emma tree

week 4. january. notta lotta.

2012-01-28T17:25:00.000-06:00

i opened my camera and shook out the leftovers.

images of rain and soft moons and tree limbs naked against the night sky,

throwaways,

the not quite perfects,

the out of focuses,

true illustrations of my life.

my calendar of days.

wednesday morning, i stood in the doorway and took pictures of the rain

and the across the street falling-down house that once was mary's,

watched the creek not rise, breathed a long sigh of relief.

thursday night, the cat stopped on the sidewalk,

stood skygazing through the branches of the pear tree,

and there was the moon hanging low overhead, rain clouds long gone;

i took hand held long exposures and the images bath the sky with milky moonlight.

january, week 4. twenty twelve.

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pinterest, the truth, and nothing but the truth, slightly hidden

2012-01-27T08:01:00.002-06:00

i noticed within days that i was choosing images of escape. gypsy caravans. rooms that my teenage self would have loved, pillows scattered across the floor. color. as imperfect as my real life is, i was choosing even more imperfection. i was choosing leaving. i began an imaginary trip, images of stars overhead, makeshift tents in the backs of pickups. one day here, the next there. i began to choose rooms unlike the rooms i'd torn from the pages of magazines and saved over the years, all white and spacious; those old ideas suddenly seemed . . . controlled. suddenly untamed seemed like a better place to live.

i like pretty. i knew that. i like impractical shoes with bows and high heels. i like boots and i like things in a certain teal pale aqua color fading into green. i like girly twirly skirts. i knew all that also. i like kittens and cupcakes and polka dots and hands and i like breaking the rules. i have blue and white boxes overflowing with pictures torn from magazines, files filled with flowers and images of birds, snippets of colors, rooms of white, fields of green, the ocean, the stars, the perfectest of views from the perfectest of porches. quotes and recipes and moon shaped cookies. and yet . . .

i began to choose images of half told stories, of secrets. if i wasn't tired, i wrote the story in a sentence or two. this coat, i said, looks like the night before christmas. an old blue door told me the tale of the woman who lived behind it and when i said the birds came to visit, i knew i was writing about me. one night, in frustration at my fear of travel, i deleted my imaginary trip.

pinterest rorschach.

that's what i told kelly i called it,

when she said you could tell a lot about people by the images they pinned.

i said you can tell a lot about yourself also,

and i'll tell if you will.

~~~~~~~~~~

i like the presence of life.

just a hint is all i need.

a string of fairy lights across an empty wall says woman.

snow piled on a swing says child.

i like to fill in the blanks.

presence of life.

a bird on a hand.

a fat cushion on a chair.

a jump into air, arms outstretched.

a barren tree holding the moon.

spring will come.

other people's pictures, all.

the small story each image tells becomes part of my story.

the one that says i can still surprise myself,

that i still have secrets to be discovered.

i never want to know all the answers.

i am making a map.

i am traveling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

kelly's pinterest tale is here.

you can find me on pinterest here.

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when deb's away . . .

2012-01-25T07:59:00.001-06:00

. . . i talk about play.

i'm at deb's place today,

while she continues a month long birthday celebration.

cause that's the way she does things.

how can you not love a woman like that?

follow me over. c'mon.

i'll show you the way.

it's right here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

growing pains

2012-01-24T08:18:00.001-06:00

the doldrums descend.

the january flounders.

my right arm and shoulder ache nonstop,

all those words unwritten knotted tangled tight against each other.

i wake in the night and turn to my other side,
my body feeling the need to fly.
i take 2 tylenol come morning.

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unseen

2012-01-21T08:58:00.001-06:00

the best thing about cellphones is they see things we don't. there's no blue on this wall, it's just the phone's way of seeing shadows, and so there i be, kicking back under the emma tree in yesterday's late afternoon, and beginning the journey back to this photo series. i can see right away i have turned a page with this new phone, the old one dead and gone to heaven, and i am not sure how i feel about it, chchchchchanges and everything not being my strong point. this new phone is an iphone, an old one, the 3gs, but it was 97¢ and what the hell. and i like it, i do, but so far not so much the camera. i take almost no images with it; it requires 2 hands to operate, so spontaneity can be dangerous, and the images are better and have lost that ragged look i liked so much. and i don't do apps.

but. the calendar says january and january means begin again and so a new chapter. first boot shot under the emma tree lights mixed with daylight and the shadows go blue. things could be worse. i liked it enough to not desaturate it too much.

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the weekend opens its eyes onto gray skies and a squirrel upside down in the wisteria vines. breakfast is the last of the homemade soup. i am awake in a bad mood, skye cat meowing in my face too early too much; when i squeezed her tight to show how much i loved her despite all the noise, she bit me, just a small scrape of a tooth across my arm, but a lesson learned about love and holding on too tightly. there is much to do and i am dithering about the day.

a morning flock of birds.

again.

they are writing words in the sky,

messages visible only to those above them.

for us earthbound souls, mirrors are required,

or guesses.

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top gun

2012-01-19T08:53:00.000-06:00

birds swaggering into the january sky,

cowboys with wings.
the jingle jangle of their spurs keeps the cat inside.

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such a small life. without pictures.

2012-01-16T17:16:00.003-06:00

just us two and a slow afternoon, an unexpected half day off. the best kind. gray clouds soft in the warm sky, the world on mute. homemade soup in white bowls. for dessert, a book read aloud. leaves blowing across the lawn, inside the house matching outside the house, faded colors, soft, soft, warm, safe. the cat a sleeping circle of gray and black on the white bed, silence, silence, just my voice and someone else's words in the air. the ticking of the clock when i pause. by 4:15 he is gone and it is just the cat and me, and a moment of late afternoon sunlight, the sun behind the house.

there is a small room between my bedroom and the bathroom that i use as a library and i spent the weekend clearing space there, tossing books and papers, dusting shelves that haven't been dusted in a year, washing antique linens. the kind of cleaning only you know you've done. the kind of cleaning that opens something in your soul. that lets you breathe easier. a white candle on a now empty spot of shelf. i tossed books saved since high school, books i never re-opened, never planned on reading again, art books from college days that no longer interested me - deconstructivism, vasari - but i kept giotto's angels; i kept dylan thomas and richard farina and shakespeare and joseph conrad. william hawkins, a roll of nickels. i tossed the pms workbook, books about perimenopause and gluten free diets and how to know when a lump is more than lump. i tossed the words that held memories of fears, real and imagined, and i kept the words that fed me.

patches of pale blue find space in the sky between the clouds, now gray and white. the church steeple a couple of blocks away is a silhouette against the almost end of the day. if i turned on the tv, there would be news. the shadow on the teal chair grows stronger, the lamp glows more golden, and the cat has moved to the back of the couch.

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home

2012-01-14T10:40:00.026-06:00

you can tell a lot about the way i stand just by walking into my house. these unzippered lazy leaning boots sit right inside the doorway where i stop to shimmy my feet down to socks or bare feet - a gift left me by my mother, a gift that says shoes in the house make no sense, a gift that says get comfy, sprawl across the couch, you are home. cleaning her back porch last fall i found a pair of tennis shoes where she'd kicked them off, under a table; after all those months gone, she made me smile.

“Where you are is who you are.

The further inside you the place moves, the more your identity is intertwined with it.

Never casual, the choice of place is the choice of something you crave.”

~~~~~ Frances Mayes / Under the Tuscan Sun

last year was the year of the house. for me, my mother's house. i now know she understands my decision to not make it my home; in the same way her cat will never be mine, my mother's house would never be mine. the floors echo with her footsteps, not mine. i tried. i made plans. i pretended out loud and on paper. but no was always the word i heard when i stepped inside the door.

home stayed here. in this house with too low ceilings. in this house that floods now and again. in this house whose hall closet has no ceiling, the better for the squirrels to get inside. in this house. on this street. here for now, here for a while. i still long for my real home, wherever it may be, somewhere outside the city limit signs, but the time to go has not yet arrived.

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2012 is the year of home.

where do you feel most at home?

from graciel:

Not long ago, a question was posed to me~ where do you feel most at home?

I could not answer and the not answering squeezed my heart.

I realized my sense of home was shaky at best,

and in that realization deeper explanations could be found.

she set out to find an answer and discovered " . . . it was time to honor all aspects of home; my body as first home, my dwelling as second, the earth as third. In honoring that trinity I would finally and irrevocably come home to myself. And being at home with myself would transform my life." and thus an online course (and one day retreat) was born.

i am more than honored to be one of the instructors, and hope you'll join us.

details are here.

birds in trees

2012-01-12T20:01:00.002-06:00

wintertime trees stitched to the morning sky.

these birds are long gone by now, the south at last calling them farther home.

they have been playing musical chairs with the wind.

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proof of life

2012-01-11T08:18:00.001-06:00

raindrops and buds on the cherry laurel tree yesterday morning.

this is where it starts.

she knows.

soon this tree will be dropping blossoms onto the sidewalk,

but,

and this is the thing,

look how happy it is even now.

this spring it will be drenched in white flowers

but it is cheerful in its nakedness,

embracing its emptiness.

smarter than me.

it knows to everything there is a season

and frets not.

the good stuff needs roots and time and sunshine

and rain.

it needs blue skies and gray.

this morning begins with a sky of blue. when the tv weatherman said tomorrow would be 20 degrees cooler, i sighed, i huffed and puffed and complained to myself than i would have to do laundry tonight, would have to wash socks, would have to bundle up, would have to this and that, and i just generally got all tight in mental preparation. january be damned, i wanted it to stay warm. i forgot what the cherry laurel knows.

necessary.

desired.

i'm sure that tree giggles at me every time i pass beneath its branches.

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yesterday's story, and everyday

2012-01-10T07:35:00.001-06:00

the rain kept waking me night before last,
unsteady on its feet,
smacking hard against the air conditioner and then
not,
pounding on the windows and then
not.
it was still here come evening;
the sky milky with lavenderpinkwhite clouds,
behind which they say there was a moon.

end of the workday. i sling the tote bag onto the passenger seat, settle the phone into a cup holder, nestle the camera secure, turn the key, engine on, doors closed and locked, seatbelt, lights, adjust the air/heat, and then breathe. this is my time for stillness, not long, breath in, slow breath out, always, always, this wall a meditation in early darkness rain or 8 pm sunlight heat, a line separating day from night.

the only christmas lights still standing are white
across downtown rooftops,
and the odd tree here and there on the road home.

