It's Big Bag of Dog Food Day!

Mocha not only understands words, but entire phrases. Her favorite is "It's Big Bag of Dog Food Day! Today, Mocha is taking you along for the ride as we forage the hills of Tennessee for the rarest of game...the purple-breasted, yellow-feathered bag of dog food.

I look wistfully at the door. Why will it not open Momma?

I have my duck, let's ride!

First stop, the Post Office...no big bag of dog food here.

Second stop...the bank. What's this? Nice teller lady is handing me a dog biscuit.

Are there no big bags of dog food in the vault?

Sigh.

Final stop, the grocery store...magical land of big bags of dog food.

Hurry Momma, hurry!

Me, my duck and the big bag of dog food have made it home safely.

Open the door...NOW!

Bag is open, am feeling weak.

I praise the dog food gods for opposable human thumbs.

Very good Momma. You have performed your duties well.

KINDLY FILL MY BOWL!

Thank you.

Song of Goodbye

even tide, odd tide
time after time
tide pounds the shore
with the hulls of seafarers who
time after time
are drawn to the illusion
of safe harbor

Widows walk on rooftops
as mist and waves swirl
time after time
after time
after time
through hollow bones,
singing their song of goodbye

Me and Frozen Peas

Lately, I've been getting a lot of mileage from a bag of frozen peas, usually during the dark of night. No, not as a snack but as relief for a swollen knee. It's 3:20 am and the pain woke me up again, so here I sit in my big comfy chair, leg thrown over the arm with a bag of Birds Eye sweet peas perched on my knee. It's really quite effective, as long as I don't eat them.

Two years ago, an orthopedic surgeon delivered the stunning news that total knee replacement surgery was the best treatment option for me. Really, I thought? This might be a good time to haul out my inner health care advocate and ask some questions. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Tell me about the surgery. What kind of material is used, how long does it last, what's the recovery time, etc...?

OS: Mumble, mumble, mumble. We don't know how long it lasts. Recovery varies from person to person, blah, blah, blah.

Me: I'm sorry, you don't know how long the artificial knee will last, not even an educated guess?

OS: Well...maybe 30 years.

Me: 30 years? So you're telling me that in my mid to late 70's it will need to be replaced again?

OS: Something like that.

Me: What other treatment options are available, especially considering that I'm one of the millions of Americans who is uninsured?

OS: You don't have insurance? [he calls the nurse in and mumbles something to her, she leaves the room quickly]

Me: No, so what are my options?

OS: There's a new medication, here's a pamphlet that explains how it works, but it's expensive and I don't think in a case like yours it's going to be very effective.

Me: A case like mine?

OS: Yes, you have an advanced case of osteoarthritis. We could try a cortisone injection and it will either give you temporary relief or your body will reject it, like an allergic reaction, which will aggravate your knee even more.

Me: Oh.

At this point, I'm staring off into space considering my options when the nurse comes back in and hands the doctor something. He starts poking hard around my knee cap with his thumb. The pain brings me into focus and as I'm asking him, "What are the side effects of a cortisone injection?" he jams a huge needle in my knee.

Although it was reprehensible for him to treat me without my permission, that cortisone injection did the trick and for two years, I've been mostly symptom and pain free, until now.

So, tomorrow it's off to the clinic with the hope a doctor will jam a big needle in my knee and fill it with cortisone. In the meantime, I adjust the thawing bag of peas, swallow some ibuprofen and ponder what it's going to take for this country to create a workable health care program for everyone.

Sunday Snapshots

This morning, it was 60 chilly degrees when Mocha and I stepped outdoors. Since Creation was being so accommodating, I loaded the journal, pen and camera into the golf cart and drove as deep into the woods as possible.


There's a saying I've heard since moving here, "If you stand still long enough Tennessee will grow right over you." How this translates into the outdoor experience is, when not locked in the snapping jaws of drought, you are surrounded by a monochromatic expanse of green. As I walked in the woods, the slightest variation in the predominant palette caught my eye.


Here are a few Sunday Snapshots proving that Mother Nature does reward the attentive observer.

Red berries = birdfood

The absence of color in this fungi is colorful against the forest floor.

A sugar maple bloom?

Friday Tapas

I close my eyes and let the week play back behind shuttered lids and what do I see?

Flashing lights
High shrieking voices
Ringing bells
Exploding balloons
Too vibrant colors

Think midway games at a Hitchcock-inspired carnival. Yep, that pretty much sums it up.

Friday

If one is very good or very lucky, the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee might be your wakeup call. This morning I awoke to the aroma of paint...neither good nor lucky.

Thursday

Juggling balls of fire, on a unicycle, blindfolded, with one hand tied behind my back. Entertaining as hell to the onlooker, but to the person in the ring a bit treacherous.

Wednesday

A hug from a father newly sober, no longer homeless, rebuilding his life and home with love, blessings and hope.

Tuesday

The vibrational difference between gratitude and appreciation became clearer to me today. This clarity has helped me be more intentional about how I use these words in dialogue. Gratitude is comfort satisfied or discomfort alleviated, a state of reaction to the resolution of real or perceived discord. Appreciation is a sensitive awareness to all that is good, a feeling created from a place of abundance rather than lack. For example:

Gratitude: Thank you for the bowl of soup you gave me as I had nothing to eat.

Appreciation: Thank you for sharing your soup with me. Your kindness and generosity is appreciated.

Monday

A day of emotional and intellectual dynamics that started pianissimo, crescendoed to a double forte then dropped back to pianissimo by the end of the day.

The Secret to the Life I Live

Brian Andreas makes me laugh and cry and sometimes ponder the mysteries of life. He's a wry, quirky, talented writer/illustrator whose words speaks for me when I have none . Today, I was browsing through his website and stubbed my toe on the following:

The Secret to the Life I Live:

The sound of what cannot be seen

sings within everything that can

and there is nothing more to it than that.

So I ask you, what is the secret to the life you live? Feel free to leave a comment. If this is too heavy for you to contemplate, something silly will do just as well.

Oh, you can check out his website here.

The Silent Pet

Mocha Repose

While working at my desk, I lower my right hand from the keyboard, palm up and dangle it by my side. Mocha gets up from wherever she is walks over and puts her chin in my hand. I stroke her head and neck. She leans into the petting and walks forward, turns around and walks back so I cover the length of her body. Eventually, she'll lie down next to me. I never look at her, speak or stop working, but there is an exchange between us.

