A Shift

Hello! Is there anyone out there? I don't blame you for walking away from this rarely-updated, dull-as-dishwater blog. I have a bag of cookies and I'm going to drop crumbs all over the Interwebs and see if you can be lured back. Yes, they're chocolate chip.

This blog has been a wonderful place to house my poetry and photos and occasional observations and rants for the past 6 years. Funny thing is, about 2 years ago, the poetry stopped flowing and the daily existence of being me didn't seem blog-worthy. Two major life events contributed to the muteness...knee replacement surgery and the bitchin' flood last May.

I don't know if there's been a permanent change to my landscape or if this was protracted writers block, but I'm about to do something to kick myself in the writers butt.

From Apri 7 - 10, I'll be locked down at a writers retreat. Just me, pen and paper and maybe my laptop. I'm pretty scared because I run the risk of uncovering a fraud of such grand proportions it makes Bernie Madoff look like an alter boy.

Ok...that was pretty dramatic but there it is...I'll either come away from the retreat with poetry oozing out of my pores or with me in leg irons.

So stay tuned...this should be interesting.

They Didn't Make the Cut

Just a random list of names of dwarfs who didn't make the cut for the iconic Snow White companions:

Sniffy
Drippy
Fluffy
Squishy

Feel free to expound.

Unleashing the Poet Within

A few new poems by yours truly written at a retreat led by Nevin Comptom Trammell.

The Irregular Heart

The irregular heart
knows not the confines
of chamber walls or rhythms
of the lub-dub doctrine

Look there, in the corner
where pigments swirl
birthing a fifth chamber

an irregular heart
made new
for a new way
a new day
a new doctrine

**********************************************************************************
Litter

A mirror image lies
beneath the soaring boughs
of a white oak tree

it's astounding,
the luxury of it all

as golden hues of fallen
and to be fallen
compete for my gaze

it's reminiscent,
the duplicity of summer

when crepe myrtles
drop their pink petticoats
on the floor

rushing into another season

**********************************************************************************

A Journey in Two Stanzas

on a journey
with words suspended,
between the lines
old thoughts upended

hands moving cautiously
left to right,
voices give wings
words take flight

Ma'am...Excuse me Ma'am

I'm standing at the Kangaroo Mart in Ashland City pumping gas, minding my own business and this disembodied voice floats over my head from behind. I don't know, I must have been daydreaming because I realized he'd said it several times before I turned to see an aged black man handing me a business card. His pea green cap was emblazoned with "Koren War Veteran" along the crisp creased side.

I look down at the business card. It read:

"PET"

Cremation or Burial

Like I said, I was daydreaming so it didn't sink in. It was the words "Beloved Pet" on the facsimile of a headstone that did it, sort of like a lightening bolt.

I looked at Mocha's sweet brown face peering out the open car window, looked down at the business card in my hand and a little piece of me died.

Beaufort Ghost Tour

On our way to Beaufort, we couldn't resist stopping for this photo op at the Gay Fish Co. in Port Royal.




Have mercy! This Southern Belle is draped over the porch railing of the oldest home in Beaufort, SC. This is just one of the ghostly residents portrayed on the annual Ghost Tour. We traveled by horse-drawn carriage beneath ancient live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. As daylight turned to dusk all manner of creatures greeted us with their tales of whoa and sorrow.



Unfortunately, we weren't allowed entrance to any of the stately homes on the tour. At the pace our horse took, we had ample opportunity to peak in the windows!

Many of the homes were for sale. Word to the wise, the annual upkeep would soon surpass the purchase price, so make sure your pockets are very, very deep and full of coin.

Dataw Island Treasures

An unimposing sign read "Dataw Island" with an arrow pointing right. Linda and I looked at each other and said, "I'm game!" so down the road we turned not knowing we'd stumble upon a treasure trove, one discovered by Spanish explorers in 1514.

Here, you see one of the many winged inhabitants, a Great Egret. Sir Bird was wading casually through the marsh grass shopping for a snack. He turned his magnificent head my direction as I craned my body out the car window to get a good shot.




