I have suddenly decided to embark on a blogging hiatus of an unknown length of time. New adventures, unforeseen shifts, change in focus — life is like that, isn't it? An ebb and flow of season, a constant turning toward and away from the sun. My heartfelt thanks to you for reading, commenting and following my often silly ramblings. I hope to see you all in cyberspace, or in person, if I'm so lucky. Kindly, Jenny
She wore her yellow sun-bonnet, She wore her greenest gown; She turned to the south wind And curtsied up and down. She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbour: "Winter is dead."
Squinting,
then unfurling
into the shy slant
of spring's pale
lemon sky.
Flocks of light blue
breezes migrating
from the south gently
mingle with warming
rays and I am
shivering from chill,
warmth, both at once.
My paper face
tilts, like purple crocus
to the western horizon.
Together,
flower and I, awaken
to the moment, fill
yawning lungs,
ready hearts with fragile
sunshine.
Two days ago I made vegetable curry for the first time ever. It was tasty and my whole family liked it. Honestly, I had never used coconut milk in a recipe before. I know that may be shocking but I'm a girl who lived my entire senior year in college eating almost exclusively Doritos and Minute Rice . . . soooo . . . Yesterday we welcomed the first day of Spring.
Today is National Poetry Day and the sun is shining. Also today — Izzy relaxed on the couch with her tongue sticking out in that incredibly adorable way animals sometimes do.
Tomorrow is Friday and nobody can be uncheered on a Friday.
Yes, I'd say there is much to celebrate this windy week in March.
~
Spring
by Mary Oliver
Somewhere
a black bear
has just risen from sleep
and is staring
down the mountain.
All night
in the brisk and shallow restlessness
of early spring
I think of her,
her four black fists
flicking the gravel,
her tongue
like a red fire
touching the grass,
the cold water.
There is only one question:
how to love this world.
I think of her
rising
like a black and leafy ledge
to sharpen her claws against
the silence
of the trees.
Whatever else
my life is
with its poems
and its music
and its glass cities,
it is also this dazzling darkness
coming
down the mountain,
breathing and tasting;
all day I think of her—
her white teeth,
her wordlessness,
her perfect love.
"Why can't I write?!" I asked the air
When I've finally found a day to spare
Me thinks the house may silence my pen
too much laundry, dust and lack of zen
I packed my bag and sought a chair
at the local Barnes & Noble, where
I thought the words would flow like wine
in the tapas bar on 3rd and Pine
But, hark! I found it worse than home
Distractions lurked like night in Nome
Poetry, classics, mags by the ton
I'd stopped writing before I'd even begun
Then spent the day with nose in book
Browsing covers for a Nook
Reading Oliver's latest poems
And pondering purchasing several tomes
At days end, I'd nothing to show
No letters written in a tiny row
Just a messy house, dishes in the sink
And a caffeine crash (from the latte, I think)
I called the day "a piece of crap"
My writing life is a lot like that.
One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores, peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies. One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.
My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors, each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day: pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights, fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper— bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us, on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives— to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did for twenty years, so I could write this poem.
All of us as vital as the one light we move through, the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day: equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined, the "I have a dream" we keep dreaming, or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain the empty desks of twenty children marked absent today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light breathing color into stained glass windows, life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth onto the steps of our museums and park benches 2 as mothers watch children slide into the day.
One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane so my brother and I could have books and shoes.
The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs, buses launching down avenues, the symphony of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways, the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.
Hear:
squeaky playground swings, trains whistling, or whispers across café
tables,
Hear: the doors we open for each other all day, saying: hello
shalom, buon giorno
howdy
namaste or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.
One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands: weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report for the boss on time, stitching another wound 3 or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait, or the last floor on the Freedom Tower jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.
One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes tired from work: some days guessing at the weather of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother who knew how to give, or forgiving a father who couldn't give what you wanted.
We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home, always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop and every window, of one country—all of us— facing the stars hope—a new constellation waiting for us to map it, waiting for us to name it—together
These are some of the hardest days for me. These weeks when, although the days are supposedly getting longer, I feel like the sun is never far enough over the horizon and my bones are in a constant state of chill. To combat the dark I am on a constant search for pinpricks of light — a sprig of green, a sunny song, a hopeful laugh.
Here's a little roundup of some things I recently discovered. BOOKS ~ This site — bookcrossing.com — where you can send your books out into the universe and track their journey. A version of the elementary school "Flat Stanley" project . . . . for grown-ups! (Thanks to Danni of Silo Hill Farm for telling me about the site.) TV ~ This list of feel-good documentaries from PBS. SOMETHING PRETTY ~ This dress from Mod Cloth. I don't wear dresses often, but this one is divine. Maybe I should plan a fancy Valentine's day dinner and get this dress for the occasion? Except, dang, one of my words for the year is "simplify." Buying a semi-pointless dress doesn't really work into that plan. READING ~ This book. I'd never read it and decided it was high time.