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january now and then

2012-01-08T10:50:00.001-06:00

if you catch them just right,
if you are up early enough on a slightly foggy morning,
they look like snow against the branches.

the tulip tree lives on the far left side of the yard, the west, and it begins our calendar. january. baby buds. i thought of them in a dream in the other night, awoke wondering if last summer's drought had delayed their coming, but no. they are where they should be. i like to think they whispered to me in my sleep as they opened their eyes, a bit of reassurance, we are back, all is well, the world still moving in seasons and everyday rhythms, soothing predictability.

this week's story: happy birds. a hawk, two days in the sweet gum tree across the street, and cardinals. yesterday morning, birdsong and even more cardinals, climbing the empty wisteria vines, flittering into the hackberry. sparrows. the smell of the sweet olive tree finding its way through the front door, skye cat hiding around the corner, chattering at the birds, so unaware as they breakfast on the lawn. they dive and swoop into the creek, where the water lives, bursting upwards in a surprise of feathers. it will sound like a fish story when i try to explain how big the woodpecker was, this big, i will say, and hold out my hands to show you, and this big around, truly. you will laugh and say pictures, please, but trust me. he was that big.

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a year ago today a snowstorm was on its way, but i was on the road to florida. i stopped in louisiana for the night, and the news was full of heartbreak from arizona, land of my youth, land of deserts and my heart. my fears suddenly felt small, but even larger. i called my mother and the ever-wonderful michael and settled in for the night, on the road again the next morning, still headed east, still headed out.

she gave me the ocean again.

it had been a long time.

tell us about a time this year

that you were moved by the generosity of another.

reverb 11. late.

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generous souls i know.

there were so many in this hardest of years.

i will choose a january soul, before the hard time hit.

beth got lost in the shuffle,

got lost in the bigger story of my mother's death so soon after.

had bad timing, or good, i can't truthfully say,

but she believed in my courage when i didn't,

and she offered a few days of the ocean.

a temptress to whom i said yes.

when i thought i was lost, she asked if i had a map.

that water was an old lost friend,

never mind the cold.

she offered patience and understanding and open arms

and tea and new friends.

i listened to under the tuscan sun on the drive down
and all the way back home.

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table broke - now i can see the truth. without pictures.

2012-01-04T09:15:00.001-06:00

against the blue of this morning's sky, a squirrel's silhouette tightropes the telephone wire and i begin to write. i mistype that as rite and almost leave it, a perfect truth disguised as mistake. namaste twenty twelve. january 4th. a small day begins.

no leaves block my view. another squirrel's shadow circles the trunk of an oak tree across the street. a small bird drops onto a limb of the hackberry, in perfect time with one last small falling leaf. it is dull out there, and quiet, all faded greens and the gray of a sweatshirt as a student heads off to school. chilly with sunshine, i think, and laugh, thinking chili with sunshine sounds like something i would eat with a spoon and a smile.

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true story: the new year began with a broken table leg, said table still upside down on the living room floor, still healing, but ready to be righted. when it broke and i couldn't fix it, when it proved to be beyond my skills and tools and strength, when i could see what needed to be done but couldn't do it, i fell to tears and swearing, though neither helped. there was a moment when i tried to drag the thing through the front door, sick of it, tired of the poorness it represented, but it fought back, wanting to stay - it grew too heavy and one of the good legs caught in the doorway and i just finally stopped and let it be. swept around it and let it be. accepted i would need help. accepted i would have to wait. exhausted, i finally took a nap - skye cat crawled up into the bed with me, laid her head on my shoulder and fell asleep.

a life lesson.

a recap of last year.

sometimes you have no control.

break a leg.

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feliz año nuevo

2011-12-31T19:00:00.000-06:00

they look like planets against a forever of stars.

twenty twelve.

it rolls off the tongue with a bit of pretty.

a good place to start.

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reverb 11: a short letter to myself

2011-12-30T08:50:00.003-06:00

perhaps he knew, as i did not, that the earth was made round so that we would not see too far down the road.
~ isak dinesen / out of africa

limited visibility be damned. all those green lights say go.
pedal to the metal onward through the fog and all that jazz.

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resound 11 / reverb 11
write a letter to your future self to read on dec 30, 2012:

go.
you have a compass called your heart.
stop only for tuneups and fuel and photo opportunities.
screw the map. you are making your own.

xoxo

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decembering into january

2011-12-29T19:54:00.000-06:00

the fog wakes me.

a white wildflower the size of my fingerprint

reaches for my foot as i pass.

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a week of no words.
unexplained, not on purpose, the silence just descended.
stories stopping mid sentence,

poems hanging
mid thought
mid breath
mid wish

words clinging by ragged fingernails to what was.

last night i fell asleep on the couch early, home from a long massage, the perfect position temperature pillow, facing inward facing the cat sprawled above me, the darkness covering us, my soul relaxing exhaling, these last days of nothingness spread beneath me.

finding my way to what is.

thoughts of a wounded coyote,
that terry allen painting,
crows,
friends who feel forgotten.
15 years fatherless on new year's eve,
still new to motherless.

i crawl to sleep and dream.

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christmas eve morning. silent night begins.

2011-12-24T09:12:00.000-06:00

the year is fading away.

falling soft into the past,

into behind us, gone, adieu;

catching our kisses as we blow them its way.

este año de dolor, adios.

christmas eve morning and all is calm.

there are cocoa dusted dark chocolate almonds to be packaged,

kishu mandarin oranges y topo chicos in white cups,

ribbons to be tied,

one last gift to buy.

it is cold outside and filled with gray skies,

with a quiet rain, with the tiniest of raindrops.

christmas, she be coming,

and she be bearing gifts.

hold out your hands and catch them.

within the silence are songs of angels.

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repost: our hearts tell our secrets

2011-12-22T09:15:00.003-06:00

a midnight snow is coming they say,

and we,

disbelievers all,

still wait by the window.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

originally posted back in early february.

the best bit of writing ever from these hands.

we all believe.

christmas is coming.

for kelly.

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reverb 11: healing.

2011-12-21T09:42:00.000-06:00

a smidgen before midnight and it will begin.

i will stand in magic.

i will light a fire.

i will open my arms wide to beginnings.

i will catch starlight and moonlight and sparks of the past.

those sparks will burn hot and i will toss them from scorched fingertips.

healing.

what healed you this year?

was it sudden or a drip by drip evolution?

how would you like to be healed in 2012?

reverb 11

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the process continues.

i turn like the earth and baby step toward the light.

the cold is necessary.

the darkness required.

the scars remain.

my phantom heart still aches when it rains.

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reverb 11: sunday lunch. or as we say here in texas, dinner.

2011-12-18T11:53:00.004-06:00

empty chair.

empty wall except for where my painting once hung.

empty house full heart

empty christmas empty tables new paint

same shadows same birds same sky same trees

last winter, spring, drought of summer.

this winter's leaves tell the time.

if you could have lunch with anybody, who would it be?

and what would you like to discuss?

reverb 11

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her, of course.

did i do things right?, i would ask, knowing how much i did wrong,

am i forgiven for running when i walked in to find that first surprise of life support?

the hospital told us nothing, nothing,

and i'm sorry, i would tell her,

but my heart fell to my knees

and i shook and they told us nothing,

and i'm sorry, i'm sorry, so sorry.

your eyes were full of fear and drugs

and my heart was tired and broken

and they told us nothing.

i would want to say that to her,

hold her hands in mine and make her understand.

they told us nothing though on the official paperwork they said they called.

they didn't, they didn't, they lied, they lied,

and i'm sorry.

we would have sweet tea and roast beef with carrots and potatoes and she would cook and i would eat too much bread and she would say i am just like my grandfather, and she would laugh, and there would be dessert, there was always dessert, never a cake or pie not in the house. we would sit in her kitchen like we always did, and skye cat would wander about and jump on the counter and my mother would shoosh her off, and give her tidbits of roast on the floor.

is it okay about skye? i would ask,

i am sorry, so sorry,

but your house holds memories and i couldn't move in.

i broke my promise, but i tried, i tried,

and skye was there every day waiting for me after work,

and it was every day, every day for 2 months,

i was in 3 places, my home, work, your home,

a cat at work and your cat there

and there were lawyers and brothers

and endless phone calls and bills and tears

and exhaustion,

and so i just took her home,

i just took her home.

against my promise, against your wishes,

and is it okay?

she's fine, she's happy, she has no fences to keep her in

and a smile on her face,

and i am so sorry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

one more afternoon in her kitchen.

how precious that would be.

one long last hug.

a goodbye with questions answered.

and dessert.

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christmas closes in

2011-12-17T10:09:00.001-06:00

creeping in along tree branches and snaking its way along the creek cloaked in white lights; it is decked out less festively than last year, but perhaps that is just my heart talking. it is christmas no matter what and could show up naked at my front door, shivering to the sound of the midnight bells on christmas Eve. christmas is really naked anyway.

but still. i love restaurants strung with white light bulbs and plenty of time to relax while shopping and girl talk over steaks or mexican food, i especially love that plenty of time part. i love white polka dots strewn across red christmas paper, diana krall singing me into the holidays, and jimmy stewart as george bailey making me feel not so small anymore. i love the idea of homemade cards, though I never have the time, my sister-in-law’s tart apple pie, frasier fir candles, small towns lit up for the holidays, cookies everywhere you shop, luminarias with real candles nestled inside, charlie brown trees, stockings filled with silliness and dark chocolate. i love the word jolly – we only use it at this time of year - and red and white candy canes scattered in boxes of gifts to be shipped. i love the idea of angels singing. and for this week leading up to the magical day, i love early darkness and chilly air.

i love that at last i have time to breathe and new tires and places to drive, and i love this warm messy home waiting for me to return. I love the christmas ornaments laying atop stacks of books, no tree yet this year, and the santa claus crinkly cat toy, a red velvet line drawn across the pale colors of my rooms. I love the glitter waiting to be opened and applied to bought cards; I love that when I open those bottles at last, glitter will be everywhere and I will find speckles of it next june and smile.

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inspired by amy oscar's exactly 400 words,

though i don't have 400.

i love that i don't think she'll mind.

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reverb 11: community: beyond the city limit signs

2011-12-16T15:50:00.002-06:00

i couldn't see the boots for the trees.

and there were lots of them,

strung along the fence line right there to my left as i stood looking up the road.

the ever-wonderful michael pointed them out

and it took more than one look before i saw them.

a community i love.

online and in real life,

we're all a part of a multitude of communities.

tell us about one that moves you.

reverb 11

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i am a texan.

a small town east texas girl

who moves through the woods

and along the backroads

and knows the sky.
if i have to open a gate to get to where you live,
so much the better.

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today i exhaled

2011-12-15T22:30:00.001-06:00

the warm morning rain, the day all soft with the end of busy.

fog for lunch and we passed a sign that read plant your roses now.

my breaths go all the way to my toes

and i need to buy seeds.

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reverb 11: fear & truth

2011-12-13T17:21:00.002-06:00

fear.

what scared you this year more than anything else?

did you learn anything new about yourself?

reverb 11

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standing still and remembering.

moving forward and forgetting.

neither/both true and false.