Linda drove slowly keeping pace with Sir Bird, who did not take kindly to our attention. He unfolded those massive wings and swooped over the top of the marsh grass. I swear he looked back at me with a "get thee far, far away" look in his eye.




Much of Dataw Island is now a posh, gated golf community complete with a manned guard house at the entrance. I've never been deterred by gates or no-trespassing signs, especially if something on the other side has caught my eye. Linda brought the car to a stop and the guard eyed us warily, asking the nature of our business. Before I could open my mouth, Linda told her we were considering having dinner in their upscale restaurant at the Club House and would like to take a look before we made up our mind. Ha, 'atta girl!

The development is pretty much what you'd expect, clean streets, manicured lawns, cookie cutter architecture and shiny cars. Except, as we passed the golf course, the ruin of a building caught my eye. "Turn in here!" I exclaimed.

We couldn't believe our luck, the ruins of Williams Sams' 1786 cotton plantation, constructed of tabby, a unique material made by burning oyster shells to extract lime, then mixed with sand and shells and shaped into wooden molds to form walls and columns. The enormous fireplace casts a long shadow on the leaves which litter the floor of the cook house.

The remains of the Sams family rest under the far-reaching, Spanish-Moss-draped arms of a live oak tree. Seems a fitting and peaceful place to spend eternity.

La La Knee and 167 Steps!

The lighthouse on Hunting Island State Park stands 132 feet above ground. Originally built in 1859, the Confederate Army destroyed it to prevent the Union Army from navigating by its beacon in the night. Luckily, the lighthouse was rebuilt in 1879 and has witnessed a much greater enemy, erosion.

A modified spiral staircase of 167 steps is the only means to get to the top and experience a 360 view of the horizon. Although briefly hesitant to take that first step, the Lovely Linda, me and LaLa Knee started the climb and holy cow was it worth it!

From the observation platform looking north, we towered over the tops of the maritime forest and the Atlantic Ocean. Although a windy day, the ocean was serene, not the cacophonous and moody Atlantic I know from New Hampshire, Maine and Massachusetts.

The Lovely Linda looks a little nervous, wouldn't you say? After we made it safely back to Terra firma, someone stopped us to ask if it was a difficult climb to the top. I assured him that if I, a middle-aged and rotund wielder of one artificial knee could do it, he certainly could too!

Tomorrow: Faking your way through security and stumbling upon the ruins of an old plantation!

In Need of the Horizon

For weeks, the muscles across my chest and shoulders have been tight and I've not been able to breathe deeply. I've come to understand that this tightness is not an illness (of the medical variety) but of the spirit. A physical prompt to let me know it's time to seek the landscape which feeds my soul, clears my mind, loosens muscles and lets me breathe deeply. That landscape is the horizon. To be surrounded by uninterrupted sky meeting land without a single object stopping the eye is for me, soul food.

Lucky for me, the Lovely Linda planned a belated birthday trip to the South Carolina Low Country. For the uninitiated, like me, the "Low Country" is a string of barrier and sea islands from Charleston to Savannah. Topographically, what this area offers are wide and uninterrupted views of golden marshes that march right down to the Atlantic Ocean. The perfect setup for horizon-gazing. In other words, heaven.

At the end of a boardwalk stretching deep into the marshes on Hunting Island is this view. The marsh grass (Spartina alterniflora) reminds me of mature fields of rice ready for harvest. And look at that horizon! I said out loud, "Who could not love this view?" to which Linda replied, "When you look at the horizon, you see endless possibilities, but someone else may look at it and see emptiness." As I stood there transfixed, the muscles across my chest and shoulders began to loosen. I took in a deep breath and let out a long sigh and again stood in the presence of a vast horizon.

As the sun rose higher in the sky an interesting thing occurred. Looking out over the marsh, the air just above the tops of the grass appeared blurry and the color of the light was golden, almost mirage-like. I was lucky enough to get this picture, which saw what my eyes saw.

