What Came Home with Me on Saturday

I am the unplanned pregnancy in the pet owners world. This makes twice in a year I have ended up with a new cat while not looking for a new cat.

We went into the pet store to see the guinea pigs, to pet the guinea pigs, not adopt a kitten. But there was a rescue service there with 3 young kittens that needed homes. There was a sign on the door that said, "Careful entering, kittens are loose."

I asked, "Are there really kittens running loose?"

She said she'd find one to show us. I told her no need. I told her we were just here to pet the guinea pigs. But she said they were cute.

"Let me find one," she said.

I should have gone running from the store.

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My daughter was with me. She is not anyone who'd persuade me not to take a kitten. She kept coming up with more reasons-- we don't have any girl cats and we need a girl cat. She looks like our old cat Emily. I've never had a kitten before. She's so sweet. She's so little.

I should have gone running from the store. But as usual, I didn't. Instead I wrote the check to the rescue service, left with a bag of food, a new toy, a scratching post no one likes, and a kitten.

She's 14 weeks old. Her full name is Lucy Belle Lightning. Lucy after Lucille Clifton. Belle because that's what my daughter wanted to name her. And Lightning because there's a white bolt in her fur on her shoulder. We call her "Belle," though I call her "Tiny."

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Early confession- Kittens are just too fun.

Request - if you ever see me near rescue animals, please send me in the other direction.


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Where I've Been

Since my birthday, it's been a social week and a week of the big To-Do list.

Things on this To Do list included things like work with poetry student to buy new bed. Many were related to Crab Creek Review, which should be published next month. There is a ridiculous amount of details associated with editing a literary journal and 80% of them have nothing to do with editing.

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For my birthday, I received Luck is Luck, Poems by Lucia Perillo from my friend Martha. When I opened the gift many in the room made the good-sound noise that people make when they see something they like. Many had read it and loved it. I thought the cover was beautiful until I realized one of the birds was dead. I'm sensitive to images like that, to the goat poem by the woman poets whose name isn't coming to me this early (Jeannine gave me this book.) I will tell you later what I think about the poems in Lucia's book. I have read her work before and enjoyed it, so I'm guessing these will also satisfy.

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On Thursday, a good poet friend who is from my first writing group in 1995 (maybe 96?) came to visit. I helped her with her paperwork in applying for an MFA. I forgot all that goes into applying for an MFA. What I can say is, one of the very best things I've done for myself as a writer is return to school and get my MFA.

They are pricey little diplomas. By the time this poet is done, there will be $20K to $30K+ spent. Of course, someone once pointed out to me that it is the same price of a mid-sized Sedan. They told me to: Just consider your education is one less Camry you'll own in your lifetime. And honestly, I'd rather have had the experience of my program than a Camry, so I feel I came out ahead.

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Today two poets are coming out to visit me. We will write in the Poetry Barn together. We will eat cheese, rosemary crackers, and have some homemade pumpkin pie. One poet wasn't able to make my birthday celebration so wanted to visit this week, the other made my bday celebration and wanted to visit this week. I will let you know if we get any poems from this and also if we did any good writing exercises.

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On the day before my 40th birthday, I started violin lessons. How I know I live in a small town is that I left the violin shop with 2 violins to try out and the only thing the violin shop owner had from me was my name and phone (both which I wrote down myself). He required no Visa number, no driver license verification, nothing. But when the citygirl I am asked, "Don't you need anything from me before I leave with these?" he handed me a small piece of paper and said, "If you'd like, you could leave me your name and number..." If I like. I left the store with $3000 worth of violin and bows and wandered to my car.

Recently my husband was having my laptop fixed and the man wouldn't go into the back room to get a part because he didn't feel comfortable leaving my husband in the front of the store alone.

I realize there are people who just trust other people and sometimes I wonder if their trust that they will do the right thing actually makes people do the right thing. I'm not sure. I tend to trust people until they show me otherwise. Though once someone has broken that trust (or even a loyalty in a friendship), it is very hard for me to get that back.

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Last night for family movie night we watched Enchanted. This is probably my favorite Disney movie ever. It is hilarious because it pokes fun at Disney movies and princess who break out in song. And they include the handsome Patrick Demsey is in it for Grey's Anatomy fans and the gorgeous Susan Saradon for Rocky Horror Picture Show fans.

I normally slam Disney for their movies because they tend to kill off the mother so the adventure can begin (note: there was a missing mother in this movie, but I can overlook it) and the women have one goal, to find their prince. This movie is pretty interesting in that it puts a Disney in the center of New York city and she has to figure out what she really wants.

The movie is appropriate for the whole family too. No random swearing, violence, or naked people in beds... (Of course, you may not want to see this movie now after knowing this.)

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Holly-Daze

So how's your holiday season?

Mine has been a little busier than usual, which I both like and don't like. I've enjoyed the festive activities I've been doing, but I don't like that feeling of too busy.

My goal in life is to never be that person who is overly busy. The crazy woman at the market who when you ask how she's doing lists off 50 things on her list. I want to be the woman who when you ask how I am will say, "Fine" or "Perfect" then ask how you are doing. I want to be able to have a 20 minute conversation with you near the satsuma oranges because I don't need to rush off and be somewhere else.

I have never confused being busy with being important. I dislike busy. While I love to have projects I'm working on (particularly writing projects), I dislike that feeling of overwhelmed or too many projects or the "I'm just taking things on to make life pass or because If I slow down I'll have to deal with the real issues in my life." I don't want to be busy for the sake of being busy.

