Buddhism · Yoga

It is 430 in the morning.  My body is aching for cuddling, for warmth, for touch.  Since none is forthcoming I get up and do yoga.  A sun salutation, triangle pose, a few limited hip openers.  I am sore from walking nearly six miles yesterday.  Stiff.  Yearning.  I sit in meditation.  Trying with very limited success to block out the strength of desire that is coursing through me, I recall telling a student that mediation isn’t prayer, because I am not asking God for anything, nor am I thanking God for anything.  I am just sitting with God, in the presence of God.  I breathe, until my feet are asleep.  I hold my beating bleeding heart up, and say here please take this, because I really cannot stand to hang onto it anymore.  I imagine myself back on that life raft not the rickety broken one that I dragged myself onto when my marriage ended, but onto a more sturdy craft.  I think I at least know how to manage it in the storms.  But then I say no.  I am a sea worthy vessel, and I still carry that treasure chest with the luminescent pearl.  Back to one.  Back to one.  Yes here it is.  I take that pearl the whole damn strand of precious gems and let them drop into the still waters of this hidden cove where I am moored.  They plunk as they drift into the abyss.  Back to one.  Or none.  For a half a second my mind is quiet and still.  I can feel the breeze blowing in my windows.  I can feel my body.  I am thinking only of my breath, the wind, and the tingling in my feet.  But that moment is fleeting.  I bow.

I throw on my cutoff shorts and head down stairs.  My Mom is up already, but I just want to walk the dog.  It looks like rain.  I bring my umbrella.  My legs feel strong.  It is good to be out in the cool breeze and grey skies.  About halfway the dog stops and puts his head on my leg, smiling up at me.  You are welcome buddy I say.  I needed to get out, I needed this walk.  I see the walking guy in the neighborhood.  How many miles do you walk a day?  4.   This is why I have been walking so much this spring, and now summer.  Forget the number on the scale, I just want to be more lean and strong like he is.  Stupid ego.  I want to be lean and strong because I want male attention.  But no it is also because I want to be aesthetically pleasing to my own artist eye.  The ratio of ankle to calf.  The way a muscled leg flexes as it walks.  A flashy spot to show off the tattoo on my leg.  An ornate skeleton key, with a smoke dragon wrapped around it.

skeleton key tatttoo, smoke dragon tattoo

Two miles.

I get into work and it is clear that only myself and the custodians are here today.  And I have forgotten my book.  It will be a long day.  But I have done yoga, meditated and walked.  I think it started out pretty well.

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Flowers · Great Quotes · Musings · Photos · Small Joys · Treasure
Lavender Flower

“Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower, But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee.  For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life, And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love, And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy.”  Khalil Gibran

I sit and watch as my Mom, my sister and my daughter look through a book of photos.  My phone rings and when I see who it is I grin with pleasure.  Hello I say, and he is there his voice so familiar.  The last time we spoke he called me tempered steel.  Today he tells me that I am fragile.  I say it is by design.  I behave like I am not strong so I can earn more kindness, which makes him laugh.  The last time I saw him it was with a copy of The Prophet in his hands, standing both proud and teary eyed in front of the congregation.  We spoke of it, how favored this book has been in our libraries.  I step outside into the brilliant hot pink flowers, the cascading white flowers, the daisies, the bushes heavy with raspberries and the tall stalks of the lavender.  He teases me and I tease him back, we make each other laugh, tell our troubles just a little, and our joys. I pick the stems of lavender as he tells me he is watching this movie called Secondhand Lions, I know this movie and suddenly feel compelled to watch it, as I remember I thought when I first saw it that it reminded me of my uncles.  I pick lavender blossoms and hold them to my face, breathing in their masculine scent, warm and homey.  He makes me laugh aloud and then somehow in the next breath, I say you are making me cry.  The way only family can do, switching tears to laughter, laughter to tears.  As we say goodbye, I think I hear his voice crack, and I step into the house and I am now crying.  Whats wrong is the exclamation why are you crying.  I cannot help it I say through my tears and my own cracking voice.  I love my family so much.  My tears flow for a minute more.  Later I tell my Mom that I am nostalgic as hell.  I cannot help it.

It is not just my Uncle today, but my dear cousin too.  He texts me and tells me he loves me, that he thinks I am beautiful.  And I tell him he is making me cry too.  He doesn’t know why.  But it is because he always thinks of me, even when I neglect to text him.  And I love him for his teasing, for his sharing his life with me.  For laughing when I tease him back.  Later my Mom asks, what did he want.  Just to be in touch I say.  It is nice to know you are loved.

I walk four miles in the damp evening.  With friends and with family and finally alone.  Quietly contemplative, the way I like it best.  My heart feels heavy as though it is made of lead.  And I do not know why. Perhaps if I opened that curio cabinet of my chest cavity this night I would see a heart not made of flesh or of lead but with the alchemy of love is made of polished gold.

