Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
16 December 2011
where all the dreams all hide...
I can't hardly stand the way a song lyric can rip ancient history out of the depths of your guts, splaying you wide open... tears burning in the corners of your eyes, sharp breath caught in the depths of a chest laden with memory... and yet, I can't imagine if I didn't have this undeniably beautiful ability. Perhaps that's what art is all about... as history writes new words on new pages each day of any particular life, someone out there happens across fragments of meaning finding a way to paint them into the skyline or meld them into the clay... here I find memory in the brand new, modern day lyrics, but my heart feels pangs from too many yesterdays ago... it'll always be a beautiful mystery, one I'll never be sure I want to stumble across, while simultaneously pining for another to come around... reminding me that I'm alive. Something here did it for me today... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j41mY4HQotk&feature=fvsr
07 December 2010
17 June 2010
In honor of...
The other day as I clicked to “Like” my alma mater’s ‘fan page’, I read a friend’s post which heiroglyphed an “RIP” on the electronic footprint of the page, it was in honor of a woman who attended college at the same time that we did.
I attended a small, private, Midwestern, liberal arts college in the 1990’s, and although I did not know this woman very intimately, we shared friends and classes in common, and in particular, I remember her bright eyes, exuberant smile, and a laugh, that would make most any heart sing.
After reading about her death, I inquired further and learned that sadly, a number of tragic circumstances including the loss of her mother, the loss of her home, financial complexities, and other personal problems had all contributed to her untimely demise. In fact, she intentionally took her life, in a somber act of suicide.
In the moment of recognition of what this young woman had determined to do, I mentally stepped into her shoes, and looked around, trying to imagine the feelings of helplessness and hopelessness that she must have been overwhelmed with. I saw a grey smoky haze, hanging all around. It was murky, heavy, dim. As I inhaled, a sputtery cough began deep in my esophagus and it was difficult to breathe.
Card-catalogue drawers of thoughts careened through my mental space, recalling loss—the loss of family, of friends—both naturally and by their own hand. Recalling financial woes—paycheck-to-paycheck living, blocks of government cheese eaten as a child; my own experience with foreclosure and in the ‘difficult personal problems’ category, tragic decisions such as terminating a fetus.
In the seconds it took to step into her shoes, to take a few steps in the reality that she may have experienced, treading lightly on the memory of my own war story, I wondered why it was that she chose to go, and I chose to stay?
For even in loss and failure and utter chaos; even when overwhelmed with embarrassment or hasty decisions, the ramifications of which might haunt me a life long, I stood tall. I stayed earthbound. I am here.
Thank goodness.
In honor of the beauty that was this woman’s center, her soul; I salute her. I raise high, my heart-of-hearts, and send an unequivocally unwavering sweet gesture, holding space for all that she was and is now, free, spread far and wide across the universe.
So too, do I honor the memory of all the sweet hearts who have gone before... Mary* today is the anniversary of her death, Roseanne, Daniel, Arthur, Russell... there are too many names to type here... they are all here, in my heart.
*Picasso's 'Dove' seems appropriate to leave here today, for all soaring souls...
I attended a small, private, Midwestern, liberal arts college in the 1990’s, and although I did not know this woman very intimately, we shared friends and classes in common, and in particular, I remember her bright eyes, exuberant smile, and a laugh, that would make most any heart sing.
After reading about her death, I inquired further and learned that sadly, a number of tragic circumstances including the loss of her mother, the loss of her home, financial complexities, and other personal problems had all contributed to her untimely demise. In fact, she intentionally took her life, in a somber act of suicide.
In the moment of recognition of what this young woman had determined to do, I mentally stepped into her shoes, and looked around, trying to imagine the feelings of helplessness and hopelessness that she must have been overwhelmed with. I saw a grey smoky haze, hanging all around. It was murky, heavy, dim. As I inhaled, a sputtery cough began deep in my esophagus and it was difficult to breathe.
Card-catalogue drawers of thoughts careened through my mental space, recalling loss—the loss of family, of friends—both naturally and by their own hand. Recalling financial woes—paycheck-to-paycheck living, blocks of government cheese eaten as a child; my own experience with foreclosure and in the ‘difficult personal problems’ category, tragic decisions such as terminating a fetus.
In the seconds it took to step into her shoes, to take a few steps in the reality that she may have experienced, treading lightly on the memory of my own war story, I wondered why it was that she chose to go, and I chose to stay?
For even in loss and failure and utter chaos; even when overwhelmed with embarrassment or hasty decisions, the ramifications of which might haunt me a life long, I stood tall. I stayed earthbound. I am here.
Thank goodness.
In honor of the beauty that was this woman’s center, her soul; I salute her. I raise high, my heart-of-hearts, and send an unequivocally unwavering sweet gesture, holding space for all that she was and is now, free, spread far and wide across the universe.
