• Rather Beautiful

    Tuesday, September 6, 2016 No tags Permalink

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    I love this! It took me a long time to understand that I couldn’t get rid of my fears, not completely. However, I can accept my fears, and see the, for what they are. That takes away their power and puts them into a healthy perspective.

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  • When the Birds Sing the Blues {Poetry}

    Tuesday, August 30, 2016 No tags Permalink

    He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man.  ~Antoine de Saint-Exupery

     

    I.
    The trees sing lullabies,
    but my heart closes its ears to them.
    The night is broken-winged
    thing;
    it twitches like a shadow.
    Once, the birds were there,
    and now they’re not.
    I spend all my poems
    looking for the end of the tunnel.

    II.
    A train passes by and my picture frames ratttle.
    Imagine.
    All those tired travelers looking out their windows,
    not knowing that they were heard.
    That someone, somewhere,
    waits for them.

    III.
    Once words,
    and now,
    none.

    IV.

    I meant it when I said
    lonely.

    When I said
    some days,
    it feels
    the whole world wants
    my silence.

     Today would have been my baby sister’s 37th birthday.  I still remember the day she was born.  It was the first day of 4th grade for me, and my grandfather came to school to tell me that I had a new sister.  I always joked that it was amazing that I wanted to have children of my own after seeing her as a baby– she was a fussy, cranky child– and I adored her.
    I don’t know if it will ever make sense to me that she is gone.  I do know that losing someone close to you who is younger than you makes you really face your own mortality.  When my son was growing up, I worried what would happen if I died.  Legally, he’d have to live with his father, and I knew he never wanted to do that.  Now, I just have somewhat morbid thoughts like, I’d better put away my laundry now so in case I die today, no one else will have to take care of that.  I think a lot about what we leave behind when we die.
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  • The Girl Who Was Afraid To Be {Poetry}

    Tuesday, August 23, 2016 No tags Permalink

     

     

    She speaks to me fondly of passions and talents
    guitars and stars
    then stops short
    and apologises for speaking at all

    All because somewhere in her life
    someone she loved broke her heart
    by ignoring her beautiful words
    and telling her to
    shut up,
    keep it down,
    nobody cares

    People aren’t born sad
    We make them that way

    -Nikita Gill

  • Co-ordinates

    Tuesday, August 16, 2016 No tags Permalink

     

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    “For there to be beauty of face, clarity of speech, benevolence and firmness of character, shadow is as needful as light. They are not opponents: they stand, rather, lovingly hand in hand, and when light disappears, shadow slips away from it.”
    Friedrich Nietzsche

  • Tuesday, August 2, 2016 No tags Permalink

    Read in bedWhen I call a book
    my favorite
    I mean,
    I read this
    during a time
    I needed it most.

    I mean,
    I’ve read many other
    beautiful books since,
    but this one will always
    hold a special place
    inside my heart.

    and when I say
    I love(d) you
    I mean,
    my heart is a bookshelf
    and you will always be
    one of my favorite stories.

    – Pavana

    “Reading forces you to be quiet in a world that no longer makes place for that.” – John Green

    bookworm

    I wouldn’t call it a “dirtier mind”, I’d say a more vivid imagination.

  • The Difference {Poetry}

    Tuesday, July 26, 2016 No tags Permalink

    if he can’t help but
    degrade other women
    when they’re not looking
    if toxicity is central to his language
    he could hold you
    in his lap and be soft
    honey
    that man could feed you sugar and
    douse you in rose water
    but that still could not
    make him sweet

    -Rupi Kaur

     This is something I didn’t understand when I was young.  I had no idea I was marrying a misogynist.  The men in my family treated women with respect and adoration.  So I had no idea what to think when my then-husband would come home from work and say things like he wished he could shoot all the women that he worked with.  This was especially frightening due to the fact that he was in the Marine Corps at the time and frequently used a M-16 rifle.

    I think that is part of the reason why I find Trump and his racist, misogynistic rants absolutely appalling.  I cannot fathom how any man who has a wife and a daughter can possibly vote for Trump.  To me, it’s a direct contradiction.  I want those I love and care for to be supported and uplifted.  Really, I want everyone to be supported and uplifted.  As a society, we are only as strong as our weakest link.  Our focus needs to be on lifting each other up, not tearing each other down.

    Continue Reading…

  • Questions for the Woman I was Last Night {Poetry}

    Tuesday, July 19, 2016 No tags Permalink

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    “how far have you walked for men who’ve never held your feet in their laps?
    how often have you bartered with bone, only to sell yourself short?
    why do you find the unavailable so alluring?
    where did it begin?
    what went wrong?
    and who made you feel so worthless?
    if they wanted you, wouldn’t they have chosen you?
    all this time, you were begging for love silently, thinking they couldn’t hear you, but they smelt it on you,
    you must have known that they could taste the desperate on your skin?
    and what about the others that would do anything for you,
    why did you make them love you until you could not stand it?
    how are you both of these women, both flighty and needful?
    where did you learn this, to want what does not want you?
    where did you learn this, to leave those that want to stay?”

