Dogs. · Musings · Strong Woman · Uncategorized

Moving Day


12 hours ago I did a final walk through with my friend, and new landlord.  The hard wood floors shone with fresh varnish.  I had butterflies in my stomach with the excitement of leaving this place, of  starting off new.  And now sleepless with imagining where I will put the dog crate or my desk, or if the movers will help me put together the spare bed my friend left behind, I decide now is as good a time as any to update my address on the dmv website.  I will be without internet for several days.

The dog has crawled under the warm down, burrowing next to me for warmth, this pleasure of having a short haired dog; she rests her chin on my bare feet as I pat her skinny little backside.

I feel like a box full of sunshine, my rays all spraying out of the cracks, like a tin lantern.

This last year has been a slog, I have trudged through it, holding on sometimes, like fingers scrambling on rock, at times my soul has felt bloodied and raw.  Or wound tight, talking too loud, being too much on edge, hard and brittle and cracked just a little.  My therapist assures me that I am quite sane, and an easy client.  I love that.  But here is what I love best, I have left this relationship with integrity.  We both knew it was over, a while ago.  And he has helped me pack, we have had open and honest discussions about how it was going to go. I still will, for the time being, have keys to his house; he still will, for the time being, dog sit if I need it.  And every step of the way, I have informed him of my choices and what I would be doing.  I have consciously done this.  Because leaving a relationship any other way is cowardly and immature; packing your bags and leaving without warning or saying goodbye, is weak and pathetic.  I am none of these things.  And when you leave someone this way, it is a brutal, heartless and cruel way to treat them, it results in unbearable pain, no understanding of the meaning behind it, and a vile anger.

My brother had a friend, who, many years ago, came home from work, or a weekend away, only to find that his girlfriend had left him.  She took everything, including the toilet paper hanging on the roll.  And there were people, who advised me to do the same.  But i remember thinking, then, that it was a pretty heartless and petty way to go about leaving a relationship.  Is this what I wanted to do?  The message about myself that I wanted to show the world?

I am better for having done it this way, I am better for knowing that my strength and integrity will always carry me.

I feel like my tin lantern is made of tempered steel.


Eye of Iron

This long wait like this long winter, seems interminable, each day is spent watching, inside myself as though I am an egg with a cut glass shell, sitting upon the mantle.  Every moment, I reflect on my own strength, and my character, I reflect on how it must have felt for the ex as he drew his way out of our lives, and his absence of real character, his weakness.  I do not allow myself such indulgences.

I watch as the dog plays with happy abandon, I toss a ball he bought her down the hall it bounces to my room, to the kitchen, into the bathroom, back to me, she runs gets it and I throw it again; he rounds the kitchen and she comes to lay halfway between him and I and waits for him to close the door, and then she bounces up to me ready to go again, but wary because he is nearby.  What does it say that she who lays her body against mine in the darkest hours of the night, hides her light under a bushel basket when he nears?

I watch as he berates someone else for lost envelopes and extra work, someone else’s carelessness, someone else who sits back and allows such a tremendous disaster to have taken place.  I watch as he sits down and pulls the envelope from his own hiding place.  Was it me you laid waste to?

I wait for my new home to become available, I pack all the stupid things I brought with me to make this my own home.  I slowly put back his shitty mismatched dishes, I eye his huge collection of dusty steins, paperboard coasters, decades stained old lady linens, torn and tattered towels, and the room that is nearly unused on the main floor of the house, and think this is more important, than I am to him.

His mother wonders whether this can be saved, how can I be convinced to stay, though she had her foot on my ass the last time he was in the hospital, be nice to my little boy or leave.  Perhaps he should spend some time being nice to me I tell her.  Last time he came home he called me unlovable.  Do you realize that? Oh stop arguing, she tells me, he didn’t mean it.  Later, she tells her husband to shut up, calls him an idiot, and puts her shrinking powder on him.  I watch her.  She then tells me, perhaps you should go with my husband, when I defend him as a caretaker to his aging parents. I am not a whore, Frau.