So I struggle with that this time of year and usually, busy is just a week or two at the beginning of December, when everyone hosts their cookies exchanges, holiday get-together or ornament parties. Then next week, the calendar goes not necessarily blank, but there are days and days of nothing. A friend will ride the ferry to visit me and we will write in my Poetry Barn that has been waiting for me to find it again. I will volunteer at the school and take a yoga class. And things will return to a way of life I am happier with, the reason I left my corporate job 11 years ago to live here with less money, more time. I will return to my life where I can be active but not over-active, whelmed but not overwhelmed, engaged but not over-engaged.

These days with so many things trying to get our attention, it can be hard just to sit still. One of my favorite things to do this time of year is to get a good book, some cocoa, cinnamon toast, and a soft blanket and curl up in front of the fire and Christmas tree and just read. When my family follows and I look to see them around me with their books, this is my definition of a rich life.

Or just doing nothing with people I love tops my to-do list. Pulling out the Christmas videos-- Elf, Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown, and just spending the evening hanging out with popcorn, Junior Mints, and Christmas cookies. I have a list of Christmas movies I like to watch this time of year-- A Wonderful Life, A Christmas Story, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. All of them except, Frosty the Snowman, as the talking snowman has always freaked me out.

These are my favorite things this time of year. It can be hard to find while being tangled up in lights or lost in a crowd of shoppers. Even when our Christmas tree looks as if its been decorated by monkeys (our cat fell into it and my daughter has been using it to hide toys in), the craziness of the outside world, almost makes the inside world of my house that much more relaxing and while my Christmas decorations make my home have its own personal chaos and create a series of questions I'm unable to answer (why is Santa in the manger? Who lined up all the Nutcrackers in the hallway? Why does the dog have a snowman tied to his collar?) it also reinforces to me that what I really need doesn't come wrapped in box.


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What I Learned From the Mail Lady & Artist Date

What I learned on sending out your manuscript--

First, you can mail your mss at the book/manuscript rate which is $2 cheaper than first class or priority mail. Actually about $2.50 cheaper, which may make a big difference to your wallet if you're sending out a lot of manuscripts.

The big difference with media mail (book/mss) is time. It can take about 2 weeks (it becomes low low priority for them), but it can also arrive pretty quickly depending if they aren't that busy. In the end, it will save you some $$ if you can send it that way.

Priority/First Class is about $4.85 and it will get there in 2 days.

At our post office, there is one mean lady and 5 other really nice postal employees. I mail on Fridays because I know she's off.

If you have a cranky post worker, learn their off days.

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Artist date-- I did my artist date today and it wasn't as horrible as I thought it would be. (I used to like these artist dates, but I've become more of the sweet hermit who wants to stay close to home.) And actually, I enjoyed myself. I parked at the post office and walked down our main street to the local gallery of local artists.

Immediately after leaving my car, I ran into a poet. I thought it was a good sign to run into another writer.

As I walked to the gallery, I noticed the asters were blooming and the co-op preschool where my daughter went began to ring it's bell (snack time!) The schoolhouse the preschool is in is one of the oldest buildings in town (the attic rumored to be haunted too) and the bell is original to the school. Each day one of the preschoolers gets the job of ringing the bell for snacktime-- a thrill for them.

At the gallery, I took notes and spent time browsing. There was one piece I really liked, a print called "Pink Lady" but part of the image was a giraffe. Giraffes have come up twice for me in 2 days on the synchronicity scale. I talked with the artist working at the gallery, a woodmaker.

I found a notebook with the artists bios and sample photos of their work. It was nice to see how people keep art in their life and have an artistic existence. It is something that I aim for in myself, to continue to keep my life creative and full of writing and art.

Afterwards, I walked back to my car at the post office and just like clockwork, another good friend, also a poet (Ronda Broatch) stepped out of her car to check her PO box. She's recently had an acceptance at a journal in Ireland. We talked for awhile trying not to block traffic and making carpool plans for our next poetry workshop.

The sun had come out and I could see Mt. Rainier towering over Seattle and the tips of skyscrapers and Space Needle as I drove home. I thought I heard recently that you can only the top (or all) of Mt. Rainier only about 62 days in the year because of our foggy, cloudy weather. I don't know if that's correct, but when I do see it, it's calming and amazing to me.

As you can see reading this, it was sort of a Seinfeld episode in that nothing happened, yet everything did.

Thursday Thoughts---

On Writing--

I feel as if I've caught up on a lot things. I've felt behind. But I think much of it is trying to balance my own poetry, editing Crab Creek Review, and working with other poets with my regular everyday life. I have a lot going on, but I realize, for me it's best to break things up into bits (do a little of this and this), or just schedule big blocks of time, say a full day, and devote it to one project (reading someone's mss or working on my own.) As long as I'm not missing deadlines though and marking things off my To Do list, I feel pretty good.

But this brings me to my next topic--


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The Artist Way--

If you haven't heard of the The Artist Way ( The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity) it's basically a 12 steps program for creatives. I highly recommend it if you've never done it I'm doing it for the next 12 weeks with 5 friends, all writers. The biggest hit of time is doing the morning pages (which is 3 pages of writing--which can be anything, basically it's to clear your mind...kind of what a blog does, I've noticed). But I realize, depending on my mood, I can do this between 10-30 minutes.

I also have to go on an "Artist Date" each week. 2 - 3 hours by myself, somewhere besides my house. I must say, I resist this, which must mean I need to go. I haven't had my date this week, but I will.

What I've learned already in Artist Way (and this is 4th time I've done it since 1997--also did it 2000, 2003, 2008) is that I'm not so good at saying No. Sometimes, I need to claim my own writing time. I know what I need/want to do, but I don't always necessarily do it. So I'm working on saying no.