    -Warsan Shire

  • Tuesday, July 12, 2016 No tags Permalink

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    “It was rather beautiful:

    the way he put her insecurities to sleep.

    The way he dove into her eyes

    and starved all her fear

    and tasted all the dreams

    she kept coiled beneath her bones.”

    – Christopher Poindexter

  • The Lotus Flower {Poetry}

    Tuesday, June 28, 2016 No tags Permalink

    you can either
    keep yourself up at night
    wondering
    “why me?”
    you can hide under your covers
    and tell everyone
    you’re wrong and you’ll
    never be right

    or you can see all this
    heartbreak
    pain
    conflict
    imperfection
    as an opportunity
    to emerge from the concealed depths
    to the gleaming luminescence
    and become stronger

    it is your choice to decide
    whether to drown in your troubles
    or to courageously survive

    because the harder the struggle
    the more spirited you become in the end
    “the deeper the mud
    the more beautiful the lotus blooms”

    -Madisen Kuhn

     

    “The flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of them all.” –Mulan

    The lotus flower in the murkiest, darkest of waters, appearing elegantly with a beauty that cannot be denied. These flowers are considered to be sacred in the Buddhist religion; associated with creation, enlightenment, and purity.

    A lotus emerges out of muddy, dirty water found in ponds, in a slow manner, over a few days. Once it appears above water, it will only open its petals in the morning and then later closing them in the late afternoon. Regardless of the fact that this flower surfaces out of such dark and muddy water, it is clean and devoid of dirt when it presents itself to the world.

    The mud a lotus grows out of can be considered a symbol of the dark, painful suffering that this world inflicts upon the people who inhabit it. We are all born into a world filled with this mud, mud that we must overcome because it is meant to test us. We, as humans, go through many of the same trials and tribulations in life (i.e., illness, death of a loved one, sadness and depression, etc.) But, it is upon us to rise above these hardships and grow from them rather than let them destroy us. By developing compassion, empathy, wisdom, kindness, and resilience, we have the ability to grow just as the lotus does, taking it one step at a time (i.e., opening one petal at a time).

    When you are going through a hard time, it may seem easier to just stay within that bud, the cocoon, of the lotus flower, safe from all the suffering. But, in reality, you aren’t really safe from it, you are ignoring it and will never reach the point in which you can truly “bloom.” It’s risky and scary to face life’s toughest obstacles, but we must do so. you may have heard the quote: “A certain darkness is needed to see the stars,” (Osho- The Book of Secrets). The same idea applies in this context–without the mud, there is no lotus. Without suffering and dark times, there would be no chance for us as human beings to rise above hardship; to learn from it, change from it, and grow from it.

    The mud will always be there, but we do have the ability to not let the mud ruin us. Rather, we have the ability to flourish and blossom. And, in this, we can find peace, find ourselves, find contentment, and find ways to continuously re-bloom when life throws another obstacle at us. The most beautiful, elegant, and radiantly positive people are those that have learned to live their lives by going through a similar cycle of that of the lotus. These individuals reach new beginnings, reach enlightenment, and have the ability to change and diminish the negativity within themselves.

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    I took this photo several years ago. Perhaps I need to print a copy to remind me that I am like the lotus flower, too.

  • More {Poetry}

    Tuesday, June 21, 2016 No tags Permalink

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    I actually do have brittle bones. That’s one of the reasons I first took up weight training- to help maintain bone density. I had my first DEXA (bone density) scan done in my early 30s. I had fractured my clavicle by just carrying a kayak. I hurt myself carrying the kayak to the water, but I still went kayaking. It was a holiday weekend, so I wait d another two days to have it x-rayed. When I told my doctor how and when I’d broken it, she told me that I was crazy. I spent the next six weeks in a sling. Having a high pain tolerance is both a good thing and a bad thing. I’ve learned to listen to my body better because as I get older, I’ve learned that I don’t bounce back as quickly as I used to. But, I’m still made of magic things and the left over fire of silently exploded stars. 😀