I watch as he acts pouty and put out, packing his car to trudge about in the woods, the dog safely locked in her cage.   I prefer not to cage her, I prefer her to be free.  I prefer to feed her growth.  You could have joined me long ago.  How many times did you say no?  How many times have you refused affection?  How many times have you laid waste to my character?  How many times have you poked the hornet’s nest?  How many times have you shattered my ego?  How many times have you berated the innocent? How many times have you spit on the ground at my feet?  How many times have you tried to buy favor with dollar store presents?  Is it too late my friends ask me?  I do not know.  How do you find an opening in armor so viciously defended?  How do you love someone who is so comfortable in throwing shrinking powder on one he purports to love.

His aunt points out the dirtiness of my cast iron, he scrubs the coating off, ruining a patina of years worth of good home cooking, I dutifully bake it back on, seasoning it to a hard smooth coat in the hot oven.  Not out of the frying pan and into the fire, but tempered, and tempered again.

You are so strong, someone tells me, stronger than I.

No, this observation egg is not made of crystal, it is made of iron.  And I am a nebulous eye observing.



Be Real

I have been going round and round with this, and it is a difficult thing really to make a decision to move on.  My friends advise, don’t say anything until you are ready to go.  Wait until the last moment.  Hide it, don’t say anything.

I do not sleep at night.

I think about what was done to me.  The months of sneaking and hiding, the months of pretending.  The months of knowing the next step and not telling me.  Springing it on me like a freight train on a bicycle.

What you are fucking crazy woman.  Que la dilla, Que mala.  Que pena.

You hit me with a freight train.  I never saw it coming.

I am awake, remembering.  I am awake realizing that my endless prayer is answered.  Why did he leave me, why.  I know.  I know.  It took me three years to get the answer and it is painful but I understand.  I am so thankful.

Later, as I sit beading glass windchimes at the table, I ask.  How would you feel if I got my own place.  I would be okay with it.  I want my own space, I want my own home, I want autonomy, I have had my own home and my own free will for most of 25 years, it is so hard for me.  I have lived alone for 30 years, this is too hard for me too.

Decision made.

I am strong enough to handle the news.  He is strong enough to handle the news.

How wonderful is this thing, how good it is, how mature and reasonable.


All things melancholy · Dogs. · Musings · Strong Woman

Discovering four in the morning

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.  ~ Anatole France

There was a time in my life when I was quite satisfied to work the 4pm to 12 midnight shift, I would come home too keyed up to go to bed, and would paint until two in the morning, a practice which changed immediately upon giving birth.  Over the years my sleep cycle has changed dramatically depending on where I am in my life, and this ongoing sleep disorder.  Having a puppy is like having a baby, your life is no longer your own, and you have to embrace moments where it is your own, you have to embrace the life of being a dog owner, a life of some routine, and stability.  I wouldn’t have it any other way right now.

I have a confession to make, I am slowly going crazy here in this place.  And I need to come to some solution.  And the realization comes to me at four in the morning.  I wake because my little turtle bean is awake.  I take her out and we both try to go back to sleep, but it swirls in my mind, like the spirals of an armed galaxy, the  infinitesimal becomes huge, and I spin and churn and roil with my internal life.

I fantasize about screened in porches, hardwood floors where a puppy can have an accident and I simply scold and mop up.  Not that she has many but when she does, I do not want to be the one scolded.  I fantasize about the constant heat of a wood stove, and the ability to sleep in the cool rather than the constant noise and heat of a furnace.  I fantasize about not hearing the constant tick of clocks.  I fantasize about calling in sick and not being accused of faking it, or being weak, I fantasize about not bothering to shovel snow until I feel like getting dressed, it must be done it must be done it must be done it must be done.