I've heard other women have problems saying no, and I'm not just referring to the women in sexy bar clothes, but just in general, some of us tend to be nurturers--though I think I'm a little more self-indulgent, selfish, and quite open about my feelings (aka blunt) I do have a side of me that wants to help people. My dad would have called me a "do-gooder." Or maybe he would have said I need to make sure I take care of myself. Too. I think we all need to take care of ourselves.

I'll add a few updates about my Artist Way experience and what I discover.

_____________________________________________________________________________

On the Seattle Neil Diamond concert last night--

I was surprised to learn that I don't know as many of his songs as I thought, and in fact only truly love the karaoke songs (Forever in Blue Jeans, Cracklin' Rose, & Sweet Caroline). I hadn't occurred to me that Neil also sings songs I despise (Love on the Rocks, You Don't Bring Me Flowers, Play Me). About halfway through the concert, I turned to my husband and said, $@%#, he's the guy that sings "Heartlight" doesn't he?!

However, I am glad I went as it was a great time hanging out with friends (5 firefighters and their wives) and that it was the 5 firefighters who put together the evening on their own was worth it. ( I also realized last night that I don't think I could be married to anyone who wasn't a firefighter, which was kind of an odd thing to conclude, but I realized I would trust any of these guys with my life, and I can't say that about many people.) One day there may be a post or a whole essay about being married to a firefighter, but I'll save that for another day. I will add if you're a single woman, the majority of firefighters (both men and women) make good husbands/partners. Of course, they are home an awful lot... (this is both good and bad!)

Anyway, back to the concert--we thought we would be some of the youngest in the crowd, but we had a group of Seattle University boys behind us and I saw many younger guys who looked like a shorter and thinner versions of Ben Affleck --the Affleck look was a popular Neil Diamond fan look.

It must have been our faraway seats, but the whole night I kept thinking of Michael Dukakis when Neil sang. I think it's the eyebrows.

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Well, that's it from the peanut gallery today. I hope you are safe, warm, and happy.

be well.

First Day Back - Where I Am

Weather: 62 degrees
Music: the Jason Mraz station
Gratitude Journal: non-pariels, golden retriever, coffee, freshly-cut hydrangeas, sunshine, writing shed
Notes: First day back from Summer Hiatus
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The Poetry Barn, 2008

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So here I am. Back at work, opening the door to the Poetry Barn back into the writing life.

I had wanted my writing shed finished by Sept 3rd, the first day of school for my daughter, but I cut it close. It's all finished except for the outside trim, which will be painted today. It's all finished except for the finishing touches. It's all finished except for the inside trim, if there will be trim, and a wastebasket.

I think I'll like it here. I may need a different chair, or maybe better posture. I'll work these things out as I go along.

So besides being in a barn next to my house, where am I in life?

Well, I'm happy to be back to writing. As I said, summer is not my writing time. If I get a poem or story, good for me, but I do not count on it. I see summer as a time to refill and I think writers need times when they aren't writing but living. Living and taking notes.

I do have a fantastic writing group I meet with twice a month, though I'm sad to have 2 members of my group moving away-- Jeannine Gailey being one of them, currently curing herself from what ails her in San Diego as I type this and another good poetfriend (NM). Thankfully, we recently had a new member (Lana!) join us and she's been a positive change for our group, just good energy there.

I mentioned this summer that I'm editing Crab Creek Review with another poet and my good friend, Annette Spaulding-Convy, and we've already done a lot of work hopefully to give CCR some of the recognition it deserves. It's a gorgeous perfect-bound, full color cover print journal that has been around the Seattle area for the last 25 years and has published some incredible poets throughout the years including one of my favorite poets, William Stafford.

I'll talk more on this blog about what I'm learning as an editor and try to give you an inside peek beneath the covers of a literary journal.

Also, we've just started a Writer's Notebook series on our Crab Creek Review blog.

Found at: http://www.crabcreekreview.blogspot.com/

where we'll be having previous contributors to our journal write about their poem or an aspect of the writing life. Our first blogger poet is Julene Tripp Weaver.

Other than that, I recently met with some writer friends to set some goals for ourselves and one of mine is to submit more. It's really the part I like least about poetry and writing in general. I like the writing and revising. The submitting part needs me to put on my administrative hat and get serious. I can do that though, get serious, wear hats.

So, as promised I've returned to the writing life which I actually never really left, just electronically, just a little weather-related absence. But I'll be here much more often and hopefully will say something that interests you or spurs conversation. Maybe. I'll try my best and you now know where to find me by email of course, and now in a barn with yellow walls, paint color: Happy Times.

I see some red apples on my tree, time to get a snack...

(Above) My own private party of non-pariels and morning coffee.

(Above) My writing buddy, Buddy Holly




Goofy Self-Portrait this morning in the Barn

First Day of School...

What I've been doing...

I've been doing so much of everything, that's I've close to nothing this week.

I feel very pulled in many directions and unconnected. It's one of my least favorite feelings. I'm thinking about a lot at once and doing little. Or I'm trying to do a lot, but managing to do little well. I'm not sure what I even said today, though I know I spoke. I tried to be courteous to others, but what they may have seen was someone in a golden poncho running by.

There is a certain color of morning that only a West Coast ocean can produce. While some see the reds and pinks of sunrise, the ocean sees blues. Outside the window on the beach, dark and light blue. I see this image on the cover of a book and I cross my fingers.

There are perfect mornings and ghosts reflecting from the windows. I need to slow down. I need to.

Today I was annoyed because I found a darling multi-colored scarf on the sidewalk. Someone said, "It might belong to those people." *Those people* were halfway down the street. I said, "Yell to them." The someone said, "They are too far away."

I said, "Now this scarf if my responsibility. I regret seeing this scarf." I didn't chase the people yelling "Is this your scarf?" which actually is something my more active personality would do, but this unfocused scattered personality just wanted to take a nap.