We must have developed this ritual years ago, but until today, I was not consciously aware it was happening. For the past 5 or 6 years she's gone to work with me, which means we are together 24/7 nearly every day.

Knowing we have a bond that requires no words warms me deep within.

Friday Tapas

Tidbits of words and moments from the past week replay behind the lids of my shuttered eyes:

Friday

Hiking through the woods this morning, we could see our breath. It's August. What is this gift revealing itself as vapor and tingling skin?

Thursday

Voting for the first time in Tennessee.

Falling asleep so happy, like a child without a care in the world, my hand tucked under my chin.

Wednesday

Someone who minored in English said to me, "That Emmy Lou Dickerson, she's my favorite poet."

Tuesday

Celebrating the power of words punctuated with grace.

"I am a human being, so nothing that is human is alien to me." Terentius

Monday

Baking bread for those who will spend hours or days at Penuel Ridge. That warm, yeasty aroma permeating every inch of this house.

Sunday

A dialogue between a mother and daughter.

"I don't know," Magda says. "Seems like that's just how it is with you and me. We're like islands on the moon." "There's no water on the moon," says Annemarie. "That's what I mean. A person could walk from one to the other if they just decided to do it."

Homeland and Other Stories, Barbara Kingsolver

Gnu Haiku for You

Number One

juice on your pages
honeysuckle perfumed air,
secret diary breached

Number Two

cicada song drones
sheets sway in the mid-day sun,
sweat slips down the glass

Number Three

lather rinse repeat
again and again the same,
her long braid undone

Party of One

clench, unclench
swallow bitter, black coffee
rub the tender place
just below your earlobe

repeat in silence
until the cup is empty

crease, uncrease
the morning paper
mark the tender place
with a smudge of newsprint

give voice to the words
that glide under your thumb

at a table for two
she looks up and sighs
Everything is just fine,
she whispers under her breath

A question?
A wish?
A prayer.

Dog Tales

Usually, Mocha is curled up behind the big comfy chair in my sitting room snoozing, like she is at this very moment, but yesterday she decided to sit in a small space between the window and said chair. There she sat staring, at what I do not know, while I read. Occasionally, she would turn her head and look out the window to make sure no bunnies had hopped into her territory. This is a critical activity in her role as watcher and protector.

She's quick to sound the alarm if there is movement or noise she can't identify. While all the sitting and staring was going on, a retreatant had the audacity to walk across the floor upstairs, over our heads. She immediately cranked up the low threatening growl that precedes the all-out barking frenzy. As the human I was able to assess that this act of walking across the room was not an eminent threat and we were not in danger of being disemboweled. To encourage her to stop growling and stave off the barking frenzy, I pointed my index finger at her and said in a stern momma voice, "NO." Heretofore, this has been an ineffective disciplining technique, but for some reason, I keep doing it and she keeps ignoring me...until yesterday.

Do you know what she did when I pointed my index finger within inches of her nose and said emphatically, "NO."?

SHE LICKED MY FINGER. Slurp!

I don't know who laughed harder, her or me, but she did stop growling!

Sadie's Legacy

Sadie Catherine Hammond Liere Pohl...a long name for a woman who stood 4' 10" in stocking feet.

A right of passage for her grandchildren was surpassing her in height. I should not have gloated the day I realized I could see the top of her head. Grandma had the last laugh when my vertical growth came to a screeching halt in the 6th grade, never to resume.

My grandmother is as present to me today as she was the countless hours I spent at the hem of her skirt, shadowing her every move. She died in 1997 on her 84th birthday. That she died on her birthday should tell you something about the depth of her will and character. At her insistence, I delivered her eulogy. A huge statement from a woman to a small farming community steeped in patriarchy.

One of the great gifts she gave me (and my mother) was a deep love and respect for the Earth. Daughter, sister and eventually wife of rice farmers, her whole subsistence was gleaned from the rich, sticky gumbo soil of South Texas. In addition to the rice and corn fields the men tended, grandma had a kitchen garden that yielded all the herbs and vegetables we needed to keep the family fed year-round. Grandpa also gave her space at the edge of one of the rice fields to grow watermelon, cantaloupe, pumpkin and the big squash that took up too much room in the kitchen garden. Tending to these gardens in the height of growing season was quite a chore, but I guess not too big of a challenge for her as she also had a corner in her living room, and eventually an enclosed patio, teaming with houseplants.

My favorite plant was one with variegated green and white leaves that turned pink in the fall, not a color you normally see on a farm. What fascinated me about this houseplant was during the heat of the summer, when all the other plants were gasping for air and water, it bloomed. Tiny red blooms perched on the end of long, spiny branches in clusters of 3 or 4. They look exactly like a cardinal in profile, thus the common name of this plant...Redbird.

Among the treasures my grandmother gave me when I moved away from home was a cutting from her Redbird plant. Since then, it has traveled many miles and witnessed my life's journey over the past 30 years. It is now thriving on the patio at Penuel Ridge, my home in Middle Tennessee.

It's blooming right now and if you've never heard of or seen this plant, here's your chance. I had intended to take photos of the diminutive, vibrant flowers, but kept forgetting. The other day, a blustery summer rainstorm was moving in, so I grabbed the camera and bolted outside. It was so humid the lens kept fogging up so the photos look a bit ethereal, but you can clearly see the blooms.

This plant also goes by the name Devil's Backbone, but I think I'll stick to the name my grandmother taught me...Redbird.

Scenes from the Road

Mocha and I just returned from a weekend with Lovely Linda and her pack of furry, four-legged ones. I took my camera, but never unpacked it, so here are some word pictures:

Wildfires in Cherokee National Forest sent narrow ribbons of white smoke skyward. Mother Earth is cleaning house.

The French Broad River glistened in the mid-day sun. So clear, the water looked turquoise from the high bridge spanning its girth.

A gentle rolling hill, dotted with horses grazing on deep green grass. A graceful fence framing the scene.

Blueberry bushes groaning under the weight of swelling berries in shades of pale cream, pink and purple. A mockingbird serenading and scolding from a nearby crepe myrtle as ripe berries went plunk in the bottom of our buckets.