I get up, and it is now nearly six.  I break from the routine and am punished by a wet spot on the carpet, at least it is my carpet.  I trudge through the garage, blinding my eyes to the mismatched detritus of thirty years of mild hoarding.  Oriental carpets, on avocado and marigold striped carpets on South Park rugs on towels left on the floor after hot tub, two weeks ago, on top of Duck Dynasty men looking up my pant legs and sniffing my cold bare feet.  I do not dislike this place, the woodstove, the long fenced yard, full of plant life, cars zooming by, a constant sound you become numb to.  I listen in the quiet to TED Talks, scroll through Facebook and sometimes knit or read.  This is the discovery.  Four am, seven am.  The dogs resting, puppy in her crate, where I have to put her for sanity.  Food and walk to come shortly.  But here it is.  I sit in the only comfortable chair in the house, directly facing a 50 inch television, which sits like Darth Vader’s suit ready to envelop my life force.  It looms over me like a gaping maw, ready to eat my brain like a mud pit full of zombies.  Last night as I made relish with my food processor taking a quarter of the time to chop the cranberries and apples, the noise of the television screamed and tore and rent through the house.  I was too loud, you see, for the violence of some movie to be heard.  Not a real time movie that could not be paused, but a video, that could be.  You have to understand, I have been watching TV since I was four years old.  Oh.  But do you understand that I have lived for years without one?  No.  You are always on that computer.  Yes.  Yes.  I am.  And I know I shouldn’t be.  I have better things to do, but here is the problem, my only choice is to sit in this one comfortable chair in the house, dominated by a 50 inch television, the computer, is like a solace, it soothes me when a man in a toupee wearing no shirt in a junk yard yammers on about nothing and when a man with no teeth gives a hillbilly holler as he throws a turkey in front of the camera and then pretends there is that bugger now and pretends to catch it.  Live Action.  Did you notice how at my old house, the one you called cold and dark, the TV was in one room but the dining room and the comfortable furniture was in another?  Separate from the action of the home.  Do you notice how my adoring friends stand awkward and uncomfortable in the cluttered corners, not sure where to put their bodies, or their hands.  All intellectual conversation stops as we stare numbly at rednecks and jackasses and fast food commercials.

I ask my therapist, why do I still dream of this other thing that I really don’t want and was relieved to see it go?  What is it that you miss?  Ah.

I watch the dynamic of two women clamoring for his love, his attention and for the right to provide and care for him.  I watch as one man sinks in on himself, chastised for being lazy, criticized for trying to start an intellectual conversation at the breakfast table, called a clumsy inadequate oaf for not putting something together right, or breaking something else, criticized for not doing enough to help.  Please, do not misunderstand he is an utter jackass, uses racial slurs, and intentionally stirs up hostile debate; I suddenly see that in this triangle I am him, the role I will play in this triangle is that of him.  Who will care for me?  Morgan and I go into the weather to attend an intellectual event together, and she goes first to the back seat and tells me to get in the car as she takes out the brush and sweeps snow off my windows.  I sit still and quiet thinking, he has done this for me only once in now almost three years.  Who will care for me?  I will.

It isn’t him though.  He is who he is, and I know that ultimately I am not particularly good at male female relationships.  I love hiking with him, canoeing with him, fishing with him, even watching shows and sci-fi movies with him, I love teasing him and being teased (the gentle times) by him, I love so much about him, but can we not live apart?  Where I have my peaceful home, where it is my home, and he has his loud and cluttered and walled in home, protected by his things and the comfort of two women vying for the chance to serve him.  They want to come in and care for him, they want him to stay with them while he recovers from surgery, they want to make him lunch, oh but they don’t want to offend.  They want to rush to the store to buy him a new winter coat when four more hang in the closet in the basement, they want to give him money, they want to make his favorite foods, they want to weed his garden. Can you ask them not to dig up my comfrey roots and tansy?  No they paid for this house, they have more say than you.  I want to control my home and environment, I don’t want them in my bedroom leaving the door open for a cat to piss in, I want to be free from being called a slob, from the judgmental eye on my yard and my unmade bed and the dishes left in the sink.  It is awesome to have someone say, I am running to the store do you need anything, to say you have the flu?  Do you need anything?  To say, you are hurt can I drive you to the hospital?  But this?  This has never been my house, and it never will be.

Three hours of quiet.  Soon the bull will wake and another day in the china shop will begin.  I have much to be thankful for.  So much.

Thank you for listening to the voice that kept me awake at four in the morning.



