kateri tends to daydream too often during class." and "Kateri does well on her exams, but seems to be drifting out the window during class." Well, there you have it. And walking the farm is my drifting place of choice.

Of the fifty or so poems I have written in the past few years almost all of them were sparked while walking. Wandering. Fed by words of others. And then brought to be by writing. I would say the three W's are my holy trinity. Wandering, words of others, and writing. Interesting that they are three things that no one can take away.

Gary Snyder said that walking is the exact balance between spirit and humility. You enter the unknown and the process---the experience---humbles, energizes, challenges and changes you. I love that.

Tonight I had some free time while my daughter was visiting with her dad. I had dinner and a visit with a good friend, and then I decided I needed to take a walk at the farm again before it got dark. Normally I am an early morning wanderer; I thrive on the waking of the birds, the quiet grasses becoming vocal as they swoosh past my skirt, the layer of mist on the fields and the far-off hazy hills so luminous in the waking light. Colours are so subtle, and yet, just glow in the early morning. Look...

But an evening walk is sometimes just what I need. So I moseyed over, took the back path between the ponds, and found myself heading towards the old stables. I saw bluebirds and barn swallows, tiny goldfinches and tree swallows. I adore tree swallows and their sleek, dark heads shimmering blue atop white breasts. All dressed up. I had my notebook in my pocket and sat to write for just a minute---a few thoughts that surfaced, which I knew would disappear as soon as my feet started moving again. Thoughts are like that; if you don't write them down they might be gone forever. And then I thought, you know, a walk is always a poem unto itself. The music of nature, the rhythm of your footsteps, the way you enter the landscape, all the layers of it and how it beckons you to notice the tiniest details. How your mind can wander to fantastic places. The mystery of the beginning and the open-ended close of it. It is like the perfect poem---every time I walk out the door and head over.
Write to me about your walk :)

the world is calling

I took seven photos while I was in Vermont and New Hampshire this weekend. If you know me, you know this is almost a miracle; normally my memory stick is exhausted by the time I get home. This time, I am exhausted: mentally, emotionally and physically.

We arrived home after one in the morning last night. Drove through storms and a beautiful sunset and a moon glowing behind dark clouds that took our breath away. Mist hovering over the green hills that edge the Mohawk River. We talked and talked, trying to make sense of everything we took in over the two day poetry workshop that we had participated in, and about other complete non-sense, too :) My friend and I were both completely drained by the time we rolled into our hometown, but somehow filled up, as well.

I love this photo taken inside the 1920's diner in Bellows Falls, Vermont. The image and the words on the man's t-shirt are like a poem to me. I'll let you draw your own words from it.

This morning there is unpacking to do, laundry, housekeeping, plant watering, grocery shopping, correspondence to catch up on, bills to pay. And while I love to hit the road and just "go", I am loving being home even more. The world might be calling, but it's calling me to be right here, now.

I tell you, being in close quarters and in deep discussion with nine other poets is a humbling experience. It also brought me to an understanding that I am doing just what I need to do, and I don't have to look any farther than my own backyard. I felt at once inept and quietly confident. I know that seems a contradiction, but it's just how I felt. I surprised myself. I realized that I don't need to envy those pursuing low-residency MFA's in writing-mecca universities with dreams of entering the world of academia, because it's just not who I am. And who I am was validated, by myself, in my own quiet way. I'm feeling content with my journey as a poet, and also aware, absolutely aware, of what a long journey it is. A never-ending one, and for me a more solitary one...and that is just fine.

I learned so much this weekend. From everyone present, but mostly from myself, about myself.

The space we were in was an old industrial building on the edge of the very first canal built in the US, in Bellows Falls, Vermont. It is a town that has seen more than its share of changes; originally a textile and paper mill town because of its geographic location on the Connecticut River, with the advent of the railroad it evolved into a more industrial center, the canals becoming solely a source of power for the hydro-electric plant that fed the once thriving tool and die plant, and that now supplies power for the Vermont Public Power Authority. There is evidence of much decay, the old buildings lining the narrow and hilly streets crumbling and peeling at the edges. It just felt forgotten. Melancholy, with a hopeful facade of an artsy kind kind of town, but with an undercurrent of desertion. People are struggling there.

In one section of the village there is a block they have dubbed the Exner Block. On one side of the street there are a few folks trying to make a go at trendy coffee shops and galleries, revamped buildings and storefronts, flower boxes and colourful banners inviting you to eat, shop and explore...and then on the other side of the street an entire block of fire-gutted buildings, desolate and forgotten, for what looks like years. It was heartbreaking, really. And then, in the middle of a somewhat salvaged building was a tall rectangular window rimmed in bright periwinkle paint with a stunning curtain of intricately cut paper curtains flowing behind the time-rippled glass. I asked a fellow walking down the street what was behind that window and he replied "The ritziest apartment in town!"  Interesting, hey? The feeling I took away was of a place at the mercy of progress and geography and the inhabitants never quite knowing where they fit in.

