Any Other Color Simply Will Not Do

The shoes are decorated with purple glitter.

PURPLE GLITTER PEOPLE!!!!!

How much do I love this card?

Traces of Tennessee

Two Shoes
Two Years

Tennessee

Cruelty in Numbers

Here's an excerpt from a rejection letter I recently received from Rattle magazine:

After receiving 800 entries in 2006, we read 1,051 this year, totaling well over 4,000 poems...

I don't mean to be petty, but is it too much to ask for the math to add up? Yeah, it sucks for my poetry to have been rejected, but do you have to add insult to injury by throwing in a math word problem that I have no hope of solving?

Affirmation

At last, a respite from the paralysis of drought and 100+ degree temperatures. This morning, the temperature was 55 degrees! Mocha and I followed the trail to the lake and behold... movement and flashes of color and an affirmation that Nature destroys and restores in ways beyond my understanding.

Yellow Swallowtail on Thistle

Passion Vine

Butterfly Duet

Season of Dust

theirs is a quiet kinship
with an extended hand
offering sustenance
throughout this season of dust

fingers deftly pour seed
suspend banquets in the air
beneath a black walnut tree,
bent and weeping for want of shade

a cushion of sunflower hulls
softens the fall of withered leaves,
mutes the groan of ground splitting apart

goldfinches appear suddenly
shattering this scene of decay

they arrange their saffron robes
tilt forward as if praying
gather thistle in their beaks,
black as their shining eyes

eyes that follow familiar movements
of the observer
who sits behind glass and thick masonry walls
where drought and hunger do not exist

as the sun dips low, they sing
of the memory of cool sanctuary

and they wait...

for balance to be struck
for the wheel of the season to turn
for Creation to restore itself
from this season of dust

365

Look around less...

Imagine more.

Now Forager

grackles have invaded our woods
abandoned their cornfield
bade farewell to the evicted scarecrow
as he wobbles away on dusty stalks

they bully their way to the feeders,
these creatures who are shadow and noise
they have their own politics
the solitary red-winged blackbird holds back
dares not cross the invisible line

the ground boils with them
a seething cauldron of black oil
their iridescent heads dazzle
in the morning sun

a sudden shift in the wind,
a foreign sound and they rise in tandem
drawn swiftly upward
by the invisible hand of a puppeteer

all is quiet

all is still

the songbirds return

Lament

they bow in unison at the seed font
fly through each other

sing their hollow bones over the field of reeds,

drought has turned them to ether

on our morning walk

she finds them first,
nudges them with her nose
the ones who have fallen from the sky,
who lie still with their breasts plucked out

I cannot accustom myself to these small deaths.

my cupped hands are filled with slightness
feathers who knew only flight
leave their host,

trail behind me
for one last ride on the wind

as I return their bodies to Paradise

A Lesson in Living

Smudged outline of shrinking water;
sticky black mud
holds delicate hoof prints
of doe and fawn,
drawn to the water’s edge for a drink
before dawn

Hours later, we pause at the same bank
to soak through our pores the thrumming
of cicada song, the sighing of a breeze
through tips of branches high above our heads
we go about this in our own way…
the little brown dog and me

I stand head cocked with my ear
tuned to the forest, eyes wide open,
rocking gently from side to side.
She gingerly walks the shoreline,
stopping to savor shoots of young, tender grasses,
follows the scent of loam and decaying leaves
to a deep, cool drink of water and hoof prints.

She buries her nose in the impression,
draws a deep breath and looks up, eyes shining
She bows down, rubbing her face
in the sticky black mud, along the line of
young, tender grasses fluttering in the breeze
like green eyelashes

Ecstatic, she runs to me
buries her wet, muddy muzzle between my breasts
and exhales into my heart

Oh…
if only we, in our cinched and censured world
could surrender to the wildness that dwells within.

Dog Days of Summer

And on the same day

as the silent scream, there was an incident of mistaken identity by a little hummer who looked a lot like this:


I was standing outside the chapel listening to the wind chimes when I heard the rapid fire beating of hummingbird wings coming from the right and it was getting louder! If you haven't heard it before, imagine the sound of a bumblebee on steroids. I froze. He hovered so close to my right ear, I could feel the breeze from beating wings on my cheek. Not happy with what he found, he threw it into reverse and tried a full frontal approach, making me go cross-eyed. Still dissatisfied, he darted to my left ear. I was braced for a little hummingbird tongue action, but instead he let out a few chirp-chirps and flew away.

Now I have an inkling of what it feels like to be a flower.

Photo Courtesy of: Colors of the Garden

Silent Scream

My neighbor emailed to let me know the zero at the end of our street number on the new mailbox was missing. This mailbox situation is beginning to get a bit tedious. I walked down to the road and sure enough the zero at the end of 1440 was gone. Considering how hot it's been (103 is predicted for today) I imagine the glue on the back of the peel and stick number liquefied.

I looked around the base of the mailbox, didn't see anything, expanded my scope, still didn't see anything, moved the tall grass with my foot and there it was, lying face down. As I reached down and picked it up my stomach lurched, sending a signal to my brain to recoil my hand.

Have you ever had one of those moments when your view of the world looks like the reflection in a mirror that has been broken into a thousand pieces, then glued back together by a 4 year old? This was one of those moments. Drawing the number closer, my eyes were finally able to focus on what I was truly seeing and a feeling somewhere between yuck and fear washed over me.

Have a look...here's the front of the number...notice the odd, curvy bulge on the right side:

Flip it over and what do we find?