Great Quotes · Photos · Poetry

Crazy

Crazy Blue Clouds before a storm

But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Khalil Gibran

I want to write fiction
to tell the tale of my truth.
I want to express what is inside me
without fear of  anyone seeing it.
But I am compelled to tell the story
of how swept is my heart.
To prevent your loss of face.
I tell things that later I should regret.
But only because I don’t want you to know
how true this vein of solid silver runs.
But you too tell a tale
things you try to recover from
a verbal malfunction
that is its own true story.
But I hear it.  I see it.
But do I trust it?

No.

I no longer trust my ability to know truth.
and yet somehow.
i believe.

Which I more or less confess to you.
How  it all scares the shit out of me.

But I do so want to be that muse to you.

I tell you it is like a book
that I do not want to skip ahead to the last chapter.
I do not want to know the story ahead of time.

But that I want to take it page by page.

Later I think,
nor do I want to put the book down.
The story compels me.
I see your open face.
And I love you for it.

I want you to see straight through me.
 

 

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You are home to me.

Your smiling face that is so like mine.
The way you tease me as a sign of affection
The jokes you make that make me smile
Your brilliant eyes as they gaze at me.
Your attention, your time, your kindness
the shared memories both old and new
the way you wrap your arms around me
and kiss me.
The way you let me squeeze your butt.
The way you step in and protect me from my demons
both the eight legged and the two legged variety
The way you accept me as I am
The way you see the same things I do
The comfort I feel in your presence.
The way you seek me out
when I am not there,
The way you draw me towards you
with that animal spirit.
The way you make me laugh out loud.
The way you know just what to say to make me cry with happiness.
The way you know how to make me laugh when I cry with sorrow.
The way I feel giddy when my phone rings
The way I feel calm about your position in my life.
The way you come to me with your hopes, your fears and your dreams
The way you trust me with your sorrows.
The way you make even the long boring moments of life more interesting.
You are the people I love
My daughter,
my family,
my friends.

You are home to me.

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She is marvelous.

By the Sea

It must be those brief moments
when nothing has happened – nor is going to.
Tiny moments, like islands in the ocean
beyond the grey continent of our ordinary days.

There, sometimes, you meet your own heart
like someone you’ve never known.

~ Hans Børli
(Happiness…?)

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Insomnia

I wake instantly.  It is 330 in the morning.  I am in a creative slump.  I have made nothing new nor noteworthy in months.  I have read many books.  I have walked over 50 miles in just over two weeks.  But drawing?  Painting?  Sewing?  No I am afraid not.  The dog has taken to sleeping with my daughter and I resent him for it, but as I stir dear Sadie has come to purr at my feet, which are curled under me, laptop on one knee.  I love how cats put one paw out to touch you.  My dreams are thick and opaque.  And as I write those words I realize even my writing is not fresh or new.  I love that line from the Adele song, only for her the air is thiCK and opaQUE (and the annunciation).  I suppose I could try to sleep now for one more hour.  I suppose I could get up and greet the Solstice dawn.  I suppose I could read all the blogs I have not caught up with in a while.  I suppose I could get up and walk some more.  I am torn.  I already know the day will be long.  And I will tell the 1st graders after lunch.  I am sorry I am so cranky today.  Which brings me to my dream.  A dream that someone was yelling WHAT in a strained and cranky manner.  And that I was sitting on a park bench in Clark Reservation crying my eyes out.

I am open to the mystery.  But wish that part of the mystery included sleeping just a bit better.

Musings

My heart skips a beat

He won’t look at me, he walks by me and again.  Hey, I say what is going on are you mad at me for some reason.  He comes and sits by me, he is hanging his head.  What’s up?  I ask him.  You don’t have the book for me huh?  No, he says I don’t, I thought YOU would be mad at me!  Oh honey I say, so what if I were mad at you.  You always can come and talk to me.  It’s okay if I am mad at you, I still want to hear from you, I still want you to say hello and to answer me when I call you.  Okay he says, I will.  And he puts his arm over my shoulder.  You know I am your Mom at school so you cannot walk by me and act like you don’t see me.  No matter what I will stand by you.  And if I am mad, I am mad.  Its all okay.  Okay Ms. G. he says.  I will remember.

Later that same day my friend the Armenian comes in and checks the kiln, she has been kind enough to show me how to use it.  I once knew but it has been over 10 years since I actually had a kiln to work with.  She walks out and then walks back in, I am so sorry to bother you but can I borrow a dollar.  No I say, you cannot borrow a dollar, its just a dollar I will give you a dollar, you don’t have to pay me back.

This group of kids I have on Monday and Friday afternoons are wonderful.  The young man whose dad passed away was in the class today.  He told me at least twice that he thought I was a bad teacher and he didn’t like me.  Okay I say, I guess I deserve that.  I know he doesn’t mean it because he has a big grin on his face when he says it.  He teases me they all start to actually in the line trying to steal my cola, and horsing around.  The sub sticks her head in wide eyed.  Its my fault I say, I got them riled.  On my desk are several pages of scrap paper with messages to me, I will miss you.  I love you Ms. Gregory and other messages along the same lines.  My heart flips in my chest.

I begin reading a book about pottery techniques during my planning period.  I am having a hard time concentrating on it because I am thinking about my pirate. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I take it out to set it on the table.  It is my pirate.  My heart flips in my chest. I answer him.  I go back to my book.  I really cannot concentrate now.  I give thanks.