it fits in your hand.

an old post I found from February 10th that I never blogged.

Two-hour delay this morning. I wanted the extra time to sleep, but find that now that I have it, sleep is the furthest thing from my mind. I thought about the tendons and muscles in my hands and I held them up to the dim light coming in through the window. What a piece of work, how intricate, how fearfully and thoughtfully made.

I thought about the summer. Gliding through the inlet in my kayak. Tall grass and plants, undergrowth all around me, the inlet widens and I float underneath a fallen tree and into the wide, blue expanse of lake, the sun beating down. I close my eyes, put my feet out on top of the kayak and feel the warm sun, just floating, the rocking motion of the water puts me to sleep.

I thought about riding. The smell of the earth, the sky, and horse. It’s dirt, fresh cut grass, hay, leather, and the bitter, faint taste of fly spray. The sun warms you and you feel the movement and just ride, carried away by powerful strides and the slightest touch, the lightest pressure of your leg, the horse listens and responds, ears twitch back, listening.

Main street, the park, fourth of July, Flicka, her soft looks and warm eyes. Walking up to the cemetery and laying in the grass under the tree, escaping the heat of July. Those big bales of hay that you can lay on top of and get lost in the sky, the blue, true, dream of sky. Sitting on the front stoop, Flicka next to me, waiting for Mother and Dad to get home, the stone steps warmed by the sun, the aviary of birds around me, the little garter snakes, lazily sunning themselves on the sidewalk and Dad’s flowers, tall and brilliant, line the sidewalk, singing up to the sun.

 

it’s what we needed.

I’m sitting here and I’m wondering if I have what it takes to truly love someone for who they are. You make me want to learn how. It is when I play the second movement of that Mozart sonata, I realize, yeah, we could always finish each others thoughts, we could play games and I could play the piano for you, forever. The cat curled up tight, next to me, and that spiced cider was oh so good. Maybe next year, we’ll be in love and we can drink spiced cider together. We could watch our favourite movies and sing our favorite songs. I was telling her how I want to write more music and she told me I should just do that, but I told her I wasn’t inspired. Well, I’m inspired now and the words won’t stop coming. Sometimes, I wish inspiration was a faucet you could turn off and then on again. That you weren’t always sitting around waiting for it, like rain in a desert. I’d wait for you anywhere though. I’d write on every tree, and I would drown the birds out with songs so beautiful, they’d stop singing and listen to me. You’d stop and listen too. And then you’d walk over and ask me to jump in a pile of leaves with you, you’d ask me to love God with you and I would tell you that I want that more than anything.

Anything.

So the other day, I thought about telling you that dream I had once, that got interrupted because the dog started actually throwing up on my bed in the middle of the night. I never finished the dream. It was about you, but I’m not sure what happened in it. Sometimes, I would forge the river in the summer and wish that it was deeper in the middle, like it used to be when we were kids. We’d jump from the bank into the river, but now we can’t, because of the flood and how it washed dirt, rocks and mud into our favourite swimming hole and made it shallow, like the rest of the river.

To Have Without Holding

Learning to love differently is hard,

love with the hands wide open, love

with the doors banging on their hinges,

the cupboard unlocked, the wind

roaring and whimpering in the rooms

rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds

that thwack like rubber bands in an open palm.

It hurts to love wide open

stretching the muscles that feel

as if they are made of wet plaster,

then of blunt knives, then

of sharp knives.

It hurts to thwart the reflexes

of grab, of clutch; to love and let

go again and again. It pesters to remember

the lover who is not in the bed,

to hold back what is owed to the work

that gutters like a candle in a cave

without air, to love consciously

conscientiously concretely, constructively.

I can’t do it, you say it’s killing

me, but you thrive, you glow

on the street like a neon rasberry,

You float and sail, a helium baloon

bright bachelors button blue and bobbing

on the cold and hot winds of our breath,

as we make and unmake in passionate

diastole and systole the rhythm

of our unbound bonding, to have

and not to hold, to love

with minimized malice, hunger

and anger moment by moment balanced.

-Marge Piercy

our last of days

i used to get my thrill from shifting into neutral

down the long hill

because the things they do, i cannot.

you are a mist that settles on my field, never touching, hovering,

leaving a scent of summer

heavy on my mind.

-

i am ivy. it is commanded,

it is demanded of me to climb this wall

pressed flat against the hot stone.

i can only continue to climb

so i do it

because of the chance i have to see you

soar above me

through sky

over sea

for the chance to feel your wings

the rush of air

full on my face

all of you,

beckoning all of me.

 

the yellow house on the hill.

I want to start fresh. To rebuild from the ground up and figure out exactly what kind of a woman I am.

I’ll be home in less than a week. But for now, I’m in my sisters apartment, watching the Antique’s Roadshow at 1:30am and now that I’ve started a new post, I’m not exactly sure what to say. Maybe just that painting is extremely relaxing and I really need to start running again.

It’s been an interesting past year. I’m looking back on it now, like you look at the earth from a plane. There are places that are interesting, maybe even exciting and others that are flat and neutral. It has all been rich and it has all shaped me and I am thankful for it all. I hold it up to the mirror that is my freshman year of college, almost four years ago now. They are nothing alike. The two cannot even be compared. I am alive, I am not in love and I am full of everything that makes a woman.

