tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23690997279410634282024-03-21T09:00:57.076-07:00Pr-ohsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-1691632998172534462016-12-14T11:55:00.000-08:002016-12-14T12:01:15.919-08:00Collective Memory PuerYou smell like the forest floor after days of rain<br />
Touch of cold in the air<br />
Not a fir forest that holds tight to her needles<br />
But the wisdom of the deciduous that knows to let go<br />
Gives in to the gravity of the season<br />
<br />
Trees that put all of their grief<br />
Into the tips of their beings,<br />
With the fading light of fall<br />
<br />
And let go<br />
<br />
Wisdom to shed<br />
To give things up<br />
<br />
Leaves, piles of loss and things better not clung to,<br />
Bleeding rich and pungent<br />
ochre red black brown tears<br />
Into soil<br />
<br />
Stew of puer<br />
Places where memory gathers, rests and transforms.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-3867847763657663182015-09-25T18:04:00.001-07:002015-09-25T18:04:22.226-07:00On My Drive Home<i><a href="https://youtu.be/ZR2JlDnT2l8">The Lark Ascending</a> </i>begins,<br />
Children, coats wrapped 'round waists,<br />
Run from school<br />
A small flock of birds taking flight.<br />
Leaves swept upward on the breath of a fall breeze.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-71521679953676438582015-07-24T13:28:00.002-07:002015-07-24T13:28:13.199-07:00Geography Lesson IOn lazy days I sometimes parade around my house butch.<br />
I want my hair cut "boy" short<br />
--and sometimes I cut it!<br />
I want my chest flat.<br />
Like the plains I manspread on my little futon.<br />
Hips narrow, chiseled shoulders; like canyon rocks.<br />
<br />
Other days I like ambiguity, cultivate it;<br />
Lipstick it.<br />
Trimmed brows, hair smoothed close to my head, blue jeans,<br />
Loose white tee showing off a pink polka dot bra.<br />
I am the cave and the outcrop,<br />
The jetty and the harbor,<br />
Mountain and valley.<br />
<br />
Today, it's a rare day.<br />
<br />
Today, I'm all girl.<br />
I slip around in my low-cut nightie,<br />
Hips swaying, lips full, big hair,<br />
Breasts loose and swinging.<br />
Cows working their way back and forth across a field of rippled grass.<br />
Fluffy clouds suspended in the sky.<br />
<br />
Today I feel hollow, open, receptive, hungry.<br />
Today I could bring it all <i>in. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>In</i>-side.<br />
<br />
<i>In</i>-voluted.<br />
<br />
A cave for an oracle, something hidden in the dark.<br />
Something precious, protected, kept warm and sacred.<br />
Ancient hearths below and stories above.<br />
Invaginations of primordial waters.<br />
Histories held secret and fears embraced.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-23629235680715233062014-01-23T07:06:00.000-08:002014-01-23T07:06:35.730-08:00January 23rdMy grief is as vast as an ocean<br />
Its waves tsunamis.<br />
<br />
I want you to head for safety.<br />
<br />
I want you to stand at the receding waters and call me forth<br />
Unafraid of drowning in my sorrow.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-13152317588243682782013-10-27T20:31:00.002-07:002013-10-27T20:31:39.735-07:001:00 AM<br />
Awake,<br />
Listening through every inch of being<br />
For the sounds of my Beloved<br />
Sleeping or stirring.<br />
<br />
Beloved is a word used by Rumi.<br />
<br />
What if it wasn't Shams in Rumi's poems?<br />
What if Shams and Rumi were the same person?<br />
What if Rumi meant the self?<br />
Or maybe Rumi meant both the self and other?<br />
<br />
The self that is a part of the Dao, God, Allah, Jehovah...<br />
What if we referred to our own selves as the Beloved?<br />
<br />
Awake,<br />
Anxious for sounds that my Beloved is healing,<br />
I await sleep.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-91158294464598019672013-04-24T20:51:00.000-07:002013-04-24T20:51:32.486-07:00SmilesI do not want to write about what is on my mind.<br />
I want to paint pictures of sunny days, flowers in full bloom,<br />
Warm breezes, fuzzy feelings.<br />
I do not want to be honest about what I'm feeling.<br />
<br />
What I am feeling is a bottomless well of grief.<br />
If I shared all the grief in my lungs, bones, muscles and heart<br />
It would fill the room, no matter how large or small,<br />
It would fill it.<br />
I'm not sure you can swim in my grief.<br />
I'm not sure I can swim in my grief.<br />
<br />
The ocean surrounded by fire<br />
That is my heart.<br />
<br />
I don't want to share this. I want to share beautiful things.<br />
Lovely things that make the world a better place.<br />