ART ~ This french artist's blog and artwork. And this one too. There are so many talented people in the world, aren't there?
MUSIC ~ This documentary on Tom Petty. (Again with the talent.) HOOKY ~ For all the crochet-crazed out there — this free baby bootie pattern. I think I know what I'll be working on next! And finally POETRY. This poem:
Winter-Time Robert Louis Stevenson (from A Child’s Garden of Verses, 1885)
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.
Wishing you a happy week.
Oh - and don't forget to put your name in for a book drawing. I'll pick names on Wednesday (see previous post).
{or How I spent a few days gearing up for the coming of December}
skimming Poetry books and watching Larry David make a mess of things in old episodes of 'Curb Your Enthusiasm'
cooking up a batch of turkey noodle soup
hanging a few wintery/holiday things
trying to be Alicia Paulson (it's hard! dang, she's good)
doing dishes while Izzy lays at my feet (there's a heat vent under the sink kickboard)
enjoying my new oil lamp (purchase inspired by my pilgrim obsession of last week)
walking by this downtown apartment window (just as it asked to be photographed)
impulsively purchasing some deliciously retro fabric — vintage Santas and folks strolling festive
city sidewalks — then grabbing some polymer clay because I suddenly felt like making
tiny snowmen
~
I'm easing myself into the Christmas season. If I rush in too quickly I tend to grow weary by the time the actual day rolls around, so I'm taking it slow . . . humming along with the tunes in the stores, browsing the gifts, but not buying too much yet.
I'm also decompressing from watching the entire 2nd season of 'Downton Abbey' while my mom was visiting. I was in a British WWI-era fog for several days, dreaming of wearing exquisite gowns and attending dinners with Matthew Crawley. Oh dear. Thankfully, the effect has worn off and I'm back to my old self again.
~
See those poetry books? Remember my "Poetry Workshop" class? Well, let me just say this — analyzing poetry is kinda hard and boring. It seems the more I think about HOW to write it the WORSE I get at actually writing it! Aaack!
BUT - the Ken Burns documentary on the Dust Bowl was on last week and it was really fantastic. Thus concludes my class on the Dust Bowl. I gave myself an 'A' for participation, effort and knowledge retention. :)
In honor of Thanksgiving I'm sharing this poem by Mary Oliver. A printed copy of this poem has been riding on my refrigerator door for several years now. My days are all full of visiting and turkey talk and menu planning, with small bits of design work and carpooling thrown in the mix. If I don't make it back before Thursday to wish you the happiest of Thanksgiving days, know I am thinking of you all and listing my blog friends among all of life's gifts. I am so thankful that I decided to stick my toes in the blogging waters and that you are all here, walking the shoreline with me. Thank you for reading, writing, dropping me notes, and being by my side. ~ There are a lot of words meaning thanks.
Some you can only whisper.
Others you can only sing.
The peewee whistles instead.
The snake turns in circles,
The beaver slaps his tail
on the surface of the pond.
The deer in the pinewoods stamps his hoof.
Goldfinches shine as they float through the air.
A person, sometimes, will hum a little Mahler.
Or put arms around old oak tree.
Or take out lovely pencil and notebook to find a few
1. Check out the pic of the bleeding hearts. Aren't they so amazing! So intricate and so pink! Although I feel a little disturbed that their name is "bleeding hearts." I understand why I just don't enjoy saying "bleeding hearts." It kind of gives me the willies. And it definitely reminds me that I would make a terrible surgeon. When Emma was two-years-old she fell against the coffee table and cut her gums. There was a LOT of blood, but she was ultimately okay. I was . . . I'll be honest here . . . I was HYSTERICAL. In the end she had stopped crying and was consoling me! "It's okay Mommy. See I'm fine. Calm down." No one wants a doctor who's more alarmed by your bleeding gashes than you are.
2. Aren't Tule and Izzy so cute out in the yard together. Izzy really wants to help chew on this stick, but she's too shy to ask. Tu's hoping Izzy will make a grab for it so she can start a big game of "chase."
3. It's a beautiful day outside and the sun is supposed to shine all weekend in Coeur d'Alene too. The lake will be a deep blue vision of beauty and boats. I will post photos so you can enjoy the view too.
With that said. I'd better go pack the bags and load the car. I'll leave you with a poem I wrote and wishes for a happy Mother's Day to my mom and all the mothers out there. It's the best thing ever – being a mom – isn't it?
~
The Coming of Spring
A
charming breeze delivered the bees
And
a handful of wrens at my door
The
afternoon sun made the creek waters run
And
the crocus turn purple ‘til four
The
brown hills did gleam with fistfuls of green
Uncoiling
from Earth’s warming core
And
in the dimmest half-light, a meadowlark’s flight