If this sounds like a scene from Frog and Toad are Friends, it could be if it weren't my life.

And the scarf? It's been sent to the Lost and Found. Maybe I can find my old self there, the one who isn't so scattered as I've been. Maybe my center is there.

Suggested blog question: What are your favorite splurges?

What are your favorite splurges?

Ah, yes. How do we spend this money we're not making. ;-)

For me, I love to spend money on nice or fun dinners with friends. This is a newer splurge for me and probably came about over the last 8 years. For a long time I felt dinners out were a waste of cash as I could easily get by on what was at home (even it was a can of soup and some bread.) I'm pretty easily satisfied with home meals and eat rather plain foods anyway-- rice, cereal, chicken, fruit & veggies, chocolate. I don't like a lot of sauces or rich meals.

However, what I realize is I love the experience of dining with friends somewhere new. I now tend to order the higher priced items like wild salmon or halibut. I always order dessert. And I've learned, I like to spend my money on *experiences*

We had a great dinner that included a bellydance show at one such dinner out and one time out after two hours of talking and eating, I ended up with a poem called "The Day They Drank Sangria."

Other than that, I like to splurge on

Artwork
Books
Experiences, especially anything fantastic such as a great play/concert, or handfeeding a giraffe, which I did last week. I also splurge on anything I haven't done before, the handfeeding of a giraffe fell into that category.

Lately I've been splurging on gas and food, though not by choice. $4.13 a gallon for gas, which I paid yesterday. And organic milk stumbles in at $8 a gallon, which makes hormone-injected cows seems like something I can overlook or maybe I should just my own cow or just wander into one of my neighbor's farm with my bowl of cereal.

Just Sharing... Recipe

This is the soup we ate yesterday when we gathered to celebrate the life of our friend. We also wrote poems, each writing a line and passing them on. There is a part of me that wants to share them to, but a bigger part that always protects what I hold dear.

But I share with you because if you ever need to feel nurtured, to feel as if you deserve the good things in life, try this soup with fresh cilanto on top and a dab of sour cream. Perfection.

Enjoy and pass the good things forward...


Annie’s Favorite Red Lentil Soup


1 ½ cups red lentils (To make a truly beautiful soup, use the bright orangey-red lentils!)
6 cups water (vegetable stock adds a tasty flavor—canned veggie stock works great!)
3 bay leaves
4 garlic cloves, chopped
2 slices fresh ginger root, each about the size of a quarter

2 medium carrots (1 cup grated)
1 cup canned tomatoes
1f small red or green bell pepper (1/2 cup finely chopped)

1 ½ cup chopped onions
2 TBS. olive oil
1 ½ tsp. ground cumin
1 ½ tsp ground coriander
pinch of cayenne
2 TBS fresh lemon juice
salt and ground black pepper to taste

Sort and rinse the lentils. Put them into a soup pot with the water, bay leaves, garlic and ginger. Cover and place on high heat.

Prepare the carrots, tomatoes, and bell peppers, and add them in the pot. Bring to a boil, stir, reduce the heat, and simmer, covered, for 15 to 20 minutes, until the lentils are tender.

While the vegetables simmer, sauté the onions on medium heat in the olive oil in a heavy skillet for about 10 minutes or until browned. Add the cumin, coriander, and cayenne, and sauté for another minute, stirring to prevent sticking. Remove the bay leaves, and ginger from the soup pot. Stir in the sautéed onions and the lemon juice. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Serves 4- 6 Food Pyramid folks: dry beans and vegetable group is being served!

Per Serving: 82 calories 3.3 gm protein 3,2 gm fat 11.2 gm carbohydrate 24 mg sodium 0 mg cholesterol

ANNIE’S HINTS:
Because this recipe takes awhile to prepare, I usually double it. It freezes well and gets better as a leftover! This recipe came out of the most recent Moosewood cookbook, however, I got it from a friend and do not know the name of the Cookbook.
It is said that variations of this soup are found in India and Egypt.
You can serve your soup topped with plain yogurt, minced onion or sprigs of fresh mint, parsley or cilantro. We’ve experimented with all three and it’s a nice accent. Whit enjoys it when I take the soup and smooth it in the blender, making it “creamy.” Both my in-laws and parents ask me to prepare this soup whenever I’m in Ohio. This is an excellent choice when looking for low fat and no cholesterol meals.

Some Learn from the Dalai Lama, Others from a Moose

Things that are kicking my arse this month--

NaPoWriMo

allergies

emails

housework

my cat who keeps putting my laptop into hibernation mode

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Things I could use a little more of--

Sleep

compassion

sunny weather

protein

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We have a sunny day here in the NW and Jeannine gets sunburned and I have an allergic reaction to sunscreen. How white is that? I swear, I'm the Darwin fish that falls off the car. I thank God my daughter has some genes from a warmer part of the world.

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THE SAFE--

So, as I said, we had an incredible Saturday here in the Northwest, 78 degrees!~ Though while I'm celebrating this, there's this spooky little feeling that if the weather can fluctuate a full 35 degrees in a day, something is not right with the world. Record-breaking weather is no longer something I cheer about. But I was playing ostrich to climate change beast and just appreciating the fact that I sat watching a Mariner's game in the 300 level until after 9 o'clock at night in short sleeves.

I must tell you, I have hated Safeco Field (which I refer to Mariner Field as the idea of naming stadiums after corporations makes me ill) since it was built. The taxpayers of Seattle said no, but the M's had one fantastic season ( this is the Ken Griffey Jr., Alex Rodriguez, Edgar Martinez years) and they decided to build it anyway. Their motto: "if we build it, they will win." Well, if you follow the M's you know that's a dream unlived, but the stadium was built (and right next to it, another stadium for the Seahawks reiterating the same message I was taught as a UW Husky: Sports Matter!) I had wanted the money spent on the stadium to go to the Seattle schools and for a long time when I saw these stadiums I thought, "Those could have paid a lot of teachers."

