I keep walking. Walking my way down the gravel and dirt 2-track, over little Mud Creek, across the cattle guard, up to the small pinyon-juniper studded mesa. I keep moving amongst the newly arrived mountain bluebirds, through the vibrant trill of the meadowlark. Walking, like writing, keeps me breathing.
I took off with the sunrise this morning; big winds are predicted for later and I opted for cold sunshine. Teak romped her Lab body along my side, tail pointed skyward in pure joy. Then I heard the mew. Pooka was behind me, struggling to catch up. She'd accompanied me almost daily for the past year, her leopard-spotted Bengal body trotting daintily at my side. But she'd kept her distance since my recent return. She's pissed and upset at the changes divorce pours down upon her lair. Now...she'd decided to join me again. I looked back to see her about ten yards behind, turned my back on her and continued to walk fast. Then I broke down in sobs.
This, the metaphor. I will drive away from her in a few weeks; when I leave she'll stay here at Casa Barnyard with Tom. And so I keep walking, creating more and more distance between us until she turns and skulks back home. Call it practice.
She ran down the hill to meet me as I returned; mewed outside my door to be let into the trailer. As I typed away on this piece she positioned herself behind me, stood up on her hind legs and placed two paws onto my head. Now she sleeps upon my legs, over my crotch, her moka-brown head with one notched ear bowed as if in prayer. She knows every word I'm typing.
Sometimes I wonder how I'm going to get through this.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Resurrecting Angels
I don't relish days like yesterday. The sorting and dividing and moving began, as I prepared to depart from Casa Barnyard, the little space of heart I made into a home. It was wrenching. At times I felt I was suffocating under a blanket of pain. And it isn't over.
Mid-afternoon, however, daughter Hope arrived. Not so much to help...this is a one woman task...but to receive. I handed her wall pictures, my set of water colors and my hand carved flying harpie from Mexico, ultimate muse. And some jewelry. This was where the energy took a turn. In the bottom of the jewelry box was a child's bracelet, fake gold links with tiny stamped Indian heads that hung and jiggled. Oh my, I said, that bracelet was a childhood gift from a man called Charlie Rounds.
Charlie was an old carnie. Santa Claus-like w/o the red suit or white beard. He ran the shuffleboard stand at the annual county fair where one paid a quarter and slid a heavy metal disk down a sawdust-slick alley. Three in a row like tic-tac-toe, into cut out holes, was a winner. Dressed in shorts and cowboy boots I'd make my way down the midway amidst the giant oak trees, past the lemonade stand, and hand my coveted quarter to Charlie, whereupon he positioned himself down by the holes. I was ten and stood on a little box. It took extra discs to get the first two in. Charlie would laugh and slide them my way. When I launched the final disc his chubby hand zipped out from his side and knocked the disc into the hole whereupon a siren went off announcing that I’d won. Every day I strutted home with a huge stuffed animal of my choice. A big white cat with a sequined collar. A fluffy pink dog.
Strange as I look back. Just what did mom and dad think, me befriending a strange old man? I remember the day when Charlie drove up to the house unannounced and talked to Mom and Dad. He probably came to introduce himself. Not only was I allowed to keep seeing Charlie but our relationship continued beyond the five-day small-town fair. Charlie and I wrote letters throughout the year and he sent me little trinkets now and then. And every year when the fair came to town I anxiously awaited his return. Until one year he didn’t appear. And the letters stopped.
I often wonder how today’s protective society would respond to the likes of Charlie. Perhaps police would be called to check out the man who befriended a little girl. In the shadow of Amber Alerts he would be thought a pervert or pedophile and children would be ordered to stay away.
Not so with Mom and Dad. In fact, on one trip on the way to Chicago Mom stopped in the little Illinois town that boasted his return address on his many envelopes. We pulled up to the curb, I ran up to his door and excitedly knocked. And knocked. I was finally met by a neighbor who came around the corner.
“I’m here to see Charlie,” I grinned.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “Charlie died year.”
Yesterday Hope took the bracelet and fastened it around my tiny wrist. Every child should be so lucky to find a 'Charlie angel,' someone willing to reach into their life and line up the spheres on their behalf. Someone to send them home with the greatest prize all … trust in a stranger.
I continue to sort, divide and move...a tinny little bracelet on my wrist.
Mid-afternoon, however, daughter Hope arrived. Not so much to help...this is a one woman task...but to receive. I handed her wall pictures, my set of water colors and my hand carved flying harpie from Mexico, ultimate muse. And some jewelry. This was where the energy took a turn. In the bottom of the jewelry box was a child's bracelet, fake gold links with tiny stamped Indian heads that hung and jiggled. Oh my, I said, that bracelet was a childhood gift from a man called Charlie Rounds.