Not sadness of loss, of my own and others'.<br />
<br />
I don't want to open my heart to you.<br />
I'm not cold or shy.<br />
I'm not heartless or strong.<br />
I'm terrified the contents of my heart are toxic.<br />
I'm stuck in the fear<br />
Fear that what my heart holds<br />
Overwhelms<br />
Drowns<br />
Scares.<br />
<br />
Let me tell you lovely tales of survival,<br />
Joy,<br />
Love,<br />
Kindness,<br />
Spirit,<br />
Friendship,<br />
Generosity,<br />
All the lovely things that make you want to be around me.<br />
<br />
Let me show you only my smile.<br />
My lovely smile that everyone says is contagious.<br />
Please let me just show you that smile<br />
Smile and eyes that are so good at reflecting back goodness.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-32334855607470574092013-01-21T12:05:00.001-08:002013-01-21T12:05:22.306-08:00Reflections on the PathAlready my center has shifted.<br />
<br />
I am no longer sitting beneath the willow when I am in reverie<br />
I am the willow<br />
I am powerful and luminescent<br />
I am golden warm lithe.<br />
<br />
Rooted deeply<br />
I grow towards the heavens<br />
I become infinite as I move upwards and so solid as I grow deeper.<br />
<br />
I am so light your pulse, her exhale, his inhale, ripples through me<br />
Yet I stand firm and still and tall, able to support you and your waves of being.<br />
<br />
I accumulate and expand as I breathe in and I become the nothing that is everything as I let the breath go.<br />
<br />
I am wiser and more naive<br />
I am opened raw as I grow fresh boundaries<br />
I am motivated to the action that is a vibrating stillness.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-21535525800446870782012-09-10T06:01:00.000-07:002012-09-10T08:15:42.071-07:00Late Summer MorningThe news of rain reaches my nose first<br />
Dissipating dust, heat and the opening of plant pores waft into my bedroom window<br />
Just above my half sleeping form<br />
<br />
I become alert, breathe more easily as I cool and everything around me cools.<br />
<br />
Between exhales of relief, the tension of hot days evaporating,<br />
I grieve <br />
<br />
Tomatoes, melons, children from my past, friendships with elders<br />
That will never reach their full fruition.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-44665599418916895452012-07-11T15:26:00.000-07:002012-07-11T15:26:02.961-07:00What I Can Give YouI can sit silently holding your grief in my arms, cradling it to me,<br />
This chasm pulling you inward,<br />
Taking your hand and holding you there until you are ready to crawl out.<br />
Hearing what shouldn't be and what you don't want to share.<br />
Feeling your pain within my marrow - circulating, pinching my muscles and becoming my own.<br />
<br />
Welling up inside of me is a warrior, six feet tall, muscled, immovable,<br />
Fierce, Shiva-Amazon-bear-banshee-malevolent-Pandora-huntress-Woman.<br />
Unleash her for you, breathing, exhaling,<br />
Winds that wipe away those who would wound you.<br />
Let her move hearts for you with her gaze and presence,<br />
Standing her ground until your will is done.<br />
Holding time for you until you are your own army.<br />
<br />
I can stand back and let you fight, ready to soothe your wounds.<br />
Feed you, encourage you, push you forward.<br />
Mara mother, Tara teacher, birthing you back to your own battle.<br />
<br />
I can share your joy. I can quote Sufi lovers to you,<br />
Men who experience the divine ecstasy of the mystery that is what connects you and me<br />
You and them<br />
Me and them.<br />
Orthodox Jews who explain I and Thou.<br />
Women who dance over fires and welcome each other to the struggle to be witnesses<br />
To the experience of now, but can hold your yesterday and face you toward tomorrow.<br />
<br />
I can tell you what I see in you,<br />
Or what you need to hear right now.<br />
I can sit with your indecision, or wait patiently as you get sidetracked,<br />
Allowing you to make mistakes that aren't really mistakes, but aren't your true self.<br />
I will be here waiting for you on the other side of this labyrinth<br />
Winding us what seems like further apart but getting us closer to our centers.<br />
<br />
It is my purpose and my meaning,<br />
My need and my gift,<br />
What I can share.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-77678107260753913142012-06-15T09:57:00.005-07:002012-06-15T09:57:59.982-07:00Hope FrozenToday I tossed 7 little plastic bottles of hope into the dumpster.<br />
<br />
7 frosted-over vials of love and wishes<br />
breast milk for a baby who will never drink it<br />
<br />
little labels with cartoon elephants<br />
