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wishing flower, vulnerable and beautiful

Let’s just say, I’m not an early morning girl.  Those who know me appreciate this and quietly leave me alone until I’ve had a chance to emerge from my pre-coffee zombie state.  However, there is a bird glee club that begins at about 3:30, yes in the morning.  It’s lovely and melodic; leaving me no choice but to listen.  Translated, this means I’ve been up before my norm.  The youthful hours are warm, but fresh; they beg for a walk, and so does Isabella.
Yesterday was a little cooler so our pace was speedy, at least for my little legs.  We passed cars and bushes and bugs zipping around … and the rejected weed.

pulled up by its roots discarded wishing flower tossed aside left at the edge of the sidewalk
the sun beat down life ebbing from the slender stalk, leaves drying, privately curling desperate to hold onto being
funny, how I noticed the thrown-away on a morning walk my thought to stop and pick up the mopped, fluffy head
full of wispy seeds of would-be, it held a fundamental artistry lying i…
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a tale from foxtail

fox glides, low to the ground                       sly, inquisitive, resourceful creatures solitary, bronzed and ruddy with flashing eyes        bushy tail dipped in white  forest home or urban domain                                      fox, a nocturnal pilgrim
Summer has afforded me an opportunity to move about aimlessly; not quite a coddiwomple, but sort of. This week, I found myself writing and sipping iced chai at Foxtail Bakery. Let's just say the cookies were perfect and divine; I was completely tempted to purchase more pastries than I should. 

There's a tall counter with white-backed stools and a big garage door to let in light and fresh air. Picture windows face the street. Cars buzz by. Black and white striped umbrellas twirl like the tutu of a ballerina.

Assorted tables and chairs in turquoise and orange fill the space, along with a low-slung wooden table and bistro chairs. Some new-school rattan is thrown in for good measure. It's comfortable and alive.


A larger-tha…

sandy path birthday

I often write things on a particular day, and don't post them for a while, or even at all. For the most part, I'll change the tense so the words are relevant. This however, is basically an unedited version of what I wrote in my journal after walking the circles in the sand:


Today is my birthday. It's not just another birthday, for on this particular of everyday, ordinary days, I turned 60. It's not a little number anymore, but it's also not as big as some to come.

I wasn't sure what to do with the responsibility of reaching this point. It could be an "I'll wear purple and learn to spit" kind of day; conceivably an introspective, meditative time or a big hoopla, firecrackers blasting, but that's saved for Lady Liberty.

None of the above seemed quite me, so I chose to walk a sandy path labyrinth. I find walking a labyrinth to be inspiring, peaceful and moving. It's a time to celebrate and nurture the body, soul and spirit.


I'd seen a speci…

mesmerized by bird netting

Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.  - Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

She sat
Mesmerized by bird netting
Dropped over the garden and fruit trees
It glistened in the sun and moved gracefully in the breeze
So did the leaves on the pear tree
Morning gentleness as birds made known the day
Along with the quaking sound of Aspen

Her coffee cup empty
With a stained ring and splash down the side
Notebook and pen left untouched
She stood to tend pots of pink geraniums
A train horn sounded from somewhere
The neighbor's dog barked
Her brown dog lay quietly by the purple table 

Brushing hair out of her face
Worn hands on her hips, she took stock of her ward and smiled



Morning is my time for prayer, meditation and basically waking myself up to the day. I like it quiet and undisturbed. No voices. No talking. No answering. Simply quiet and undisturbed.

In the summer, I find one of our Adirondack chairs to be the perfect spot. They sit away from the house against …

dust

Living in Central Oregon, one becomes accustomed to living with dust. Our semi-arid climate has a sandy, powder-like soil which appears to grow rocks.

How do you grow rocks? I don't know, but it happens. 
When I'm cleaning and dusting for the umpteenth time I don't recognize dust for the artistry it can become. Beauty is and always has been created from dust. Pottery, paint and even facial treatments come from dust. And we don't think a thing about slapping a mud mask on to tighten our pours or take care of a bee sting.

I asked myself an elementary question: What does dust do?

it clings and covers       blows around seeps in cracks and crevises                          permeates it stays and is ever-present       dust is not a respecter of objects it collects, hides       fine, gritty, powder-like in the air     on faces and boots feet and hands             surfaces, plants and trees dust is
As soon as dust lands, it's blown elsewhere or washed away. Wouldn't it be mind-alte…

where that place used to be

Just over four years ago, my guy and I traveled to Lakeport, California where I was born. I hadn't been there since I was 12. As we walked and drove around, I had this weird déjà vu, I-remember-this-place thing happening. I tried to find my paternal grandparents home, but where that placed used to be no longer existed. Instead, there was an empty lot with only a block retaining wall still standing. The big cedar tree was there, strong and tall.



where that place used to be is now a vacant lot a crumbling retaining wall borders the edge remnants of an old barbecue, a bird bath weeds and a few scraggly shrubs an old rose with scant petals, but many hips
when I closed my eyes, it all returned the white two-story house with kitchen at the back wooden screen door that slammed as kids ran in and out potato salad and chicken fried up in a big cast iron skillet laundry hung on the whirly line in the yard
at noon the firehouse siren would sound we'd run in maniac circles until the noise stopped a b…

stalk, street art

he lumbered down the alley, casting a long stalk of a shadow hat brim twice over his ears, he whistled a tune one of those you should know, but can't quite put your finger on strolling out-of-sight, his image lingered

The photo is street art. It was my muse for this short scribbled poem. The prompt was "stalk." As soon as I read the word, I remembered this picture, snapped on an aimless walk through the Alberta Arts area of Portland. 

Did you know there's a really cool word - coddiwomple - that means to travel in a purposeful manner towards a vague destination? 
Yeah, a friend shared that with me awhile back, and I've been waiting for an opportune time to use it. Somehow, though, I think it will be worthy of a complete blog, in and of itself.


I find street art to be poignant. It tells a story, even scrawled graffiti. 
The spray-can wielding individual had something to say. And whether you agree with his method or not, the message was painted for viewing.

Where I live,…

it's holy week

It's Holy Week, and I don't feel very "holy." 

Things are coming apart and are broken. There's a friend whose husband has been dealing with serious health issues for a few years. A family who lost a dear loved one and marriage struggles for other friends. My job is coming to an end. And, heck just don't even bother to watch the news.

It's Holy Week, and why don't I feel "holy?" 

Because I'm consumed by what I see and what's happening all around me. Lives are shattered into mosaic pieces. And, I desperately need the One who controls life and breath and everything else to put the pieces together.

When I think of the word holy, visions of a perfect, devout person comes to mind; someone like Mother Theresa or St. Augustine. They probably didn't feel holy either. Stuff happened around them as well. I don't have a corner on the market for crap going on.

You want to know what holiness is really about? 

Look at Jesus. He was a normal guy …