Anyway, I've hated this stadium from the get-go. But I have to tell you, sitting there with my family on a Saturday night looking out to the city skyline, a warm breeze floating through, eating sunflower seeds, peanuts and pink cotton candy, I thought that the stadium was made for us at this moment. It was absolutely one of the best times I've had in a long while.

About the 7th inning, the Mariner Moose appeared at the end of our row. Now, when you're sitting in the cheap seats, you don't expect to see the mascot, I mean, you're thrilled if the pretzel man walks by and will have spontaneous applause for him. So seeing the moose was how I would have responded if say, Dave Matthews had walked in.

Now, as responsible, thoughtful American parents we did what other responsible, thoughtful American parents would do when seeing the moose-- we yelled MOOSE! then pushed our daughter in front of us yelling, "Run to the moose! Run to the moose!" WTF? This our first response?

Thinking about this later, it seems strange that when a stranger comes dressed up in a wacky costume, our first thought is to push our children toward them and photograph the encounter. Though, we were not the only one who felt this way. Children began appearing out of nowhere. The moose was some sort of sticky, fuzzy magnet drawing them in and in.

After our daughter shook the moose's hand, we yelled, "Dance with the moose!" And she did. And then did we. We were drunk on mooselove.

We looked up for a moment and we were all on the big screen dancing with the moose. Dogs were sleeping with cats, the Dalai Lama was in Seattle spreading compassion, the moose was giving high fives, drunk men losing their sunglasses and drunk women were finding them, gnats appeared in the lights like fireflies, and we were dancing with the moose to Louie Louie. I was wearing a soul patch, my husband was wearing a soul patch, strangers passed us their children who we gently placed near the moose, the moose shook and waved, kids who hemmed and hawed missed out, learned a lifelong lesson about "he who hesitates is lost," leaving sadly back to their seats without moose's blessing.

I don't know, it was a ridiculous baseball in-the-moment madness and the whole day was a reminder to me about not to take things so seriously, to be a little less judgmental on the world around me. For some reason (call it ego, or call it Capricorn), I tend believe I know what's best, I know the best candidate, the best things for education, the best ____________ fill in the blank. But I'm ancora imparando (still learning).

I'm still learning that it's not my way or the highway, but a reminder that my job in life is to be the observer on deck and not the captain steering the ship. For a long time, I believed the world didn't turn without me running the streets in the circular pattern. The sun wouldn't rise if I hadn't set the alarm. I guess I'm sort of alarmed out and I've been feeling more happy as the understudy than having the need to jump onto every stage.

I guess if we think happiness is a pursuit, we'll never catch it. But if we sit down and take a look at the view (even if it is in a place we insisted was wrong), we may find that all the seats aren't so bad and maybe we'll even like what happens next.

Simplicity & a New Book - Slow is Beautiful

I recently recommended Cecile Andrew's book The Circle of Simplicity and it turns out she has another book called SLOW IS BEAUTIFUL.

Here's a quick description I cut and pasted if you're interested in what this book is about:

Slow is Beautiful
New Visions of Community, Leisure, and Joie de Vivre
By Cecile Andrews

We're hammered, we're slammed, we're out of control. Happiness is on the decline in the most affluent country in the world and Americans are troubled by the destructiveness of a lifestyle devoted to money and status. Yet no-one seems to have a clue how to exit from the Fast Lane...

Slow Is Beautiful analyzes the subtle consumer, political and corporate forces stamping the joy from our existence and provides a vision of a more fulfilling life through the rediscovery of caring community, unhurried leisure, and life affirming joie de vivre.

* * * *

But the reason I bring this up is that Cecile also has a blog that discusses slowing down and a more simple life you may want to check out.

What I like about Cecile and her thoughts is that she is not preachy (meaning = if you don't do this than this), she's not judgmental (she realizes there are a zillion perfectly good ways to live a life and doesn't question others for their choices, but shows other ways one may want to try to live), and she wants everyone to find the way that's best for them (there's no one size fits all).

She says in her Circle of Simplicity book something like "this is not the self-deprivation movement," which sometimes is what people think when they hear, "I'm going to live more simply." They hear, "I'm going to drag to the laundry to the creek and stop heating my house." But I've found, the more simply I live and the more choices I make for a "simplier" life (in my terms), the more fulfilled I am. I think it actually becomes the opposite of "self-deprivation" and you begin to nourish and partake in what's important to you.



I'm going to read Slow is Beautiful and I'll let you know what I discover. And I shall remind my husband that "slow is beautiful" when once again I'm the last person in the car when we're off on a family outing. Oh wait, it's "slow" is beautiful, not "tardy" is beautiful.

Happy Easter Morning

When religions collide...

Easter egg hunt 2008

Before the sunrise...

How many eggs can you find?

Thoughts on a Monday

Sleepy--

I want my hour back. And that's all I have to say about that.


SH--

In a modern day miracle, space heater has risen from the dead and is working again. I have no idea what happened, I plugged it in andwr hoped... Though of course, this says a lot about the quality of electrical gadgets in our home. My husband is a firefighter and if he knew about SH's death and rebirth would say, "Put SH in the garbage," but it's almost spring, I will let SH live out its final days in my office doing its work. SH will be monitored allowed zero alone time. I just think SH has been kicked over one to many times by our dog.

Pooh-atry--

This is what my husband calls Poetry. It's from an old video when our daughter was young and Winnie the Pooh was reading poetry, or has he called it Pooh-a-tree (which doesn't sound good no matter how I try to spell it.)