marked 2:50 AM<br />
<br />
mom's sleepless night<br />
dad's shift at the NICU<br />
<br />
7 little containers holding so many possible futures gone<br />
<br />
my hands are still cold despite hugs and words unspoken <br />
there are no words that heal the loss that leaves 7 little bottles frozen.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-56042208042515201032012-04-18T11:22:00.003-07:002012-04-18T11:22:19.730-07:00Spring AgainRain stipples the sidewalk around me.<div>
Gentle scents of daphne, hyacinth,</div>
<div>
Evergreen clematis like jasmine. </div>
<div>
Breath of warmed soil startled awake.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-48250490160887124222012-04-05T06:19:00.000-07:002012-04-05T08:31:34.782-07:00Inner Silence<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hush my dear one</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like the sound of wind caressing green leaves. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You cannot lead through violence,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Threats</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anger. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You cannot force your will upon me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I refuse and grow rigid, defiant</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and we both lose. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hush my dear one</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like the sound of wind caressing green leaves</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I will comfort you. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Your words cut like knives through me, my own </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">self-inflicted pain </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Seep slowly through fibers of flesh and spirit </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Slow poison. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hush my dear one</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like the sound of wind caressing green leaves. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Hush </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I will hold you</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You are loved </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> You are loved. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-79803831940667788282012-02-08T15:29:00.000-08:002012-02-08T15:29:27.202-08:00Falling AwayUnder tiny needles<br />
I am drawn deeper into myself.<br />
Deep enough to fall away beyond myself.<br />
<br />
I am not under the tree of light today, sitting still while waves lap on shores around me.<br />
I am the light.<br />
<br />
We are an innumerable collection of lights,<br />
Of energy. Moving while still.<br />
Individually collective.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-53500850926812193532011-11-24T08:17:00.001-08:002011-11-24T08:23:12.137-08:00ThanksgivingAs the last of fall leaves the trees,<br />
As rain soaks into every pore of every inch of bark,<br />
As the moss renews its strength and the wind turns southward,<br />
I say a silent "thank you" to the walls of my home that hold in the warmth of the people within them.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUPE-H7i2sl9hlmhrgsZiUKjnggOiVKyXjzy12W6ryuf4RwJP7H4dvseKWkDitgKLyB9VUgbkuBFKS8-C7yDc7TUC4-DcpbZ2mvZ_xomDmVNCYiP7cHAEObuVABHYNHDDzw1s0Lg-wkrHj/s1600/IMG_0446.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUPE-H7i2sl9hlmhrgsZiUKjnggOiVKyXjzy12W6ryuf4RwJP7H4dvseKWkDitgKLyB9VUgbkuBFKS8-C7yDc7TUC4-DcpbZ2mvZ_xomDmVNCYiP7cHAEObuVABHYNHDDzw1s0Lg-wkrHj/s320/IMG_0446.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-89547092307201722022011-08-06T08:51:00.000-07:002011-08-06T08:51:58.288-07:00MeowPush, pull, the heels dig in, pushing back<br />
<div>The hands push forward and down</div><div>Pushing through fields of words</div><div>Through fields of who I think I am and who I am not. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Treading waves of time</div><div>An attempt at an immortal "Ungh." </div><div>A soft plop that is a child of mine</div><div>Slipping from between me</div><div>For you</div><div><br />
</div><div>Some creation of mine</div><div>That is also me</div><div>That can be yours</div><div><br />
</div><div>But I need to keep it safe, </div><div>Keep it locked between the folds of </div><div>Who I am</div><div>Who I want to be</div><div>That's not me</div><div>That's between us</div><div>Secrets that are intimately yours, mine, ours</div><div>That they validate</div><div>They stamp with approval</div><div>That we don't need </div><div>And that we do need. </div><div><br />