Rivers and creeks carrying canoers silently along veins of cool, clear water.

Majestic wings soaring over an interstate, the unmistakable white head of a Bald Eagle and a double-take behind the wheel to make sure it wasn't an apparition.

Good friends sitting around a table, sharing life stories and dreams for the future over ample food and wine.

Long, leisurely naps in a room with soft blue walls. Awakened by the tolling of deep, resonant chimes hanging from a tulip poplar in the front yard.

A feast of tender touches, messages spoken with eyes, not mouths, breathing, moving in tandem.

I Brake for Turkeys

The other day, I'm driving down River Road and an oncoming car blinks its lights at me. If I were in Houston, this would mean there was a cop ahead with a radar gun and an itchy, ticket-writing trigger finger lying in wait. In rural Tennessee this courtesy signal can mean any number of things: 1) beware, farm equipment ahead blocking all lanes, 2) beware, fresh roadkill ahead, 3) beware, Billy Bob is on the loose again with a chainsaw and a pick ax, [see item 8 on my list of Good Things to Know] or 4) ____________ fill in the blank.

I slowed down and proceeded cautiously on this twisty-turny road. After several minutes of not seeing anything out of the ordinary, I wondered aloud what the fuss was about [yes, I was alone in the car and yes, I do talk to myself out loud in said vehicle on occasion]. Just then, I picked up movement on the left side of the road in my peripheral vision.

A wild turkey hen appeared to be playing a game of peek-a-boo, bobbing her head up, looking around, then ducking down in a tall patch of grass. Now folks, this is not "normal" turkey behavior, so I knew something was up and braked to a stop. After one more peek (or was it a boo?) she stepped from her protective cover followed by another hen and a brood of chicks. They casually strolled past me and disappeared into what was surely greener grass waiting for them on the other side of the road.

I moved on, happy in the knowledge I hadn't increased the roadkill percentages that day. Then it hit me, the conscientious motorist was not the pace car for the turkey parade, nor would he have even known momma turkey was about to step out with her brood, so I again slowed down and sure enough, on the next hill was a man walking toward me and away from a broken down van stopped part-way on the road. I didn't stop to offer help as he was nearing a local tavern where he could get help and a cold adult beverage.

This little haiku bubbled up later in the evening [after an adult beverage, I might add]

I brake for turkeys
their heads bob across the road,
safe till November

The Water Between Us

When I was a child I lay in bed at night and looked out at these
islands. "There's no sense sailing to San Miguel," my father always said. "There's nothing out there." Sometimes when the wind shifted and blew in from the southwest I could hear seals barking and a sound like women singing, and I wanted to swim to San Miguel. It stood for the separateness I felt from my family, for the mystery of how identity is formed. Now I find I can't say I am one thing without saying I am another: as these islands are defined by their relationship to the coast, so is my sense of aloneness rooted in the context of family, and because of it, I knew the ways in which I was different, and how the "water between us" could be bridged by what we share.

It is not my custom to use this blog as a forum to articulate the merits (or lack thereof) of books, music, art, etc... The way I see it, all genres of expression are subjective and what resonates in me may not resonate in you, heck, it might downright repulse you.

This blog started out with an excerpt from the book "Island, The Universe, Home" by Gretel Ehrlich. I didn't read this book, I ingested it and in less than 48 hours. Yes, it resonated with me, particularly this passage.

I think it's safe to say we've all felt, at one time or another, disenfranchised from our family, that they didn't understand us, we didn't speak the same language, they were from another planet, I had to be adopted, etc... For me, this passed as life experience and a little wisdom crept into the creases of my know-it-all brain, but in reading this today, I realized the water between me and my family is getting harder and harder to bridge because we share so little.

This bugs me.

The Vine

move through thorns
past copperheads
without being pricked
draw back a fistful of blackberries
warmed by the midday sun

a tangy, sweet squish in your mouth
the flavor of purple in summer
lauds over the aubergine scarf
now hanging limply in the corner
like a barren vine or slumbering snake

Move over Big Boy

Yes folks, there are reasons to celebrate the tomato.

Yesterday, the FDA declared it's OK to eat tomatoes again. Whew...glad to know that nightmare is behind us. If that's not enough to send you rushing to your local grocer, consider how good the tomato is for you. Under slick, shiny, not always red skin is a fruit (or is it a vegetable?) packed with vitamin c, lycopene and are your ready for this...small traces of nicotine.

If knowing all of this makes you want to revel in the street then you are not alone. Head to East Nashville in a couple of weeks and you can join other tomato enthusiasts at the:



There'll be parades, tomato art, children's carnivals, a Bloody Mary making competition, recipe contests, a Tomato King and Queen pageant, music AND a tomato Haiku competition. Now folks, I'm not a big fan of prescribed forms of writing, but at the encouragement of my sisters in the Eastword Writers Group, I dipped my pen in the sauce and here's what bubbled up:

tomatoes can-can
to salsa or not salsa,

my stomach rumbas

Thought for the Day

It costs nothing to be kind.

A New Day

Friday at 12:00 noon, a lone carpet-layer packed his tools, remnants of carpet and left. 5 weeks of intense renovations had come to an end. In 30 minutes, 12 people would arrive for an overnight retreat. 30 minutes to allow the house to settle around itself, become still and quiet. I walked barefoot from room to room, breathing in and breathing out. The color scheme has changed, hardwood floors have been refinished, new carpet has been laid, but the bones of this house are unchanged. Steeped in love, hospitality and reverence, I uttered a prayer of thanksgiving and Penuel Ridge was again a respite for weary sojourners.

I exhausted myself, physically, emotionally and mentally over these 5 weeks. The last day and 1/2 have been my Sabbath. I have slept, read, walked, watched birds and rabbits feast, lightning criss-cross the sky and thunder echo between ridges. I feel more rested, centered and hungry to write, to return to the music of poetry.

Many thanks to Guest Bloggers, Cathy, David and Kathy for breathing energy into this blog and my life. When I can return the favor, you need only ask.

There will be more renovations to come, but for now I am grateful for the return of silence and stillness.

Namaste.

Continuing Education - Essential for Southerners

TGIF y'all...meet Kathy. We've been in writer's group nearly as long as I've been in Tennessee. Her writing and life are filled with humor, honesty and endless curiosity, all inspiring to me. A few fun facts about Kathy...she has an outstanding collection of bumper stickers on her car that leaves no doubt where she stands on social issues and she introduced me to Gospel Drag.