  • Ode to Wine {Poetry}

    Tuesday, June 14, 2016 No tags Permalink

    Wine in bed
    Day-colored wine,
    night-colored wine,
    wine with purple feet
    or wine with topaz blood,
    wine,
    starry child
    of earth,
    wine, smooth
    as a golden sword,
    soft
    as lascivious velvet,
    wine, spiral-seashelled
    and full of wonder,
    amorous,
    marine;
    never has one goblet contained you,
    one song, one man,
    you are choral, gregarious,
    at the least, you must be shared.
    At times
    you feed on mortal
    memories;
    your wave carries us
    from tomb to tomb,
    stonecutter of icy sepulchers,
    and we weep
    transitory tears;
    your
    glorious
    spring dress
    is different,
    blood rises through the shoots,
    wind incites the day,
    nothing is left
    of your immutable soul.
    Wine
    stirs the spring, happiness
    bursts through the earth like a plant,
    walls crumble,
    and rocky cliffs,
    chasms close,
    as song is born.
    A jug of wine, and thou beside me
    in the wilderness,
    sang the ancient poet.
    Let the wine pitcher
    add to the kiss of love its own.

    My darling, suddenly
    the line of your hip
    becomes the brimming curve
    of the wine goblet,
    your breast is the grape cluster,
    your nipples are the grapes,
    the gleam of spirits lights your hair,
    and your navel is a chaste seal
    stamped on the vessel of your belly,
    your love an inexhaustible
    cascade of wine,
    light that illuminates my senses,
    the earthly splendor of life.

    But you are more than love,
    the fiery kiss,
    the heat of fire,
    more than the wine of life;
    you are
    the community of man,
    translucency,
    chorus of discipline,
    abundance of flowers.
    I like on the table,
    when we’re speaking,
    the light of a bottle
    of intelligent wine.
    Drink it,
    and remember in every
    drop of gold,
    in every topaz glass,
    in every purple ladle,
    that autumn labored
    to fill the vessel with wine;
    and in the ritual of his office,
    let the simple man remember
    to think of the soil and of his duty,
    to propagate the canticle of the wine.

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    French “Sangria”

    1 cup hulled quartered strawberries
    1/2 cup blueberries
    6 ounces golden raspberries (can substitute for red raspberries)
    1 (750 ml) Lillet white

    place all the berries into a large glass pitcher and pour Lillet over the berries. stir. cover and refrigerate to marinade, 6 hours to overnight.

    fill 4 wine glasses with ice, divide and pour Lillet among the glasses. garnish with plenty of fruit.

     

     

  • You Are So, So Brave {Poetry}

    Tuesday, May 31, 2016 No tags Permalink

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    “She was not the moon, or the sun, or a planet.
    She was your whole goddamn universe, 
and I know what it’s like
    to hang up stretches of stars on another person’s arms.

    I know what it’s like to sing about the galaxies in their eyes.
    I know what it’s like to love someone and feel like they deserve no less than all the light they can carry with their two hands,
    and I know what it’s like to feel dim.

    If you could, 
you would have taken the rings off of Saturn and 
wrapped it around her finger.

    And I know that most days it can seem like your 
two steps forward dragged you ten steps back.
    I hope you know that this is okay.
    I hope you know that you will be okay.

    But honey,
We must not forget about the girl who never gave up.
    We must not forget about the girl who continued to swear honesty in her poems like a promise to God himself.
    We must not forget about how that girl was brave enough to let go,
    even if that meant that some nights consisted only of under-the-blankets, constant repetitions of “I still love you, I still love you, I still love you, please come back”

    We must not forget this girl, 
because this girl is the fighter.
    This girl is the reminder.
    This girl is the answer.
    This girl is the only person you need to love, love, love, love, love.
    This girl is stronger.
    This is the girl who wakes up in the morning after a long night of battling loneliness,
    the girl who drinks too much red wine,
    the girl who loves like she is dancing on a tight rope,
    the girl who is recklessly unapologetic,
    and this is the girl who is important.
    And this girl is you.”

  • Little Crazy Love Song { Poetry}

    Tuesday, May 24, 2016 No tags Permalink

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    I don’t want eventual,

    I want soon.

    It’s 5 a.m. It’s noon.

    It’s dusk falling to dark.

    I listen to music.

    I eat up a few wild poems

    while time creeps away

    as though it’s got all day.

    This is what I have,

    the dull hangover of waiting,

    the blush of my heart on the damp grass,

    the flower-faced moon.

    A gull broods on the shore

    where a moment ago there were two.

    Softly my right hand fondles my left hand

    as though it were you.

    -Mary Oliver

  • For Him {Poetry}

    Tuesday, May 17, 2016 No tags Permalink

    rupi

    I did not marry the type of man I wanted my son to be like, but my son grew up to be a fine young man despite that fact.

     

    I recently discovered the poet Rupi Kaur and I love her writing.  Some of it is beautiful, like the one above.  And some of it hits (no pun intended) so close to home that it evokes a visceral reaction.

    rupik

  • Search the Darkness {Poetry}

    Tuesday, May 3, 2016 No tags Permalink

    Rumi wrote a poem called Search the Darkness, It’s about how all the darkness of human beings is a shared thing from the beginning of time, and how understanding that opens up your heart and opens up your world. After reading it, I began to think bigger. Rather than depressing me, it made me feel part of the whole.

