Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Then the time came when on and off no longer worked. I yearned to be on all the time, to bring the book to the finish line and hand it to whomever would help bring it into the world. So I jumped into the unknown, knowing only the passion I felt and the rightness of following a path that did not yet exist.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
I am learning how to love myself, my knuckles,
the veins behind my knees, the way I clear
my throat too often and am impatient with my children
especially the youngest who was not expected to live—
cut downs in his wrists and ankles, plastic tubes through
his nostrils—the stigmata still there, the dots and dashes
like secret zippers in his flesh.
I am learning to love my unpredictable digestion, the pain
I cannot reach inside my knees, the grossly uneven balance
of good intentions to deeds carried out.
I am loving the hardening of my thighs when I stride
on the too busy street I live on, inhaling the silence
between cars that rush by as if they were on fire.
I am teaching judgment to bend his stiff knees.
I apologize less for being alive, for leaving food crusted
on the forks I’ve washed, for too many or too few
commas when I write, for parents who speak with accents
thick as soup and beliefs they didn’t mean to use like whips.
I watch my gratitude swell like the moon. I keep company
with respect, accept—even see the charm—in my outdated
wardrobe, the seduction of time, that rascal death.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
How did I get this idea for a blog? Spontaneously at midnight last night. Well that's technically not how, but when. Maybe the better question is "why?"
It's easier to write fearlessly and shamelessly, being nobody special rather than aspiring to be somebody wearing this or that hat, having this or that degree, expertise, notoriety. I have all of the above: Hats. Degrees. Expertise. I also probably have a small measure of Notoriety, or at least a small reputation for my writing groups with children these past 27 years—and with adults for the past 10+. But where were we? Yes, I remember. I can already tell that writing as nobody special makes it easier to let what wants to flow from me flow—without what I share being anything special at all. This is just my take, my gratitudes, my praise of the holy everywhere, musing, sorting, contemplating out loud in hearing range of anyone who happens to drop by. If I am nobody special, and I am, then the critics can pack their bags and go find someone who IS striving, who they can compare to authorities in her field or whatever else they do. (Really, I am probably tricking my own inner judges; I drop off their radar when I am not efforting to be, say, or do something special.) It's just me reaching from my heartmind with words to yours. A kind of bridge. A bridge that is no architectural feat. A bridge that is nothing special except that all bridges are by nature something special. I say that because anything that spans distances and makes it easier to meet, or simply to get from one side to another, IS indeed something special.