Charlie was an old carnie. Santa Claus-like w/o the red suit or white beard. He ran the shuffleboard stand at the annual county fair where one paid a quarter and slid a heavy metal disk down a sawdust-slick alley. Three in a row like tic-tac-toe, into cut out holes, was a winner. Dressed in shorts and cowboy boots I'd make my way down the midway amidst the giant oak trees, past the lemonade stand, and hand my coveted quarter to Charlie, whereupon he positioned himself down by the holes. I was ten and stood on a little box. It took extra discs to get the first two in. Charlie would laugh and slide them my way. When I launched the final disc his chubby hand zipped out from his side and knocked the disc into the hole whereupon a siren went off announcing that I’d won. Every day I strutted home with a huge stuffed animal of my choice. A big white cat with a sequined collar. A fluffy pink dog.
Strange as I look back. Just what did mom and dad think, me befriending a strange old man? I remember the day when Charlie drove up to the house unannounced and talked to Mom and Dad. He probably came to introduce himself. Not only was I allowed to keep seeing Charlie but our relationship continued beyond the five-day small-town fair. Charlie and I wrote letters throughout the year and he sent me little trinkets now and then. And every year when the fair came to town I anxiously awaited his return. Until one year he didn’t appear. And the letters stopped.
I often wonder how today’s protective society would respond to the likes of Charlie. Perhaps police would be called to check out the man who befriended a little girl. In the shadow of Amber Alerts he would be thought a pervert or pedophile and children would be ordered to stay away.
Not so with Mom and Dad. In fact, on one trip on the way to Chicago Mom stopped in the little Illinois town that boasted his return address on his many envelopes. We pulled up to the curb, I ran up to his door and excitedly knocked. And knocked. I was finally met by a neighbor who came around the corner.
“I’m here to see Charlie,” I grinned.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “Charlie died year.”
Yesterday Hope took the bracelet and fastened it around my tiny wrist. Every child should be so lucky to find a 'Charlie angel,' someone willing to reach into their life and line up the spheres on their behalf. Someone to send them home with the greatest prize all … trust in a stranger.
I continue to sort, divide and move...a tinny little bracelet on my wrist.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Equinox
I'm not surprised that when I grasped blind into the small, burgundy bag my fingers rested on Dagaz, 'breakthrough.' It is the rune of new beginnings and radical discontinuity. It signifies contact with the supreme mystery.
Supreme mystery. Well, today I buy a bigger truck in order to pull the little woman-wagon, my 19-foot Pioneer trailer. My Toyota Tacoma has to go; it's not quite large enough to pull my new life down the road. I've had many calls from prospective buyers. I just might buy and sell on the same day. This wheel'in and deal'in doesn't feel like mystery to me. Except my 'sister' Babette reminds me that she's amazed at my ability to call in what I need just when I need it. I say it's about working the seasonal energy that's there for the asking. Key word: ask. Beseech. And then surrender to what comes.
The long winter's void and daily practice of letting the old die culminated in the end of my 15-year old marriage. No matter how right and timely, it is wrenching. Some nights I awaken at 3:00 a.m. paralyzed with fear. Bag lady fears. Growing old alone fears. The chatter of, 'well you've gone and done it now!' - fears. I sometimes think I must work harder to banish fear. Spring's resurrection reminds me that all life forms that push forth onto the earth are tenuous.
The sun breaks the horizon as I ponder a cosmos of possibility. I have no answers but take heart that the bare bone winter is past. The flesh warms. My eye can't help but wink.
Supreme mystery. Well, today I buy a bigger truck in order to pull the little woman-wagon, my 19-foot Pioneer trailer. My Toyota Tacoma has to go; it's not quite large enough to pull my new life down the road. I've had many calls from prospective buyers. I just might buy and sell on the same day. This wheel'in and deal'in doesn't feel like mystery to me. Except my 'sister' Babette reminds me that she's amazed at my ability to call in what I need just when I need it. I say it's about working the seasonal energy that's there for the asking. Key word: ask. Beseech. And then surrender to what comes.
The long winter's void and daily practice of letting the old die culminated in the end of my 15-year old marriage. No matter how right and timely, it is wrenching. Some nights I awaken at 3:00 a.m. paralyzed with fear. Bag lady fears. Growing old alone fears. The chatter of, 'well you've gone and done it now!' - fears. I sometimes think I must work harder to banish fear. Spring's resurrection reminds me that all life forms that push forth onto the earth are tenuous.
The sun breaks the horizon as I ponder a cosmos of possibility. I have no answers but take heart that the bare bone winter is past. The flesh warms. My eye can't help but wink.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Heart to Heart
Tick tock. Tick tock. It’s 12:37 a.m., the time my daughter Hope was born 40 years ago. I’m never up at this hour, yet here I am, answering a primal heart beat between her and me. I sip chamomile tea from a cup she gave me and settle in with memories.
Toronto, Canada. She was born in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. At New Mt. Sinai Hospital at the hands of a doctor named Zimmerman. Harvey. He, almost as young as me. He was sweet and had freckles and I had a doctor/pregnant woman crush on him, a typical occurrence that’s the subject of articles in magazines like Ladies Home Journal. He kept insisting at my check-ups that “this birth was going to hurt” and I’d smile and say, “oh yes I know,” without a clue to what was in store. I was more into touch football in the park.