Yes, that's a snake...a baby snake.

a closer look reveals

this little fellow had a stroke of bad luck,

stuck in mid slither,

dying with its head raised,

jaw open wide

in a silent scream

Arbor-less

Arbor-less,

that's what we shall be

if Mother Nature

looks unkindly on thee,

thirsty, quivering, weeping tree.

You cast off your garmets

as if it were fall,

but it's summer my friend

do you not hear the call

of the whip-poor-will?

Hide and Seek

August 1st is an anniversary of sorts for me. That's the day I became resident staff at Penuel Ridge Retreat Center and began my journey as a self-proclaimed writer. It's a natural time to pause, look back, recognize life lessons and become very clear about what I want to experience in this life.

This blog began as a way to take my friends and family along with me. I've enjoyed chronicalling my experiences in photographs and words, so it's a natural place for me to 'look back' and set my sights for the coming year.


Can you guess what I noticed, after reading nearly 400 entries?


You've been cheated.


I've only shown you the pretty things (except for the heartbreak of 2005). There are pictures of and stories about flowers and barns and countryside and local color and the wonder of creation.

I haven't shown you and written about drought, the sagging remains of once vibrant farms now used as junkyards for broken down equipment, cars and trash. You don't know about the systematic blowing up and scraping away of mountains to feed coal power plants that belch tons of carbon pollution into the air or that once rich delta farm land is being subdivided into luxury riverside homes or that the cycle of poverty is imprisoning the rural youth or that it's me that has to move fresh kill on the land.


I'm not saying all is lost or that I've sunk into the dark well of depression. What I am acknowledging is that I have cheated myself from seeing and experiencing all that is before me. So...get ready 'cause my eyes and heart are fully open. I believe this is what is referred to as "balance."

Happy Anniversary.


Drought
Summer of 2007.

What's beyond the reach of the water sprinkler's arc dies away.















Top Photo:

Drought
Summer of 2007

Retreat House Lawn - Green
Tractor Shed - Brown

Friends and Neighbors

The smiles and embraces say it all.

Raise the Flag

What is so alluring about knocking a mailbox off its post?

The first week I was here, I walked down to the road to find the mailbox on the ground. Since one of my roles at the Retreat Center is Ms. Fixit, I grabbed my toolbox and promptly reattached it. At least once a month, it's askew on its post after an encounter with one of the locals.

Today was a particular treat. I was having trouble focusing my eyes on the mailbox as I walked closer to the road. There's a good reason...it wasn't there, just a decapitated post. I let out a big sigh and kept walking, looked both ways and crossed the road. I found it lying on its side in the second row of the corn field. It must have taken a mighty blow to fling it that far.

I'm over it...tomorrow I go to Lowe's and purchase a mailbox that's vandal proof or at least more vandal proof than a standard metal mailbox on a wooden post.

Funny thing...when I retrieved it from the corn field, a letter I'd deposited that morning was still inside and the red flag was up. I think a white flag might be more appropriate.

Tough Luck...the Duck was Stuck

I didn't want to alarm anyone, but THE DUCK has been missing for a few weeks...GASP! Although Mocha has a plethora of doggie toys, THE DUCK is by far her favorite. I've looked everywhere, even at a neighbor's house and under every bed in the retreat house...no DUCK.

Yesterday, I had a bad case of the dropsy's and yes, my legal files, cell phone, wallet, pen and other assorted things fell into the trash can next to my comfy chair where I was working. I said aloud to no one in particular, "This is not the place to keep such things," at which time I started fishing through the trash can for my stuff. Worried something might have fallen in I didn't see, like my trusty screwdriver I've had since I was four years old, I started moving the furniture for a better view of the floor and voila! I spotted a yellow beak...and attached to that yellow beak was a green head and attached to that green head was a grey, bulbous body. I gave that yellow beak a yank and out he popped from underneath my comfy chair.

Picture this...Mocha was asleep behind the comfy chair when I extracted THE DUCK, so as far as she was concerned, it was never missing. If I had asked her, "where's your duck?" like I normally do, she'd have trotted back there and produced it, but did I do that as part of my investigation? NO...all that Nancy Drew training down the drain!

Anyway...THE DUCK has been rooted from its hiding place and the air will once again be filled with the melodious sound of quacking.

Life is good.

Other People's Words

The cause

of the majority of suffering in the world

is a sense of separation,

from the world itself,

each other

and

from our source.

How Long?

I journal, well...more like scribble random words on a page that eventually become poems or fodder for the stewpot. It is a momentous occassion to use the last page in a journal and start anew. Feels like cause for ceremony, but shit! my tiaras are in storage in Houston.

Anyway, I started a new journal. It's so pretty and purple and bejeweled. I opened the cover to begin scrawling when I found the following passage, written shortly after I moved to Tennessee in August of 2005:

I wonder how long it will take for my mind, my breathing, my spirit to be in tandem with the rhythm of the land? Mind racing, breathing shallow, spirit scattered drown out the birdsong.

Reading this passage transported me through a time portal where I could see myself as I was, using the lenses of today's eyes. I saw a sad, lost, wounded woman who began a journey to become a writer, but in truth was seeking healing, discovery and a homecoming.

How long did it take for my mind, my breathing, my spirit to be in tandem with the rhythm of the land? A while...but for many mornings now, I wake to the sound of birdsong as the sun rises over the ridges to the East.

I sacrificed love, livelihood and everything familiar to venture into the unknown. Was it worth it? Time will tell. For now, I sit expectant in the promise of a new life I am creating with every thought, every breath, every dream.

Note To Self

1. The trash can is not the place for important legal papers, your wallet or the cell phone.
2. Look up spelling of cell phone...is it one word or two?
3. You seem a little cranky. Might you consider taking a nap?