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reverb 11: thrive

2011-12-12T08:44:00.001-06:00

i bought cherries and clementines, and those pretzels shaped like stars, dipped in white yogurt & snowy white sprinkles, because i bought those last year, and hidden rose apples, small enough for just a few tangy bites. i splurged for me because it is christmas, and when i cut the apples in half, i found hidden stars instead of roses.

thrive

what was your healthiest habit of 2012?

what would you like to change or do differently?

WEverb 11/ reverb 11

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i secretly gave myself a year,

just something i whispered in my own ear -

allowed myself chocolates and too much tv

and didn't beat myself up over the few extra pounds.
from the end of february last
to the end of february next.
i didn't listen to rules,
ate fajitas for breakfast,
read under fairy lights,
forgot the sunscreen,
ignored deadlines and fools,
and i let myself cry.

i would do it all again, and i still have 2 months to go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

and then.

well, i will have to dance, i will have to pay attention to that extra weight.

i will have to walk more and lounge less

and look for apples with stars in their eyes.

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reverb 11: what i shoulda done more of

2011-12-11T10:14:00.001-06:00

i walk on spinning stars.

what do you wish you had done more of in 2011?

reverb 11
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slowed down

slowed d o w n

s l o w e d d o w n.

s l o w e d d o w n.

as slow as i was, it was too fast.
as behind as i am.
i have been late with rent, insurance, taxes, credit card payments,
late to work, late to sleep.
there are unwritten thank you cards 9 months down this busy road
my hand will not pick up the pen.
it is a year cluttered with
unsent birthday wishes,
books not finished,
thank yous not said aloud,
i love yous dropped in my purse,
and when i finally find where my keys are,
i remember what i forgot to say.

i sit, unable to move, and it is too fast.

