Friday, May 15, 2009

Troubled Sleep

The dreams about boy are back with a vengeance. They aren’t so helpful. I’m avoiding sleep…

A think think think. A think think think. A think think think think goes my brain.

Take a breath, lie down, loving kindness. Take a breath, lie down, loving kindness. 

A think think think. A think think think, A think think think think goes my head. 

There are lots of owies, and there are lots of smiles, and there are lots of scrunched noses, and there are lots of raised eyebrows, but only a few puckered lips.

Mr. Negator is heading up the elevator now. I’m working on flipping the switch that sends him back down, or maybe just turns the elevator off. Not now Mr. Negator. I’m busy. I have an appointment with contentment.

Anyhoo… bedtime has arrived.

Sunday, May 10, 2009


Jump into alive!

Oh mamma, it’s been a beautiful morning. Scarlet pimpernels, ice plant, light house, chocolate chip cookies, and climbing quietly out of bed.

Now my dear friend is making a call, and maybe it means I’ll stay a little while longer than I expected. A new bird flew in the door last week, and maybe it means my summer will fare a little less lonely.

Good day to you!

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Old Woman

A Mary Oliver poem…


Aunt Leaf 

Needing one, I invented her—

the great-great-aunt dark as hickory

called Shining-Leaf, or Drifting-Cloud

or The-Beauty-of-the-Night,


Dear aunt, I’d call in the leaves,

and she’d rise up, like an old log in a pool,

and whisper in a language only the two of us knew

the word that meant follow,


and we’d travel

cheerful as birds

out of the dusty town and into the trees

where she would change us both into something quicker—

two foxes with black feet,

two snakes green as ribbons,

two shimmering fish—

and all day we’d travel.


At day’s end she’d leave me back at my own door

with the rest of my family,

who were kind, but solid as wood

and rarely wandered. While she,

old twist of feathers and birch bark,

would walk in circles wide as rain and then

float back


scattering rags of twilight

on fluttering moth wings;


or she’d slouch from the barn like a gray opossum;

or she’d hang in the milky moonlight

burning like a medallion,


this bone dream,

this friend I had to have,

this old woman made out of leaves.


There is something truly glorious about a wizened old woman. I have often found the role of a grandmother to be much more appealing than that of a mother. Can’t I just skip the part where my children can’t stand me and go straight to being the adored and wise being that little ones go to for stories and wholesome cooking? I guess grandmotherdom is the reward for all the years of mothering toil.

At any rate, I’m not a grandmother, or a mother for that matter. I do have a hankering for contact with some grandmother wisdom. I am sending out a request to the universe for a grandmotherish mentor, or an aunt leaf. I would love to learn the stories of a weathered woman.

Friday, May 1, 2009


Today has been one of the more difficult ones. It’s been two weeks since boy told me he wasn’t romantically interested. Thursdays, therefore, are bittersweet. It’s the only day of the week that I’ve done the same thing consistently since about the time I moved out here (that is, take a yoga class taught by the head of maintenance in the Headlands). But because he happened to tell me right before my yoga class two Thursdays ago, it seems that the trauma of that experience is now associated with the class. Grrrrrr. Sigh.

I guess I had gotten a bit over confident in my grief surpassing abilities. Silly me. It takes more than two weeks to grieve a death. And I think yoga is an ideal ritual to have surrounding that death. Well, there it is. More struggling. It kind of blindsided me.