A Little Neruda for Valentine's Day--I do love him so.

Drunk as drunk on turpentine

From your open kisses,

Your wet body wedged

Between my wet body and the strake

Of our boat that is made of flowers,

Feasted, we guide it - our fingers

Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -

Over the sky's hot rim,

The day's last breath in our sails.

Pinned by the sun between solstice

And equinox, drowsy and tangled together

We drifted for months and woke

With the bitter taste of land on our lips,

Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime

And the sound of a rope

Lowering a bucket down its well.

Then,

We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,

And lay like fish

Under the net of our kisses.

Pablo Neruda

Musings on a Trap door

It's funny how when you feel like you are getting to a better place in life...there's always that eerie feeling in your stomach that it's just not true. I guess that most of us are fatalists by nature. Not to sound morose, but society seems to educate us in expecting the worse. First there was Eve, who made the wrong choice and doomed us all for eternity...or that's what they say. Then, Jesus walking around trying to convince everyone to cool it, love one another and just "be"...but he was hanged, well and not even that...nailed to a tree that became a cross. Holding significant meaning for those of us since because well, we use them to remember what happened to a really decent guy a long time ago. Since then, we've loved Kennedy who didn't live through a bullet, Diana who never had a prayer, and odd others that just couldn't make the cut. So, it's probably normal that just when I begin to feel good about things...that eerie shift inside me gets active. This not to say that I believe I will die....I'm not that important. I'll probably live endlessly. There's a dog cat and rabbit who seem to love me...but other than that, I would hardly be missed. It's that I do fear the bottom will fall out. And then what happens? Well, things go back to where they were, or they get worse. And I suspect that I should just be hopeful that things will continue to be better. I have done a lot of bad time. I'm just not sure I've done my share. Some people have a huge dose, while others get by with way less. I don't know what's fair? Or when I'm even? And of course, worrying about it is useless because what will that do?

I guess I feel like if I worry over it, God will know that I am so appreciative of a good run that I am already fearing its demise. But, being all-knowing, God gets this already. I listened to Wayne Dyer on the way back from DC...the power of intention. And dangit, he's right...I just know it. But, it's really hard for me to believe the best about me. I watch other folks do it just fine (well, they seem to do it with ease...but we're all actors). I cannot seem to grasp the concept. And I know that faith is not about seeing to believe. And I am faithful. But, I think I am faithful about the wrong things. Not the "wrong things", but just not all the right ones. I am faithful that I won't get more than I can handle. I am faithful that I can endure hardship and that I can learn from it. I am faithful that things happen for a reason. But, I am not faithful that my life has purpose and I am not faithful that my life is loved, and I am not faithful that the world needs me in it. All those positives are really difficult for me to swallow.

I wonder if other people struggle with this and I wonder how they get past it. I wonder if they become content with the suspicion (that the bottom will fall out) or if they learn to be faithful about hope and a good outcome. I wonder how intention forms in a soul that has not harbored it before. It's probably something that sounds hard, like discipline. It's probably something that seems impossible, like meditation. It's probably something that I can't imagine, like harmony with the options. But, if anybody has found an answer for themselves, I'd welcome the sound of it.

A list of sorts

I like the segments of my life. Walking out to Hannah's big cage with hay and pellets. The way the dog sits on the top stair and reaches his front paws to a lower stair so that his face can be level with mine as I come up the stairs. The short sentences that it sometimes takes to communicate with those close to you. And the long paragraphs it takes to begin to know someone new. I like that at times, when I get still...I can actually feel the silence around me. I enjoy so much the stub of a non-tail that Bently has and watching it to see what mood he is in, or how he has gauged mine. I like that work finally seems to be settling into a pace that feels positive. And I like that it is soon my birthday. I try to think what wishes I will put in front of me...better yet, what intentions. Some of them will be about simplicity, while others will be about new sources for fun, for living a better life and loving more. I secretly am wishing for new walking shoes. I need them...these that I have are so worn out. I am making a commitment to massage or something chiropractic for my aching neck. And another intention to find people to do fun things with more often. I love my work...but it can be all of me. I don't think I want that anymore.

I feel like I'll turn a page this February 28. Anything just might happen. And the thought of that seems absolutely sublime.

Well, squeak!