The backdrop in this photo is the edge of a maritime forest that grows all the way to the ocean. Semi-tropical in nature, the predominant trees are pine and palmetto.

Spartina alterniflora up close. When first taking this picture, I thought those were seeds, but now I'm not so sure. One of the naturalists we met along the way told us that as the tide rises, snails and other creatures climb the stalk until the tide ebbs, and then feeds again in the nutrient-rich pluff mud.

Hmm...

Tomorrow...Day Two...We climb a lighthouse!

Five to the One

It's my birthday and I'll swing if I want to
Swing if I want to
Swing if I want to
You would swing to
if'n you could too!

Yes Blogosphere, today is my birthday. It's also the first day of Fall and the first day of the sun sign Libra. Quite an auspicious day to be born, don't you think?

Here's my agenda for the day:

1. Sleep until 8:30
2. Work for a few hours in the office
3. Put on wandering clothes
4. Wander
5. Stop for a celebratory cupcake
6. Swing
7. Have dinner with a good friend

Are you curious about #4 and #7?

#4 - Wandering has been a favored activity in my life for many decades. In my twenties, I would grab a bunch of change, walk to the nearest bus stop, get on and ride until I saw something interesting, get off, wander around/explore, get on another bus, rinse and repeat until I finally made it home - usually well beyond dark-thirty. Today, my wandering will be done by car, but I will embrace the spirit of well, letting the spirit lead me with no set destination.

#7 - Swinging is one of my favorite activities. How could you not love playing fast and loose with gravity? I love the rhythm of forward and back, the pulse of pumping arms and legs, the soaring higher and higher until your heart (and stomach) are doing a dance. And then, the penultimate experience of making your body like a board, then pulling up as the arc of the swing reaches its apex. That's when you know you are ALIVE!

It is good to be living in this 5th decade of my life. My birthday wish for you is that you know, embrace and participate in those things that make your heart sing...today and always.

My Constant Companion

I can feel Miss Mocha sleeping soundly behind my big comfy chair. No, she's not snoring or moaning or chasing bunnies in her sleep, she's simply there. Her birthday is coming up in October and she'll be 12. She's always been a strong, healthy dog only going to the vet for annual vaccinations. As more whiskers start to turn white on her brown nose, she's slowing down a little, showing some aches and pains and just a touch of little-old-lady crankiness.


This week she had her teeth cleaned and the vet had to extract a cracked tooth. I agonized over the decision to subject her to anesthesia at her age, but am glad I said yes. She seems to be bouncing back just fine.


These days, my mind opens the door (just a crack) to the reality that there will come a time when her presence will be but a memory. A warm, brown, sweet, bossy, snugly, romp-through-the-woods kind of memory.

Lead and Follow

What I saw on my morning walk:

a butterfly and a bee
dance on the face
of a flower

it bows its head
in ecstasy
and I pause

wondering
if they are
willing partners

and who leads
and who follows?

Bells Bend Bliss

Red morning glory atop soon-to-be unfurled goldenrod

dueling hummingbirds against a morning-glory-blue sky

There's a pill for that right?

I don't know why I was reminded of Erma Bombeck today, but as I was walking across the room I sneezed and peed on myself simultaneously. That's never happened before. I must be moving into the exert and squirt stage of life.

Bright Eyes

What a surprise! During Mocha's morning constitution, we did not walk into a wall of heat and humidity. Dare I say there was a cool breeze, a hint of fall?!? It's much too early to wish for fall-like weather, but this brief respite from the oppressive heat (110 degrees with the heat index) is welcomed with open arms.

I promptly went inside and opened the windows to breathe life into the stale, air-conditioned rooms. Bunnies and birds were foraging at a leisurely pace, appreciating the morning too. I poured a cup of coffee and nestled into my comfy chair to read a bit and listen to the morning sounds.