So too, do I honor the memory of all the sweet hearts who have gone before... Mary* today is the anniversary of her death, Roseanne, Daniel, Arthur, Russell... there are too many names to type here... they are all here, in my heart.
*Picasso's 'Dove' seems appropriate to leave here today, for all soaring souls...
02 September 2009
Boone Docks
“We only go to Boone Docks if it’s an emergency!”
I hear a young father tell his son, as they walk away from the swarming line outside the infamous local hot spot.
The red, white, and blue of American flags dance. I see orange and turquoise tubes filling the round of a wire container on the street corner. In the wind the mass of cylinder foam tubes vibrate against each other and jiggle. In water they would float—summer noodles bending around arms and rib cages, hugged close.
Khaki cargoes and salmon colored flip-flops trounce the gravelly cement of small-time Glen Arbor. The village swells to quadruple its normal size when the orange globe of summer’s sun dings to announce ‘it’s time.’
Although the autumn color tour season hospitably welcomes visitors from near and far; it always seems towns such as this are truly most alive when nestled with the heavy snowfall of a northern Michigan winter—locals warm in their wood-stove heated homes—traffic trickles and finding a parking spot at Anderson’s IGA is simpler.
There is something to be said for small town life. You have just as much opportunity to get to know your neighbor as you would living in the terracotta brick of a NYC walk up. It is not as though time stands still or anything. Time travels and even flies sometimes—especially when you would simply rather live in the middle of a sixty-eight-degrees and sunny, breezy July afternoon forever if you could.
Yes, there is something to it being more about the life you make for yourself than anything—it certainly does not require a population center to create a home or enjoy a community. Maybe small towns are automatic icebreakers for the sometimes discomfort of just ‘getting to know’ people. I treasure the setting of a more rural life the proximity to nature, all around.
There’s something to be said about the art of picking taut stalks of red and green rhubarb from your garden, spending an overcast afternoon listening to records and getting pie crust lessons from your mother.
I’d say adding up all the little details which equate to a beautiful life seems much more relevant than reading your name in lights or dying a billionaire. I would prefer scraping pennies together for a hot, black coffee from the corner station and the brief visit with the owner, who has known me most of my life—and who survives, even after the tragic loss of a daughter—a young woman bludgeoned to death. His strength of perseverance a guidepost every morning’s stop.
There seems certain sourcing occurs when the mood is just so… as sunlight bends along the blue-green shoreline or midnight pools itself in the center of the lake and we glide quickly down the CSA slide naked in our summer’s best—laughing, until the cramp in our bellies sends us relaxed on our backs—floating toward shore.
I hear a young father tell his son, as they walk away from the swarming line outside the infamous local hot spot.
The red, white, and blue of American flags dance. I see orange and turquoise tubes filling the round of a wire container on the street corner. In the wind the mass of cylinder foam tubes vibrate against each other and jiggle. In water they would float—summer noodles bending around arms and rib cages, hugged close.
Khaki cargoes and salmon colored flip-flops trounce the gravelly cement of small-time Glen Arbor. The village swells to quadruple its normal size when the orange globe of summer’s sun dings to announce ‘it’s time.’
Although the autumn color tour season hospitably welcomes visitors from near and far; it always seems towns such as this are truly most alive when nestled with the heavy snowfall of a northern Michigan winter—locals warm in their wood-stove heated homes—traffic trickles and finding a parking spot at Anderson’s IGA is simpler.
There is something to be said for small town life. You have just as much opportunity to get to know your neighbor as you would living in the terracotta brick of a NYC walk up. It is not as though time stands still or anything. Time travels and even flies sometimes—especially when you would simply rather live in the middle of a sixty-eight-degrees and sunny, breezy July afternoon forever if you could.
Yes, there is something to it being more about the life you make for yourself than anything—it certainly does not require a population center to create a home or enjoy a community. Maybe small towns are automatic icebreakers for the sometimes discomfort of just ‘getting to know’ people. I treasure the setting of a more rural life the proximity to nature, all around.
There’s something to be said about the art of picking taut stalks of red and green rhubarb from your garden, spending an overcast afternoon listening to records and getting pie crust lessons from your mother.
I’d say adding up all the little details which equate to a beautiful life seems much more relevant than reading your name in lights or dying a billionaire. I would prefer scraping pennies together for a hot, black coffee from the corner station and the brief visit with the owner, who has known me most of my life—and who survives, even after the tragic loss of a daughter—a young woman bludgeoned to death. His strength of perseverance a guidepost every morning’s stop.
There seems certain sourcing occurs when the mood is just so… as sunlight bends along the blue-green shoreline or midnight pools itself in the center of the lake and we glide quickly down the CSA slide naked in our summer’s best—laughing, until the cramp in our bellies sends us relaxed on our backs—floating toward shore.
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