That Wind!

Well it stopped last night, that wind. 

Had whipped my not so long hair around my face like an unsuccessful lasso and I couldn't see. 

Frothy dead grass at my feet and I stumbled to the hose by feel. Don't trip!!

Drying the sunflowers I plant in waves of days starting in May. All that trouble, all that water and now a month of maturing stair step heights of sunflowers looking down, so heavy, for birds to jostle with others, upside down, for maturing seeds. The stems are trunks, won't compost well, but hold the heaviest, swelling fallen faces, so heavy, threatening to crash down in the wind. And sometimes there they are, when you follow the stepping stones around the corner, down.

I'm done now in September. I get hot, tired and depressed of the garden. And wind blown. But there are still some blooming sunflowers and tomatoes and weird curling up snake like cucumbers. 

Refusing to die to wind or heat.

Pots with no plants.

In the heat, roots, shrunk and stiff, struggle.
Just a sip of wet would do.
"This is not the time for watering."
The pronouncement like a belfry bell:
"Dead!", ten times.

Wells running low, threatening to go dry and sandy.

Sooty with gritty, fine sand mud.

Look. Turn out and dump the pot to see worms in the night cool.
The under-surface dampness is inviting.

Fat on the Stew

Sometimes there I sit, with the past. 
With the beyond and with the present, clear and crisp. 
The past is thick and greasy 
as fat floating on the surface of the stew.
Salty.
The present cool, stolid. 
Parts of the same soup, heating up to one, 
while I sit with both, 
breathing in, 
tasting.

Don't Tell Me

Don't try to tell me it'll all be all right because I slipped on a puddle of butterfly liquid; even though they don't really need our  food due to the fact that there are flowers blooming everywhere but just in case we keep the feeder full; and then fell awkwardly onto all fours and sprained that ligament goes from the foot to the ankle to the hip to shoulder to the wrist and that shoulder is already very sore because I almost dropped Thomas, but used all my strength and pulled my shoulder keeping him safe as he fell. Don't tell me I can't ride because I can't pull myself up, we'll figure a way. But this balancing problem; it's like balancing my life vs sanity. don't tell me I'm not depressed and wobbly and tired. Don't say it because you know it.

Sense

l can't seem to make Sense of it all.
So different than I had envisioned. 
Even as a child Even as a teenager. Even as an adult.
Even as old.

Would Sense include Dreams?
Or Wants or Needs or Sperm Whales Sleeping?

Just as I Am, Billy Graham sang.
Just as I am, yes, to the sky and He so open armed, I am, 
but someone else is making more sense?

don't think,
don't act,
don't move,
and fundamentally, finally 
don't talk.

If only I could stop all this thinking, maybe I could stop this telling.
Telling about the house dream and the round love dream.

Quiet isn't MY goal!
Not when I remember the sperm whales video.
Oh, NO.

The Beach

The Beach

I dreamt of the sea

where we used to go.

My father’s house,

Then my mother’s house.

Then someone, I don’t know,

who didn’t tear it down for a mansion.

Could’ve,

with the money it cost at the end of us.

But left it.

I dream often, of the front, long beach.

stretching out so far

into the waves.

It’s warm, the air, the sand, in my dreams.

Even the water.

I swim in the big soft waves, not terrifying,

as they would  really be.

Wonderfully warm and familiar.

I duck so to not be hammered down

to the creamy sand, often looking so innocent, 

not as in a dream reality,

heavy, slamming,

hard as a rock.

Even a tidal wave, a huge dangerous wave,

transparent turquoise and cream foaming,

somehow roars high over the house,

Gently. Then gone, as if not really there.

But I am quietly happy.

To be at the beach

Looking for my mom

Looking out for my dad

My sister beautiful brown and laughing.

My brother kind and surfing.

Then the dream turns to my oldest sibling,
dream ending,

taking care of the lunatic in the house at night in summer with phosphorescence. 

Maybe now the dreams will stop.

