day 24

Dark August

So much rain, so much life the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won't come out.

Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.

She's in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,

she does not come out.
Don't you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain? But I am learning slowly

to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

all will not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then

I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
the black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.

-Derek Walcott

twenty-four days of rain here in the puget sound area. straight days of rain. today, my mood reflects the sky. steady grayness. the record for straight days of rain is thirty-three. i will keep you posted.

SPT 1/10

(photo on the left is my mother, circa 1949; photo on right is me, circa 1979)

When I was younger, my relatives and the friends of my parents used to always say, "you look just like your father." I have his eyes, his hair, his coloring. I was quite proud of this. I wanted to be just like him and would sometimes even try to wear his huge size 12 shoes around the house. I identified with him. He was larger than life in my world. In many ways, when I was a child he was my world. When my brother was born, he looked like my mother. It was easy for us to pair off when we did things as a family. Like went with like.

When my parents divorced, the image that I had created of my father was shattered. I didn't want to be like him at all. I was jealous of the relationship my brother had with my mother. I felt alone. I looked like him; I didn't want to be like him.

About six years ago, I came across this picture of my mother and thought it was me. I could see myself in her face, in her cheeks, in her big intake of breath as she smelled the flowers before her. A slight pose for the camera, just like I would have done. A simple photograph reminded me that I am not alone in my family. I am a reflection of my mother too.

I now know I want to be my own person. I want to just look like me. But I cannot let go of the reality that I am like her. There are moments that are difficult and full of misunderstandings and accusations and sadness. Maybe in the future though, we can meet in a place where we take a deep breath, smell the flowers, and see the way that we reflect each other.

see and link to other SPT participants here

start here

A poetry reading

I gave a poetry reading
this morning,
in the bathtub.
Not my words, but the words of another.
Mary Oliver.
If thoughts of poetry make you nervous, start here.
She will liberate the expectations.
My audience was the shampoo, soap,
yellow rubber duck, purple poof,
a blue candle.
The flame bobbed in time with the cadence of my voice
rich, strong, clear in the cavern of the tub.
Rhythm of words. Pause. Intake of breath. A hint of laughter. Pause.
Turn the page.
Lines began to resonate. A peek into the soul of another.
But then I found the one I was sent to find this morning
to read aloud in the quiet still water of the tub.
Pause. Read again. Pause.
And the resonance became a vibration
deep within my heart.
The reflected understanding,
a glimpse inside my soul.

"and here I am too, in front of it,
hardly able to see for the flash and the brightness"

(line above from the poem "Something" by Mary Oliver in the collection Why I Wake Early)

creative journey (AW)

My theme for this year is seek. I want to find new aspects of my life, my self, my world, my soul. One way I am doing this is through the Blogging the Artist's Way group started by Kat. Morning pages have begun. I am writing all three pages. Even when my hand cramps. I keep writing. I am energized by the idea that others are out there doing this too. Just like me. Wanting to get in touch with that creative soul inside.

I discovered SARK's books when I was in college. I used to walk around Barnes and Noble with a copy of Living Juicy so I could look up all the books she recommended. I discovered Natalie Goldberg, Henry Miller, Diane Ackerman, Portia Nelson, Harold and the Purple Crayon, The Artist's Way, and so many more. I started morning pages and the weekly tasks but only lasted a few weeks. (I realize now that I probably had enough homework already.)

As I read these books, I began to see connections. I read about the solitude some of these writers experienced and sometimes craved. I learned about giving yourself permission to feel, question, seek. I learned that most people thought that there was not only one way - to happiness, creativity, spirituality. Every now and then I would feel my heart quicken as I read. Almost as though something greater than me was telling me that I was on the right path. At that time, I didn't have a very big circle of support for this path.

After college, I moved to Chicago and started work in a cubicle. And I had a circle of support for lots of things but not creativity or spirituality. I forgot about my path. But I now know that I was still on it. After a year in the big city, I took a job at the boarding school I had attended. As a dorm counselor for 50 girls. On call 24 hours a day. Knee-deep in emotional teenage stuff. All the time. I forgot about myself. But my soul was always longing for something. And when jon and I moved to the Pacific Northwest and I let go of trying to save everyone else, the light came across my path again.

Last spring, I discovered this world of blogs. As I clicked and scrolled and read, the words of others began to resonate inside me. Maybe I really was not alone in these feelings, thoughts, hopes. Maybe there were people outside of the books on the shelves in my home who could become my circle. Over the last few months I had been thinking about AW, wanting to start it but wishing for another person or people to share in the journey. And then last month I discovered, via Marilyn, the group Kat was creating. A circle of support begins.

A greater spirit whispers that I am on the right path.

senses. barnes and noble.