how did it get so late so soon? it's night before it's afternoon. december is here before it's june.
my goodness, how the time has flewn.
how did it get so late so soon?
~~~~~ dr. seuss

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sometimes life just blindsides you, you never saw it coming you will say, and you will mean it and it will be true and you will run, if only in your soul, and there you are, suddenly in the red queen's race, unable to keep up with the same place where once you stood. you will watch it pass you by, and you will regret those years of no aerobics that maybe would've helped you to just stay even, staying even would feel fabulous right now, but it's too late and you are running and you are dropping things, things you know you will miss later; you will be looking for the scissors and have no idea where they are.

lily cat is lonely. she crawls into my lap and wants to stay, wants me to curl onto the couch with her; remember last year? i can hear her thinking, but she knows that won't happen, so she crawls onto my lap at the end of the day and she gets comfortable and warm and grows heavy with contentment. please stay, she says, please just stay and let's watch the silence of the street outside, the wind and streetlamps and those shadows, the ones we kept company with last year, they are all waiting to say hello, but she knows i won't, knows i cannot, not yet, walk away from the loneliness of my mother's cat, who is waiting at my house, not yet used to aloneness during the day, who needs to flee through the opened door into the night and back again, flying with joy and freedom.

and so i run.

there is an ache in my side

and i can't breathe,

but there are clouds at the top of the hill.

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reverb 11: forgiveness

2011-12-07T21:24:00.004-06:00

well, 'tis the season, after all.

i think it's condemned, this funniest of old houses, though it was there last time i checked; the white wooden gate leading to the backyard is spray painted with the words walk lightly. yes.

forgiveness.

who have you forgiven this year

and what was the journey like that brought you to forgive them?

reverb 11

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i stood on boo radley's front porch this year
and learned to see from the other side.
it was almost impossible and i find even now
even now
that my lips grow tight as i type these words
and i remind myself to unclench my teeth.
it was a fight from the get-go, from the first, from the firing of the gun
the race is on and here comes pride up the backstretch
it was so personal i could see it no other way.
it was all about me all about me but it wasn't.
it wasn't.
it was about them giving all they could
and i had to stand on their porches walk in their shoes
cry myself to sleep sit in the jeep and scream
before i could forgive,
but it wasn't forgiveness,
it was seeing.

where forgiveness really lives i haven't ventured.
i walk lightly around it, testing the ground.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

reverb 11: addition through subtraction. a day late.

2011-12-05T09:01:00.001-06:00

there is always a point where i turn away from looking back.
where i look up and out and forward
where the year that was is the year that was
and all the words have already been said
and i weary of saying them again.

it is christmas time, i think,
and i want angels and carols and twinkling lights.
i drive through the streets i sit on my couch i lay on my bed
and i invent stories.

addition through subtraction.

what have you let go of this year

and how has it affected you?

reverb 11

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i let go of nothing willingly.
i held on i grasped i promised i promised
but in the end my fingers were weak.
that would explain why the winter air makes them ache.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

story 1: Byron sits with his back to the blinking lights, smoking in the darkness. Early December, Christmas splattered across his front lawn. It is too warm. Muggy. The cold weather predicted for that afternoon a no-show. He sits in the silence, grateful to be alone, just those blinking lights for company. It is just that one strand that blinks, the whole strand at once, on, off, on, off, on, and only if the drapes are closed. They are strung on the inside of the picture window, the better to cheer up his falling-down house, and he knows he should check it out, investigate the blinking before it burns them all down, but there is something soothing about that rhythm and the silence and the red green yellow yellow red red on off on off, and so he doesn't. Instead, he sits on the porch in the darkness and lights another cigarette. He inhales.

so let me change this prompt.

i am already a day late,

the rules have been broken,

if rules there are,

so why not this instead?

what will i let go of and how will it affect me?

silly, that last bit, no way to know the future,

but i will start with this.

i will let go of holding people in their boxes.

byron, for instance.

until he wandered out for a cigarette the other night,

i'd not given him much thought.

certainly no sympathy.

perhaps i still don't.

but if i let him out of his box i have a beginning.

i myself don't believe in boxes,

a friend made that clear.

i let go of that a long time ago.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

reverb 11: a moment in time

2011-12-03T09:57:00.000-06:00

raccoons? coyote? what moves in such a way?
this morning full of wind and cold coming in,
leaves falling into the creek,
this secret soon hidden.

a moment in time.

tell us about one moment that you lived in 2011

that you will never forget.

reverb 11
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

in this year of loss upon loss upon heartbreak
my hand on my mother's heart as she drew her last breath
this year of drought and shimmering heat
my hand on the do not resuscitate order
my hand on the words let her go
my hand against that morning against that day
this year of michael's father's death
a bookend of endings
my hand unable to stop it
my hand finding its way to a pen to a computer to words.
in this year of moments piled one against the other,
i choose this morning's.

that trail a lesson.
a message.
i choose now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

reverb 11: how to do it differently

2011-12-02T12:01:00.002-06:00

across the street, my neighbor's christmas lights were on when i awoke this morning, bright against the still gray day; there is one string, over there on the left hand side of her picture window that is blinking on and off, the whole strand, like a stoplight in a small town. the lights are all different colors and used to be she only circled that one window with one strand of lights, the big old fashioned ones, and it was the peacefullest view from my couch each night, but i made the mistake of telling her, and so, for me, she hung more lights. she hung ornaments from the japanese maple. this year, the ornaments are hung from trailing rose vines and the ginkgo tree. it is a christmas mess over there. i admit to kinda liking it, but don't tell my neighbor.

my children will do it differently -

if you could choose one thing that your children could do

or experience in a different way than you have,

what would it be and why?

reverb 11

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

don't try so hard, but try harder.

know when to do each.

don't try so hard lexus, louis vuitton, apple, coach.
when steve jobs died, a friend said she was such an apple girl,
such a mac person,
she loved what she could do with all that stuff
but most of all, she said, she loved being seen with it.
no.
no no no no no.
it's just a brand.
it ain't you babe.

try harder run, laugh, read read, earn your own money,
use the crappy camera that's stuck on f16
and figure your way around it,
buy the car that will require you to know how to fix stuff.

the more you know, the less you need.
~ aboriginal saying

one strand of lights will be all you need.
you will shine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

reverb11: one word

2011-12-01T15:32:00.000-06:00

this morning a crow above the jeep, circling, circling, looping smaller, lazing lower, circling, circling, then landing. the middle of the road for no particular reason. just sitting. breathing.

one word.

encapsulate the year 2011 in one word.

explain why you're choosing that word.

now, imagine it's one year for today.

what would you like the word to be that captures 2012 for you?

reverb11.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

growth.

still underground,

planted deep but moving towards the sun,

about to break through, hard pushing against the winter earth growth.

the pressure of the whole world on your shoulders

as you push and push and shove and finally crack the surface growth.

not enough rain growth.

too much sun and too much cold wind growth.

beginning: a tiny seed fetal position sleeping turning my head away.

that which doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

ha.

last year i said 2011 would be softness.

it was.

i melted.

i fell into tears and they fed me and i grew.

perennial.

a year from now?

flourish.

the verb.

1. to grow well or luxuriantly; 2. to do well or prosper; 3. to be in a period of highest productivity, excellence or influence; 4. to make bold sweeping movements.

yes.

all of those.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

february 28 all the way to now

2011-11-28T08:38:00.000-06:00

in autumn a girl's thoughts turn to glitter and trees gone golden and far off red and she is reminded that all things end, all things; it is nine months from the morning her mother died, and this cold november morning welcomes a new person, her bones the branches of an empty fig tree.

i stood in her backyard this weekend, leaves ankle high and shushing my thoughts,

at 6 weeks, the heart begins to beat in a regular rhythm,

by 8 weeks i had ghosts of fingerprints and i left them on the walls of her house,

at 2 months, the embryo responds to prodding,

at 4 months, quickening,

i moved on my own through the beginning of the summer's heat.

flocks of leaves huddle on the tree limbs, nestless, settling for the night against the wind they cannot defeat, all things end, all things, and she walks away from their emptiness into the warmth of the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

another november fog

2011-11-24T08:22:00.002-06:00

it is the street on which i live and it is

2 novembers ago,

sweet maggie miss magnolia was beside me in the jeep.

enchantment still held sway.

this thanksgiving morning another fog is dripping through the trees
and the birds are silent and no squirrels are about.
it looks much the same.
that tree on the corner is bigger,
there are more leaves on the ground.
the street is tired, faded from the hot hot summer,
more thankful for this fog.
enchantment is hidden out there somewhere,
catching its breath, a second wind,
leaving us to our own magic for a while.

there is a coyote in the neighborhood,
if you turn right at that first street you may see him.
it will have to be late and it will have to be dark
and perhaps he is already gone.
but perhaps he is the beginning.
i hope he has a cigarette and wings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

she really holds her cup like that

2011-11-22T09:14:00.002-06:00

we are partners in shopping for pretty.

we talk politics and tony romo and when we want a steak

we settle down in a restaurant and pay for our own.

we don't ask anyone's permission.
we roll our eyes at facebook messiahs
and dance silly happy dances in the aisles of discount stores
when we find the perfect cute cupcake plates.
we watch neighborhood hawks swoop overhead
and we text too much,
and, despairing of the lack of color in this town,
we drive elsewhere.
we love robert downey, jr.
and robert earl keen
and we know when a color is almost right
and we say no to almost.
we have watched lord of the rings a million times
and the devil wears prada,
and we are grateful that martha stewart gets it,
and also apple,
and wish more companies did.
we refuse to buy maroon or burgundy anythings
and never understood the whole missoni target frenzy
because can you say ugly?

we will tell you the truth so don't ask if you don't want to know.

we understand how to run your own business;
we get inventory and employees who call in sick
and overhead and markup
and we vote for the people who understand that we understand.
we love small towns twinkling under christmas lights
and driving the back roads just because,
and we stop where we've never been before.
we have chased the moon
and trespassed
and talked about the men in our lives;
we tell each other their jokes
and complain that they make us laugh when we are mad
but that makes us laugh and we love them even more.

we love boots and shoes with bows on the top
and businesses with cute names
and we wish this town would let us decorate
the downtown square for christmas;
we so understand the magic of the season. we believe.

we are friends.
and yes, she really hold her cup like that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a small sunday moment

2011-11-20T08:27:00.000-06:00

we are all stars all the way to the end.

or hearts or moons

or whatever shape we've chosen

an early small moment for the sun, pushing its way past the clouds; just a bit of brightness and then gone again. my front door is open to the november wind and leaves are scattering across the living room floor; the yard is covered with crescent moons fallen to earth, golden golden, the sun still behind those clouds, the sky pale gray, i'd planned to clean, planned to clear some space for christmas at my house this year, but when i move the furniture, it blocks the light, so things are back to their normal places with space left over for a tree. it's sunday, and like i said, the front door is open, and windows also, the heat off, leaves flying, squirrels chattering, and i just stepped over a star on the way to the kitchen. small and brown, but a star still.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

leaving

2011-11-17T20:50:00.000-06:00

yesterday morning it was a bright yellow heart
still beating
in the emptiness of the catawba tree.

the

last

leaf
.

still there

breathlessly

swaying.

letting
go
.
but still there.
in the bright november sun.

and then not.

i'd meant to take a picture, you know,

but there was a phone call and lateness and a dead battery

and rushing and wind and i

forgot

and it was somewhere in the middle of all that it

fell.

fell, i'm sure, with its arms open wide to the journey down.

gone, i thought.

the wind, i thought.

but no.

the earth found it, sheltered it.

one last gift before winter.

one last lesson.

then fly-away

fly-away

home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

standing on the edge of rain and 3rd base

2011-11-15T21:20:00.001-06:00

me again on the edge again

toes just this side of being

in;

dilly-dallying

wasting time dithering

wondering looking at clouds

looking for clues in the splash of raindrops

finding faces in the spaces missed.

a reindeer is ready to get this party

started,

but i agonize question compare second guess change my mind

rethink hesitate slow dance

when i should shimmy like spinning moonbeams disco balls falling glitter.

i look for dancesteps painted along my darkened path

you put your left foot in

breadcrumbs dropped to the rhythm of the night

you take your left foot out

i shuffle stumble trip fall skin my knees hit my funnybone

you put your left foot in

and i am off the path off the wagon into the world into the arms of the

waiting universe where have i been all this time?

and you shake it all about

my toes are in across the line safe on third and i am off the bag too far

at last

there is only one out i am thinking squeeze play

and in my mind i am suddenly still quiet eye on the ball peaceful

going alpha

you do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around

it slows down i see all i breathe meditate exhale stand on the edge wait to

and that's what it's all about.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a november wedding

2011-11-14T20:45:00.000-06:00

they said i do

under autumn skies

under the falling color of leaves.

the cake was 40 minutes late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

after the storms, always the sun

2011-11-11T06:50:00.002-06:00

the blues fall away.

awake early this morning in the still darkness, the 5:30 train passing in the distance, the sound of nothing else heavy in the room, that nothing a warm comfort across my heart. skye cat lay deep asleep against my belly, nestled in blankets, no purring, just sleep; soft, soft, her rhythm becoming mine, just nothing but us and morning in the room, last night's full moon long gone from the windows. just darkness and morning and nothing but our breathing. thou art everywhere but i worship thee here.

at last up, lamps flicked on, those red red birthday roses glowing with their own inner light, and we settle on the couch, this cat and i, my mother's cat, she will never be mine, and we begin a slow movement into a new day. the old fashioned heater kicks on; it has real flames and makes a soft muffled sound of reassurance, more warmth, more comfort, and i turn on the tv, as always leaving the sound off.