Hi—I’m proud to be a guest blogger on Laura’s site!

I had a similar experience to Cathy’s having grown up in Guntersville, Alabama, during the Civil Rights movement. I watched the awful things going on further south on my family’s black and white (apropos) TV and might as well have been in another country. Only when I went back to college at age 35, twenty years ago, did I start to learn some of “the rest of the story.”

I remember sitting in a history class (my teacher was an African-American female) and learning the story of Emmett Till (www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1969702) and crying. I had never heard of him.

Growing up where I did definitely had an influence on my ignorance. We were fairly poor, and while it’s terrible to think of the way African-Americans were treated—my small town had the separate movie areas, the separate waiting rooms, and the separate windows at the local Dairy Dip—the physical accommodations for us were not much different. I was not mature enough to realize the emotional ramifications. I remember Southern writer Rick Bragg, also from Alabama, saying the local black people were the only ones around poorer than his family, and that was pretty much all he thought for a long time regarding racial issues. My family was not as poor as his, but we were not well off, and we were isolated. My relatives had the idea of separate but equal and supported it with the fact that species of birds did not mix together.

One day with innocent simplicity, coming from a conventionally religious home, I decided that God would not segregate heaven, and that was that. But still it was only a couple of years ago in graduate school that I learned what an important part Nashville played in the Civil Rights movement. Read David Halberstam’s The Children. Visit the Civil Rights Room at the Nashville Public Library where part of it is a replica of the lunchroom counters that were boycotted here. Watch the amazing documentaries they have. And read Toni Morrison’s Beloved. So many things I didn’t know until I was in my fifties but that I’m so glad I finally stumbled across in this journey called life because in print or in person, the ordinary heroes are amazing.

water the plants he’d cry
on his way out the door
to god knows where on one of his trips
i’d write notes to myself
set glasses out on the counter
as a psychological ploy to remember
but i’d lose the notes
and make tea in the glasses
so when he came home
the plants were brown and dry

one day i ran off with a black man
to a cabin in north carolina
he plays drums
i bake bread
and the flowers that grow in the garden
are watered by the rain

Namaste,
Kathy

Meeting Myself Coming and Going

A friend is grieving. Her grief is being exacerbated by the behavior of the deceased's adult children. But this post is not about her, you see I ran smack into myself, listening to her share accounts of their actions. She doesn't understand why, less than 24 hours after their father's death, they've had a dumpster delivered to his house for a literal and metaphorical purging.

My father and I have been estranged for more than 20 years. I recently saw him at a family wedding and once again appreciated the decision I'd made. I wonder how I will react when he dies, what relationships (healthy or otherwise) he's formed over the last two decades and how my reaction may impact those who are closest to him. Will reconciliation come? Do I even want reconciliation?

I think about my step-father, who died a year and a half ago. My mother was his third wife. He had children from his first marriage, but shared very little about them. From what I was able to learn, his children were estranged from him by their choice. He was such a wonderful father figure to me, I can't imagine what could have happened to create that void, but it existed.

So...here I sit, wondering.

Bubbleville

Hello Everyone, Laura asked me to be one of her guest bloggers while she has her hands full with Penuel Ridge responsibilities. Being one of her EastWord writer's group friends, I was happy to say "yes".

I'd like to share a writing spawned from a conversation we had two months ago at writer's group. I kept this a secret from everyone for 3 or 4 years until the subject of "living in a bubble" came up on this particular evening. I was inspired to speak up because of Laura who bravely shared one of her childhood bubble secrets. Thanks, Laura, for inspiring me to talk and to write about my embarrassing realization...



Bubbleville

Imagine my horror. Imagine the look on my face. Imagine the feeling in the pit of my stomach. Imagine the anger, and imagine my utter embarrassment that night as I sat in front of my big screen TV watching that movie. It was one of Michael Moore's controversial documentaries. Which one I don't remember. (Bowling For Columbine maybe?) But what I DO remember is the 10 minute American history lesson that was similar to a commercial in the middle of the movie. It was an animated account, similar to a South Park snippet, of how white men back in US history set sail toward Africa, kidnapped the local residents, and brought them to the US for the sole purpose of using them as slaves on their plantations.

I kept rewinding and reviewing that portion of the movie over and over. I was absolutely stunned that I had lived to be 47 years old and did not know this. I may have been just as perplexed at the fact that as a person with above average intelligence and a 4 year college degree I had never even been CURIOUS about how slaves got here. Yes, an hour before that movie I could have told you slaves were African, but if you had asked how those Africans came to America I suppose I would have said "the same way the white man did". And I would have been right - to an extent.

Knowing this about my past might make it easier to believe this as well: I was born and raised during the Civil Rights era and that, too, is not a memory of mine. But let's keep our focus for now on the "Where'd the slaves come from?" elephant in the room.

How CAN someone who was born and educated in the early portion of the second half of the 20th Century come out of it not having learned such a critical part of US history? I must have been living in quite the airtight bubble.

Was it imposed or self-imposed? Was every student in my high school in the same big bubble? Or was this one of my own sub-set bubbles? Did my history teacher choose to skim over the topic or was it missing from the text? Was I living in Bubbleville instead of Chapel Hill? Did my parents choose not to bring it to my attention at home for the same reasons they never brought the JFK or MLK assassinations to my attention? Was it protection? Apathy? If they passed up "teachable moments" such as those, then how could I expect them to bring up something from the past?

Could it be that it's as much my fault for not knowing as it is anyone else's? As an adult looking back I recognize that my childhood was a sheltered one. And I am grateful to my parents, for the most part, for that. And I know I wasn't an A student with boundless curiosity for things outside myself, outside my bubble.

But do you think any of this has to do with the fact that I was raised in Chapel Hill, Tennessee, at the time a rural community of approximately 800 people south of the Mason/Dixon line and not far from Pulaski, Tennessee, the hometown of the Ku Klux Klan? And do you think it has anything to do with the fact that I went to Forrest School for 12 years?

Yes, that's Forrest with two Rs, as in Nathan Bedford Forrest.

Thanks, Laura, for letting me fill in and rant a bit in your absence.

