“Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

30 March 2009

“The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.”



or, there and back. secretly enjoying the mind silence that disconnection brings, but glad to be back in the fold of hearts and hands and back to the world and the words and this little place i tuck away my cloudrambles and riverdreams. hello again and most welcome.

"Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit.”


well. started seeds under long lights underground. started hardy seeds Out There where yesterday it was sixty and today it snowed. lettuce, spinach, chard, white radish. the cat is pregnant, the dogs were spayed. found an old schwinn breeze in mint condition on the side of the road to match the one my mom left behind, a collegiate. working steady. late march feels like november. less and less it matters whats said, who thinks what. i admit, out loud, that people exhaust me.

“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”


my dreams have been vivid. gobi, you were in one, had a quizzical child. another im wading over a sandbar opening boats loaded with bakery. the waves crash onto the rocky shore, the sea floor is paved in brilliant tiles and enormous silver galleons. he tried to see me, not in dreams, and my absence from the wavelength made me miss him. another spring, my brother.

"when god lets my body be/from each brave eye shall sprout a tree"


soon april, and a sleepover bonfire speedometer cake celebration. she and i stood at the edge of the playground and discussed our various psychological burdens. still so much unsaid. after rain the night clarifies into chalky horned moon and burning stars, sweet cool country air and the sound of water singing over rocks the boys bridge and bumble over after school were all back together and theres a moments peace between skirmishes, blessed be. i think about the seeds there underground, unfurling the ancient flags of information and symbiosis, knowing up from down and acting accordingly. i can already taste the joy of their first light, the surrender from the secret shell, the little green flags, breathing.

"nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands"


27 of 365:

1. the two tech guys who resurrected my laptop over the phone.
2. spring.
3. peace between the wars.
4. dogs.
5. sharing a bowl of ice cream while i catch up and he reads about left bank lesbians.
6. e.e. cummings.
7. the fierce irrational grip of jigsaw puzzles with #4.
8. the safe and happy arrival of the littlest okie.
9. the dogs got spayed (the cat, however, finds herself in the family way).
10. this.

1 comment:

Blessed Be.

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"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well." -V.V.G.

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)