Climate Change · Dogs. · Musings

moonlight and orion

it is early morning, the air is crisp and cold and the wind is blowing.  she wakes me with chewing on my pillow, I pad out in my hard soled slippers and fleece jacket over my pjs.  not to be scatological but this first trip of the day, is the one where she likes to do her business, i walk up the hill to the first tier to encourage her, if i stand by the door she doesn’t always take the time she needs to.  i look up in the sky and the moon is just peeking through a crack in the overcast sky and it shines light on clouds in the shape of a heart, silver against the purple-black of the sky.

i go to work, but am immediately regretting it.  my hands ache, my fingers ache, my shoulders and back ache and i am nauseous from anti inflammatory.  I try to work with paper and my fingers cannot grasp it to tear it.  I huddle inside of myself, waiting for the day to end before it even started.  i look at my schedule and realize that a day off today will not be so bad.  i go home sick and spend the rest of the day in bed, though the sun is shining and perfect for a crisp autumn walk.  washing the dishes feels good on my stiff fingers.  half gloves after hold in the heat.  ah.  this is fun.

i walk the dogs after they eat their dinner.  i put on more glove than i usually would for this time of year.  even if you are sick, and i am not so much sick as sore all over, a puppy needs to be walked.

I have come to love, over many many years of it, this quiet walking.  and now she has come to walk quite pleasantly beside me.  halfway through she stops me nipping at the back of my knee until i bend down to hug her and pet her, he joins her and we are just three dogs loving each other.  i make them walk farther than either of them want to.  puppy energy i say, and achy old bones.  we can do it, sancho is not so sure.  he knows the pirate is making food. inside.

and outside.  there is Orion in the autumn sky, and in my heart.  these night walks are a part of me.  they make me whole, even when parts of me are missing.

All things melancholy · Musings · Small Joys


These walks have become a sanctuary.  Is this life not so amazingly, incredibly difficult?  He pesters me for days about a photograph from her, that in a flash of insight I realize could have been replicated right here at home.  This is the definition of insanity is it not?  This.  And how another person’s crazy can spill over onto you, like the movie Bug.

He walks close at my knee, while she walks ahead, or more, runs, jumps, leaps and twirls ahead.  I let her, we two are old, and prefer the solitude and serenity of this.  One lap becomes two becomes three.  He rubs his cheek against my leg, she bites at me.  But without this she would be impossible.

I am impossible.

I mean it.  I am unsoothable.  Beyond help.

I fall asleep with a book on my chest and wake to her velvet nose on my neck.  Nuzzling me.

Maybe not completely inconsolable.


All things melancholy · Buddhism · Musings · Nature · Painting · Small Joys · Strong Woman · Yoga


My bedroom, my bed, my comforter, me like a burrito, windows open, crisp air, already autumn in New York.  Shhhh.  Rest now little one, let your cares float away.

Yoga.  Surprise, the wrong teacher becomes the right teacher, yes.  The ego is loud, and obnoxious and annoying and you don’t have to listen to it.  No.  I am me, I am a bird flying over me.  I am not who I was five years ago.  No.  I am not.  No.  I am not.

I miss you sometimes.  I miss your smile, I miss your silly dance, the intense way you looked at me, the way you read aloud to my daughter, the way we read Anna Karenina together, the way you were before you got too big for your britches, the way you were when you saw me as a gift, the way you jumped the fence to hug me, the way you cried when I flew away, the way your eyes melted my heart, the way you gave up everything to be with me.

I float on the water, or more precisely explore the reeds and rushes in the shallow edges of this woebegone lake.  A heron flies away before I get too close.  Two turtles make love, turning slowly over and over on each other, until they see me watching them.  They look embarrassed.  And the Loch Ness monsters flip away as I paddle over them.  Their giant striped bodies undulating under the thin hull of my carbon fiber boat, I feel them, on my bottom, sliding, giant ugly things.  Last year someone caught a 41 inch Muskie from this place.  Two women sunning on kayaks stop to talk to me.  I hate my ugly life vest.  I wish it were purple.

I sleep with the light on sometimes, ever since you left.  I don’t know why.  Especially now when I just don’t care anymore, when I am not the person you left anymore.

Yoga the right teacher.  After we talk, I tell him how happy I was to live in the quiet solitary woods.  Not to say I was alone, because I wasn’t, but when I was, I cherished it, adored it, loved it.  I see surprise on his wrinkled and spotted face, so youthful, and yet showing his age, his impish smile and sparkling intelligent eyes.  He tells me of backpacking alone in the wilderness where my uncle was born, of not wanting to return, and the surprise, that we are kindred, that we are alike in this way, a thing he did not know of me, nor I of him even after all these years, and friendship.

