Capturing multiple moments

I love the way a Pantoum can capture multiple moments and weave dreamy thoughts in and out like basketweaving or collage. So where did all that stuff come from? The Beech tree moment I'll write about another time. This morning on our walk, Baskin saw and "nosed" two Box turtles, but didn't try to "play" with them--the result of 11 years of training. Has he finally learned, or is he just bored with them now? The workshop I did at the cemetery yesterday brought back one of my favorite lines from a Theodore Roethke poem. Why didn't I remember it yesterday? And finally, when I was a child, I would be gently lulled to sleep at naptime by the sound of the washing machine in the basement. I was doing laundry while writing the pantoum, and everything sort of tumbled around together in my brain.

How's that for over-explaining? Oh well...

If you want the formula for writing a Pantoum, here it is:

1 2 3 4
2 6 4 8
6 10 8 12
10 14 12 16
14 3 16 1

Time to put the wash in the dryer. Wonder what will tumble forth next?

The Beech trees, Box turtles, spirits of the dead...with apologies to Theodore Roethke

The Beech tree sings in a light rain,
the dog has finally learned,
and the dead begin from their dark
to sing in my sleep.

The dog has finally learned
to leave the Box turtles alone
to sing in my sleep,
along with the whirr of the washing machine.

Leaving the Box turtles alone,
I visit the cemetery by day,
along with the whirr of the washing machine
as the lives of the dead begin to stir.

I visit the cemetery by day
listening to new voices
as the lives of the dead begin to stir
and write their stories down.

Listening to new voices,
as the dead begin from their dark
to write their stories down,
the Beech tree sings in a light rain.

Spring, round 1

A beautiful Spring day, with a high of 75 degrees--sunny, windy, a few clouds, and the first blooms on our daffodils. The official first day of Spring is 3 weeks away, so today was just a practice run. Later in the week it'll be cold again. Then warm. Then cold. It'll go on like this for weeks. We'll give the cold spells names like Redbud Winter or Dogwood Winter because the temperature always seems to drop around the time the Redbuds, then the Dogwoods, are blooming. One year this happened so often, we ran out of names. We had used Forsythia Winter, Crab Apple Winter, Autumn Olive Winter, Blackberry Winter, and I don't remember what else, and finally just gave up. Not long after that, the weather stayed normal.

Last year, we had a long spell of unseasonably warm days in February, followed by a deep freeze. All the new leaves on the trees froze and dropped to the ground. It looked like November. We lost two trees. Most trees re-leafed and made it through the Spring, but then we had an unusually hot and dry summer. Days and days of intense heat and no rain. So now we wait and hold our breath, wondering which trees are still alive, and pray that we won't have a repeat of last Spring's late freeze. In the meantime, we enjoy the early blooms of the daffodils and are grateful for their hardiness.

First bloom, first sign of
change from Winter's gray, cold days--
is it really Spring?

What's by my bed?

Well, books, of course! But I didn't realize how many until I took a look today. No wonder I've been having trouble getting in and out of bed! Actually, this happens frequently, and I go through the same ol' routine--look closely and return the ones to my study that I'm obviously not getting around to reading anytime soon. I got ready to do that this morning, but decided to list them on my blog before clearing them out for the next "flood." So, here goes:

Monet to Dali - the catalog for the exhibit that I'm using for my workshop in April
Heart to Heart, by Jan Greenberg (on ekphrastic writing)
the everyday work of art, by eric booth
Just Looking: Essays on Art, by John Updike
Essential Reiki, by Diane Stein
Essential Psychic Healing, by Diane Stein
The Reiki Touch, by William Lee Rand
Crones Don't Whine, by Jean Shinoda Bolen
Goddesses in Older Women, by Bolen
The Narrow Road to the Deep North, by Matsuo Basho
Dreamweaver CS3: The Missing Manual, by David McFarland (I'm teaching myself Dreamweaver so I can create and maintain my own website--slow going)
The Chicago Manual of Style, 14th Edition
Pausing for Beauty, the Heron Dance Daybook and Planner for 2007 (empty, but I may use it for art journaling)
Why Good People Do Bad Things: Understanding Our Darker Selves, by James Hollis
Animal Speak, by Ted Andrews
Soul Mapping, by Nina Frost, et al.
SoulCollage, by Seena Frost
The Sevenfold Journey: Reclaiming Mind, Body & Spirit Through the Chakras, by Anodea Judith
PlanB: Further Thoughts on Faith, by Anne Lamott
The Feminine in Fairy Tales, by Marie-Louise Von Franz
The Book of Runes, by Ralph Blum
The Cloud of Unknowing (anonymous)
The Eye Like a Strange Balloon, Poems by Mary Jo Bang
The Power of Now, by Eckhart Tolle
Coyote Medicine, by Lewis Mehl-Madrona
Women Who Run With the Wolves, by Clarissa Pinkola Estes
Wabi Sabi: The Art of Everyday Life, by Diane Durston
Writing the Memoir, by Judith Barrington
Storycatcher, by Christina Baldwin
Making a Literary Life: Advice for Writers and Other Dreamers, by Carolyn See
The Dead Beat: the Perverse Pleasures of Obituaries, by Marilyn Johnson (I'm preparing to teach a workshop on writing memoir in a cemetery)
Your Life as Story, by Tristine Rainer
a Spanish-English Dictionary
Birthday calendar book (still blank)
For Keeps: Women Tell the Truth About Their Bodies, Growing Older, and Acceptance, ed. by Victoria Zackheim
one copy each of National Geographic, Reiki News Magazine, The New Yorker (winter fiction issue), Shambhala Sun, and Somerset Studio
Roethke: Collected Poems
Poetry as Healer, by Jack Leedy
Poetic Medicine, by John Fox
Biblio/Poetry Therapy, by Arlene Hynes
Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace, ed. by Maxine Hong Kingston
Breaking the Drought: Visions of Grace, by Stephen Levine
Foolsgold: Making Something from Nothing, by Susan Wooldridge
The Hero with a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell
Old Age, by Helen Luke
Wabi Sabi for Writers, by Richard Powell
Full Catastrophe Living, by Jon Kabat-Zinn
The Uses of Enchantment, by Bruno Bettelheim
The Portable Jung, ed. by Joseph Campbell
An Intimate Look at the Night Sky, by Chet Raymo
Look at the Sky...and tell the weather, by Eric Sloane
Merton's Palace of Nowhere, by James Finley
The Intimate Merton: His Life from His Journals, ed. by Hart and Montaldo
When Things Fall Apart, by Pema Chodron
On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, by Stephen King
The Seasons of a Restless Heart, by Debra Farrington
A Circle of Quiet, by Madeleine L'Engle
Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl
Holy Bible, New International Version
Dandelion Wine, by Ray Bradbury (a borrowed copy that I need to return, although I read only half of it)
My Utmost for His Highest, by Oswald Chambers
The New Testament in Modern English, trans. by J. B. Phillips
Of Other Worlds: Essays & Stories, by C. S. Lewis
5 crossword puzzle books in various stages of completion
2 sketchbooks and a collection of drawing pencils and felt pens in a canvas bag
5 journals, including my Dream journal with the lighted pen attached
2 fountain pens
various pencils and pens
2 yellow highlighters