Inevitably someone pees in your porridge. It's almost as if it cannot be helped. I wonder if Goldilocks experienced this in all her porridge days? And it doesn't help one bit that Mitt Romney has forsaken the race against McCain, or that the Rolling Stones have jumped on board to do a Scorsese film this summer, or that it's Thursday and I have to pack, or that I still haven't done laundry to pack. It all boils down to this, it didn't have to happen and I never liked porridge much anyways. I'm not upset about whatever the pathetic Republican party wants to do...and maybe this will cause McCain to truly show his scaley skin (my argument to those who aren't listening is that, HE ALREADY HAS!). And I liked the Stones, even the big lips-especially the big lips, but I think the band movies are so last year, or last hundred years. I have to do laundry, and I need to pack now. That's all I have to say about the matter.

A dark day in my short history

I opened my daily motivation book today and realized that it is February 6. Two years ago on this day, I watched my precious girl dog, Roxy be carried away to be put to sleep. I remember what she looked like held in someone else's arms. I remember that she looked back at me, trusting me to have made the right decision. I remember running out of the building, laying on the gravel beside the car sobbing and unable to leave, feeling like I'd just done a terrible and right thing for my friend, but not for me. It was cancer, and it formed a balloon in her lungs and she couldn't breathe for the fluid that lived there. She was my best friend, and I still miss her. I remember so clearly letting her go. And every day I wanted to go back there, lay my hands on the cold table where she died, feel the warmth of her spirit as it travelled to the next place. I wanted to visit every place she had been just in case something of her remained.
The writing in my book for today was about losing someone...which makes me believe that just once more, she is reaching out to soothe me on a day that is so painful. I believe that I will meet her again someday, but she is not here now. And that still breaks my heart.

Juniper

I am feeling quietly frayed. It's an odd feeling really and I don't think I've come across it before. Not necessary a bad thing...just strange. There are many things to love about chaos. Rubble in general can be quite entertaining. But, I'm not sure that I haven't fallen through some maturity vortex and landed in a place where the undone feels negotiable. The jittery incomplete feels all sewn up. The unchartered voyage seems navigated by some unseen force. And while all that sounds quite fine...underneath I feel a current of uncertainty. Running through me like a calm tsunami, or a silent volcanoe. I feel like someone hit the mute button inside of me, and while I was sick and tired of the chatter...it might have been what kept me on track. Anyway, it's all a bit disjointed.

The reality could be that I have to "perform" this weekend in Chantilly for a wine festival. And that always gets me into a new persona. I have to lose myself and become the fine actor. So, I could be in that transition.

The Juniper was one of Georgia O'Keefe's favorite trees. Close up it looks like a mangled explosion of movement. The growth seems tortured, the limbs seem cruelly twisted. The greenery is so short and somewhat prickly that I felt like it fought the whole way out of that branch...piercing and slashing to get through to the sky. What is beautiful to me is that everything about it seems to tell a story. Every turn and twist seems to relay some information about the earth it knows, about the climate it struggles to grow in. This tree was old, one of the oldest in the area where we found it near Tularosa. But, even the babys have this weathered air about them. Like they know life and hardship, and yet they choose to dig their roots into the red brown earth and make it home. I guess there are times when I am envious of them and what they know about themselves and their environment.

I think I loved New Mexico. I really think I do.

The Love of a Spotted Dog

Here's the great thing about having a dog...well, there are many. But, one of them is that you can dress him up with beautiful sweaters made by your friend Leslie. And although, he ADORES wearing a sweater, he hates having his picture made (see human family genetic code). So, this is a perfect expression for him...it says, "damnit, I said no the first time...now leave me alone!", well to me anyway. And it's not a great shot of the sweater, which is what we were shooting for. Leslie would like one (so we'll keep trying). But, he is such a funny little fella. We went out into the ice storm this morning and a huge branch fell to the ground maybe 150 feet in front of us...which made Bently run to me as if the sky were falling. I'll tell you...it's just like the beauty of a child without half the work of one. I recommend a dog to everyone, and encourage adoption. There are so many that need homes. And this dog, my Bently, he is just so eager to please (except when it comes to photos) and has learned quickly to be a wonderful house mate to all my needs for quiet and being just plain left alone sometimes. It's funny how they pick up on things like that. He is tremendously loving, but just not a dog that keeps bothering you to pet him. If you have a space, give a dog a home. If you have lots of space, give three dogs homes (thanks, Leslie). And kitties too. (oh! and sorry for my finger in the photo...I'm no Adams or Stieglitz you know :)