Anyway, in the Poohatry category--

I watched The Belle of Amherst play on DVD yesterday and it was actually quite charming and funny. It explores the life of Emily Dickinson in a one-woman play starring Julie Harris. It's from 1976, but it really is a timeless performance. I checked my copy out through the local library, so if you need something to watch while you fold the clothes or snuggle into bed one cold night, I'd recommend this. The writer created an Emily who is bright and engaging to listen to and while I may never truly understand *who* Emily was, this was another glimpse into a possibility (and so I'll dwell there.)

Also to do with poetry, I listened to Major Jackson on my walk today in an interview on New Letters. If you are not listening to New Letters on NPR or on their podcast, I cannot tell you how much you are missing out. Here's where you need to be: http://www.newletters.org/ which will take you to the magazine (also fantastic) and here's New Letters on the Air: http://www.newletters.org/onTheAir.asp the radio show.

In the interview, Major Jackson read the last section of "Letter to Brooks," which is a long poem written to Gwendolyn Brooks. It's a wonderful poem where image after image takes us a place of Popsicle stick races and water fights in the hydrants, and the very last two words in the poem I am left with "Black Lily."

The entire interview was a treat to listen to. Check it out if you have a chance.


Two Movies I Don't Recommend--

Rush Hour 3 (don't ask)
The Nanny Diaries (Jeannine had already warned me about this one)


One movie I highly recommend--

My Kid Could Paint That--

Here's the Amazon Review--

"Suitable for framing, Amir Bar-Lev's "family human interest story" indelibly captures the media maelstrom that engulfed the Olmsteads of Binghamton, N.Y. when their daughter, Marla, age 4, became the darling of the art world with her abstract paintings. As a gallery owner tells Bar-Lev, the situation is "perfect": The family is charismatic, and Marla is, indeed, "a doll" and her paintings, "unbelievable." More on that later.

Bar-Lev chronicles how a community newspaper article about Marla was picked up by the New York Times, leading to more newspaper articles, sold out gallery showings, and media throngs. Marla's paintings sold upward of $25,000 (the owner of the Houston Rockets bought one), and talk-show hosts (Conan, Dave, Oprah) wanted Marla on their shows. "You're in for a wild ride, I hope you're prepared for this," the gallery owner says he told Mark Olmstead, Marla's father, a Frito Lay factory worker who also dabbles as an artist. But no one is prepared when Charlie Rose, during a 60 Minutes Wednesday broadcast, raises questions on whether Marla is the sole artist. Was she coached? Were the paintings doctored, or even painted by someone else? Could she even be called a prodigy?

Bar-Lev's canvas expands to consider the nature of art and media culture. It also becomes something of a self-portrait as he struggles with his own growing suspicions about Marla's paintings after he has befriended the family and earned their trust. My Kid Could Paint That is not a masterpiece, but it will resonate especially for everyone who says --they don't know art, but they know what they like. It would be an excellent companion to Who the #%&% is Jackson Pollock? " --- Donald Liebenson

My favorite person in the movie, though you never really get a chance to see him until the end, was Amir Bar-Lev, the filmmaker. I thought he sincerely felt pulled in trying to produce a film that was fair, but he wasn't really sure what was fair--was Marla doing these paintings all herself or was her father helping her?--you could feel his doubts and his concerns. I could feel his struggle in this documentary as what started as a cute human interest story turns into this huge drama that the family struggles with as well as Bar-Lev has to deal with.

The movie raised a lot of questions for me in what we want to believe, how we are not necessarily buying the art, but the *story* behind it, in trying to find truth in a sea of doubts and maybe. I was impressed with what he choose to show to the world about this story and ultimately in the end, it's up to the viewer to come to his/her own decision about whether Marla's art is completely done by her or if there is a little hands on help from her dad or if it's only "coaching" from her father, does it matter?

The Space Heater Chronicles

I always hurt what I love--

It seems by announcing to the world that my best friend was a space heater, I seemed to have killed it. Tonight, for no reason, space heater shut off and took its warm breath with it.

I don't understand, space heater still has working red light, but no heat. It clicks, but doesn't hiss. It has been kicked around by my dog one too many times. RIP Space Heater. Maybe tomorrow you will pull an Easter miracle and come back. Maybe space heater is just warm. Come back SH.

* * *
How to Make Friends and Influence People

I am not wearing a big hippie wool sweater with yarn flowers on it and Navaho print on the sleeves. I bought it at Bumbershoot (the Seattle arts festival) 1998. I already miss space heater. I'm sure the rest of my family will to when they see what I've dragged from the closet.


* * *

Sunday Night with The Smith's & Sonny and Cher ...

They say we're young and we don't know

We won't find out until we grow . . .







Golden Lights--

We've been playing the "Let's Pretend It's 1859" game in my rural community, watching the lights flicker, our insider warning that 1859 is not that far away, then pow-- darkness. It's not uncommon to lose our electricity out here, we lose it when there's a wind storm or when a seagull sneezes.

Because one by one our neighbors have each purchased gas generators, now when the power goes out, instead of the quiet lapping of waves on the shore we hear what sounds like a symphony of leaf blowers, the buzz of our generators all purring through the night.

But since I'm typing and posting here, you can trust that for the moment, the power is on.

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Bigmouth Strikes Again or Oscillate Wildly --

I've been reading through some essays, articles, and thoughts by poets and I have a huge headache. Yikes. Let's make a deal, when we are talking about poetry, let's just say what we mean in order to communicate the main points instead of blah, blah, blahing across the page trying to sound smart. (By the way, if you think this is directed at you, it's not.)