Peace To All,
Cathy Purdom
7-7-08

Drum Roll Please

Some very kind folks have agreed to sit in the host chair for a little while. This doesn't mean I'm breaking up with you...just need a little non-blogging time to finish a few projects.

Readers, meet David. He answers to several names and you can read about that little quirk on his blog. I check his site most every day and like Spam, you never know quite what you're going to ingest. Without further adieu...I give you my bongo playin', cigar smokin', boiled peanut eatin', mischief-maker...Mr. Mears:

On the Naming of Children

Many thanks to my dear friend and blue-eyed-soul-sister LaLa for the invitation to share a few words with you, her worldwide blogregation. Just so ya know, I'll probably just keep sending her stuff until she reads one that she LIKES. So yeah, this could take awhile.

My first article is about the naming of children. Today is Monday, July 7, and there's a headline on CNN.com that reads: Kidman names baby girl Sunday. ('Kidman' in this case is actress Nicole Kidman, who is married to musician Keith Urban, which explains why the child was born here in Nashville - they live here. Well, actually they live in a nouveau-fancy picturesque valley south of here, which used to be, well, a valley and a river, and now is a CELEBRITY-FILLED valley and a river. But I digress.)

So this headline confuses me just a tad, because I thought that the child was born on Sunday, but apparently she must have been born late on Saturday, and then was NAMED on Sunday. This doesn't bother me. Nearly every child enters this world unnamed for a time, although that time is usually just a matter of minutes. A few people have been known to live without a name for several days. I suppose it's just as well that they aren't at all aware of this fact. What would it be like to know that you don't have a name? Sorry, I digressed again.

Where was I? ... AH, so as it turns out, the child was not named on Sunday after all. The CNN headline was correct, but the child was not named on Sunday. The child was NAMED SUNDAY. She was born early this morning. On Monday.

I'm glad I could clear this up. I'm not going to opine on the merits of the name. All I really had to do on this one was report the facts: hey, Sunday was born on Monday. You guys go nuts if you're feeling it. It does, however, remind me of the Sheryl Crow lyric ('Every Day Is a Winding Road,') "He's got a daughter he calls Easter ... she was born on a Tuesday night." I always liked that line.

Finally, (sorry, I thought I was done,) I just remembered something. My favorite Keith Urban song is "Raining on Sunday." Y'all ... this is just gonna get complicateder and complicateder.

Posture

I've been thinking about posture lately. Not the "sit up straight young lady or you'll get a hump in your back" kind of posture but the metaphorical posture we take with others, whether it be intellectual, emotional and yes, sometimes physical.

Is this a hard-wired homosapien trait or the remnants of a caste system we as a nation claim to abhor? This oneupsmanship seems to me an exhausting way to live.

This is what I want...to be fully present with others in an atmosphere of mutual respect. Is that too much to ask?

I know...I know

I hear your fingernails rapping on the desktop, your feet tapping out an SOS on the floor. Mocha feels your pain and recommends a long nap in a soft bed, accompanied by your favorite toy.

Things have come to a screeching halt here at Texas2Tennessee.blogspot.com. What could be silencing the woman of the woods? You'll have to wait a bit longer for the answer to that question. In the meantime, enjoy some photos from the road and in the coming days, some contributions from guest bloggers.

Making Like a Monkey

Pictured, a new sculpture at Penuel Ridge, created by Rick Pride. He has dedicated his time, energy and talent to sustaining the mission.

I haven't had much time to think, write or post lately. We are in the middle of renovations at the Main Retreat House. What is usually a tranquil setting has been upended. Luckily, my space downstairs is calm, quiet and clean. I need a small corner of order in the midst of organized chaos.

Favorite part of renovations - climbing on scaffolding

Least favorite part of renovations - can't fast forward to the time when these projects will be complete

Must get some rest...tomorrow there will be more painting, more climbing on scaffolding...stay tuned.

Wonderfulness (yes, that's a word!)

Gentle Curve of Hazard Cave and its Many Colors

Hiking along the edge of a gorge

Crystal Falls

(there was a rainbow at the base of the fall)

Crystal Falls

Fairy Wand

Resting Under the Rim of Hazard Cave

Looking Out from the Depths of Hazard Cave

Lovely Linda and I spent the weekend exploring Pickett State Park and Big South Fork National River and Recreation Center.

Sitting at the Computer, Shaking my Head

These things have happened in the last 10 hours:

A teenager fell asleep at the wheel, drove off the road, took out our sign, part of the fence and garbage can stand. Other than bumps and bruises, he wasn't hurt. Now rebuilding begins and will take a heaping dose of good will and faith because the parents don't want to have a claim against their insurance. I can imagine insuring a teenager is bad enough without adding this to his "record". Someone was kind to me once and did the same. I think this is what's referred to as "paying it forward."

This morning at 5:15 I heard a tentative voice calling my name. A retreatant woke me to report the presence of a bat in the toilet. Once my sleeping brain processed this, it was time for action. With fishing net and gloves in hand, the extraction began, which wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. I gently took him/her (?) outside and found a safe place for it to rest and recuperate. That was five hours ago and it's still hanging upside down sleeping. I'm adding "bat wrangler" to my resume.

That's the little buddy hanging upside down on the tree trunk. Cute toes huh?

Memorial Day 2008

Middle Tennessee Veterans Cemetery is near Penuel Ridge. I've driven past it many times and never stopped. Today, it was my intended destination.

The sterile precise placement of headstones, their uniform shape, size and color were no different for a private than for a general. Set along the Harpeth, the gentle rolling hills of the cemetery stretched out before me a river of fallen soldiers.

Many families marked the day with artificial red, white and blue flowers, others stood vigil over graves, heads bent low. Waves of intense emotion rolled across the hills and welled up in me.

A blanket of straw and toppled flowers mark fresh grief, a burial from two days ago.

Mourning Light

The day puddles at my feet,
a soft robe sliding down my skin
as the last rays of sun
drop to the floor

the lawn is littered with the delicate feathers
and down of a dove,
pink and gray confetti

scattered after a predator’s parade

from the shelter of a walnut tree

a single voice chants low
its mourning song
the peony bows its head

crying creamy petals of sorrow
on an emerald carpet
where only moments ago
two rabbits played chase, unaware

I cradle myself, knees to chest
in the tattered chair,
the caramel-colored shawl
drawn around my bare shoulders

here I’ll sit
at the sentinel’s post,
gazing out as the shapes of Creation
fold into each other
to be rekindled

at morning's first light

The Psyche of a Writer

Here I sit in front of a blank piece of paper with pen in hand and I'm plugged up.