But I will miss their gentle warm lacy place.

retiring pressure

Where is peace in solitude?
Where is the travel, the joy?
The neat and tidy?

I can't find it in dark, worrying.
promises each night,
then each morning,
then after I water, check my phone, sew, craft, read, rest, pick up the remote.

Household promises left undone.

Ow, muscles tense, ache, grow weak.
Thinking slows, time draws long into dusk.

Work?
But nothing seems doable to an old woman.

So I rest.
after I water,
after computer,
after sewing,
after pens and glue,
after reading,
after rest.

Appreciation for those little ones saves that day, then I rest again.

64

doing nothing?
I'm told it is my prerogative. 

I got a tiny, syrupy taste of grace,
doing nothing for freedom's sake.

shame hardens like old frosting.
fear cuts a big piece out of birthday cake.

who will pay our day to day?
someone says he will, spouts numbers,
pleased with investments in Wall Street.

Doctor for 20.
Rx for 10.
1500 or more extra

House in 7 yrs 
except to insure

AARP:
"Social Security prevents starved, homeless,
not all of it."

In my head scary scenes wind up into stringy, random balls of yarn 
until the room is filled.
becomeing heavy,
matted weight gathering light til it's dark.
I'm mashed.
each day.
yearning for sweets.


 

A feeling, often called bored, is not.

It's not the correct descriptive adjective for the feeling called:

Bored.

Sitting around.
Donnwanna read,
donnwanna go somewhere,
donnwanna do anything.

My head is so bored I can't even concentrate on daydreams.
They seem to be flipping in my heart like old tvs in the 50's.
Flipping and static turn darker when the early evening descends,
announcing a flimsy end to a whole day wasted.
Through the day the fog hovered behind my eyes like a coming migraine,
and now settles on shoulders, sore for ages, shoulders getting worse,
probably needing a doctor's attention.
But that's too boring to care.

So, boring is not so boring.
Rather tense, looming, bitter.
Reeking of failure.

Looking forward to 8:00.
Earliest I can go to bed with no one knowing.

I'm miserable.

My Brother asked, does your Everything Hurt?

I've been thinking

*Shoulder hurts.relax body
ice
Tylenol

*heart hurts.
let go
breathe
be here now

*Head blurry.
rest
accept

*Fingertips tingling.
don't worry
don't dwell

*Forgetful.
so what

*Indecisive.
who cares, I'm retired

*Moody.
settle and rest
meditate that
I'm loved beyond all understanding.

*Procrastinating.
make a list
do the first thing

Not the worst week, but

Can I just say this?
I did not go to the hospital.

1. did not have work
2. did not have children to take care of
3. have an amazing, understanding, supportive husband
4. friends helped me hang on. listened to me cry, to my memories
5. understood CPSTD and brain scars from childhood maltreatment
6. knew meds could solve the breakdown
7. went horseback riding

I think if I stayed home, didn't do anything, I'd be ok.
That's what I think, that's what I want sometimes, 
Fool that I am, fool.

I am mentally ill.
I never have said it.

Breaking through denial hurts,
but there it is.

We Wait and We Wait

Then the thing rushes in at us, 
thick as fog, green as a storm. 

I did so well for so long. 
Since Thanksgiving.
Cold hard water troughs had to be hammered to let the water up for the birds.
Rain was cold and frost was jagged.

Solstice swept in with summer heat, then back to rain, 
dripping sprinkles light enough for a new lawn. 
So many birds feasting on grass seed 
that a second bag must be sown, then even more.

Each day we watched the tiny green blades fight towards the light. We stared and watched, finally letting it be,
knowing green blades would fill in, 
eventually was filling in in bare spots. 

Birds drifted away when their wild birdseed was not refilled.
We checked morning, noon and night...the growth is infinitesimal.
The gophers try to move the house.
Time is on their side.

Rain pours and pours and a foot step sinks,
a collapsed tunnel, now a low spot.
And a muddy shoe trips...a lumpy mole hill.
This kind of sturdy grass creeps on, growing through mowing, through muck.