</div><div>A labor of my guts, my womb, </div><div>My hands and my intellect. </div><div>A child that cries into your arms</div><div>That leaps from me</div><div>While clawing it's way through me</div><div>Into me</div><div>From me</div><div>Exquisitely me</div><div>Delicious and bile</div><div>And ephemerally heavy</div><div>Without form</div><div>Without function</div><div>Without your approval</div><div>With your approval please</div><div>I yearn for you to embrace it</div><div>To embrace me. </div><div><br />
</div><div>To share with you is to understand</div><div>Myself. </div><div>To show you the dreams of a child</div><div>Alone in her closet</div><div>With her fears</div><div>Her mistrust</div><div>To block out the noise</div><div>To find that place within that feels solid</div><div>That doesn't exist</div><div>But has a voice</div><div>That asks for you to hear </div><div>What you can't hear</div><div>What you can't see</div><div>What you can't feel</div><div>But leaves its impression on your hands</div><div>Heavy with guilt, love, the ecstasy of finding that inner place. </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-62297797467169492132011-08-06T01:28:00.000-07:002011-08-06T01:28:31.864-07:00LateNight<br />
Late<br />
Sleep just ahead of me,<br />
Ever ahead of me,<br />
On the horizon<br />
Out of reach<br />
Out of step with me.<br />
<br />
Trying to catch up keeps me awake,<br />
keeps me up, reaching forward.<br />
<br />
If I could just stop to let it catch up.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-56059238289927290292011-07-26T14:48:00.000-07:002011-07-26T14:50:57.400-07:00Give Me PauseSo often in my day at work I scramble from one issue to the next. I find myself being pulled from a tough negotiation with a vendor to the next second (literally) talking to a family about their child's prognosis. This emotional gymnastics often leaves me wishing for a pause. A moment to breathe. A break. A long vacation to restore my energy, my drive, and most of all my patience and caring. Today I received a moment that gave me pause, but not in the form I had expected. <br />
<br />
Most days I am a beacon of hope, always with a smile and talking about how so many of our kids leave here getting better. Today a photo album of past guests was placed in front of me. As I looked through the first few pages, my eyes stopped on a young man that I had met. (Often I only get to meet parents and siblings.) I wondered to myself when he was going to return as they had made frequent visits. Then I remembered that he unexpectedly died last year. He wouldn't be back. I had to stop looking through the album. <br />
<br />
This could be depressing, this could leave me numb for the rest of the day. Instead, it gave me pause. Made me stop for a moment and remember what we mean to each other and how much each little act of kindness can mean. It's easier to stop, slow down, remember "what's important" when a moment like this comes your way. <br />
<br />
I could still cry though. Inside I say a little thank you to this young man, a little, you are missed and your short life made a difference in the fabric of the universe. Your absence is noticed.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-51721996112629380612011-06-27T20:29:00.000-07:002011-06-28T21:51:41.788-07:00Water For TeaSteep<br />
Endurance<br />
Water<br />
<br />
My collage tells you this. Tells you there are many layers; stories behind people, behind mountains.<br />
Simple things, simple times, complex relationships.<br />
Long journeys.<br />
Water<br />
<br />
Pulling colors, smells, essences<br />
From little pieces of who we are.<br />
<br />
You are the water.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-43733658748143594662011-06-10T07:38:00.000-07:002011-06-10T07:38:27.368-07:00LeviedPregnant rivers <br />
waiting to breach<br />
earthen mounds.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-27885271313817850962011-05-06T08:00:00.000-07:002011-05-06T08:00:36.562-07:00Hope and HumorWaiting for tea water to boil in the early morning, I hear stories of an 8 year old who just lost a third of her lung to cancer. The doctor said she wouldn't be running any marathons soon. Dad laughs that he didn't say "ever." He shares that a coworker is running a marathon for her. Dad tells me they were told she has two years to live at one point. He was devastated when she asked if she could work here when she grows up. Then he sighs with relief as he says, "Now let's get her an application." He believes she will be fine, she has a future and she is one tough cookie. <br />
<br />
