Friday, August 23, 2013
My mind still spins with thoughts of people I met, what I want to do now, how I will put into practice my new and old and middle ideas. Integrate the past with the present to create my future. Do I go to the writing conference I had planned in September? Do I stay near home and take a day away and write? And my journal class, how will I market that? How can I help others? What about my writing? Do I continue onward with the new work or revise and resubmit the older work? Will I ever find that one other? I wonder about so many things. And in the wonder there is life. The sun sets every night, but the sun rises every morning. The sun rises every morning and the sun sets every night. What different ways to look at the world it seems. I prefer the former. I like the end to lead to a new beginning. A week ago I lived in a special place with special people who I wish to keep connected in my life. My time with them in that special place came to an end, but for me that ending created the start. My questions push me forward. The answers will come eventually, whether in the sunset or the sunrise.
Monday, August 19, 2013
I'm on the train, it's seven hours late, but I don't mind, it's process time. I've been away from my home for just a day more than a week and I have to look at a calendar to prove that. The neverland of my time was Ghost Ranch, where the clouds are three dimensional (and hanging in the sky is not a cliche), the sky is ocean clean deep blue, and the friendships created are more than circumstantial friends. We have shared this time, this space, and the hundred or so of us, have formed a bond in that, through mosquito bites and camp food and rustic sleeping arrangements and talking and listening and smiling and being. While personal, the experience is a collective energy that enhances and challenges each of us. We are writers, no matter of production, or resume, or degrees, or kinds, or speed, or place, or purpose. We have connected, we are connected. Hope is our focus. To carry this place, these people forward, longer than the mosquito bites itch, is my intent, for this is to my benefit, to our benefit. Our lives have touched, I am enriched. Our shadows are still there on the land, our ghosts, to add to the many who once having been there, leaving something, taking something. Connecting.
Friday, August 9, 2013
I remember when I was in Washington and was walking up a path into the woods by myself. I was taking pictures of light and shade and plants and trees and flowers and hoping to see a bee or two and try to capture that in a photograph. I started to walk straight up the hill and when I came to a path on the right I kept walking straight. I am a go-left person. Political? The right path didn’t appeal to me. I proceeded up the fairly steep hill. If I spoke like a mathematician or an engineer I'd offer a degree to the incline, but to me, steep. I knew because I felt the burn in my calves.
Dense stands of trees lined both sides of the path subduing the sunlight. I like sunlight. I saw no one and suddenly wondered if this was a safe path to take. I decided to go to the next curve of the path. In front of me lay another steeper incline, more trees, and another curve much further up the road. Feeling alone, frustrated, and now a bit unsafe, I turned back towards the other path. As I approached it from uphill, this path was now the right path, because it was on the left. I turned and followed the more gentle slope up and up. I paused taking pictures on the more sun-filled trail. I followed the path to the top, where I stood overlooking the Straits of Juan de Fuca, overlooking the lighthouse. I smiled, sunlight enveloping me, on the bluff.
My pondering often leads me up a steep hill where I pass by the right path, ignoring it because I don’t prefer the right path. If I’d just let the pondering go underground, away from conscious thought, if I’d just be patient and have faith, I might just get the feeling that I need to turn around and go back down the hill and take the path on the left. After all, it just may be the right path.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
We used to chant: “Monkey’s in the court, speak, monkey speak,” when I was with my friends. Every must get quiet and then finally one person would say something and no one could interrupt. Who were the original monkeys, I wonder.
I interpreted the monkeys on a log, with their piercing red-rimmed eyes, as “Don’t look, don’t listen, don’t talk.” My learned home language was interpretive informational, and that was my interpretation of the monkeys on a log. Although it really didn’t make sense until one of my friends said, “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.” Then the monkeys made sense. As did the understanding of why the chained together monkeys on a log were humorous to me. Even at that age I understood there was no way to avoid evil, whether seen, heard, or spoken.
When I was looking around for ‘stuff’ to add to my courtyard garden, I saw the trolls, remembered the monkeys and the saying, remembered how they’d made me smile and hoped they would add not only good luck but a bit of humor to my garden. They’re so kick back and chillin’. Not only their eyes but their faces are impish and holding back, not holding out. Not so scary-funny as the monkeys. Makes it difficult to believe that these trolls actually would ever be able to not do what they profess to do. The hear no evil troll probably listens to a lot of hot gossip. The see no evil troll spends his nights in the strip clubs, peeking through his fingers. The speak no evil troll lets his misspeaks dribble out of the side of his mouth so that his friends are constantly asking him what he said.Besides keeping the trolls hanging out above the pond for luck and humor, they’re there to remind me that even though evil exists, it can be met with impishness and a smile. I hear it, I see it, I speak it, I’m not perfect. I can put my hand over my ears and it becomes muffled and I have to strain to hear it. I can put my hand over my eyes and it becomes blurry within a smaller frame, but I can still see it. I can put my hands over my mouth, but the words come through my fingers. Sometimes words may be confusing. Sometimes they may appear meaningless. I hope they won’t be interpreted as evil. But sometimes they may be humorous. I want to see, hear and speak and then I want to write so that my audience can respond. In the response, comes the beginning of a dialog.