the night moves toward day and suddenly the darkness is less; fallen leaves are visible on the ground and i am up to raise the blinds, to watch the full of morning fall on the street. the ginkgo across the street has gone quite pale, almost to gold, we are almost there, and the catawba has gone quite naked, her leaves scattered across the street and lawns and into the creek. there is no wind, not a breeze, not a stirring of grass, it is cool and still and not a car has passed, no student yet headed for another friday, no backpacks passing, no shuffling of feet, not yet, but if you type it, it will come, and there is the first car of the day.

lighter still, more day than night, one chirp from a bird, slowly slowly this day comes. the bark of a dog, my upstairs neighbor moving about, the comforting sound of her feet on the wood overhead; i track her path in my head exactly as i followed the 5:30 train earlier. i know the places they go.

and finally, morning. the first student passes. the sun has not yet climbed high enough to toss yellow rays across the yard, but soon, soon.

it is autumn. the shadows gather strength, are more shadows than shade. the blues fade away, fall into the memory of summer. as always, i will find their hiding places.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the day before yesterday nothing happened

2011-11-10T07:20:00.000-06:00

there were roses very red

and a cupcake very swirly

and happy birthday.

there were storms very black
and winds very bossy
and at lunch the waitress turned the too-loud music down

and remembered the extra tomatoes on my salad.

it was all i asked for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

last night the sky looked like storms

2011-11-08T04:52:00.000-06:00

but i don't think they got here.
i heard no rain and the clouds i saw were storing sunlight
against the ending of the day.
i hold hope in my heart that they will light the sky some evening,
give the moon a run for her money.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

friday afternoon, hopin' that the train is on time

2011-11-05T16:08:00.000-06:00

it is easy to tell where the babies are buried. the flowers are so close together hugging the small spaces and reaching for the sky, the petals like tiny arms flying away. i pass through the cemetery avoiding this area, not looking too closely; heartbreak is just a breath away if you stand too close. i am singing one toke over the line sweet jesus, one toke over the line . . . their souls are just as big as mine and they are flown away . . . sitting downtown in a railway station . . . later i turn left on confederate avenue, one toke over the line, stopped by the union pacific as i start to climb the hill. there is just this train and me, and soon a truck on the other side, waiting, and then the train too is gone and i buy tacos and sit in the jeep writing, sit in the sun, waiting for the train that goes home, sweet mary . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

manifesto jazz

2011-11-02T21:32:00.001-06:00

the lines i walk are mine. i draw them myself

and i break the rules; i use

all that stuff they tell you not to

and i turn the music off because my rhythm is

the rhythm of silent stars hidden behind a daytime sun.

a bird is my muse and her name is silence

and she makes her nest in inconvenient places and i

must track her down, but that's okay, it's my job, not

hers.

i drew those lines and i stand on them in high

heels, bare feet, flip flops, cowboy

boots, and i stand tall

and i teeter and sometimes my feet

hurt

and i want to sit down, but i

stand.

i pay attention.

i look truth in the eye and i expect it to look me back and

we'll see who blinks first.

i am a teller of truths hurtful sad funny fast;

it is jazz and i am on the stage and i am scatting

baby sweetie honeypie

and you, yes you, right there, i see you look

away

when i hit that just right note,

the one you feel right up against that sore spot on your soul,

and i smile i know and hope you stay cause it gets

better.

i ask too many questions and i keep too many answers
hidden,
i am windblown imperfect and moving forward, navigating
by st. exupery's stars;
true north is the tip of my toes.
i follow the flights of owls and write their secrets on the
palm of my hand, sweating those truths away before
dawn.

i draw my own lines and i use invisible ink and glow
in the dark paint and pencil tips so fine only true hearts can
follow.
i mark the curb of the universe and reach out my
hands for gifts always given.
i hold my palms open.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

endings, beginnings, november

2011-11-01T09:14:00.002-06:00

windshield reflection empty trees

cold air last year,

when i thought i knew what emptiness was.

when i thought i knew the feel of chill across my skin.

i knew so little.

little was enough.

november begins with leaves on the trees

and another funeral.

two more in truth.

i am getting good at this,

at the ordering of flowers,

at understanding no calla lilies anywhere,

at black dresses and high heels,

at hugs that hold back heartbreak,

at reading faces and waiting in silence.

i skirt around the edges of these deaths;

they are not my stories to tell.

my story is that the jeep needs washed

and i think i need stockings

and i should eat.

my story is that the year stays upside down,

shaking till it is all emptied out.

my story is a yard full of autumn birdsong and sunshine.

one leaf twirling down from the hackberry tree,

spinning into the creek,

and then another.

one at a time.

they don't seem unhappy about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

soul food, baby

2011-10-26T20:10:00.002-05:00

she usually kept butterfingers,

those little 8 to a pack ones,

but sometimes it was baby ruths,

and sometimes chocolate so expensive we were afraid to take a bite,

but always there were butterfingers in a bowl

and she would insist you have one or two.

her house is off to your left in this image,

and i am dangling late october toes over her part of the creek,

suspended between it and the golden catawba overhead,

dropping leaves everywhere,

each leaf counting down the afternoons of autumn.

today was sitting on my shoulders as i left work.

i needed cokes, cat food, bread, yogurt,

and i also needed chocolate,

but i didn't know that until i passed an 8 pack of baby ruths

hanging out on an aisle.

a little something for my soul.

taking me back to evenings spent in her house,

a friend always there.

at the end i'd go over to check on her,

making sure she was okay;

saying it was for her,

but doing it for me also.

baby ruths.

i hadn't had one since she died.

they tasted of our friendship,

and i felt the weight of the day move away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

october lace

2011-10-23T12:27:00.000-05:00

this day cannot decide whether it is blue or gray or white clouds or rain clouds and they all roll overhead together switching places with sunshine and shadow. leaves are falling and the empty in between spots are lace against the sky, now white, now gray, and the shadows so faint they disappear into color, flat yellow catawba leaves against flat pale-green ginkgo against shadowless houses. suddenly the sun and there are reflections in the windows, the leaves drawing checkered quilt patterns across the glass, then gone again with the softest of breezes. shimmering ginkgo leaves spin themselves into gold.

across the street still hang icicle christmas lights from last year, white blossoms of a leftover season, another piece of lace against the graying of the day.

sunday. late october.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i am not this or that. i am all.

2011-10-21T14:20:00.000-05:00

i am not defined by the color of my skin.

i am not defined by my sexuality.

i am not defined by the car i drive.

i am not defined by those 15 extra pounds.

i am not defined by that messy house behind me.

i am not defined by ailments or illnesses,

broken fingernails or anger.

i am not defined by the computer i use.

i am not defined by the thinness of my bank account.

i am not defined by wrinkles or lines or acne scars.

i am not defined by cellulite or bone density,

or that bra strap showing.

i am not defined by what the lines in my palm say.

i am not defined by the price i pay for shoes

or haircuts

or chocolate.

i am not defined by the books i read.

i am not defined by no-children.

i am not defined by my politics.

i am not defined by an unplucked eyebrow or unshaven leg.

i am not defined.

on the nearing of my 58th birthday;

yes, 58 - i am saying it out loud -

half a month away,

it is the only wisdom i know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

my soul does not wear serious shoes

2011-10-18T20:00:00.001-05:00

these bows called me.
all lopsided and minnie-mouse-eared.

goodness, oh me oh my, how fun they felt when i put them on,

how fun they made me feel,

how girly,

how it-doesn't-matter-that-they-are-topped-by-a-tshirt-and-jeans.

just look at those silly bows.

they made me root around in the closet this morning,

made me find a ruffled sweater to toss over that tshirt;

they refused to take no for an answer,

although to be honest i never actually said a no,

i was in agreement from the moment i slipped my too cold toes inside.

my soul is happy dancing in these shoes.

it is twirling and swinging and cotton eyed joe-ing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i am honored to be a part of the new e-course offered by maddie of persisting stars fame.

persisting soul.

it begins sunday, october 23rd & there are a few openings left.

please join her (and the rest of us) as we travel the streets of soul.

you will be more than happy you did.

you will be changed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

dappled afternoon

2011-10-18T09:00:00.001-05:00

the road rolls by like a river.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i posted this a bit ago, just the image and the one line,
skye cat against the rolling road,
posted it twice, in fact, and took it down each time, unsure why.
it just felt wrong.
it felt too red.

today it feels right.

october blew in last night.

the afternoons are still quite dappled, and mornings also; the shadows just change sides. i drive to work each morning knowing where they fall, watching especially for that yellow house on my left, laced with images of the leaves across the street, their patterns playing across the hood of my jeep. i pass the still blooming pinks of crepe myrtles and mounds of flowers here and there, dark pinks, baby-girl pinks, yellows, purple, orange. it is officially autumn, but we are always slow to get there, slow like this river of a road, still warm, still usually in bare feet and short sleeves.

but this morning has a chill and a wind and my toes are covered with socks and the cat is asleep on a chair, instead of outside chasing lizards. october blew in last night, leaving limbs in the yards, broken power lines, bringing rain, lightning and thunder, and dropping the temperature 20 degrees. in the mail yesterday, i received a halloween party invitation.

it is yellow out there beyond the windows and door, the bright sun overpowering the fading green of the hackberry tree, but it feels like red is coming. the year is rolling by.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

she don't drive 55

2011-10-14T18:32:00.002-05:00

cat in the grass

long shutter speed hand held camera

van gogh streaks of green and fading summer.

all the street signs say 30 mph;

she is at least that and then sleeping.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the looseness of night

2011-10-11T20:56:00.000-05:00

after the pink, the sky looked like storms,

and i was with it,

i was with it,

driving through the almost darkness into night be here now,

baseball on the radio,

bone tired from a day that fit too tight,

the leftover noise still loud

and beating hard against the moon.

but even such days as these hold gifts.

at last home, i unlocked the door

and the waiting cat was off into the night,

under the trees, stalking the finally silent moon;

the shadow of an owl flew out from the corner magnolia,

crossing the street, then back.

i followed its sound from tree to tree

until it settled at last in the hackberry.

the night fits so much better than the day,
just skimming my skin, a barely there touch.
i slipped into it without even noticing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

because i am confused & antsy

2011-10-08T15:11:00.001-05:00

feeling new pulls,

new directions,

feeling like i am not following the right arrows,

but feeling okay to be headed against the traffic,

traffic covered with bumperstickers and slogans

and too loud horns for no good reasons.

yeah.

because of that.

that's why changes,

why less facebook and more pinterest,
telling stories with other people's pictures,

why the thief is disappeared for a bit,

ditto the gallery.

because my hip has been hurt, my right side, my back,

my computer.

the woman at the crystal store

told me to stop dithering about whatever i was,

and i would feel better.

because of that.

because i lately looked at my photographs

and knew where i was headed,

knew where the words fit.

because of all of that.

because the world moves on

with you or without you.

because nothing is permanent.

because silence is golden.

because i want to twirl through these october nights.

because there is laughter in the middle of tears.

because.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

october always starts with magic

2011-10-03T16:57:00.000-05:00

october came in with cool,

with a tickle and small kisses

and short afternoons billowing before warming breezes,

the sun beaming brighter before dropping against the trees,

before welcoming the stars,

before hello-ing the slice of moon floating toward the night sky.

it came in with unexpected blossoms,

smiling dots of coral against the still dry grass of summer,

cartwheeling joy down the neighborhood streets.
it came in with still bare feet,
toenails painted to match those blooms,
robert earl keen and keb mo on the stereo,
and looka there,
how the mo of keb nestles up against that on and makes a moon.
it came in with magic.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a sparrow gone

2011-09-29T17:58:00.000-05:00

feathers scattered across my bedroom,

across ideas and sketches and books half read.

the sparrow at the foot of my bed,

the cat complacent, asleep on a chair.

a battlefield.

and yet, the way of things.

peace is not the natural order;

the lion does not lie down with the lamb,

at least not if the lamb was raised right.

struggle.

breathe into your struggle and soldier on.

dress warmly if the battleground is cold,

prepare for sleepless nights.

carry water.

carry matches.

carry yourself.

learn the patterns of the stars,

keep a compass in your pocket.

it is up to you.

true north is thataway

and it is uphill.

it will not be easy

but it will be fun.

you will find places in your soul you didn't know were there,

your heart will grow big with the constant climbing

and fill with memories and loves and secrets

and have room left over for more.

i promise.

you have my word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

standing on the equinox

2011-09-24T15:56:00.002-05:00

the stars are speaking autumn, that language of my childhood bound up in new crayolas and sweaters and nights in the neighborhood and the importance of cursive writing and the glow of houses against the early fall of night. my toes grow cold more easily lately, and flipflops are interchanged with shoes that are easily dangled from one toe or left altogether behind, the better for the sun to warm me. baseball is reaching its end and my team is winning, and high school football lights up the friday nights; my mother's cat, still on my mother's time, yowls at me to come to bed much too early, and my mother seems to be there in those moments, her habits of the last few years also this cat's.

leaves lay like wounded butterflies on the porch outside my front door. grasshoppers cling to my window screens, as do lizards and moths, and temperatures at last below 100 lure me into the night once again, my old habits also returning. it has been a summer to remember, and september is almost gone. i stood in a crystal store today and some pink ones made me cry - i forget their name, i have it written down. they are for your heart, the woman said, they help with grief. i bought two, along with others, embarrassed at the tears, and thought they matched my mother's pink bathroom.

standing on the equinox.

top of the stairs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i got this imperfection stuff down to an art

2011-09-23T18:15:00.000-05:00

weeds outside the doctor's office.

i was wondering about imperfection,

walking back to the jeep,

wondering when we really accept it

and how far is too far,

cause all of us who say we accept it still want to be thinner

look younger

have perfect skin

pedicures manicures pink toenails,

and we think if we had a white mac

our stories would be better,

would be perfect and we would be famous

and someone would come take pictures of our glorious selves

in front of that computer

and our desk would have a vase of sunflowers or blue hydrangeas,

madonna notwithstanding cause she is the material girl, not us,

and our windows would look out over fields of autumn,

and that person would ask us questions for which we had the perfect answers.

other people,

still worried about that perfection nonsense,

would sigh -

it seems important somehow that they would sigh -

and wish they were us,

that they led our lives,