For the last month, I've been spending my creative time reading, editing and marshaling past poetry into tidy little e-piles and leaving little, if no time for actually writing poetry. Not a single word, passage or tone popped into my brain as a seed for something new, only old poems rattling their cages, demanding to be released into the waiting arms of the reading public.

The 1,700 mile trip to Texas did give space, quiet and time for things to bubble up to the surface. An image here, a line there, a feeling would flit in and out of my brain. Driving through three states in five days, those took shape on the backs of envelopes, scribbled in indecipherable haste so as not to drift into oncoming traffic.

So, here I am with this 3 day weekend stretched out in front of me with not a single responsibility! No retreatants, no singing, no errand running, nothing but time to myself. This is a perfect chance to pull those ratty envelopes out and turn out some quality poetry.

Today, with journal, favorite pen, dog, snacks and notes from the road, we pile in the car and head to a remote spot (yes, more so than Penuel Ridge) where I can usually summon the Muse.

Perfect day, perfect weather, I pull into the parking lot, only two other cars and no one in sight...perfect.

I head to my favorite picnic table overlooking Cheatham Lake, unleash the dog and sit myself down to do some serious writing.

Perfect...I'm sitting here, journal is open, I take a deep breath, pick up my pen and nothing. Okay, no need to panic, I'll just turn the page where the next prompt awaits my attention. I read it, take it in, take a deep breath and nothing. Okay, really, there's no need to panic, I say out loud to myself. I'll just flip through the prompts I'd written on the road that held some promise and away we'll go...and nothing. I close my journal.

Perfect...I'll eat my lunch. How could I create poetry on an empty stomach? Finish my lunch, check in with the dog, take a cleansing walk by the water and head back to my journal. Okay, I remind myself of what Beth Nielsen Chapman said about opening up the top of your head, letting go of the ego and allowing the words to drop from heaven into your brain.

Perfect...I visualize this, open my eyes and what comes, but a completely different poem. So I start writing feverishly until...nothing. I ran into a mental brick wall. The poem wouldn't finish itself or didn't want to be finished, so disgusted, I packed up my stuff, called the dog and headed back to Penuel Ridge, now with six unfinished poems, instead of five new poems...perfect.

So here I sit, in front of a blank piece of paper with pen in hand plugged up.

Is this it? Is my career as a poet over? Has the Muse left with no intention of returning?

All I know is that I do my best work alone, in silence and unencumbered. Maybe this three day weekend will produce something, anything that resembles a poem and my former poet self.

Real and False Selves

...an excerpt from Seeds by Thomas Merton

At the heart of Merton's spirituality is his distinction between our real and false selves. Our false selves are the identities we cultivate in order to function in society with pride and self-possession; our real selves are a deep religious mystery, known entirely only to God. The world cultivates the false self, ignores the real one, and therein lies the great irony of human existence: the more we make of ourselves, the less we actually exist.

"The more we make of ourselves, the less we actually exist." Kinda rubs up against manifest destiny and the American way wouldn't you say?

Sacred Space

Beyond this window

dissected by this stream

lies one of Houston's most sacred spaces,

The Byzantine Fresco Chapel Museum

Again and again, I return. Within the cool, dim, quiet walls I listen for my own still voice. No matter how burdened, the breath of peace enters me and I am restored.

How thirteenth century frescoes housed within these walls travelled from Lysi, Cyprus to Houston, Texas is fascinating. If your travels take you to Space City, include the Byzantine Chapel on your itinerary. It's a treasure tucked away in a city known more for soaring skyscrapers than intimate sacred spaces.

Namaste

Interior Photography Copyright ©Paul Warchol

Hardware Heaven

Inside Settlers Hardware

Houston, TX

We are in the midst of renovations at Penuel Ridge. One of the bedroom doors is missing its hardware. All that's left is a weathered faceplate with a lot of character...no doorknobs, no box lock. Retreatants were reduced to poking their finger in the hole where the knob used to be to open and close the door. Also the rock to keep it from swinging open and shut at will was charming. I rattled around the Nashville area for a while looking for suitable hardware, but no luck.

Knowing I was making a trip to Houston and it being the home of one of the most magnificent antique hardware stores on the planet, I packed the faceplate in my luggage with full confidence the holy grail awaited me at Settlers Hardware.

I walked in the front door and was promptly greeted by a 100 pound Black Lab, which in my book beats the hell out of being spritzed by the department store perfume girl. Two hours of sifting through baskets of doorknobs and trays of set screws left their mark on me...hands covered in dirt, dust and hinge oil from a by-gone era and an ear-to-ear grin.

Back at the Retreat Center, the hardware has been successfully installed. I doubt if future sojourners will give a second thought to the hardware as they reach for the doorknob, but they may ask me why there's a rock in the corner of the room. I'll tell them it's a reminder that sometimes you've got to take a long journey to restore what's missing.

1,700 Miles

Word prompts of sights, sounds and feelings from the road:

Driving in torrential rain makes the world feel smaller

Arkansas rice fields are beautiful. The naked earth shaped into gently curving levees, newly planted fields a whisper of green, other fields with plants nearly a foot high, uniform as a crew cut.

You don't need a roadside marker to know when you've crossed the state line into Texas. The sky greeted me with its arms stretched wide, speaking first to my eyes, then to my heart that I was home.

Witnessing a 360 degree sunset near Nacogdoches

The spectacular downtown skyline of Houston hidden behind a veil of pollution

Welcoming arms of old and new friends

Honoring and celebrating Larry and John's 25 years of living and loving...together

Cool, dim rooms inside, searing heat and humidity outside

A friendship born out of chaos

Answering the question again and again...what feels good?

Lemon meringue pie

The grace of an aging mother, a list of chores, a good day's work

Binoculars and a great blue heron

A tightness in the chest from having to say goodbye too soon

The jubilation of a little brown dog upon my return

A 1,700 mile journey ending between the sheets of the most wonderful bed in the world

The Void

The void called to her for as long as she could remember.