{see}
I open the door and pause. Aisles and aisles of shelves filled with voices, pictures, color, truth, sadness, lies, happiness, far off places, laughter. And the unusual, a group of four young people sit at a table in the cafe. A red Michael's shopping cart is next to them filled with an umbrella, purchases, coats. I wonder what people thought as they rolled it through the door. Did someone hold the door for them with a look of wonder on her face? I walk into the cafe. Choices. Pastry, cookie, sandwich. Tea, coffee, hot, cold. Choose. I turn and see the rain outside, as I pull my mittens from my hands. Hot. Chai tea.

{taste}
The spices of the chai tea dance on my tongue, inviting me to take a trip with them. So I begin my journey in the travel section.

{smell}
For the first time I choose a random book from a shelf, open it up, and smell it...that paper smell. Close your eyes and take a breath. You know it too.
The book: Italy. The Green Guide.
The sentence: Antico Caffe del Maro "Cafe des artistes" In the 1950's the artists frequented this establishment would often pay for their drinks with paintings which now decorate the walls of this cheerful cocktail bar.
I place the book back on the shelf and turn.

{touch}
The next aisle: color, paper, beads, cloth, leather, embroidery, dried leaves. I open one. Smooth blank pages. Put that one down and pick up another. Open. Pages are rough to the touch. Leaves and flowers adorn the pages. Journals. Pick one.

{hear}
Voices. Whispers. Laughter. A sigh. What can I get for you today? Tall caffe mocha. Are you finding everything? Right this way. My own voice humming along with "I'll stop the world and melt with you..."

{and know}
when you're down and out...and weary and feeling small...and tears are in your eyes...let books become the bridge over your troubles.

a tag

acumamakiki tagged me to share five weird things about me. here goes:

1) I usually hate how my hair looks, but my friends often tell me that they wish they had hair like mine.
2) I have the smallest baby toenail you have ever seen. When I get a pedicure, the pedicurist has to basically paint it on (though she says she has seen smaller).
3) When I was a kid, I used to "cook" by mixing cheerios, honey, peanut butter, chocolate chips, and raisins in a bowl. Oh and I would eat it. And now, when sometimes when people ask me "what would you like to eat?" I think about this concoction and wish I could have some of it again.
4) I have a very low self-esteem when it comes to how I look, but I have chosen to teach yoga. For 3-7 hours a week a room full of people stare at my body and how it moves. And when I am teaching, I never think about how I look, but before class and after class it is at the forefront of my mind.
5) I flunked chemistry in college. F. And then I married a science teacher.

I would like to tag Yankee Belle, Bella, Frankie and beansprout - I think they would each add their own special brand of humor and insight into such a list.

SPT 1/3

The photo in the photo: 1977 my grandpa sits in the green chair and I sit it my rocking chair next to him.

The green chair.
It has become a bit like the skin horse.
Bald in patches with seams showing.
But it links me to the past.
This was the chair where my father always read the paper and watched TV.
I spent hours on his lap in the green chair.
And when I came home from school, I would climb into that chair to watch Mr. Rogers and Sesame Street.
But when I heard the back door open, I knew it was time to jump because the green chair was no longer mine.
As my parents purchased newer, nicer furniture, the green chair began to move from room to room. They never got rid of it.
When I had my own apartment in college, the green chair became mine.
And it has moved to three towns with me.
I can't seem to let it go.
Though it is bald in places and showing seams, it reminds me of a time
when I felt the joy of being held by my father
when Mr. Rogers taught me that I was special
when I sang along with Bert and Ernie
when I wore pajamas with feet
when I wrapped up in blankets handmade by my mother
and all of this was enough to make me feel safe
Before I knew all that I know now.
But I realize that time did exist.
So I won't let them go.
Those moments are real.
Like the skin horse.

See other SPT participants here.

journey to poetry

I have heard the whispered invitations to explore the poet's world.
Do not be afraid, the voices say.
You will know when you find your words.
Open the door.
Let the others in to speak to you.
So I did.
And I will.

Jonah by May Sarton
I come back from the belly of the whale
Bruised from the struggle with a living wall,
Drowned in a breathing dark, a huge heart-beat
That jolted helpless hands and useless feet,

Yet know it was not death, that vital warm,
Nor did the monster wish me any harm;
Only the prisoning was hard to bear
And three-weeks' need to burst back into air . .

Slowly the drowned self must be strangled free
And lifted whole out of that inmost sea,
To lie newborn under compassionate sky,
As fragile as a babe, with welling eye.

Do not be anxious, for now all is well,
The sojourn over in that fluid Hell,
My heart is nourished on no more than air,
Since every breath I draw is answered prayer.