The room we were in for most of the day was a hand-typeset studio. This was thrilling to me. I loved the imagery it provided, something very satisfying about it, and made me realize it is an art I would like to learn. Here are some images that caught my eye...

 

 

 

I mean, just look at those drawers of tiny words! It made me dream of collecting 8 of my favourite poems that I have written, hand-setting and printing them myself, and then having them sewn into a few little books that I can give to my children to have forever. There is something artistically appealing about arranging the tiny words in reverse, the way they line up so imperfectly along the wooden board, the myriad of inks to choose from, the meeting of fine paper with wet metal.The meticulous placing of letters and words in lines. It is something I know I need to do.

For now, I have had enough words, and feel the day calling me away from my desk. Thanks for reading...

Write to me :)

off to the mountain

Is that not the coolest photo? The way the trees were still bare and the shock of evergreen against the muted tones of water, earth and sky? That was in April? Was it only April that I was last there? (Did I just write four interrogative sentences in a row?)

I am leaving after work tomorrow to drive to New Hampshire. My friend Heidy and I are participating in a workshop on the poetry of place. We'll be writing and walking all day, and then at night free to roam. I'm looking forward to sharing this place with her. We won't be staying where I have stayed before, but in a new place, Bellows Falls, on the river that divides New Hampshire from Vermont. The Connecticut River to be precise. I'm thinking there will be early walks to the Miss Bellows Falls Diner ;) And definitely evening drives into New Hampshire. Oh, and writing, lots of writing. And seeing what this historic river town is all about.

I have been ambivalent about leaving, for many reasons, financial and parental at the top of the list. But off I will go, and I know it will be fine.

So, until I get a chance to post about our journey, I wish you all a beautiful weekend wherever you are...

And thank you to all who have written to me; your thoughts and stories mean so much.

xo

Write to me:)

good to the last drop?

Today sucked. From the first pre-dawn hours. One of those days where things go wrong, and where normally that would be fine, but the real disappoints present their ugly heads from deep inside and make everything hard to deal with. Ever feel like this?

Yes, you know exactly what I mean. Except they left out a few things didn't they? They left out the emotional  and abstract things, the things we can't see or hold. And besides, that woman looks entirely too put together. And I'm assuming she has a migraine, too. Because I had one today on top of everything else. Everything else...

My daughter slept with me last night and said I was positively violent, stealing the blankets, kicking her, talking in my sleep. I woke up with a scratch on my forehead...trying to pick my brain? I'm usually one to fall asleep fast and never move till my eyes open. Obviously there is some kick-ass action-flick stuff taking place in my subconscious self. Or is it unconscious? Nah, I know it's there...

Why start a post about having a sucky day with a photo of a sunflower? Because I thought it was pretty, and I felt obliged to put a positive thumbprint of approval on this day after all. Because it's these kinds of days that help me see what I'm made of, and I'm thinking I still like myself pretty well, but I also humbled myself with a clear picture of how I am very humanly capable of dropping the ball. Or the myriad of other things I might be tossing in the air at any given time. Yep, human after all.

Yesterday I did come home and make a wonderful dinner for my daughter and I. She has been grounded to the house until she has secured a job. I have been giving her a plethora of tasks to do every day while I am at work, and she has not dropped the ball, at all. She has risen to the occasion. She filled out three applications today. She's getting the picture. We've had more time together since she is not allowed out and about, and it's been swell. I think she kind of likes it, too. Just look how happy she is to be sharing a meal with her mom:

 

Makes a mother feel good when her kid licks the bowl. Ha! But see, I did one thing right yesterday.

In other ways I feel like a failure as a mother lately. I've been too soft. I believe in soft, but I've been too soft. And now I get to be a hard ass and try to back-paddle and corral all the loose ends in and try to set things straight again. Thank God (thank you, God) that I was blessed with a kid who understands that I'm human. And that we both love each other despite our flaws, maybe even because of them. SO just as I realized I was dropping the balls, she was there picking them up and running with them. Ahhh, teamwork.

I love that kid.

Life is so fucking messy.

And today I had an epiphany at work. That people really suck. People can be so damn stupid and stubborn and blind and mean, cruel, evil, sharp-edged...human. I talked to some doozies today, let me tell ya. At one point I had to put my line on hold and leave my desk and walk outside before I blew a gasket. There I was, standing in the rain thinking "Who is this person sitting in my chair? Why is she getting so edgy? Why can't she let it roll off her back today?"

