The Three Dancers
Pablo Picasso, 1925

Mournful

For at least 2 hours, I heard him, howling
every so often in my backyard, my side yard,
beneath the carport. Molly got a bit agitated
when she heard him. We were here, in the back
room. I was checking email and she was checking
me out. He had been howling for some time at that
point, and Molly was at her breaking point.

I left her inside and went out back to see what all the noise
was about. And there he was, nose to the ground,
moving at a slow speed--not a walk and not a run--
an in between. He was hoping his nose would tell
him how to find home. I called to him, but he never
lifted his head. He just kept about his business, nose
to the ground, every 15 seconds or so lifting his nose
and head enough to howl again.

And I felt so sad. I wanted to say: You're a very resourceful
sort. You don't let things like people calling you interrupt
your mission. You've got a nose for things and a mission.
You'll do it. You'll do it, by god, you'll do it. But he just
kept coming back. Gone for 10 minutes or so down
the street, his howls still reaching my ears. And then back
again, nose to the ground, intently and passionately and
disturbingly focused on home or something familiar.

I know, I know. I said those words out loud. To the clouds
above. To the sounds of his howls. To the bare branches
above. To the cold night air. I know. I know what it
is to want to make your sound. To feel lost but undeterred.
To make yourself be heard. To ignore the willing voices
and hands and offers. I know what it is to not know
where it is home is. I know. I know. Come to me.

Now, he is gone. Molly is quiet. The house is quiet.

There is no more howling here around this house.

And I want to believe it is because he found it--home.
Or them--people who love him. Or somewhere to bed
down for the night. Somewhere not so warm but
protected. Somewhere he can rest his tired body,
his aching throat. Somewhere he can call home
for the night, even if all of the amenities are missing
and there is no one there to love him. Just his own
love of self and his own need to survive and his own
moment of reckoning so clear and forgiving.

Eighteen

Ok...brings back thoughts.

But everyone has their own 18 thing.
I was married. And there is a story,
but I have grown weary of talking about it.

I got home about 6 this evening. My son's 18th
birthday. Cannot believe 18 years have come
and gone. I visited a friend over the weekend.
Left Friday after work and drove about 200
miles in the dark, but the moon was nearly
full (to the naked eye full) and the night was lovely,
so my heart was not troubled.

Bought my son The Road (Cormac McCarthy),
a collection of Hemingway short stories, and Pale
Fire(Nabokov). Found some decent wines,
ate some good food, watched some no-brainer
movies, and slept. Was a good way to spend
a weekend.

Now, I think I shall take a bathroom break, eat
some of the delicious cake my friend baked for
my son, and lie down and read.

"Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans"

Happy birthday to you, my beautiful son.

Of Time and the River

The title for this post is the name of one of my favorite Thomas

Wolfe books. I trired to reread him recently but didn't get far,

and I'm not sure why. Maybe Thomas will only remain in that

long ago place he resided in when first I discovered him.

Have been thinking a lot about my dad. Last night before bed.

In the middle of the night when I woke up and could not go back

to sleep. Does this great missing ever stop? There are days

in which I have to ask myself if I've thought about him that

day. If I had not up until that point, I certainly was at that point.

Even though I rarely went to see him, I knew what he felt and how

he felt. It was a tacit understanding. No need to explain or reason.

I just miss my dad and know I always will.

My daughter gave me some more Joan Didion for Christmas.

I am reading Slouching Toward Bethlehem. I want to reread

The Year of Magical Thinking. Sometimes I think I am still

in that year. The damage done from 2 deeply disturbing life-

changing events has taken its toll on me. I lost my dad and

6 months later, I lost my job. In between, I received a very

disturbing letter. And within a year of dad's death, two of my

good friends died. I wonder if I'll ever feel right again.

This quote from Joan Didion:

“A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest,

remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself,

shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes

it in his own image.”

I once picnicked on the banks of the Wabash. I brought

flowers with me, and after eating, threw the flowers

into the Wabash in memory of my father. I watched them

until they floated away out of sight, beneath the bridge

in the picture above. I took pictures that day, and one day,

when my scanner cooperates, I'll post one. Oddly enough,

as I tossed the flowers out, a little at a time, one bouquet

stood straight up in the mud. It landed perfectly, and the stems

found themselves right at home.

They are long gone now. Like so many people I have known.

But nothing will take the memory from me.

At least, I hope nothing will.

Leftovers

I'll take them when most won't.

They're kinda my style.

This morning it's a spinach and roasted tomato fritatta.

Made an ass-kicking good salad last
night (my thanks, once again, to RR), and
I had quite a bit left, so I thought, why not
a fritatta?

Salad recipe:

6 plum tomatoes, halved
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp fresh thyme, chopped
olive oil
kosher salt
pepper
1/4 cup pine nuts
blue cheese crumbles
1 lemon

Heat the pine nuts in a small skillet over
med. to med. high heat until lightly browned.
Remove from heat (be sure to stir frequently).