When the labor pains descended her father Donnie and I dressed and took a trolley car downtown to the hospital. I remember standing on a corner on Bloor Street, waiting for the light to change, doubling over with pain. We were young and without a car. It never occurred to us to get a cab.
Fathers weren’t allowed with mothers back then. I was on a bed waiting for my water to break in a room that resembled a cell. The screams of laboring women tore at the door. My only visitor was a nurse who came in periodically like some ghost in the dark and measured the opening in my slowly expanding vagina. Donnie was in a waiting room somewhere. My doctor was probably enjoying a dinner at a five star restaurant. All I remember is being alone. And yet, not.
It was daughter and I in that room. Although I didn’t know the babe was a she. There were no ultrasounds or baby sexing in 1970. No choosing the name and getting personalized clothing made months before the birth. She slowly moved down, down my body towards the opening that would present her to the world. She and I, partners in simultaneous fear and courage; a 36-hour unrequested-roll-up-into-a-ball-epidural labor (the longest shiny needle I've ever seen)and a forceps clutch that left us exhausted; good only for one another.
Nine months, 36 hours and 40 years since she departed my body's beating heart in favor of her solo journey. My little Pisces cooks up a storm, whips up words on a page and snaps the shutter on stunning images. She’s a force of brilliance and beauty, born of sweat, tears and HOPE.
It’s 12:37 a.m., starlight fills the night, the wind is gusting over 50 mph and yes, I do know where my daughter is. Always, in my heart.
Toronto, Canada. She was born in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. At New Mt. Sinai Hospital at the hands of a doctor named Zimmerman. Harvey. He, almost as young as me. He was sweet and had freckles and I had a doctor/pregnant woman crush on him, a typical occurrence that’s the subject of articles in magazines like Ladies Home Journal. He kept insisting at my check-ups that “this birth was going to hurt” and I’d smile and say, “oh yes I know,” without a clue to what was in store. I was more into touch football in the park.
When the labor pains descended her father Donnie and I dressed and took a trolley car downtown to the hospital. I remember standing on a corner on Bloor Street, waiting for the light to change, doubling over with pain. We were young and without a car. It never occurred to us to get a cab.
Fathers weren’t allowed with mothers back then. I was on a bed waiting for my water to break in a room that resembled a cell. The screams of laboring women tore at the door. My only visitor was a nurse who came in periodically like some ghost in the dark and measured the opening in my slowly expanding vagina. Donnie was in a waiting room somewhere. My doctor was probably enjoying a dinner at a five star restaurant. All I remember is being alone. And yet, not.
It was daughter and I in that room. Although I didn’t know the babe was a she. There were no ultrasounds or baby sexing in 1970. No choosing the name and getting personalized clothing made months before the birth. She slowly moved down, down my body towards the opening that would present her to the world. She and I, partners in simultaneous fear and courage; a 36-hour unrequested-roll-up-into-a-ball-epidural labor (the longest shiny needle I've ever seen)and a forceps clutch that left us exhausted; good only for one another.
Nine months, 36 hours and 40 years since she departed my body's beating heart in favor of her solo journey. My little Pisces cooks up a storm, whips up words on a page and snaps the shutter on stunning images. She’s a force of brilliance and beauty, born of sweat, tears and HOPE.
It’s 12:37 a.m., starlight fills the night, the wind is gusting over 50 mph and yes, I do know where my daughter is. Always, in my heart.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Life in Quarter Turns
My visits to the stone circle come daily. A quiet sit to ponder over the lake that reaches below; a mix of stretches to signal appreciation to the body~~I will meet you more than half way on this aging road. Then a salutation to the sun, a Tai Chi-like series of moves. I reach to the sky, squat to touch earth and deliver the energy to my heart. Then I make a quarter turn to the next direction. This meditation ends where it began, facing east into the rising sun. I whisper a silent prayer and end with an unfolding of hands, palms down towards the earth.
"It's a good day to die," I say. I've done this for over 20 years. A recognition of gratefulness and humility. How could I, after all, ask for anything beyond the present, sacred moment?
This past month I found myself adding to the mantra: "It's a good day to die," I whispered... "and let die."
LET die. Release. Unclench the old in the throes of winter's last gasp. Tortuga had sold; a new trailer appeared. Spring's cusp delivers as wild burros bray and stampede past my trailer in frisky, sex-driven romps.
Work'in it.
Work'in it.
Eveything is energy. All I need do is surrender to her unseen waves and ways.
Is not the essence of the wild living close to death? Breathing the breath that is at once the first and last?
"It's a good day to die," I say. I've done this for over 20 years. A recognition of gratefulness and humility. How could I, after all, ask for anything beyond the present, sacred moment?
This past month I found myself adding to the mantra: "It's a good day to die," I whispered... "and let die."
LET die. Release. Unclench the old in the throes of winter's last gasp. Tortuga had sold; a new trailer appeared. Spring's cusp delivers as wild burros bray and stampede past my trailer in frisky, sex-driven romps.
Work'in it.
Work'in it.
Eveything is energy. All I need do is surrender to her unseen waves and ways.
Is not the essence of the wild living close to death? Breathing the breath that is at once the first and last?
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