That patch is not a lawn at all finally.
No flat to be seen, but not quite dirt either.
Land. Field. Yard. Driveway. Cold before Christ's birthday.
We live here? Right here? Garbage cans at the driveway?

I know childhood eyes can't see their older adulthood. Not even adults can; can't see nights spent drowsing, snapping to conclusions,
then drift again to a restless sleep until the next wondering wakes us. 
Sick with fear, colored blinding magnesium. So hot I'm shivering.

This year, last year, all the years; traditions.

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A while ago

A while ago I wrote the post below.
Now,
it is the third day after Thanksgiving,
in  a different year.
And,
I think I need a heart and head massage
and a back massage probably.

Do you think if I had a broken leg 
there would be anyone rushing over,
longing for, reaching out,
dying for connections?

Nah, I'm annoying.
But also wonderful.
Sometimes when I've annoyed,
I wish I'd been wonderful.

There was a heavy, soggy stick Penny chased into the ocean.
She keeps loping out farther than ever!
then races back to us with or without the stick,
in absolute joy!

My gray matter has scars that cause fear, loneliness.
I need to rest in that loneliness, 
not fight because it's inoperable
a physiological part of me,
and admit 
that Penny has been waiting for me,
quietly on the couch, 
for hours.

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I'm writing 

I'm writing on a Christmas card
the third night after Christmas,
because it's strewn here by my bedside
in a pile of unattended stuff. 
Everywhere you look in this house 
is unattended stuff.

I suppose I should be ashamed -don't care -
I want to care, that could lead to attempted cleanup.

This stuff will unwind itself eventually.
New Year's Eve is my goal.

This communicating thing. Can't do it.
Texts come though the phone with exclamation marks,
meaning what? 
I keep mine to "I love you!".

My fear was confirmed today: family not answering the phone.
Do they want to control the conversation, will not communicate now.
Will not.
Will not call back.
Will demand memorization of all emails, texts.
Will pout with disdain if I forget.


I'm scattered and unattending on a calm day. Forgetting is my bane.

I believe this with all my heart, God help me act.

Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

* Kahlil Gibran was a Lebanese American artist, poet and a writer.

Shame for Worrying

Who worries for nothing?

I've worried for so many things. So many to count.

Mom said, 
"You're the only one I don't wake up for at night and worry about."
Worry as a compliment?
As love?

I only heard "The one I don't wake up for."

What comes from worry?
Not much,
unless it's accompanied by careful, calm thought.


No, usually it's frantic, like the tree next door,
that grew too large, with it's brutal red leaves,
shutting out the sky blue and sun,
long branches whipping in a good strong wind,
with no purpose except perhaps a warning: 

"Danger, it's chaos out here!"

hurrah

Cheers  for one,
he got the worst and the best.
Deserved peace, but spent so many years
at war with indecency and fear, brutality.

Not chosen,
not deserved, 
not deserved at all.
fighting the indecency that brought us down.
Aren't we, aren't we to fight?

Some will not, 
some can not, 
I'm not sure, but 
as well as they can.
Some will keep the balance 
as hard as they can!
as hard as they can.

Don't stop, you who were knocked down.
And we won't!

He reaches, and continues to reach for the right.
Sharing it when received.
Zig zagging out of the wrong 
as fast as he can!
as fast as he can.

We did our best, they say,
crawling til walking
then running in joy.


Some came who could, who would.
Some could not come, 
or, wouldn't, 
I'm not sure, but
we all tried as we could,
we tried as we would.

Time now rests on laurels.
Laurels on a rested head.
He stands now as he wished, and wishes.
Let the wounded go on now.
Let us each go on ahead,
And we go by, into what's right.

Hurrah for the man who
directed the war 
led and fell back
leading the wounded,
willing or not.

Trying, looking to good and to right
and then stepping back
when it was time.

don't get close!