Mocha didn't succumb to her usual morning nap, but sat at attention staring at me while I read. I don't know about you, but it's difficult to read when a 50 pound dog is staring you down. I let the book drop into my lap and locked eyes with the dog. What was she trying to tell me?

I took inventory. Food and water in bowls - check. Morning treat given - check. General petting and praise showered on the brown one - check. Hmmm...

She broke her gaze and swiveled her head toward the open window, raising her nose and breathing in messages on the cool morning air. Ah...might she be hinting at a romp on the land?

I quietly rose, went into the bedroom and began changing clothes. She leaped onto the bed, watching closely for any indication I might reach for footwear that means "romp!" I silently opened the closet door and rummaged around for tennis shoes. Drat, they were outside covered in grass and dirt. My hand paused over the hiking boots for a split second and she bounded off the bed, over my back and toward the door. This seemed an extreme choice, so I opted for some flats, but she didn't seem to mind that last minute switch. She was up the stairs and prancing by the front door before I could tuck in my shirt.

I walked while she zoomed down the trail, stopping here and there to sniff the scent of deer, wild turkey or bunny. She'd zoom back to check on me and then turn tail and run at full speed, ears plastered back on her head. The lake trail was cool and inviting. The breeze gently tussled leaves that in a few months will carpet the forest floor with brilliant fall colors. We made our customary circuit around the lake, down into the meadow, past The Well and back to the Main Retreat House. Along the way, we found a long-ago discarded dog toy that was perched atop a picnic table. Some kind soul must have happened upon it and placed it there for future discovery. Mocha grinned at being reunited with "yellow duckie," the one with two squeakers!

We returned home thirsty and a little tired, but happy to have been reunited with the land. As I exited the shower, I was greeted by a brown dog sitting obediently by the bathroom door. She was panting and her eyes dancing with bright light, her way of saying 'thank you Momma.'

When "it" was a pronoun

There are days when it seems I have an ok handle on IT and Social Networking applications. And then there are days when trying to get: 1)this tag or 2)that button or 3)a blinking link on the Penuel Ridge website or email marketing campaign or Facebook page makes my head explode.

When will the cranial plug-in be functional so that what I think will appear on the screen?

Is there an app for that?

Have I lived in the woods so long that all the IT knowledge has blown past me at 80 mph on the freeway in a shiny red sports car?

Shit.

Shadow Selves

Do you feel it too, a presence in the air that doesn't have a shape or form, but is there nonetheless? A few days ago, someone referred to "it" as "shadow selves" coming out in people so they can be seen, dealt with and released.

Maybe more explanation is warranted. I see people acting in ways uncharacteristic to their normal way of being. I hear people saying things they would not normally say out loud; hateful, biting, hurtful things usually locked up in their heads.

Maybe that's it. Maybe so much has been held in and not spoken or acted upon that the pressure valve has to be released or their heads will explode.

I've a not-so-charming habit of saying what's on my mind, even when it might have been prudent to keep it to myself. When I do manage to leave "it" unsaid, "it" shows on my face. No, I'll never do well at the poker table.

Maybe it's the heat? Maybe it's a shift in the Universe? Maybe the world needs a collective colonic.

For me, I'm going to tiptoe quietly through this minefield of human expression gone gritty.

I'm suddenly reminded of a quote, "We don't see the things as they are, we see things as we are."

If that be the case, then maybe I should be an observer of how I'm expressing myself in the world.

Dang it...might be time for another ah-ha moment.

Bookworm

The summer reading programs of my youth are to blame for the glutenous manner in which I consume book after book while the heat and humidity rage outside my window.

It also helps to have been invited into a long-standing book club in the area where I live. With them, I recently read "A Gathering of Old Men" by Ernest Gaines. If you haven't read it or it's been a while, I highly recommend it. Be prepared to squirm in discomfort at the honest portrayal of race relations in the South and to celebrate the triumph of knowing that it's never too late to stand up for yourself.