Bookends of each day found her
at the kitchen sink; subordinate,
standing to the left of Big Sister.

She needed a stool to reach the drainer.
Big Sister washed and rinsed,
she dried with a white cotton towel,
worn soft from the scalloped edges of dime-store dishes,
their pink roses in perpetual bloom.

Sometimes, she would say, ‘slow down Big Sister’,
her small hands not as fast, not as sure
as she stretched on tiptoe to reach the shelves
of the tall white cupboard.

In the morning,
they looked through the window in silence,
watching the light shift, the world come alive.
In the evening,
as the murky water swirled down the drain,
they looked up from their labor
into the black void and whispered,
‘slow down’.

Checking In

The project continues...slower progress than I anticipated, but worth the effort. The ultimate goal is to have a collection of poetry to submit to publishers and competitions. This requires reading every poem I've written over the past 5 years, finding common themes, editing, choosing photos and assembling them into a collection, hoping all the while that once in the hands of publishers and judges, it won't end up at the bottom of a pile.

Not much time for writing anything new, but here's a great poem from Wendell Berry that spoke to me:

How To Be A Poet
(to remind myself)

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill - more of each
than you have - inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your work,
doubt their judgment.

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensional life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

Pausing for Poetry

Hello out there in the Blogosphere...I'm taking a little hiatus to work on a poetry project that requires my undivided attention.

I'll be back in a few weeks to divulge the details. Until then remember...

All You Need Is Love

Love Is All You Need

Reduced to a Fit of Giggles

I'm currently hiding out in the reference section of my local county library. Like most libraries, it's a peaceful place, quiet but not tomb like. I'm a patron here solely for the wifi...there, I admit it.

After working diligently for an hour or so, I have been transported to elementary school where I was continually reprimanded for giggling behind my raised textbook. Why?

Let's start with a confession...I'm fond of cursing. A well-placed curse word (or string of curse words) with the appropriate inflection and body language can spice up a story and/or drive home a point better than a heat-seeking missile.

What does this confession have to do with the library you ask? For the past 30 minutes, the quiet stillness has been sporadically infused with an enthusiastic outburst of "fuck", "f", "uck" or my favorite, "fuck fuck". It is my guess that someone with Turret's Syndrome is happily working away at a distant table in this bastion of books.

I say, "Bravo sir...carry on!"

Three Herons

Three herons
float low over the woods
searching for still water
after the rains

A calm place
to rest, to sink their toes
into the soft mud
and stay awhile

The trio drifts downward
toward the lake,
the curve of their wings
an arching eyebrow

Oh, if only I could witness
their graceful glide
over the surface,
the single ripple
of their choreographed landing

Three herons
stand, watch, wait,
motionless near the shore
a redbud showers
tiny purple blossoms around their shoulders
the water lays a banquet
at their feet

A Lost Spring

As I lay sleeping,
a storm rolled past
the meninges,
invading my dreams

Slashing winds spoke to the trees,
bend or be broken
trees spoke to the birds,
leave your nest and flee

Partners, lightning and thunder
flashed their message of terror,
trumpeted their battle cry
as they advanced across the night sky

As I lay sleeping,
a treaty burned
in the deserted streets
of a charred village

What price too great for a lost spring?

Guess Where I've Been?

Makes you wanna cry!

Leipers Fork

Easter morning...a drive through farming country. A pastoral setting to raise horses, cattle, goats and sheep. Wait a minute...those aren't sheep, they're llamas!

Garrison Creek, Natchez Trace Parkway

Easter morning...spring is coming in like a mouse in Middle Tennessee. It's still freezing or below at night, but the days are warmer, accompanied by a biting wind too unruly for kite flying. Infant wildflowers are peeking through a blanket of leaves, the bravest of which are tooth wort, blood root and Jacob's ladder. Others will come, like the coquettish mayflower, but for now my soul clings to the hint of spring emerging from the forest floor and budding tips of branches.

Barn - Bells Bend Park

Good Friday, 2008...Linda, Mocha and I are the only ones in the park. We meander at our leisure through rolling hills of once-farmland. Three does cresting a nearby hill were surprised to see us, but kept gliding and leaping for joy in their exquisite silence. Wonder, awe and delight were ours at every turn. Good Friday indeed.

The Puzzle of She

Curved edges, sharp
angles fit,
don't fit
hands won't sit
demurely on her lap

fingers clasp, unclasp
twist the platinum band
round and round
like the carousel
of her life

jump, don't jump
off the white steed
onto black tar pavement
where shattered pieces of
fun-house glass no longer distort

she leaps!
reaches down
with trembling hands,
gathers the shards of her life

she'll spend the afternoon...
the rest of her life
putting together the puzzle
of she again

Stutterin' Peaches Carter

RULES FOR THE BLUES

1. Most Blues begin, "Woke up this morning..."

2. "I got a good woman" is a bad way to begin the Blues, unless you stick something nasty in the next line like, "I got a good woman, with the meanest face in town."

3. The Blues is simple. After you get the first line right, repeat it. Then find something that rhymes... sort of:

"Got a good woman
with the meanest face in town.
Yes, I got a good woman
with the meanest face in town.
Got teeth like Margaret Thatcher,
and she weigh 500 pounds."

4. The Blues is not about choice. You stuck in a ditch, you stuck in a ditch--ain't no way out.

5. Blues cars: Chevys, Fords, Cadillacs and broken-down trucks. Blues don't travel in Volvos, BMWs, or Sport Utility Vehicles. Most Blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or a southbound train. Jet aircraft and company motor pools ain't even in the running. Walkin' plays a major part in the blues lifestyle. So does fixin' to die.

6. Teenagers can't sing the Blues. They ain't fixin' to die yet. Adults sing the Blues. In Blues, "adulthood" means being old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis.

7. Blues can take place in New York City but not in Hawaii or any place in Canada. Hard times in Minneapolis or Seattle is probably just clinical depression. Chicago, St. Louis, and Kansas City are still the best places to have the Blues. You cannot have the blues in any place that don't get rain.

8. A man with male pattern baldness ain't the blues. A woman with male pattern baldness is. Breaking your leg cause you were skiing is not the blues. Breaking your leg 'cause a alligator be chompin' on it is.

9. You can't have no Blues in a office or a shopping mall. The lighting is wrong. Go outside to the parking lot or sit by the dumpster.