...
Losing two doggies,
one sick, one old,
is no picnic lunch at the beach

with a table cloth to cover the sand,

big rocks holding down the pretty print,
sand blows and sticks to the food
no matter what measures taken.

See poetic avoidance?
Get to it.

I KNEW:
no more dogs!

Think of the freedom...no dog sitters for vacations.
no dog hair.
no dog worries.
no dog attachment.

Why look in the news ads for puppies.
Makes no sense.
Doggies cause TROUBLE.
Doggies cost MONEY.

At the vet, 1 1/2 days in,
we told how Penny
had a sick belly, wouldn't eat
wouldn't drink: especially concerning.
ER Vet said maybe parasites or virus
not worse, probably, hopefully, sick-with-worry-ly.

$$$ spent to buy pup
$$$ money spent to fix pup

There went the freedom from vet debt.
How do you factor money into bonding time?

I thought we'd had enough pain,
enough to know not to get a dog.
..
...

Trying to figure things out...

...is not one of our slogans, I was told.

Why do I ride?
It's lonely without good curious rider friends,
curious about every part of riding. 

Why do I read about architecture?
And the British Monarchy.

Why do I wonder and puzzle over relationships?

Who will call?
Tell me lots of fascinating stories about horses 
and do I want to go riding with them.

Is the purpose to work towards
anything besides improving my skills?
There is only so much intimacy with horse and trainer. 
So solitary, though intimacy is what I crave.

Round and round the arena.
Getting a bit better at balance and posture.
But is there more? A point?

I think this has something do with this year's many endings.
Dogs, trees, hair color.
White hair has me trying to recognize that woman.

And figuring things out leads me astray;
weak with obsession, it pulls me in again.
Shaky hands are proof of failure to comfort.

Baby holds my heart, but she cannot be my all.


I thought I heard a dog sigh tonight.
There was no dog.
There were no children to help with the Christmas tree.


...

Hoarding wonderful things.

Too much things fill my house 
just like my House Dreams, 
just like old memories
filled with people, 
antique toys
and dusty 
furniture. 

Still, there is something 
about each thing 
in my house 
I love. 

Whimsy
Color
Aesthetics
Nature
Odd uses
Childlike
Memories
Beauty
Education

Too many things to contemplate as much as I'd like. In an ancient apple orchard estate lies a fallen gray branchlet on new sandy white dirt just uncovered by a clearing machine, wrapped with attached lichen: two kinds, near dry crinkly rattlesnake rattling-grass.


A handed down whale tooth sketched with marine scrimshaw, an enormous tooth from a mouth so big as to be unimaginable; whether old or new, I don't know; keeping me wondering in who it had resided.


Old lady relations' laced and tatted bed spreads, perhaps homemade, and huge starched linen sheets, whiter than the full moon, made when mattresses were wrapped with only flat sheets, lie folded in the closet for 30 years.


Chopped off whiffs of white, red and blond tresses, dear to me as those upon who's heads they grew, a each wave of hair tied with a ribbon, in a small monogrammed, glass box. these stay.


How can a person yearn for minimalism with these treasures, piled and packed away, saved for best but never be used or touched, or even found? 


And today I brought home a thin, slightly warped, faded old biography of Stradivarius with a cover of now-gold-red; fifty cents of clutter. Fifty cents bringing times of contemplation and information. A treasured heirloom it becomes, call it disorder or not, how do I let it all go?

Crashing the Party without Me

I remember you crashing the party without me.

How absurd to have a party for only the adults, the children are not invited, when the children are twenty to thirty. It's for their father. This prejudice is locked away in brains raised that way. Careful seating to keep Society balanced. No intellectual curiosity, no leaving the generational presence. I thought we had rebelled, sick of the veneer.

Irritated, drunken welcomes for the interlopers, slurring words, wobbling hugs, breath in their face. Would they remember, "I just love you!" because they would mainly love in stupor?

Then I felt left out with doubt and anguish of do they love me. Now I would stride home and close the front door and head out the back to garden in the cold rain, my fresh breath in puffs.