There are things that I am afraid of. Sometimes, I am afraid to look into the mirror and I hide from myself. I find myself trying so hard to be accepted, when I am just that – accepted. I convince myself that I must change everything about myself  in order to be loved, when I am more loved than I can imagine.

I should be writing those Music History final essays.

-EGE

grey green smile

it was just a glimpse

i thought i saw you in the reflection of my eyes

staring at me in the mirror

something

reminded me.

a picture – your hair – clean side part

grey cardigan

green tie

smile.

that sick feeling washing me like a machine

it came rushing – sweeping

i am afraid

and i think maybe it’s time to tell you

that my curse

is to always see your

smile

overcoming my frown.

endings and beginnings

I was reading back several entries in my journal. I found myself in the middle of a sweltering July. The power had just gone out and of course, I had done what anyone would do in the middle of a power outage in stifling heat. I found a lantern, set it on my desk and pulled out my journal and began to write. I wrote about the opera that I had just been to, the fishing experience with Dad the night before, I wrote about how I wished I would stop relying on myself and that I wished I was not so hasty. I remember that opera, clearly was if it were yesterday.

It was Aaron Copland’s The Tender Land and it was beautiful. I was a week or two out from leaving for college and I sat in the seat I always sit in, waiting for the climatic end of the first scene. I remember that the story made me feel strange and since it was about a young girl leaving home, I felt connected to it, but yet, almost wishing that she wouldn’t leave, that she would stay, I wished for her so many things, but mostly, I wished she wouldn’t leave.

“Look straight out across to the middle of the lake.”

“Okay…”

I raised the rod high above my head and used all my might to flick the fishing line across the lake, I envisioned it landing so far out that Dad, watching me,  floating in his kayak, would be impressed. I waited for the lure to make that sound “plop” and to see the ripples and that thin fishing line across the lake. Nothing. I waited another second. Still nothing. I tugged on the fishing pole. I had something, but it wasn’t coming from the lake. Way over to my right and about 30 feet up, my fishing hook was nicely entangled in an Evergreen. Dad sighed and paddled to the dock. “I told you to look to the middle of the lake…” We can laugh about it now, now that the lure is out of the tree, the fishing poles and kayaks are put away in the garage, the snow covers the ground, and we are safe and warm inside, always looking out the window for some sign of summer.

a boy and a girl

Stretched out
Stretched out on the grass
a boy and a girl.
Savoring their oranges, giving their kisses
likes waves exchanging foam.

Stretched out
Stretched out on the beach
a boy and a girl.
Savoring their limes, giving their kisses
like clouds exchanging foam.

Stretched out
Stretched out underground
a boy and a girl.
Saying nothing, never kissing
giving silence for silence

the winter winds can blow.

Last night, I put my hand on Heather’s stomach and felt the baby moving around. I’ve never done that before or felt a baby moving inside someone’s stomach. It felt like how it would feel if you could put your hands on the surface of the waters and feel the gentle, rolling movement of whatever was happening beneath the surface.

When I see my siblings, married, starting families of their own, it makes me feel scared and euphoric all at the same time. What great parents they are, they’ll be! How the time flies, how it beats us down like a strong, harsh wind, then lets up and grows into a still, quiet, summer day, paddles from the kayak dipping into the crystal clear water, sun beating down. Time. It flies. I’m grounded.

My mind spins, all day. I write little stories in my head about everything that happens and everything I wish to happen. I’m constantly writing, constantly spinning. Flicka had her paw in my hand tonight, looking as spoiled as she is and I thought about Coffee. Sweet, gentle, loving Coffee, never was a dog loved by a family so dearly and tenderly. She expected our love like we expected the sun to rise. I don’t remember as much about her as I’d like to. I do remember that a photo of her, lying in the grass, head up, eyes looking off somewhere distant, so noble, hung in the midst of the photos of us children for ages. And now with the marching on of time, Coffee lies in the ground and Flicka sits here. Expecting love.

I miss the Inn. I miss sitting by the fire, chatting with Jim about a new recipe he concocted, talking Margie’s ear off while she decorates a cake, the noise of quaint, tidy, main street. I miss the guests, their questions, their excitement to be on a little weekend adventure in a new place. I always felt excited too.

I miss summer walks and picnics with Mother & Dad.

I like school. I like being at college, more than I can say. But sometimes I wish to be by myself for just a little while, and for an old soul to speak their stories and wisdom in my ear.

Photos taken with my Canon Rebel G. film camera, then scanned.

a story with pictures.

Most days, I ride the bus to work. I walk by this field on my right. They used to plant corn here, but the last few years they’ve been haying.

This lush grassy area – by the stream – is on my left. We used to mow it down, but since it is often too wet to mow, we’ve been letting it get high and I think it is very beautiful.

This is the river that runs along the border of our property. Further down it, we used to have a swimming hole with a rope and a tree that we used to jump from.

The bridge over the river.

The bus stop.

Across the street, on nice days, the sun comes rising above that little hill, directly above this house.

On the opposite corner, is the general store. There are a lot of antiques sitting in there now. One time, my family wanted to turn it into a cafe/studio.

I am on the bus now and everything is a blur. A green, lush blur.

There are never more than one or two other passengers.

Riding the bus gives me a chance to enjoy the view. I like riding the bus.