those lives we lead embracing imperfection,

those lives we lead saying be yourself,

you are fabulous,

and we mean it, we really do, you are fabulous,

and we are imperfect,

and i was thinking about all that,

my mind's finger almost touching the point i was reaching for,

when i reached the curb and in fumbling for my keys i lost it.

lost that perfect thought.

perfect.

insert smirk right here as life teaches me a lesson.

my jeep is piled with mail from my mother's house,

bags of clothes to go to goodwill,

a blue floatie still inflated,

bobbing around in the back seat where it's been for months,

a roll of paper towels, kleenex, a couple of styrofoam cups,

an antique doll's head hidden under something behind the driver's seat,

where it's been since march,

but no camera.

just the one on my phone.

i was enchanted with the weeds

and the shadow of my hands as i walked behind them,

my shadow their sun.

totally absolutely imperfect.

perfect.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the story from the other side

2011-09-20T16:30:00.001-05:00

i saw the truck pull up and park;

the driver is working on the house next door,

building a back yard porch,

and his truck is there every day

and i loved that ricky was getting a shout out,

some out loud love for the whole world to see.

loved it.

i took a picture real quick like before leaving the house,

then hopped into the jeep and backed out of the driveway,

coming to a stop to shift gears right next to the truck's other side.

and then i really stopped.

it was a whole 'nother story on that other side.

a story i don't know,

a story told in the fewest of words and shoe polish.

and the funny thing is, i didn't feel sad.

i smiled.

i still loved that ricky was getting a shout out,

some out loud love for the whole world to see.

loved it.

i have a feeling that ricky is somewhere loving it, too.

r.i.p ricky.

r.i.p.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i lusted for those white ones up there on the right

2011-09-18T10:48:00.002-05:00

boot shopping on the sunday morning street,

gingerbread pigs in hand,

sausage & eggs in the jeep.

i knew enough spanish to understand the shiny reds were 200 bucks,

the white pointy toes $120,

made for dancing

boot scooting

keeping you in line with those dagger toes,

120 dollars for the black ones with metal points.

god, you gotta love mexican cowboy boots,

not made for anything but looking good,

looking sharp,

not made to last, that's for sure,

but lordy me, how fine you look while they are still with you.

there were stacks of salsa cds to the left

and a heated discussion in the background,

finishing up saturday night's argument,

and i could just see me in those boots under a swoopy skirt,

but i walked away.

still in flipflops.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

short poems i've had for a long time: #1

2011-09-15T17:15:00.001-05:00

bilingual + i know a little spanish

2011-09-14T16:35:00.000-05:00

there's a cat under that chair

and ice in the cup

and the tv far off in the upper right corner where you can't see

is off.

that silence is a language i speak.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the only safety you find at the end is the safety you bring with you (with apologies to robert pirsig)

2011-09-13T17:40:00.002-05:00

nighttime dark drives into my safe spaces,

i count my breaths.

one to the stop sign

two and a dogleg to the right

three past the wendy's

four - a true right turn,

and then flashing red lights guide me

this way

this way,

no longer stopping me,

five to the first one

six to the second,

there is never any traffic in my way,

only one last turn

and then the safest place of all.

nevermind that i carried it with me all the way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the lake: early evening, coming home

2011-09-12T17:25:00.000-05:00

never mind that we're back into 3 digit temperatures.

this weekend was full of telling summer goodbye.

perhaps because it is the end of our 4 day summer work weeks;

perhaps because the lake was so smooth,

lines of different blues in the distance like mirages on the water.

perhaps the silence under the sky,

the water icy cold once again.

the haze of wildfires hung low in the sky

and we drifted under the almost full harvest moon.

perhaps that.

perhaps because there was baseball in the afternoon,

football in the evening.

perhaps all of that, perhaps none.

perhaps just a knowledge in our souls,

passed down through generations,

part of us still linked to the movements of the stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

perhaps it was the black paint under my fingernails,

autumn always calling me to draw;

the cooler evenings filling me with a different energy.

like the cat, i am tempted to run up the sides of trees,

and back down again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

even printed in the smallest font

2011-09-11T00:01:00.004-05:00

this list is so long.

so tall.

like the Twin Towers.

here today - gone tomorrow.

and sarah.
once again, happy birthday sweetie.
12 years is hard to believe.

we do what we do to keep you safe.

once again.
lives being led, gone:

AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 11

Anna Williams Allison • David Lawrence Angell • Lynn Edwards Angell • Seima Aoyama • Barbara Jean Ares Tegui • Myra Joy Aronson • Christine Barbuto • Carolyn Mayer Beug • Kelly Ann Booms • Carol Marie Bouchard • Neilie Anne Heffernan Casey • Jeffrey Dwayne Collman • Jeffrey W. Coombs • Tara Kathleen Creamer • Thelma Cuccinello • Patrick Currivan • Brian P. Dale • David DiMeglio • Donald Americo DiTullio • Alberto Dominguez • Paige Farley-Hackel • Alexander Milan Filipov • Carol Flyzik • Paul Friedman • Karleton D.B. Fyfe • Peter Alan Gay • Linda M. George • Edmund Glazer • Lisa Reinhart Fenn Gordenstein • Andrew Peter Charles Curry Green • Peter Paul Hashem • Robert Jay Hayes • Edward (Ted) R. Hennessy • John A. Hofer • Cora Hidalgo Holland • John Nicholas Humber • Waleed Iskandar • John Charles Jenkins • Charles Edward Jones • Robin Kaplan • Barbara Keating • David Kovalcin • Judy Larocque • Natalie Janis Lasden • Daniel John Lee • Daniel C. Lewin • Sara Elizabeth Low • Susan A. MacKay • Karen A. Martin • Thomas F. McGuinness • Christopher D. Mello • Jeffrey Peter Mladenik • Antonio Jesus Montoya Valdes • Carlos Alberto Montoya • Laura Lee Morabito • Mildred Naiman • Laurie Ann Neira • Renee Lucille Newell • Kathleen Ann Nicosia • Jacqueline J. Norton • Robert Grant Norton • John Ogonowski • Betty Ann Ong • Jane M. Orth • Thomas Nicholas Pecorelli • Berinthia Berenson Perkins • Sonia Morales Puopolo • David E. Retik • Jean Destrehan Roger • Philip M. Rosenzweig • Richard Barry Ross • Jessica Leigh Sachs • Rahma Salie • Heather Lee Smith • Dianne Bullis Snyder • Douglas J. Stone • Xavier Suarez • Madeline Amy Sweeney • Michael Theodoridis • James Anthony Trentini • Mary Barbara Trentini • Pendyala Vamsikrishna • Mary Alice Wahlstrom • Kenneth E. Waldie • John Wenckus • Candace Lee Williams • Christopher Rudolph Zarba

UNITED FLIGHT 175
Alona Avraham • Garnet Edward (Ace) Bailey • Mark Lawrence Bavis • Graham Andrew Berkeley • Touri Bolourchi • Klaus Bothe • Daniel R. Brandhorst • David Reed Gamboa Brandhorst • John Brett Cahill • Christoffer Mikael Carstanjen • John (Jay) J. Corcoran • Ana Gloria Pocasangre de Barrera • Dorothy Alma DeAraujo • Robert John Fangman • Lisa Frost • Ronald Gamboa • Lynn Catherine Goodchild • Peter Morgan Goodrich • Douglas A. Gowell • Francis E. Grogan • Carl Max Hammond • Christine Lee Hanson • Peter Hanson • Gerald F. Hardacre • Eric Samadikan Hartono • James E. Hayden • Herbert W. Homer • Michael R. Horrocks • Robert Adrien Jalbert • Amy N. Jarret • Ralph Francis Kershaw • Sue Jue Kim-Hanson • Heinrich Kimmig • Amy R. King • Brian Kinney • Kathryn L. LaBorie • Robert George LeBlanc • Maclovio Lopez • Marianne MacFarlane • Alfred Gilles Padre Joseph Marchand • Louis Neil Mariani • Juliana Valentine McCourt • Ruth Magdaline McCourt • Wolfgang Peter Menzel • Shawn M. Nassaney • Marie Pappalardo • Patrick J. Quigley • Frederick Charles Rimmele • James M. Roux • Jesus Sanchez • Victor J. Saracini • Mary Kathleen Shearer • Robert Michael Shearer • Jane Louise Simpkin • Brian D. Sweeney • Michael C. Tarrou • Alicia Nicole Titus • Timothy Ray Ward • William M. Weems

THE TOWERS
Gordon McCannel Aamoth • Edelmiro (Ed) Abad • Maria Rose Abad • Andrew Anthony Abate • Vincent Abate • Laurence Christopher Abel • William F. Abrahamson • Richard Anthony Aceto • Alicia Acevedo Carranza • Heinrich B. Ackermann • Paul Andrew Acquaviva • Donald L. Adams • Patrick Adams • Shannon Lewis Adams • Stephen Adams • Ignatius Adanga • Christy A. Addamo • Terence E. Adderley • Sophia B. Addo • Lee Adler • Daniel Thomas Afflitto • Emmanuel Afuakwah • Alok Agarwal • Mukul Agarwala • Joseph Agnello • David Scott Agnes • Joao A.D. Aguiar • Brian G. Ahearn • Jeremiah J. Ahern • Joanne Ahladiotis • Shabbir Ahmed • Terrance Andre Aiken • Godwin Ajala • Gertrude M. Alagero • Andrew Alameno • Margaret Ann (Peggy) Jezycki Alario • Gary Albero • Jon L. Albert • Peter Craig Alderman • Jacquelyn Delaine Aldridge • Grace Alegre-Cua • David D. Alger • Boutros al-Hashim • Ernest Alikakos • Edward L. Allegretto • Eric Allen • Joseph Ryan Allen • Richard Dennis Allen • Richard Lanard Allen • Christopher Edward Allingham • Janet M. Alonso • Anthony Alvarado • Antonio Javier Alvarez • Telmo Alvear • Cesar A. Alviar • Tariq Amanullah • Angelo Amaranto • James Amato • Joseph Amatuccio • Christopher Charles Amoroso • Kazuhiro Anai • Calixto Anaya • Joseph Peter Anchundia • Kermit Charles Anderson • Yvette Anderson • John Andreacchio • Michael Rourke Andrews • Jean A. Andrucki • Siew-Nya Ang • Joseph Angelini • Joseph Angelini • Laura Angilletta • Doreen J. Angrisani • Lorraine D. Antigua • Peter Paul Apollo • Faustino Apostol • Frank Thomas Aquilino • Patrick Michael Aranyos • David Gregory Arce • Michael G. Arczynski • Louis Arena • Adam Arias • Michael J. Armstrong • Jack Charles Aron • Joshua Aron • Richard Avery Aronow • Japhet J. Aryee • Carl Asaro • Michael A. Asciak • Michael Edward Asher • Janice Ashley • Thomas J. Ashton • Manuel O. Asitimbay • Gregg Arthur Atlas • Gerald Atwood • James Audiffred • Louis Frank Aversano • Ezra Aviles • Samuel (Sandy) Ayala
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UNITED FLIGHT 93
Christian Adams • Lorraine G. Bay • Todd Beamer • Alan Beaven • Mark K. Bingham • Deora Frances Bodley • Sandra W. Bradshaw • Marion Britton • Thomas E. Burnett • William Joseph Cashman • Georgine Rose Corrigan • Patricia Cushing • Jason Dahl • Joseph Deluca • Patrick Joseph Driscoll • Edward P. Felt • Jane C. Folger • Colleen Laura Fraser • Andrew Garcia • Jeremy Glick • Lauren Grandcolas • Wanda Anita Green • Donald F. Greene • Linda Gronlund • Richard Jerry Guadagno • LeRoy Wilton Homer • Toshiya Kuge • CeeCee Lyles • Hilda Marcin • Waleska Martinez Rivera • Nicole Miller • Louis J. Nacke • Donald Arthur Peterson • Jean Hoadley Peterson • Mark Rothenberg • Christine Anne Snyder • John Talignani • Honor Elizabeth Wainio • Deborah Welsh • Olga Kristin Gould White

AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 77
Paul W. Ambrose • Yeneneh Betru • Mary Jane (MJ) Booth • Bernard Curtis Brown • Charles F. Burlingame • Suzanne M. Calley • William E. Caswell • David M. Charlebois • Sara M. Clark • Asia S. Cottom • James Daniel Debeuneure • Rodney Dickens • Eddie A. Dillard • Charles A. Droz • Barbara G. Edwards • Charles S. Falkenberg • Dana Falkenberg • Zoe Falkenberg • James Joseph Ferguson • Darlene E. Flagg • Wilson F. Flagg • Richard P. Gabriel • Ian J. Gray • Stanley R. Hall • Michele M. Heidenberger • Bryan C. Jack • Steven D. Jacoby • Ann C. Judge • Chandler R. Keller • Yvonne E. Kennedy • Norma Cruz Khan • Karen Ann Kincaid • Dong Chul Lee • Jennifer Lewis • Kenneth E. Lewis • Renee A. May • Dora Marie Menchaca • Christopher C. Newton • Barbara K. Olson • Ruben S. Ornedo • Robert Penninger • Robert R. Ploger • Zandra F. Ploger • Lisa J. Raines • Todd H. Reuben • John P. Sammartino • Diane M. Simmons • George W. Simmons • Mari-Rae Sopper • Robert Speisman • Norma Lang Steuerle • Hilda E. Taylor • Leonard E. Taylor • Sandra D. Teague • Leslie A. Whittington • John D. Yamnicky • Vicki C. Yancey • Shuyin Yang • Yuguang Zheng

THE PENTAGON

Craig Amundson • Melissa Rose Barnes • Max J. Beilke • Kris Romeo Bishundat • Carrie R. Blagburn • Canfield D. Boone • Diana Borrero de Padro • Donna Bowen • Allen P. Boyle • Christopher Lee Burford • Daniel Martin Caballero • Jose Orlando Calderon-Olmedo • Angelene C. Carter • Sharon A. Carver • John J. Chada • Rosa Maria (Rosemary) Chapa • Julian T. Cooper • Eric A. Cranford • Ada M. Davis • Gerald Francis DeConto • Jerry Don Dickerson • Johnnie Doctor • Robert Edward Dolan • William Howard Donovan • Patrick Dunn • Edward Thomas Earhart • Robert Randolph Elseth • Jamie Lynn Fallon • Amelia V. Fields • Gerald P. Fisher • Matthew Michael Flocco • Sandra N. Foster • Lawrence Daniel Getzfred • Cortez Ghee • Brenda C. Gibson • Ron F. Golinski • Diane M. Hale-McKinzy • Carolyn B. Halmon • Sheila M. S. Hein • Ronald John Hemenway • Wallace Cole Hogan • Jimmie Ira Holley • Angela M. Houtz • Brady K. Howell • Peggie M. Hurt • Stephen Neil Hyland • Robert J. Hymel • Lacey B. Ivory • Dennis M. Johnson • Judith L. Jones • Brenda Kegler • Michael Scott Lamana • David W. Laychak • Samantha L. Lightbourn-Allen • Stephen V. Long • James T. Lynch • Terence M. Lynch • Nehamon Lyons • Shelley A. Marshall • Teresa M. Martin • Ada L. Mason-Acker • Dean E. Mattson • Timothy J. Maude • Robert J. Maxwell • Molly L. McKenzie • Patricia E. (Patti) Mickley • Ronald D. Milam • Gerard (Jerry) P. Moran • Odessa V. Morris • Brian Anthony Moss • Teddington H. Moy • Patrick Jude Murphy • Khang Ngoc Nguyen • Michael Allen Noeth • Chin Sun Pak • Jonas Martin Panik • Clifford L. Patterson • Darin Howard Pontell • Scott Powell • Jack D. Punches • Joseph John Pycior • Deborah A. Ramsaur • Rhonda Sue Rasmussen • Marsha Dianah Ratchford • Martha M. Reszke • Cecelia E. Richard • Edward V. Rowenhorst • Judy Rowlett • Robert E. Russell • William R. Ruth • Charles E. Sabin • Marjorie C. Salamone • David M. Scales • Robert Allan Schlegel • Janice M. Scott • Michael L. Selves • Marian H. Serva • Dan Frederic Shanower • Antionette M. Sherman • Donald D. Simmons • Cheryle D. Sincock • Gregg Harold Smallwood • Gary F. Smith • Patricia J. Statz • Edna L. Stephens • Larry L. Strickland • Kip P. Taylor • Sandra C. Taylor • Karl W. Teepe • Tamara C. Thurman • Otis Vincent Tolbert • Willie Q. Troy • Ronald James Vauk • Karen J. Wagner • Meta L. Waller • Maudlyn A. White • Sandra L. White • Ernest M. Willcher • David Lucian Williams • Dwayne Williams • Marvin R. Woods • Kevin Wayne Yokum • Donald McArthur Young • Edmond G. Young • Lisa L. Young

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i dipped my hands in paint today. lost and found.

2011-09-09T15:05:00.000-05:00

you can only watch your prey for so long before pouncing,

can only imagine every escape route it may find before risking the plunge.

thinking is not doing.

i will start big and i will start fast.

it will be a bloodbath.

and then silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

what you can't see in this picture: for connie jean, who packed suitcases and waited

2011-09-07T17:30:00.001-05:00

there was smoke in the distance behind me, a thin purple haze you might mistake for clouds if you hadn't heard the news alerts. another fire in this weekend of fire and wind, more evacuations, this one costing 4 homes, just a small one in the big scheme of national news, but so oh-not-small to the people who'd built those homes, so oh-not-small at all to the man unable to save even photos, his son on tv saying all gone, all gone.

they started thursday night, i think, maybe friday, i've lost count of the days and all my handwritten notes are at home and i am at work; the first day is unimportant now anyway. the tv said a fire here, a small one there, and i'd listened and paid not much attention - it's been a summer of heat and wind and grassfires and defensively watering trees and lawns in the face of no rain - but this wind was the edge of a hurricane and it came in and didn't stop. that delicious cool wind i stood in saturday night proved unrelenting. it blew dust and dirt past my open front door, huffed and puffed limbs from the trees, and by sunday afternoon the list of fires was a constant scrawl across the bottom of local tv stations. 2 dead. houses gone. by monday the area near austin had lost hundreds of homes.

but not here. we were surrounded by fires sprawled in all directions, but here it was only windy and dry and the skies were that perfect september blue, the temperatures in the wonderful high 80s. it felt not quite real if you ignored the smoke.

by tuesday morning we could no longer do that. i awoke to the smell of something burning and walked outside to find the streets swimming in smoke from those not-quite-so-distant-as-i'd-thought fires, held low to the ground by the cool night air, spreading out instead of up, and the news kept saying listing fires, more evacuation centers, showed people escaping with pets and pictures. the image of a horse in the bed of a pickup truck stays with me. safe.

we are still surrounded, but the fires are on the county edges, in the countrysides, far enough away to not give worry. the winds have died down, but the humidity is low and pine trees are perfect fuel for flames. this long hot dry dry summer continues.