It's really annoying to be reading an essay only to realize that the writer wants to show off his Free Rice vocabulary level instead of inform. And when I say "him," I could mean "her." Or better, I get to the end of the "thoughtful essay" only to realize the writer has not actually said anything, it's as if I've been Eddie Haskell'd.

And I'm not saying the name of Poet X to be coy, cute, protective, or mysterious. I'm not using the name because I like Poet X and at sometimes I can be Poet X and it's a good reminder to myself to speak clearly and not to stutter. And this little post right here, is almost an example of how I am imitating Poet X except I think I'm being wittier and more forward, but honestly, I'm blah blah blahing across the page as well.

Me and Poet X, we're going places. Let's stop, step off the train, and look around. There's no reason to be afraid.

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This Charming Man --

So after I complain to myself about bad poetry essays, I find this lovely little gem by David Biespiel on an Olena Kalytiak Davis poem. And what made this such a gem and David a charming man? This:


"The poem begins with a stark declaration tinged with self-pity:

I have been a day boarder, Lord. I have preferred the
table to the Bed.
I have proffered, Lord, and I have profited, Lord,
but little, but not. I was Bored,
Lord, I was heavy, Lord. Heavy bored. Hopeless,
Lord, hideous, Lord. Sexless.
I was in love, Lord, but not with You. The nine
malic moulds, Lord.
The butcher, the baker, the under-taker. Lord, I was
taken under. . . .


I had to look up "malic," which is a word describing the acidic flavor of raw fruit such as apples or almost-ripe green grapes. Davis' tone is certainly tart; her devotional posture is marked by wishfulness and despair. Though not a true believer, she truly wants to believe."


The most refreshing thing I've read today, a poet and editor admitting to not knowing a word and having to look it up. When was the last time I've seen that in print? I thought his honesty and openness to the reader--the Oregon citizen--was a way of opening a door. He's saying, I don't always know myself, but I follow through and find out. We can learn together. Don't be intimidated by language. He's saying, there are doors everywhere in a poem to let you in. He's saying, pay attention to details. He's saying, I'm human. We can figure this out. He's saying, Relax, this isn't a lecture where I'm right and you're wrong. He's saying welcome.



I've been reading essays where it feels the poet is afraid not to know something, and I wonder isn't that all of us? Aren't we afraid of being found out for the black holes in our education, in our vocabulary? It's one part of the literary world of not fond of, this feeling as if we need to know it all. Hurry up please it's time.


There were times in my MFA program when I wanted to hid under the table because I could not think of a poet or poem. And maybe this should be for Confession Tuesday, but there were a couple times when I didn't ask a question and just pretended I understood because it was easier. It was easier (and less embarrassing) to remain quiet.

When the poet I was working with told me to listen to The Waste Land instead of reading it with its nation of notes, I found the music the poem had never had for me. HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME.


And maybe this is why newer poets aren't writing critically as much because it's intimidating. There are shelves of poems we haven't read. There are shelves of poets we have read, but then...we've forgotten them. There are words we know and ones we don't. Let's forget what we don't know and remember what we do--we write because we love words, we read because we want to know more about the world and ourselves. We try. We fail. We succeed. We are all in this together, even when it fels as if we're not.







--I got you, babe.







* * *

Baby, It's Warm Inside...

Have I mentioned how much I like people with skills? The furnace man came, added a little more duct tape to our furnace and for $81, we now have heat. Being a writer requires skill, but I admire people who can take something broken and fix it. People who look at the wiring and say, "Here's the problem." I also admire people who build bridges and buildings.

I must say the irony that I spent more on reading fees yesterday for book contests ($30 + $25 + $25 + $10) that heating my home was not lost on me. While I support the contests these small presses offer, there must be a better way. As a poet without a "regular" job, money comes to me in bits and pieces and when it arrives, I'm thankful.

Though I guess, I would much rather give $25 to a small press than have 5 lattes at Starbucks. And these small presses need to stay afloat. We've talked about people buying poetry books, supporting presses. Is there a box we can think outside of? Is there a way to let the poets keep their reading fees (or lower them) and the presses still have enough to print quality work?

These independent presses are our voices. I definitely do not want to see them go away, but what can we do differently, do better? I'll consider this today in my nice warm home. What does $81 buy someone these days-- 4 book contests, a fixed heater, cellphone service for 2, a mini iPod, 20 gallons of gas, 3/5 of a cashmere sweater at Nordstrom. We all make our choices.

Things That Go Broke in the Night...

I woke up this morning to find that our thousand year old furnace had broke during the 30 degree night. The house was a balmy 62 degrees. We knew the furnace wasn't a spring chicken, we dressed it up in duct tape and insulation. It was held together with safety pins and scotch tape. We asked it for a few more winters, it said, yes yes yes. But last night, after one final touch-up yesterday afternoon it exhaled its last warm breath onto our family.

My house likes things to break all at once. It's the blue drama queen on the top of the hill, so I wasn't surprised when I went to my laptop to find that during the night we'd lost all internet access and email. While talking to the knowledgeable 18 year old at tech support, my cordless phone breaks into hissing mode and disconnects. Who was it that said, "Any idiot can face a crisis, it is this day-to-day living that wears you out.” Ah, Chekhov, that's right.

Anyway, since I'm typing this, I'm back online (no help to the help desk, but the internet gods I do not see) and I thought today would be a good day to do a gratitude journal, to remember all I have, even when I'm heating my home with propane at $4.37 a gallon, I am thankful for propane.

Oh the furnace man? He arrives sometime between 2 and 4...