Some of these were on the floor, some on the night table. I've thought of putting a bookshelf by my bed, but then I'd have to decide which books got the privilege of living there. Maybe I should just move my bed into my study!

I've now moved about half the collection back to the study, but it probably won't be long until another stack takes over the floor. Sigh!

Winter Compost

The compost pile in winter:
cabbage leaves
banana peels
eggshells
pear cores
cherry pits (from Peru or Chile)
tea bags (organic, of course)
tangerine peels
asparagus stems
eggplant trimmings
onion skins
apple cores
clippings from grooming our Standard Poodle
outer leaves from brussel sprouts (ever had roasted brussel sprouts? delicious!)
and the weeds, of course

Here Grows

My life in compost
piles the recent on the top
underneath the rest

Does Time Really Fly?

Do you ever get to the end of a week and wonder what in the world you did with with all the days and nights? Wonder what you have to show for it? Even accounting for my temporary insanity brought on, of course, by the full moon on Wednesday--and, for Pete's sake, a lunar eclipse!--I feel like I have done nothing. Nothing that I can codify, categorize, or claim credit for finishing, anyway. Maybe if I had done at least one load of laundry--for show, because it really didn't need doing--I would have a sense of accomplishment. No, I doubt that that would have helped. I think that the Critical Parent is sitting on my shoulder with a clipboard, looking for something to tic off. (In that case, I should have done the laundry.)

I say all this, yet I know that I did accomplish some very important things: I helped my friend Ga get her first novel ready for presenting to agents and editors; I facilitated two writing group sessions that were satisfying to all (I think) attending; I took in my first of many viewings of the Monet to Dali exhibit at the Frist. I'd go on, but you'd be bored...

So, okay, I did use some of my time wisely. But then, in the middle of the week, comes this Story of the Day (below) from the Brian Andreas website. Reminding me that what's important is not the laundry and the list on the CP's clipboard, but doing what nourishes my soul. And why do I feel undernourished? Because I haven't spent enough time writing or making art. Bottom line. I'm still hungry. There is exactly enough time for those things, but I've got to do them with my first tier of energy, not my last.

So, how did you spend your time this week?

"Everything changed the day she figured out there was exactly enough time for the important things in her life."--Brian Andreas

The Real Valentine

Valentine's Day was special today, but not because of the beautiful bouquet R delivered from the florist this morning. Nor because he made a special trip to retrieve it when my plans suddenly changed and the original delivery plans had to be scrapped. It wasn't special because of the wonderful lunch we had at one of our favorite restaurants overlooking the Nashville skyline (Germantown Cafe). Nor because we spent part of the afternoon wandering through aisle after aisle of antiques and garden displays at Cheekwood's Antique and Garden show, at the convention center. No, the thing I will remember about this day, more than the sun and the blue skies and all the above, is how we narrowly missed colliding with a yearling deer who decided to cross Old Hickory Blvd. in Bellevue in front of us. The terrified youngster managed to redirect herself just as a startled R managed to slam on the brakes. For way too many seconds, we were side by side, us praying that she wouldn't cross in front of us, as our car slowed quickly, but was it quick enough? Another car was approaching from behind in the adjacent lane--would it slow down in time? Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the yearling bounded away across the two westbound lanes, which were, thankfully, empty. I wonder: is she telling her story in a circle of cud-chewing companions in the light of tonight's moon, heart still panting?