~~~~~~~~~~

but listen.

katie stood in a sprinkle of rain sunday.

it will come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the dog ate our computers. never mind that we have no dogs.

2011-09-07T11:58:00.000-05:00

so sorry, but i'm having mucho many lotsa computer problems with every single all of them computer(s) to which i belong. the small window of what's up is opening and the ever-wonderful michael's computer is at last letting me type these words. i'll be back.

in the meantime, i can't check emails or do anything with images. for all of you who've contacted me via fb - which my non-iphone phone will let me look at, but it's difficult - re: the fires all over the place here in east texas, i am fine. we are fine. thank you for all the thoughts and prayers and good vibes sent this way.

i am rain dancing in my dreams and in my waking hours.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

satdy night i was downtown

2011-09-03T21:30:00.001-05:00

it is a bad cell phone image of this wonderful night sky, but i liked the way the tree seemed to be holding up the clouds, and i liked the clouds - oh my, yes, indeedy. there is a fine, fine, cool, fabulous, brisk breeze out there on the streets, a wind with sound and leaves scattering before it, and these saturday night streets are almost deserted here on the not cool edge of the bad side of downtown - i gave thanks for not being hip, and stood in the middle of the street and fired off shots of the night and the wind blew over me and around me and my god, it felt heaven, y'all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the pop of pecans under your toes & other gifts of september

2011-09-01T17:30:00.000-05:00

september begins with crunches underfoot; no flowers falling from trees, but green pecans instead. it is, as bilbo baggins said, a dangerous business going out your front door. the tree hurls them onto the sidewalk, the porch, the roof, our heads. they bounce off the hood of my jeep. skye cat dodges them and skitters for safety. the lovely, lovely katie delights in them under her feet; i watch her leave in the mornings, making a small detour onto the bridge to step on just a few more while they rain down around her. i am reminded of the apple trees in the wizard of oz, and laugh - something about the aliveness of these trees is such magic. wizards and journeys and trees - oh my!

we have come this far on our journey of the year;

before us lie only the months ending in r,

and there are gifts awaiting us.

this morning's was the discovery of one of skye's magic places, in one of the backyards that bumps into ours, its old wooden fence falling apart and down, covered in wisteria, shaded by trees. if you are a cat you will follow this fence to a tree long fallen, still sprawled upon the garage roof, vines encircling its trunk, and from there you will find, on the opposite side, a giant oak extending a low branch in welcome, so gently angled that you are able to just walk into the tree. how long has it been like that? all i had to do was look.

the first gift of september.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

august's almost end

2011-08-30T15:40:00.000-05:00

seriously. what else could you possibly need?

every football channel ever invented

and one station for baseball.

that'll work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

another part of the truth

2011-08-29T11:59:00.024-05:00

i struggled to write this weekend; i wrote, but everything seemed to come hard out of these fingertips, and i finally just stopped, no mas, no mas. i'd earlier said to a friend i might write the truth about my mother's death, yesterday being 6 months since her death, but i didn't/couldn't/wouldn't, and that built a wall i couldn't climb over. so, like i said, i just stopped, and went about my business, which eventually led me to sunday morning, dealing with things at my mother's house, sprinklers and lights and all that everyday stuff that doesn't go away, and crying all the while, this 6 month anniversary hitting me harder than i'd thought it would - lately i cry, therefore i am.

there is a table there that is mine now, a table i want to paint, a table i haven't painted, and i can give you all kinds of logistical sane reasons as to why i haven't, but the truth is, if i paint it, it will no longer be hers, and it is another part of her gone. if i don't paint it, i won't bring it home and her being gone will not be staring me in the face. i tell myself it will be no different than having her cat, but that's not true - daily i watch the cat adjust to here, to me, learn the secret places of the house and yard, the scary places, the hidey-holes. that table will just sit and look at me and be a new scary place, and it will be up to me to adjust. i tell myself it is just a stupid table, just do it, but this grief for my mother moves so differently than the grief for my father, and i am just frozen. i want nothing. i want it to just disappear. i dread thanksgiving and christmas - after my father's death, i wanted holidays to be bigger; now i just want them to go away.

so. yesterday. my mother's house. i fell apart. i sat in the dining area and leaned my forehead against that table and cried and had a conversation with it, and it told me to just tell the truth and let it go. some people know anyway - just say the words and let them go.

i warn you - it's not pretty.

for three weeks they kept my mother tied to her bed, said she was too anxious, too agitated. they kept her tied to her bed and they kept her drugged. in the end, they gave her a drug they shouldn't have given her. twice. despite the black box warning that said not to, that it could have fatal consequences for someone with her heart condition. i paid $160 to get partial medical records to tell me that. i'd bought those records because i knew in my heart, and, even more strongly, in my belly, that this drug was responsible. what i didn't know was that they'd used it twice - she'd struggled back from it the first time, made her way off life support; they gave it to her again and that time she didn't come home.