This is what I have learned here in six and a half years. If I can have learned only one thing it is the most important. You can get through anything with hope and humor. Anything.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-87869753670527754172011-04-27T08:40:00.000-07:002011-04-27T08:40:40.416-07:00Mississippi Avenue Spring 2Two perfect pictures.<br />
Two windows to get lost in.<br />
One pink, the other teal.<br />
Do I like them because they look like prints I've seen?<br />
Or do I want to make them prints other people see?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxboOMHGW_WKCxDqjrOKYeBXaZVeQp8CUdQaodpOmiyr93SvxpC-SahNL9yuC7W4FZXk11oCb-2Z1f106SAKuVf2JwRU1HQhIq4Uz1phKdRlS0d7_upYN5xnl245lVG7hfks7zyXiZNb5q/s1600/Mississippi+Spring+Tree+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxboOMHGW_WKCxDqjrOKYeBXaZVeQp8CUdQaodpOmiyr93SvxpC-SahNL9yuC7W4FZXk11oCb-2Z1f106SAKuVf2JwRU1HQhIq4Uz1phKdRlS0d7_upYN5xnl245lVG7hfks7zyXiZNb5q/s320/Mississippi+Spring+Tree+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-43064198153406385332011-04-26T19:12:00.000-07:002011-04-26T19:12:01.381-07:00Mississippi Avenue SpringSitting silently staring off into space.<br />
They talk to each other from either side of me.<br />
Spring tree outside the window contrasts nicely with the building wall color across the street from it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cf8YVzX_8UxAqNuu6r0X7bV5nB_n5SbGe-wurRKVeAJHpgUkeXE5TnJFyNxNIHofmNDHt5YOsrFDj5wkicTPPNhGnxi6zj2KRv4_aGzRcItMFlHXG7G-zhuQIWqxTjtOOZ-Gonte4X_g/s1600/Mississippi+Ave+Spring+Tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cf8YVzX_8UxAqNuu6r0X7bV5nB_n5SbGe-wurRKVeAJHpgUkeXE5TnJFyNxNIHofmNDHt5YOsrFDj5wkicTPPNhGnxi6zj2KRv4_aGzRcItMFlHXG7G-zhuQIWqxTjtOOZ-Gonte4X_g/s320/Mississippi+Ave+Spring+Tree.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2369099727941063428.post-80832172167972671252011-04-20T18:51:00.000-07:002011-06-10T07:49:17.690-07:007 Year CurseFor about seven years in my early thirties I experienced a case of writer's block. I don't mean that I had trouble getting started on projects or finishing them, I just didn't write - no, couldn't write. Of course I kept up with the minimum that was required of me at my non-writing job. But I did almost nothing else. Up to that point, I had kept a journal since I was about 10 or so. Not a dear diary, locked account of crushes and fights with my mother (although those fights were in there aplenty). No, it was more of an OCD act. So to not be able to do this was excruciating, soul crushing.<br />
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When I was four I would play "writing" - I LOVED to pretend I was writing in cursive even before I could write the entire alphabet in print. When I finished my first journal I had a visceral need to keep writing. I have referred to it as diarrhea of the brain. Some people compulsively eat, or exercise or watch sports or masturbate, I wrote.<br />
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I also "arteested" as my dad referred to it. I liked to create things with my hands from salt goop and then I graduated to paint. I made abstract paintings, terrible impressionist pieces, and papier-mache masks that I adhered to canvases and painted with acrylics. My favorite thing was to turn up some Madonna or Christian rock (yup, that's right) or U2 really loud on my Walkman and have a Jackson Pollock session spattering paint onto a canvass. God love my mother, she was very anal about many things but for some reason she let me get away with this. Eventually the music progressed to Jane's Addiction, Husker Du, and Nine Inch Nails.<br />
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Through college I continued both these things. I took art classes and learned to draw with charcoals, blowing coal snot out of my nose after class and feeling this made me a "real" artist. I rabidly filled journal after journal. I got to the point where I had a favorite brand journal and I could look for weeks for this cheap, lined notebook if it wasn't at the first store I went to. I had to have just the right pen too, which was also fortunately cheap.<br />
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I got into block printing and spent my summers out of college out in the sun making prints in my Danskos and my grandma's old butcher apron. I felt very chic when I found a nice broad brimmed straw hat. It didn't hurt that my apartment overlooked a beautiful blue bay and islands.<br />