They sit across from me, shoulder to shoulder, as long as you are not behaving, he says in a co-dependent manner.  Ha.  I say.  I am so not co-dependent.  So not.  Not even close.  I am fully cognizant of my choices, of where I am and what I am doing.  You can be alone, he instructs me, even in the company of others.  Oh sweetheart, I say.  I know that.  Oh.  Don’t I know that?  He of course is at the gun show for the millionth time, and I am with men who know how lucky they are to have worked through the times that IN love was a challenge, buoyed by just plain love.  Isn’t it funny how I don’t have any problem doing my own thing, going my own way and waving as he goes off to do his?

Kateri Teckawitha, I say, I cannot even pray, because I don’t even know what I want.  Or I do, but I don’t know how to sustain it.  But anyway, thank you for what you did for my daughter.  Thank you.  Thank you.

Hot tub.  Me, wishing to get out, now that my limbs are warm.  The music is so loud it hurts my sinus infected head which is dripping from the steam.  My heart is pounding, I am a million miles away.  I am on my haunches ready to spring, like an animal, like prey.

Do you know what it is like to sustain this?  How hard it is, truly hard it is to make the choice to live alone, and that is what it will be, alone, because I will never put myself through this punishment again.  Do you know this?  That my ego tells me things, like you are so fat, you are a stupid fuck, you are a lazy piece of shit, you are ugly,  you are not worthy of being loved, you are not worthy of time or attention.  SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I love myself, you see, I do, this girl who makes herbal salves, this girl who paints driftwood for hours, stroke by stroke, this girl who knits until her fingers ache, this girl who throws the boat on the car and goes, this girl who would rather be in the woods than in this stinking place.  This girl who is a great cook, this girl who recycles, this girl who loves her dog so much, this girl who cries, and laughs and talks in her sleep, and does yoga and rides her bike while reading a book eschewing television, this girl who loves star trek, and doctor who, this mama llama, this everything and nothing.

I do not love my ego though, my God, it will not shut up.

He climbs into my bed, and promptly falls asleep, taking up 2/3rds of the bed.  He snores loudly, and grunts and farts and moans in his sleep.  Not to say I don’t have my own animal noises, but to say instead that he is like my ego, keeping me from rest, trapping me in place, what if I feel sick from the chicken, what if I have to pee, what if I need my joyful cocktail of benedryl and melatonin?  Oh please, I say, wake up, I have to take medication to sleep here, with you.  He goes to his own room leaving the light on.  An hour later I am still awake.  Thinking of my ego.  Thinking of the lesson.  Listening to the sounds of cars on the street, and an airplane off there, flying in the dark.

And now I have nothing more to say.

Except this:  Clark Reservation used to be a sanctuary to me.  I haven’t been there in a year.  I miss it.  Can you please ask her to let me go back, to please leave me to it.  Let me have this one small place.  Because I really do need it, way more than she does.

And I dreamed of you last week, and I finally remembered why I loved you, and I stopped being angry, and in the dream, and for once, I didn’t even ask why  you left me, but I told you this, you were my best friend, and I really believed you and I were meant to love each other for the rest of our lives, and it crushed me when you left.

But I am okay.  Really.  Really.  And I actually don’t even think of you every minute or every hour, or every day any more.  I only think of you now and then.  Sometimes I am surprised how long I go between thoughts of you, driving, in the car, I think, oh my God its been days and days.   What a relief.  What a relief.

This place is a sanctuary.  This place, this place inside me.   This place.  Inside me.



All things melancholy · Birds · Musings · Nature · Treasure

River of Life

“…my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.” ~Pablo Neruda


This is so hard, this rich, rocky, roaring, beautiful, deep river of life.

My thoughts as I am in my bed, the sound of the stream below singing to me, as it always does.  A hard evening, but not too hard, just hard emotionally.  Hard but sometimes the right things, the good things, are hard.