    Sit with your friends, don’t go back to sleep.
    Don’t sink like a fish to the bottom of the sea.
    Surge like an ocean, don’t scatter yourself like a storm.
    Life’s waters flow from darkness.
    Search the darkness, don’t run from it.
    Night travelers are full of light, and you are too:
    don’t leave this companionship.
    Be a wakeful candle in a golden dish,
    don’t slip into the dirt like quicksilver.
    The moon appears for night travelers,
    be watchful when the moon is full.

    -Rumi

    The darkness represents our spiritual wealth.There’s so much fixation on the light, as if the darkness can be dispensed with, but of course it cannot. There is night, there is earth; so this is a wonderful acknowledgment of richness. Everybody is in that boat sooner or later, in one form or other. It’s good to feel that you’re not alone.

    Rumi calls us “night-travelers”, usually lost, and unable to get our bearings; easily preoccupied, and always neglecting to see the source of beauty within the people and the things we love. rumi

  • Then Come Back

    Tuesday, April 19, 2016 No tags Permalink

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    “Reading a poem in translation,” wrote Bialek, “is like kissing a woman through a veil”.  Translation is a kind of transubstantiation; one poem becomes another. You choose your philosophy of translation just as you choose how to live: the free adaptation that sacrifices detail to meaning, the strict crib that sacrifices meaning to exactitude. The poet moves from life to language, the translator moves from language to life; both like the immigrant, try to identify the invisible, what’s between the lines, the mysterious implications.”
    ― Anne Michaels, Fugitive Pieces

    I read the novel Fugitive Pieces this weekend and it was full of such lovely, lovely words. it was an enook borrowed from the library, but I need to buy my own paper copy. So many beautifully written passages there.

    In the passage above, the author speaks of something I often think about: what’s lost (and sometimes found) in translation.

    Many of my favorite poems and novels weren’t originally written in English. It’s interesting to read different translations by different translators. Sometimes the outcome can vary so much.

    Today on NPR there was a story about  a new book of Pablo Neruda’s “lost” poems.  Then Come Back: The Lost Neruda is presented with the Spanish text, full-color reproductions of handwritten poems, and dynamic English translations.

     

    Crossing the sky I near
    the red ray of your hair.
    Of earth and wheat I am and as I close-in
    your fire kindles itself
    inside me and the rocks
    and flour ignite.
    That’s why my heart
    expands and rises
    into bread for your mouth to devour,
    and my blood is wine poured for you.
    You and I are the land with its fruit.
    Bread, fire, blood and wine
    make up the earthly love that sears.

  • Pathways {Poetry}

    Tuesday, April 5, 2016 No tags Permalink

    Understand, I’ll slip quietly
    away from the noisy crowd
    when I see the pale
    stars rising, blooming, over the oaks.

    I’ll pursue solitary pathways
    through the pale twilit meadows,
    with only this one dream:

    You come too.

    -Rainer Maria Rilke

    imageI have a framed copy of this photo hanging in my house. I took this about 7 or 8 years ago at Crown Hill Cemetary.  It was one of my favorite places to wander. It’s an oasis of calm in the middle of the city and its oddly beautiful, or at least it is to me. I’m one who loves to “slip quietly away from the noisy crowd” from time to time. It’s a pleasure I’ve recently re-discovered.

    You come too.

  • I Don’t Want To Be Demure Or Respectable {Poetry}

    Tuesday, March 29, 2016 No tags Permalink

    I DON’T WANT TO BE DEMURE OR RESPECTABLE

    I don’t want to be demure or respectable.
    I was that way, asleep, for years.
    That way, you forget too many important things.
    How the little stones, even if you can’t hear them, are singing.
    How the river can’t wait to get to the ocean and the sky, it’s been there before.
    What traveling is that!
    It is a joy to imagine such distances.
    I could skip sleep for the next hundred years.
    There is a fire in the lashes of my eyes.
    It doesn’t matter where I am, it could be a small room.
    The glimmer of gold Böhme saw on the kitchen pot
    was missed by everyone else in the house.

    Maybe the fire in my lashes is a reflection of that.
    Why do I have so many thoughts, they are driving me crazy.
    Why am I always going anywhere, instead of somewhere?
    Listen to me or not, it hardly matters.
    I’m not trying to be wise, that would be foolish.
    I’m just chattering

    -Mary Oliver

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    Year ago I gave up trying to be wise, demure, or respectable, and I am much happier for it. When I stopped caring so much about what other people think of me, I became much more genuine. I’m not asleep anymore.

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