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At the same time I started writing prose poetry. Some of which I still go back to and, for me alone, it puts me right into that place again. I even submitted some of my art to campus art shows and staff art shows. Some of it well received and some of it, rushed crap that barely got a nod. I enjoyed it though. I sold a piece once. $50 and a spaghetti dinner. I'm sure that ended up in a garage sale and eventually the dump. I think it was more of a pass at me than an actual appreciation for my art.<br />
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I also believed completely in suffering for art. Not like "not making money at a regular job and devoting oneself to art" kind of suffering that might actually produce an artist in the end. No, much more practical and seriously more masochistic. I believed that the depression I had suffered since I was about 8 or so was a source of my creative urges and that they would dry up if ever I ceased to suffer. I have also never felt like what I create is worth anything to anyone but me and so I've always known I need a full-time paying job that is "serious" - preferably something good enough for a saint, martyr, monk... Something good for society. Like being a library page, grant writer, filing bitch at a non-profit or a data nerd at a non-profit.<br />
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Then I went through a mildly nasty divorce, came out as a lesbian, suffered a blocked artery in my left eye that left me with a permanent blind spot in the center of my vision, and I sucked big time at writing my Master's thesis. Oh the dreaded thesis. Nothing in my life has ever made me less sure of myself, less sure of my ability to write, less sure of my ability to create, than that fucking thesis. It didn't help that for a time I wasn't able to look at anything within 4 feet of my face for more than 10 minutes without falling asleep for a couple of hours. (That's what it was like getting my brain retrained to see a whole picture without a blaring white spot in it. By picture, I mean someones face, an oncoming car, my cat, my girlfriend's face - all just one big white spot like you'd stared at a light bulb and then looked away.)<br />
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Then the dreaded writer's block hit me. Not all at once, but pretty close. I think it was the first time I was told to "try again" on my thesis that really started it. Then there was the article I "co-authored." I put little quote marks up there because, although I helped develop the structure, content and many of the key ideas in the article, even my own quote was initially rewritten. (But yes, this one article does make me a published author by the way.) That was it, that was the hammer on my voice that I had never before realized was so frail. Nail in the coffin that is. Almost overnight I found myself straining to do anything but stare at the grotesque, awful, disaster that was supposed to be my crowning glory, my going out with a bang, 120 page thesis. This Rosemary's baby from hell hung over me, dug it's claws into my back, squirreled it's way into my head, stole part of my soul, and - silence. No writing. No journaling, no art, no block prints, nothing. Not even Green Day or Red Hot Chili Peppers could jump start me.<br />
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I was devastated and convinced that the loss of my vision, my ability to read (which like breathing to me and crucial for the academic I thought I was becoming) meant that I was on the wrong life path. Especially when combined with the "straw man" comments my thesis was garnering. My total identity was in shambles. If I couldn't write, who was I?<br />
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This dry spell lasted for approximately seven years, which now I can interpret as having been related to breaking a mirror and not my self worth. Right? No actually, the end of the drought has more to do with sewing and Facebook. I took up sewing about a year ago because a friend gave me her old machine for free. Knowing nothing about sewing except that it requires a needle, some thread and fabulous fabrics, I felt free to create anything I wanted -because I didn't know what I was doing I knew my projects couldn't turn out perfect. I couldn't get stuck in technicalities and my own judgement. How freeing!<br />
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Then one of my friends urged me to start a blog as I kept filling up the Facebook limits. Probably he just wanted to keep my absurdly long posts off his homepage without defriending me. (Thank you for not blocking me Jason - smiley emoticon.) Either way the end result is now the start of my fourth blog. Because I am back to diarrhea of the brain friend. The seven year curse is broken.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com