Put tomatoes on a rimmed cookie sheet. Drizzle
with olive oil, then add thyme, salt, pepper, and garlic.
Coat the tomatoes evenly. Bake at 350 for 20 minutes.

Remove tomatoes from oven and coarsely chop. Put them
in a large salad bowl. Add spinach to the bowl and allow
the hot tomatoes to let it wilt a little. Then add olive oil,
the juice of one lemon, pine nuts, salt, and pepper.
Toss to combine. Add the blue cheese crumbles.

Not only does it taste great, it looks beautiful. You know
you eat with your eyes first.

So, for the fritatta, just heat some of the spinach salad
in an oven-proof skillet, pour eggs over the mixture,
bake about 15 minutes. Very yum.

Ok. I took way too much time this morning on breakfast.
It's now 8:08. I have not washed my face or gotten ready
in any way. Gotta do it. Tired and would like to sleep
today, but gotta keep moving.

In the middle of the journey of our life
I came to myself within a dark wood
where the straight way was lost.

Dante


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEqpdSKdpxs


Yes, Loreena, how fragile is the heart. Feeling that
fragility this day.


Dante's Prayer

When the dark wood fell before me
And all the paths were overgrown
When the priests of pride say there is no other way
I tilled the sorrows of stone

I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me your love in the light of the stars

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me

Then the mountain rose before me
By the deep well of desire
From the fountain of forgiveness
Beyond the ice and the fire

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me

Though we share this humble path, alone
How fragile is the heart
Oh give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of the stars

Breathe life into this feeble heart
Lift this mortal veil of fear
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears
We'll rise above these earthly cares

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me
Please remember me

Loreena McKennitt

Time

It's not time that limits what I can and can't
do--it's life and choice which dictates much of it.

For example, I work from 8:30-5. That's the
way it is. So, my time is tied up with work
during those hours, as is my life. Many days,
I work later than 5 to get the things done I could
not get done before 5. You see, the on call person
comes on at 5, so if I get a crisis at 5 pm, and I am
still in the building, the call goes to on call. If I get
a crisis at 4:50, it's mine. Meaning, I could be
there another 45 min to an hour. Just depends.

So, by the time I get home, which is usually about
5:15-5:30, bring my things in the house, turn
some lights on (Wes goes to work around 4 many days
and leaves the house dark), take Molly out for her
bathroom time, check the mail and the answering
machine, it's after 6. Then it's time to start dinner,
clean up the mess I didn't clean the night before,
throw a load of clothes in the laundry, return calls.

By the time I do all of that, it's 7 or later, and I'm a
really tired girl by then. So, it's make a drink or
pour some wine time and unwind time and watch
terrible news time or dog training shows or home
remodeling shows or Modern Marvels or Biography.

By then, the drink has gone to the body and the mind,
and I feel too relaxed to get up and do anything else.

But I do, sometimes, with my time, with my life.

Getting here to write has become more and more a morning
thing, but then I end up running late for work. I have 40
minutes left, and I have not washed my face, dressed, put
on make up, etc. Good thing I only live about 2 miles
from my office.

I really like what I am doing. I like knowing there is a
program for people in crisis--a program that works
quite well. I like my coworkers. I can't think of any
place I've ever worked where I've felt more welcome
from the get go. For example, tonight after work, several
of us are going out for drinks and a bite to eat. They will
eat, but Wes is home tonight, and I have meal I plan to
cook, but they invited me and I'll go hang out for a little
while. We've already gone out together three or four
times since I started working there.

I like the fact that we all give each other space and don't
take it personally when one of us is really taciturn, terse, short,
and sometimes rude to the other. The work we do is very
high stress, and sometimes it gets to you. But then we have
our moments of just sitting around together in my office
(I share an office with 2 people) and telling jokes or small
talking and laughing about something one of us did or said.

These folks are some of the most giving, caring people I've
ever known.

All of that being said, I am still keeping my options open. Times
are hard, and we all received a letter the other day from the main
office (a 5 page letter) outlining the measures which must be
taken to keep the business afloat. Hard, hard times. Potential
problems with Medicaid, more and more people needing
services who do not have the money to pay for them, more and
more cuts (no salary increase, may have to pay more for insurance,
etc.) We'll see how things go.

******************************************

Crazy dreams last night and the night before. The night
before, one of my dreams could have been an episode
of Land of the Giants. There was this gigantic rooster,
which was sitting in some hay. I was probably 6 inches tall,
if that, and the rooster probably 3-4 feet. I remember
being afraid that it would notice me and try to eat me.
But I was fascinated with its colors. Its sides were the
colors of the rainbow, and its face was cobalt. I watched
in amazement as it scratched itself. Then I noticed men
all around with guns in their hands. Some were men no taller
than me, and some were gargantuan. I thought they were
coming to shoot me.

Last night could have been something written for The
Twilight Zone. It spooked me, and I woke shaking.

Time to go wash my face and all that good stuff.



Thought for today:

"I would like to learn, or remember, how to live.”

Annie Dillard