I curse God sometimes, you know, for all this hurt heaped on me, she tells me as we drive into town, you have not had it easy.  No, I have not.   How many times have I gone over it, again and again, this sordid story of my daughter’s father.  With him, until my throat hurts, with myself until my brain hurts, with my child as my soul aches, with my mother as my heart breaks, after the death of my father, after the leaving of my husband.  I wanted to fix it, I wanted it fixed, but some things, somethings are not fixable. And in a branch of the same twisting fault line, I have gone over it again and again, all the bending over backwards I did to make my marriage work, and all for nothing.

So as I go over this fitful in my sleep, and on my morning constitutional, as I go over it, I realize that in this regard my prayers have been answered, not in the way I asked for it, but in a way that works.  I see her grandmother now, in the intense way of this woman in the deep way she cares.  I see in him, her uncle, a snapshot of her father,  as he should be, as he could have been, without all the mind altering substances, and mental acrobatics.  His manners, his interests, his deep thoughtfulness, his intelligence.  We share much, we, this odd grouping, of the son, who is his son through action, and her, and him and me.  With this wreckage between us, and this shining light above us, around us.  We who would not know one another were it not for this, this one thing.  A writer, an artist nay, painter, teachers, readers, music lovers, fishermen, hikers, gardeners, homesteaders, Zen dabblers, mountains, rocks, nature lovers.  Yes this we have in common, but that, that too.

I am self conscious, and in it I am awkward, I feel always the left over burning scar of blame.  I could not do it differently, but I know that the blame is raw on my flesh.  On my heart.  And when I try to put it into words, they seem inadequate, as awkward as my hands without a cigarette (for years) or my hands without a coffee mug in the mornings, as awkward as my hands without a cell phone in the wilderness, a livable awkwardness.  This self consciousness a constant swinging weight on my life.  (How I wish I could cut it and walk away).

I tell her, or try to, and she answers me with love, love of me, love for my child.

But this is what is sent in his place, family that is there for my child, family that embraces and welcomes me, family that finds her a joy to be around, on her terms, when she is ready for it, and family that for what it is worth, is why I loved her father, once, why I thought our child deserved more, more than drunken rages, abuse, anger, the cold shoulder, drugs, joblessness, homelessness, poverty, and deep seated depression and despair.

I think too, on my failed marriage, that feeling I had that it wasn’t me so much and at the same time that it was all me, all my fault.  I mean I know I am not perfect, but when you are with people who are not well, you too become unwell.  I cannot express this well, and have to think on it more, but one way I illustrate it in my crazy mind, is to say, I was never a jealous woman until I was married, I am not a jealous woman now, though I have seen my Pirate only a few days all summer.  I left my daughter’s father when I was pregnant, it was not about the leaving, it was about the unhealthiness, I think.  I was always jealous and possessive of the ex.  And I see that the stalker has her own issues with distrust, since she liked being up my ass so much.  It isn’t me, it isn’t her, it is inherent reason for mistrust.  There is an unhealthiness there, only it is more subtle, and well hidden, with lots of subterfuge.  How did I miss it though, and why did I believe, when all the signs were like billboards screaming at me to see.

And I think, as I walk, of this other thing I ask for, for closure, for understanding, not just of the why, but of my own inability to heal from it.  I have healed from the other wounds, I have become stronger, wiser, more compassionate, and have begun the return journey to the Earth, but I have not healed from that.  But there is no answer, perhaps I will have to wait another 16 years to have it.  I yearn for it, though, yearn for an answer, yearn for understanding, yearn for the scar to fade from this festering thing, deep inside of me.  Will it ever leave my mind?

I once told him, as he was leaving that he was the worst thing that ever happened to me, after he told me, from his new apartment, and with his new woman in his heart, that I was (somehow) the best thing that had ever happened to him, and I cannot rectify this dichotomy.  Because he is, even worse than being abandoned for a sheet of LSD by my daughter’s father, for a bales of marijuana, for broken inanimate objects, the sting of a smacking hand and a seething rage.  It is worse than putting myself through college and being broke for years and years, and worse than being bullied in school, and of never quite fitting in, it is worse than all the sleepless nights of my life, worse than anything I can think of, and there is still no closure, the wound still gapes and pulses, and aches.  I want it to fall away with the sweep of my mental knife, like that self consciousness.

She tells me in an email that I am funny, thoughtful, smart, sensitive, interesting, amazing, tremendously wise, and loved.

He once called me charming, and lovely.