i hadn't said anything to them about the first time because i was scared - i was unsure of the drug's name and they had all the power; i was only allowed to see her 3 times a day for not very long, and i was afraid to rock the boat. and now she is gone and i blame myself for not saying anything. it matters not that i know this is what people do after a death, blame themselves - i do it anyway. they had power and they had information i didn't - kidney failure, pneumonia, both of which were improving when i finally learned of them, while being pressured to sign a dnr. my mother left no one in charge of her medical journey, so it fell to me, the oldest, the only daughter, but i would not make decisions without my brothers' input. we begged to have a meeting with her doctor, he who told me we needed to decide whether to let her live or not, but no meeting ever occurred. the one we did manage to schedule, the one that was to take place in her cubicle in the icu, where there were not enough chairs, and i sat crosslegged on the floor, he skipped. one of my brothers has never met him. the night before her death, when i finally agreed to the dnr, when we finally received information enough to change the mind of one of my brothers, he being the last holdout, there was no meeting. indeed, there was no meeting room, the icu conference rooms being turned into employee break rooms, empty coke cans still on tables. we were to have had a speakerphone conference call with a physician's assistant, but neither room had a working phone - one had no phone jack. in the end, a frustrated nurse turned her cell phone to speaker and held it in the air so we could talk.

i ok'd the dnr in tears and walked away, back again in less than 12 hours to use the only power i did have, the power to end my mother's life. it is a horrible thing, that power, and i was alone, my brothers not there, one not even reachable by phone. it was time, i could see that, i knew to let her go, but i couldn't. i walked outside into the darkness, to the top of the parking garage, where i could sit with the night. it rained a bit and i called michael and i walked around and took cellphone pictures of the night as it turned into dawn. i said goodbye to her outside and finally went back in. by then my sister-in-law was there and with her courage and love, i told the nurse yes. the machine was disconnected and i laid my hand on my mother's heart and in less than 5 minutes she was gone. i'd asked them earlier to untie her from the bed.

there is nothing i can do legally - i've investigated. but i am angry still and that anger is part of my grief and i don't know how to not feel what i feel. i don't think anything was done with malice, but much was done with sloppiness and heartlessness. there are things i am still not saying out loud to you; i have agonized for months about the telling out loud of this. i don't know if it will help. i want an apology from the doctor and from the hospital, but i want to say thank you to the nurses. i want that table to be white and i want to still feel my mother when i am seated there, but i want to not feel guilt. i don't know if any of that is possible.

today is monday and i am past yesterday.

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dreams and open doors

2011-08-25T21:16:00.001-05:00

it is still my home,

mi casa imperfecta,

and now holds this summer of heat,

a new cat in the shadows of the yard,

and a robin standing in the shade of the hackberry tree,

right where he stood weeks ago

when i first figured a way to hang a water sprinkler in its branches

and let it rain.

right there on one of the roots that is impossible to mow around.

my home has dreams and open doors,

sueños y puertas abiertas y más;

last night the dream was owls in trees,

the feel of those trees with owls aboard,

branches bending low before untamed breezes,

green leaves glowing under the night's wind filled sky,

and it was home.

que era mi casa.

it was the streets around me,

not ending at my door,

and there was real rain in my dream,

and there was real rain outside.

the ground was still damp when i awoke,

and it was still home.

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i have always had trouble with loud

2011-08-22T12:15:00.002-05:00

too much noise, too much brightness, too much color, too many patterns, too much stuff on the page i'm reading. i detest the ticket tape news scrawls at the bottom of all the news stations, now even the local ones. it is just too much and it beats against me until i can't think, can't read, can't write, can't breathe.

this past week i stepped away from facebook, leaving my account open for nothing but hard cold-blooded reasons - i have readers who get here via there - and i feel pretty awful about that, not that they come here from there, but that i think about it in such a business-like way; it feels untrue, it feels like i'm taking advantage of facebook, if such a thing could be possible, and it feels like i am being rude and unfair to those readers, and i apologize if you are one, if you feel that way. this past week, also, i opened a twitter account, which lasted just a few days. everyone was wonderful - everyone has always been wonderful - but it was too much noise. too much. so i deleted that, then rethought it, and re-opened it this morning.

~~~~~~~~~~

i began to write this last night, after a panic attack. a big one. i was 4 hours past its beginning and it had eased, but only with the help of more than my normal drug dosage when dealing with such things. i was into the crying part - the part where it was finally over and i could cry without fear of making it worse. i was exhausted emotionally, and it was a picture of my year. it has been too much. i need a baby step back.

i am perhaps doing the wrong thing, perhaps not playing the networking game correctly, but i am taking that babystep away from it a bit, just keeping my toe in the water, stepping back to where i used to be. here, where writing saved me. i am mulling over possibilities for combining emma tree and the thief of quotations, although i may not, it may be too difficult. i find the simplicity of the thief draws me, entices me, and i am listening to my heart when it tells me what i need right now. i will still be here, it is my place, but i will simplify. i may change the name to encompass everything. i may not, i think not, emma tree is me, but i need less noise. softer lights. faded colors.

what i know is that i need some time to be me again, to not be the person worrying about how to get her stuff published, though i would love that, to not be the person worrying about attracting more readers, though i would love that also. i need some time to find my stories again, stories beyond grief and heat, though there will still be some of those.

i need a year, i think. alfred stieglitz gave georgia o'keeffe a year - i give it to myself.

so. expect a few changes here and there - not many, not much; the words will still be here. i just need some space around them. and besides, i imagine i will clutter the space up again within this coming year.

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yesterday's truth is so yesterday

2011-08-21T09:11:00.001-05:00

this morning's turtle under the fig tree makes me feel i should change this image.

it was yesterday's truth.

i'd stood in my mother's back yard under rain empty skies and cried,

the fig tree especially breaking my heart.

half the leaves gone bright yellow.

many brown and curled,

many on the ground below.

yesterday's truth felt hopeless and dry.

but then, that turtle.

this morning.

alive, alive, oh, muddying its turtle toes in tiny ponds 'neath the tree;

i'd soaked it all night,

- the tree, not the turtle -

and the ground was grateful with squishiness,

the turtle a golden morning color.

the fig leaves smelled like heaven.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

105 degrees of wisdom

2011-08-19T13:50:00.008-05:00

a texas purdah,

hiding me from the heat and from heartbreak.

keep the mini blinds down,

keep the car windows tinted,

wear those sunglasses and keep everyone away.

such a temptation.

i am propped on the bed having one of those conversations with myself.

please tell me you have them -

the ones that say this book will keep you safe,

stay here.

the ones that say you can call pizza delivery.

stay here.

the ones that say you can kindle a new book if needed.

all true.

but truest of all is the heat outside

105 incredible degrees that say just stand in us a bit

and we will change your mind about that pizza.

oranges will call your name.

tangerines.

tacos de pollo con aguacate y salsa.

ice.

we will change your mind about kindling a book.

bookstores will beckon cool and quiet,

the pages of possibilities soothing and sensuous;

you will have to remove those sunglasses and look around.

the only purdah you will have is the one you take with you.

you are your own religion.

the heat is wise.

though there is little i can do about the tinted windows.

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the thief cometh

2011-08-15T15:31:00.001-05:00

i've been antsy lately, feeling caged in, feeling this, feeling that. last week i thought my heart was broken. i cried and i watched tv and i stayed in bed and eight cousins became my book of choice. i felt like nothing was working, everything was changing, still, still, still, always, never stopping, even though i stopped, trying in my stopping to stop everything else, knowing despite my stillness that i needed an escape place, a panic room, somewhere to run.

enter the thief of quotations. that would be me, and that is my rabbit hole. i have just begun the fall, and you will think it not me, perhaps, until you begin to read. i have plans, but i will not rush the fall. i am unsure of everything except this: there will be quotations. and they will be about magic and truth and life. and there will be pictures. there will be stories and i am hoping there will be guests. it will be about writing. about words. there will be links and videos and songs and poetry. and i hope there will be you.

my personal stories will stay here, though no doubt sometimes the two will pass each other on the road. the thief, despite her name, will be more open, will share a bit more of the wonders of others. a bit of robin hood is in her blood.

she is here.

and she says hello.

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moonlight and triage

2011-08-13T21:46:00.001-05:00

i have no picture tonight, but it's not needed.

we are all under the same moon,

so just step outside and let that knowing be my picture.

if it is tomorrow, remember the light falling to earth.

we are in the same place.

this morning's black butterfly escaped the cat's claws, and the promise of rain was just empty grey skies. the oak tree across the street is down at last. i am thinking in twitter time, short sentences, short thoughts, but living in moon time, blurs, milkiness, no way to know where it ends or begins. tonight's moon seemed to tip the top of the fig tree in my mother's back yard, pouring moonbeams onto leaves gone yellow from thirst and heat. i move the sprinklers here and there, back and forth, hither and yon, but it is never enough and never right - i am a triage nurse for the trees and grass; tonight i stood under an oak tree in her front yard and the leaves dropped water in thanks for their turn today. tomorrow a different spot. and then nothing more until midweek when i will stand and make decisions once again.

but perhaps it will rain - an easy thing to say when night is around me, when darkness disguises the need and anything seems possible. last night life as i once knew it seemed once again possible. a break in the heat and i was into the late dark, under the moon; it smelled like the heat of maggie's last summer, when she and i would sit together in the blackness, and it came to me that that was two summers ago, that i had lost last year to grief for her and this year to grief for my mother, standing hand-in-hand with heat. too long, but grief's footsteps cannot be measured - it has secret strengths, it is sneaky and sly and ruthless. but it is not immortal; last night i stood with the moon, the one that lives in my mother's backyard, and it felt just fine.

tomorrow, who knows?

the butterfly may be the cat's breakfast.

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love is cake, poetry the deciding knife

2011-08-11T08:55:00.001-05:00

sometimes you awake with words on your tongue,

the north wind under my brambled feet,

and though they are your words,

you are sure dylan thomas has been dream hopping

and hiding words beneath your sleeping pillows.

sometimes you step into the day

and there is a red wasp taking his last breaths atop a green pecan,

there on the sidewalk at your feet

as they flipflop their way into the sun of the backyard;

you have to sidestep jump to avoid both,

and you understand suddenly the dream warning of brambled feet.

sometimes there is pound cake for breakfast,

plain, cold from the refrigerator, soothing to your stomach,

and when you cut a fat slice,

the crumbs fall from the knife in the shapes of hearts.

sometimes the poetry is your skin itself, your alone heart.

sometimes those crumbs are the tastiest of all.

sometimes you have to pick them up and touch them to your tongue.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

august break 7: your eyes are getting heavy . . .

2011-08-07T00:12:00.002-05:00

skye cat,

summer heat, lazy fan swooshing the room with cool breezes,

white poppy painting, scattered martha stewart flowers

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august break 6: he always said my legs was skinny

2011-08-06T00:15:00.002-05:00

summertime prove him right.

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