audio interlude: a podcast on march 9, 2010

 

standing on my path in gearhart, oregon . february 2009

a first podcast: the one where i share about poetry readings in the bathtub and a few poets who speak to my soul as i walk on my path. (click on "bathtub poetry readings" below to hear it.)

references in this podcast:

the previous poem i wrote in 2006 is shared here

mary oliver's poetry: "something" in the collection Why I Wake Early: New Poems and "mornings at blackwater" from Red Bird

william stafford's poem "widow" from My Name Is William Tell

billy collins' poem "books" from Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems

marge piercy's poem "to have without holding" from The Moon Is Always Female

bathtub poetry readings

this is hope; this is love

my mother's hands; a waiting soft place to land, grow

with each movement

you whisper

your teachings

i surround you

with hope

and know

you are love

(early morning sleepy thoughts on this love thursday)

i want...

 

i want to write something. i want to write something that will resonate and remind you of where you come from and push you to think about where you want to go. i want to remember all that i know so that in the moments where the quiet feels more like empty, i will hear truth instead of fear. i want to write the words whipping around my mind but i do not want you to read them. i want to write until my fingers are numb and my mind sits instead of twirls. i want to hold on to your hand and trust that you will lead me through the darkness. i want to write each word down until the lists make sense. i want to let go. i want to sift through all of it until i find you me. i want to dig deeper until i hear only my breath. i want to write until everything makes sense. i want to see. i want to know. i will come back to me now. and let go of the wants and the wishing until it hurts. i will come back to me. and i will breathe. i will close my eyes and breathe until that is all there is.

the stories...

 

a new (whispered) soul mantra in my little shop

last sunday, a dear friend was visiting and we were talking about how much has changed for me during these last almost six years of living in the pacific northwest. she has known me since i was 14, and then we were colleagues in my job at the boarding school back in indiana. she knows that i was not my most happy, real self while in that job. she asked me about what changed when moving here.

being in a new place was a big piece as i tried to find my way...but part of this internal awakening came as i sifted through the grief that came into my life about nine months after we moved when my grandmother died on the heels of my first golden, Traveler, dying of cancer. my heart cracked open as it seemed to break in two when i found myself in a funeral home in south carolina facing the truth of this first walk into deep grief. last sunday, i said to my friend, "i learned what love really felt like in that moment." we talked about the relationship that i had with my grandmother and how she really did have such a challenge showing those she loved that she loved them, yet she found her way to show me. i know that her love shaped me so much as a person, yet i am saddened that, from my perspective...based on the stories shared with me, she did not often find her way to show this side of herself to others in her family.

i said something to my friend about now i find myself pulled to tell her story...to tell the stories of all the women who came before me. and, at this point at least, i don't mean the details of their stories...i don't mean the specifics of a family's journey. no. i mean that as i share my story...here, with my friends, at retreats, in my book, through the art i create...as i share my story i am telling their stories because they live in me. literally. they live within me. and as i walk in this life, i am the proof of their love...my mother's, my grandmother's, her mother's, and so on...i am the gift of the love they opened up to in their life...even if just for a moment. and i am here to tell their stories as i walk on this path.

senses. backyard (cherry tree) pause.

today, when the sun hides behind the endless white and grey sky, i pushed myself to get outside and breathe in the crisp air and notice the beauty that awaits if i just open my eyes, my heart...

{see}

i pause, close my eyes, feel my feet beneath me, and remember.  

{smell}

opening my eyes, i look up and soak in the whispers of spring.

{hear}

i lean in and breathe deeply as honey-inspired blooming fills me.

{taste}

the water drips overhead and seeks, pools, shines. i reach my fingers toward the sparkling droplets.

{touch}

and with each breath, each moment, each reminder, you are here.

{know}

which is...

 

cherry tree, port townsend, washington . february 20, 2010

I thank you God for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes.  

e.e. cummings

notes for the journey. on a day in february, 2010.

 

port townsend . february 20, 2010

christina's new project, a field guide to now, truly rocks. i am simply in awe of how she is putting herself out there to create such a beautiful project that explores how we can stand in the present in our lives. watch the video at the site to understand a bit more about what christina is creating. i can't wait to see how this project blooms...

katie's world is pure magic.

a glimpse into a daughter's love.

last week, viv stayed for the night as she was traveling to portland. we had less than 24 hours together but it was such a gift to see her, to talk and talk, to share ideas. remember to do this, to spend time with those who understand you...even if you have less than 24 hours.

and, on a fun dreaming of spring note: (oh goodness me) this necklace makes me beyond smiley, this hair band is so dreamy, and these polka dots...swoon.

today.

 

beach at fort worden, port townsend, washington . february 20, 2010

we must get outside. we must leave the place we know to discover. we must recognize the blue sky as an invitation. yes. we must rediscover who we are as we breathe in, breathe out and soak up all that stands before us. we must push ourselves to leave behind the chatter and find the sounds that await us.

this is your invitation.

get outside.

now.

As you sit on the hillside, or lie prone under the trees of the forest, or sprawl wet-legged by a mountain stream, the great door, that does not look like a door, opens.  

Stephen Graham