And as I share my fears and thoughts on some of this with A. (weeks before) she tears up, and tells me she cannot imagine their lives without me.

But I do not understand any of this.

If I were all of these things, I would have closure.  If I were all of these things, I would be healed.  If I were something, really something, it wouldn’t be this hard.

Would it?

This is my soul laid bare.  Do not chastise me for it.  Nor should others, these men, these situations, be torn apart…

I struggle so with these questions and seek for truth.

On my way home, in the setting sun and long mountain shadows, I see a great blue heron standing on a giant boulder, in the middle of this deep and cutting river that gouged out part of the road and is still under repair from hurricane Irene.

This wreckage, this beautiful river, with the sun sparkling on it, with its deeply shadowed pools, with its towering mountain walls and its rocky bed, and rushing gorges.  This wreckage, this river is so hard.



Artists · Energy work · Great Quotes · Herbal Medicine · Musings · Small Joys · Strong Woman · Treasure

Inside My World



“We’re so engaged in doing things to achieve purposes of outer value that we forget the inner value, the rapture that is associated with being alive, is what it is all about.” ~JOSEPH CAMPBELL

island duckies beach3 beach2 beach

My inner world, this place inside me that is sometimes filled with self loathing and angst, finds peace, finds a serene place to rest in which the warm winds blow and the sun is warm, and the moon rises over quiet small lakes, and streams flow over broken rock, dragon flies dive float at eye level, inspecting me and finding me worthy.  These moments of quiet, these days of learning, this life of self discovery, I am held aloft by the arms of angels, how lovely I am here, in this place where no one else’s love, or absence seems to matter.

We walk each morning up the climbing hill, and down again.  He panting old and reluctant behind me, but never really leaving my side, loyal friend, best friend, I could never leave you, you with your salt flavored fur, you with your joyful smile upon my return, you with your charming hugs upon my knee, I could never leave you, just as you would never leave me for long, not for long.  The other dogs thunder up to me, the scouting dog cutting in front of me and him repeatedly, you dogs whose DNA is so similar to his.  The other, shyly approaches, shy affection, and I can see, a degree of loyalty, which I will have to work hard to continue to earn, when I rise you are the most excited as you leap in the air and spin in circles.  And she, the scout, chasing turkeys cutting back around to me, but on the way home, my own stands by me, she goes ahead, and he  peeks around curves to make sure I am there, before journeying forward.

And this is all a salve, an ointment, made of air, and abiding friendship, of laughter, of years of loyalty, of going away, but coming back because we must, because the love is too strong to leave behind.  It smells of rosemary, for truth, of rose geranium for mental clarity, of citrus lemon, or grapefruit for refreshing quality, and juniper berry for some unnamed spiritual purpose, something akin to being deeply ones self in this increasingly homogeneous culture, a salve to sooth all the broken places, to replace all the empty places or perhaps to make the emptiness bearable.

A moment of quiet here, with its rustic gardens, its mountainous vista, its island of cool, its balm of loving loyalty, friendship, acceptance, its quietude of spirit and centrality of purpose.

I am not an artist in residence so much as a spirit in flight.




Endless gift.

Eating Locally · Garden · Musings

Garden Fresh

There is something about this community here, part poor uneducated people, part intelligent (not to say poor and uneducated are not) artisan, hippy types.  Up here most of the women my age are grey, not colored hair and giving generous people.  Oh you don’t have a roof rack, grab our kayak at this dock, use it.  Oh your dill did not come up?  Here take this giant armload full of dill from the garden.  Oh before you go, would you like some lettuce?  Here are 5 giant bunches.   Oh you spin, come join our group on Wednesday nights, this is where me meet, bring your wheel or your knitting or a drop spindle, come!  Do you need a ride? Meet me here.


I tell my friend my fear of judgment from others, my narcissistic leanings, I have known her for years, I trust she loves me anyway.  She tells me, that is the thing up here, there are those that judge you, and you just smile and nod, but the rest, for the most part, don’t judge at all, are welcoming and want to work together.

I love this.

She has this giant garden, well more than one, and her veggie garden has been raided so often by her dogs that she had to build a fence, but rather than do so out of lumber, she has raided the forest for long branches.



And to go with my last post:

Dustin Hoffman Interview