Gratitude Journal

1) Space heaters, electric blankets, wool socks, sweaters, and a propane fireplace
2) Warm showers.
3) My golden retriever who tells me, "Well, since you have nothing to do and it's cold in here, let's go for a walk," which we did.
4) Acceptances-- Crab Orchard Review took 2 poems for their summer issue (congrats to January too who will be in the same issue)
5) Swiss Muesli with raspberry yogurt
6) Leftover Pink Champagne birthday cake
7) Did I say "space heaters" already?
8) People with skills who can fix furnaces.
9) The internet gods
10) hot coffee made fresh
11) Barack & Hillary
12) It's not raining
13) Dove chocolates
14) Nana is 96 and one day
15) An old home with a new roof, a good view, and alotta love.

Time, Beauty, Endings

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin...

I haven't been a very regular blogger lately. I've been the abnormal blogger with time as the test I cannot pass. Though time is passing with or without my consent. This isn't too complain about what I've been doing, these last couple of days have been both fun and rewarding, productive and lazy. I've had the best of both worlds, but what I'm seeing when I write my checks (yes, I still prefer checks over debit because there is something satisfying about writing numbers out in actual words--eighty-one, forty-three), is that my birthday month has slid past me and as much as I think I am the skier racing down the slope, many times I am the spectator watching and waving my flag.

* * *

Sad News--

Hit & Run - This was my neighbor. He was out at 6 p.m. and was struck by a car...who didn't stop. This happened on Thursday night.

On the Wednesday night before, I was walking my dog on this same stretch of roadway--in our neighborhood, we call it the "the loop." It's about 2.5 miles, which can be broken down to 1.5 miles of rural 25 mph roadway where cars drive slow and move out of the way for you, and a mile of cars buzzing by you while you tread on gravel wishing there was a sidewalk.

I left my house a little later than normal on Wednesday evening and realized about mid-way through my walk that is was getting dark I was wearing an iPod listening to a New Letters podcast with Lemony Snicket (aka Daniel Handler). Cars on that road were whipping by me. I thought about the Baudelaire orphans. Daniel was talking about how he didn't like children's books because good always won and if you just had faith and pluck, you'd make it through. But he knew differently, life is not a guarantee...

Jeannine just happened to call me on my cellphone we talked about the randomness of life (like how you can't get a job one year and the next year you've won a huge award and someone is publishing your memoir-- Congrats Paul!) As I was talking to her I was literally jumping to the side of the road to avoid the ferry traffic commuters who were racing home. I was giving her a play by play of my acrobatics as I dodged traffic.

I was wearing a black coat and black hat. Dressed completely wrong for an evening walk. I passed Virgil and two other friends talking in front of his home. I waved and said hello, but didn't stop to talk because I was on my cell phone and wanted to get off the busy road. When I arrived home, I told my husband I'll never walk that late at night again and that I was almost hit by cars, I had to keep moving into random patches of grass and forest to avoid them.

Then yesterday a friend called me to ask if I heard the news. I hadn't.

I'm not good with random tragedy. I play the "what if" game. What if I had stopped to talk? What if he went to his mailbox 5 minutes later? What if? What if? What if? My second manuscript is based on this, feeling secure in an unsure world.

But back to the "what if's," it's a terrible game because there are never any winners. The past remains the past and what happened in a second, happened. We can't go back and rethink other actions. But I guess I always want meaning, I want bigger purpose. I want to know that my 86 year old neighbor didn't die without something positive coming from it-- streetlights on that street for others, sidewalks, speed bumps. I want to know how he could live 86 years, living through wars and earthquakes, miles of city freeways and the most dangerous thing, the recipe for tragic event would be walking to his mailbox at 6 p.m. on a Thursday night.

These questions are not good for an imaginative, anxious mind. I want to know how we can live each day without being hit by a car, how we each manage to walk into the house after a terrible day at work complaining about traffic or a co-worker and not realize that miracle that we made it home safe. I want to grateful for every minute we do have.

Missed Connections... Part 2 & Poem of the Day

Goat Drama--
While driving by the "Found your goat" sign, I was amused to see that right below it was a "Lost Goat" sign. I do hope these folks meet up.

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Animal Farm--

Animals roaming our streets is nothing new in this small town. In the ten years I've lived here, we've had a bull running through the downtown area (and no, we were not trying to recreate seaside version of the Running of the Bulls), I've seen my neighbor's sheep roaming his front yard and driveway, and once, a cockatiel landed in my backyard. My neighbor said, "I guess he flew here because you have a sign on your gate that reads 'Backyard Wildlife Sanctuary.'" Smart bird.

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P.O.T.D.--

Poem of the Day by Martha Silano from VALPARAISO POETRY REVIEW --

Visit her website at: http://www.marthasilano.com/

NO REFUNDS, NO EXCHANGES


Across the yard, despite a fierce unrest,
I can’t help noticing the smudged chin

of an English sparrow, ululations
of cedar waxwings, robins slick

in the sloppy rain. If there were footprints,
they would be cloven. If this were an orchard,

it would smell of fingerlings, marimbas
and timpani, the polished floors

of my twenties & thirties. Not many hearts
have lifted like swallows to the cliffs

above Pomme de Terre lake, not many
have lived much closer than five doors down

from God. And yet I’m no girdle
on this galaxy’s expanding waistline,

and yet I’ve no sacred cows worth swimming
to the South China Sea and back for.

Each morning the silent coyotes
disappear behind my window’s dusty slats

just as an all-night cat in heat slips a paw
through her little cat door. My morning coffee

tastes of the earth, a cell or two of every creature
who’s padded or paddled, crept or crawled,

slithered or swam, who’s foisted a pincer
on an unsuspecting worm. Earwig. Juggler.

Jaguar. Saint. Bombardier riding shotgun
on a leaf held high by an ant.




© by Martha Silano