Human. Just like the rest of the idiots probably very nice folks I talked to all morning.

While I was out there letting off steam in the rain I remembered something I had read in an old issue of The Sun:

"People's choices are not based on a desire to hurt...Most are doing the best they can, given what information they've received and what problems they are facing. If you understand that's true for everyone, it's much harder to be judgmental about a particular person."

So wise, hey? "I should try harder to remember that." I thought to myself as I walked back in to my desk and placed my headset on.

Two calls later and I was pressing the mute button and saying into the dead air space "Can you put your dentures back in before you smack on another cheese puff. I can't understand a G**D*** word you're spitting."

Human.

When I came home tonight I was into a good old fashioned migraine. The kind I never get anymore, well, rarely. I took three aspirin with a large tumbler of red wine (Mas Igneus 2000 FA 206 to be precise...a lovely opaque red from Spain, heavy on the summer berry with a hint of old sneakers it seemed to me) and plopped into bed, leaving my phone on high volume. See, I was hoping to have a visit from a friend tonight, someone whose presence just makes my life better, and I slept right through his call. That just sucks, too. But I think he needed sleep as much as I did, and so probably all for the best. Anyhow, I woke up as hard as I fell, in a puddle of drool (well a dribble anyways) and soaked in sweat. But I felt better. So much better.

And now it's gaining on one in the morning and I'm wide awake and thinking how nice it is that I can come here and let off all of my angst. Hopefully, if you even read this far, I have not completely wasted your time. Just know I am very thankful for the privilege of being able to send my thoughts into the universe. Whoever ends up suffering through them..thank you :)

One last little ray of sunshine...when I opened my photo software to grab pictures for this post I noticed my daughter had taken a photo of our chubby cat, Nimue. What a good catch she made with this one! Seems like there is a message in that sweet, blissful little puss's face. Life is good to the last drop. Even when we've made a mess and spilled the first zillion. Lick it up folks...it don't last forever.

Write to me :)

masquerade

original painting by misty mawn

Whenever I look at this painting I think of a window to a soul. We all have them, be it the eyes, the sighs, the poems and paintings, or even the smallest gestures of our hands, our body language. There are as many ways to reveal our inner mystery as there are stars in the night sky. When I first started this on-line journal I felt really free to express those parts of myself, even if it was only the tip of the iceberg. There are still days when I do, but more often I feel held back. If my original intention was to have a place to express my thoughts and desires and shortcomings and questions with honesty, a virtual window to my soul, then this little on-line journal seems to have the curtains drawn a bit lately.

Misty and I were talking about the reasons why. Certainly part of it is that there are aspects of my life that are private to me, and I want to keep that element of mystery. But there are other reasons. I envy those journalers that have kept their anonymity on-line and can open a vein without remorse. Oh, there have been a few posts that I somewhat regretted after clicking the publish button. But I've left them. I don't want to get into all the things that keep me from writing what I really want to write. Instead, let me just say I am going to change my approach to this space and what I share here.

When I first started I also did it mostly to encourage myself to write daily, to blend the visual with the written word, and to create a space I could come to to look back on the imagery and thoughts of a particularly transformational time of my life. My paper journal can provide that to an extent, but there is just something really satisfying and validating about sending it out into the world whether anyone reads it or not. Misty and I both agreed that we have made contacts through our on-line journals that have enriched our lives so much, and have found the virtual 'homes' of others through them as well...places that we love to visit and read through. Often. There are, in fact, so many wonderful blogs out there that there is just not enough time to visit them all on any kind of regular basis. That fact alone has been weighing on me lately, because I actually get to feeling guilty when I realize I have not read so-and-so's latest, or left comments for so and so's last three posts. I have toyed with not having comments any longer, and I will say without them the space becomes different. But I have not decided if that is such a bad thing.

Why not just put it out there. Have be what it is...a linear line-up of thoughts and images from a life being lived far and away from a computer screen. Maybe it will be daily, maybe it won't. But one thing I would like to change is that feeling I've been having, that stifling feeling, of not being able to write what I'm really thinking about. It seems like a bit of a masquerade lately. Trying to come up with something to post that's even somewhat interesting, but never quite hits the mark because my heart and mind are somewhere else all together. So, I've decided I need to change the way it feels here. I am taking off all sidebar items for now and just having the space for words. And no comments. But I want to keep my lines open for any kind of discussion, hoping that by keeping them private, between reader and writer, that they will also become more personal and engaging for both parties. Don't get me wrong, I love, LOVE, hearing from you...I'd just like to get to know you better :) And I find, at least for myself, when I read something that I want to respond to, I tend to send an email anyhow. There will always be a link at the end of each post to email me.

write to me.