"The Bridge of San Luis Rey" by Thornton Wilder is another recent read. I wanted those pages of richly-drawn characters to go on forever and for the narrator to step out from the shadows. I've spent many an hour discussing this novel's overarching question with some deep thinkers: "are the events of our lives pre-ordained?" Seems to fly in the face of free will, but I imagine this question will continue to be discussed, challenged and rolled around for many generations to come.

What have you read this summer that gave you pause?

Independence Day

Stuck in the muck of mediocrity.

That's how it feels to be me at the moment. This is the time of year when I go deep, to shine light on that which is ready to be released, a declaration of independence of sorts.

This usually results in a list, a renewed sense of purpose, swelling passion to propel me to the other side of now.

Problem is...it's not coming to me as readily as in years past. This may call for a turning inward with flashlight in hand to ferret out what might be hiding in the shadows.

Hmmm...

Lost for the Day

It's 7:36 am and I've been up for hours. The first hint of morning light hit my brain like a laser beam, so I acquiesced to the new day. Miss Mocha had other ideas, ones that involve sleep and mamma's bed and sleep and "oh isn't this the best pillow ever?" Needless to say, I would be companionless until she was good and ready.

Seems the day wanted to ease in gently, so I resisted the urge to make coffee and opted for a shower. Standing with eyes closed under a warm stream of water, gentle steam and soapy bubbles rocked me awake in the kindest way. You can keep your Big Ben alarm clock, thank you very much.

I raised the bedroom window to let in cool morning air. It's too early for birdsong but the breeze is enough to sway summer leaves, creating brushstrokes of sound so subtle I'd of missed it if I hadn't been listening. These are sacred moments to hold in escrow, a counterbalance to other times when discord is the song of the morning.

A seemingly sleep-sodden dog bolts upright the moment I pull shoes from the bottom of the closet. How does she know? She just does and that's but one of the many reasons I love her. Roused abruptly, she pauses as if needing a verbal clue as to what to do with these four feet and what about this tail? Should I wag? When I ask her if she wants to go O-U-T, that's all the prompting needed. "Oh yeah, that's what these feet are for...going up the stairs, to the door, to the yard, to the glorious smells of the morning."

[sidebar] It's true, I don't know what she's thinking most of the time, but it's entertaining to write dog dialogue and since I have digits and can use them to type words, I get to put them in her mouth...words that is, not digits.

The woods are a dusky blur except for the occassional patch of morning light peeking through dense growth, illuminating a young paw-paw tree heavy with fruit. A flash of red catches my eye as a female cardinal flies through the beam of light, only to dissolve into the canopy of branches overhead. I walk alone, but not truly alone in these woods. Mocha lingers over fragrant traces of unseen animals who have moved undeterred in the night. Her nose leads her on a zig-zag path, drunk by the heady fragrances, unknowingly wandering off the trail and out of sight. I call to her several times...sniffus interruptus. [your Latin lesson for the day]

We emerge from the woods onto the dam where swirls of mist are dancing atop the surface of the lake. They resemble the perfect peaks of my mother's meringue, a swathe of curl-e-ques suspended in perpetuity. Yet these are moving, drawn to the center of the lake only to be twirled back to shore and into the flow toward center, again and again.

I feel myself being pulled into their reverie, but it's too early for this kind of headiness. I'd be lost for the day and found sleeping in the woods, surrounded by a fairy circle. A cleansing breath helps to lessen the dizziness and right my brain. I look up to survey the sky. The rising sun has breached the east ridge (which lies to my back) and is illuminating the highest point along the western ridge, articulated by soaring white oak, beech and hickory trees, each a different shade of green, each a monument lit up for this moment.

I blink in disbelief, but in the presence of such holiness, I know I am lost for the day.

A Few Haikus

At writers group last night, the prompt was "my hell is no worse than yours". Sometimes, I'll write a few haikus to get the juices flowing. Here are a few:


My hell is no worse than yours
exhibit one: breath
mine goes in and out...yours not


My hell is no worse than yours
or so I believe
as daylight turns to darkness


My hell is no worse than yours
an autumn leaf falls
as do your sins on the ground