10. Good places for the Blues:

a. Highway
b. Jailhouse
c. An empty bed
d. Bottom of a whiskey glass

11. Bad places for the Blues:

a. Nordstrom's
b. Gallery openings
c. Ivy league institutions
d. Golf courses

12. No one will believe it's the Blues if you wear a suit, 'less you happen to be a old ethnic person, and you slept in it.

13. You have the right to sing the Blues if:

a. You older than dirt
b. You blind
c. You shot a man in Memphis
d. You can't be satisfied

14. You don't have the right to sing the Blues if:

a. You have all your teeth
b. You were once blind but now can see
c. The man in Memphis lived
d. You have a pension fund

15. Blues is not a matter of color. It's a matter of bad luck. Tiger Woods cannot sing the blues. Sonny Liston could. Ugly white people also got a leg up on the blues.

16. If you ask for water and your darlin' give you gasoline, it's the Blues.

17. Other acceptable Blues beverages are:

a. Cheap wine
b. Whiskey or bourbon
c. Muddy water
d. Nasty black coffee

18. The following are NOT Blues beverages:

a. Perrier
b. Chardonnay
c. Snapple
d. Slim Fast

19. If death occurs in a cheap motel or a shotgun shack, it's a Blues death. Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another Blues way to die. So is the electric chair, substance abuse and dying lonely on a broke-down cot. You can't have a Blues death if you die during a tennis match or while getting liposuction.

20. Some Blues names for women:

a. Sadie
b. Big Mama
c. Bessie
d. Fat River Dumplin'

21. Some Blues names for men:

a. Joe
b. Willie
c. Little Willie
d. Big Willie

22. Persons with names like Michelle, Amber, Debbie and Heather can't sing the Blues no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis.

23. Make your own Blues name Starter Kit:

a. Name of physical infirmity (Blind, Cripple, Lame, etc.)
b. First name(see above) plus name of fruit (Lemon, Lime, Melon, Kiwi, etc.)
c. Last name of President (Jefferson, Johnson, Fillmore, etc.) For example: Blind Lime Jefferson, Jackleg Lemon Johnson or Cripple Kiwi Fillmore, etc. (Well, maybe not "Kiwi.")

24. I don't care how tragic your life: if you own even one computer, you cannot sing the blues.

What's your blues name?

Dog In Snow

Yes...that's a toy in her mouth

Enlarge to see maniacal grin

Must find stick!

What Is To Come

When I awoke this morning, the sky was again gray. A dim light behind the clouds assured me Helios, crowned by the shining aureole of the sun, was on course. As the morning progressed, the sky grew darker, denser and threatening. After being up a few hours, I opted to return to bed with a cup of coffee, muffin and a good book. Mocha was kind enough to share my bed with me. Her residual body heat warmed me as I snuggled under the thick comforter.

The luxury of time to read, write and contemplate has been mine since moving to Tennessee. I've squandered this gift at times, but today am immersed in a timely and important book that would serve us all well to read:

Authors Susan Kuner, Carol Matzkin Orsborn, Linda Quigley and Karen Leigh Stroup dare to propose we shift our perception of life-threatening and chronic illness from a battle to a doorway through which we can walk into a life lived fully. All four women are initiates of breast cancer. Their intimate and poignant stories translate well to the experiences, questions and struggles with any disease that enters our lives uninvited.

As I gaze out the window in my sitting room, goldfinches, cardinals, chickadees, tufted titmice, nuthatches and woodpeckers are feeding feverishly. I've grown to trust their prognostication skills over meteorologists. Their rush to fuel up tells me snow is coming, and soon.

Wrap yourself in warmth and embrace the gift of today.

Between Heaven and Texas

Daily, I search for the horizon,

food for my soul.

Daily, my gaze is halted

by ridges, dense forests, foothills.

Daily, my spirit seeks to rest

under a cumulonimbus cloud,

soaring 40,000 feet

between heaven and Texas

A copy of Texas Sky by Wyman Meinzer was placed in my outstretched hands on Valentine's Day. Thank you Linda for a most thoughtful, kind and loving gift.

Luckily, this book has a slick dust cover. Tears roll off nicely when I pine for the horizon. Sometimes, I walk around with it clutched to my breast. Silly you say? The words of Texas Parks and Wildlife Director, Andrew Sansom sum it up nicely,

Our identity as Texans is tied up with the sky, and our belief that anything is possible flourishes in a place of endless horizons and unobstructed access to the clouds and the stars.

Next week, I travel to Texas. You can rest assured whether twilight or day, I'll be basking under the endless Texas sky.

Closer to Clarity

Trail's end may not be clear

but shadows mark the way

as each step brings

me closer to clarity

A Slippery Slope

It's happened. I've lived long enough to become a participant in an activity I would (and did) scoff 25 years ago.

Picture this, it's 1983 and a group of young, hip friends are squeezed into a booth at Denny's consuming copious amounts of coffee and pancakes after a night of bar hopping. Our conversation is peppered with current events, antics from the night before and 20-something angst. I believe my hair was hot pink and jutting off in gravity-defying directions, held aloft by concrete hair products and cigarette smoke. A group of senior citizens enter the restaurant, shuffling past our booth. We watch the geriatric parade pass by in slow motion and settle into a table near us. Sitting on the edge of the booth, I could eavesdrop on their conversation, which was a person-by-person account of their physical ailments. This one's gall bladder, that one's liver, another one's diabetes. They were swapping tips on navigating Medicare, private insurance and worrying about how they were going to pay for medication on a fixed income. I remember thinking to myself, Oh God! Is that all they have to talk about...spare me!

Fast-forward to 2008 and I'm sitting in a bar with a friend and a new acquaintance. We are waiting for the Gospel Drag Show to start and after talking about the upcoming election, the paradox of gay Republicans and how delicious the chocolate sin cake was from the pot luck dinner, it happened. My friend started talking about her pending colonoscopy, which prompted many questions from the other person about cost, insurance, whether she'd have twilight anesthesia or be knocked out, etc... I sat mute thinking to myself, Oh God! It's happened. I'm sliding into middle age where the conversation will center around our bowels. Luckily, the disco ball started spinning, the music started thumping and out came drag queens in choir robes topped off with sequined shawls.

Balance had been struck. Whew!