What Matters

I have a blog. It’s called “WHAT MATTERS”

I may start keeping that blog up. WHAT MATTERS.
Like this mind blowing gift my daughter (who is a science and math whiz but hates writing and still took the time to fill pages with her love and appreciation for me this past June 5, my 65th.)
This book is filled with love and frankly, is any parent’s deepest desire; that a child of theirs gets it, gets who you are as both a woman and a mother and reciprocates your love, respects your wisdom, and even emulates you.
Being seen like this is the GREATEST GIFT I have or ever will ever receive.
Yes, moms ARE supposed to see their kids and selflessly (but not so selflessly they’re a doormat and don’t model self-care) hold space for them
and
when you are successful at it?
THIS happens.
Sometimes it takes a lifetime. Sometimes it takes several.
I’m here for it. 🙏🏻

Solo Writing Retreat: Travel Prep

I was obsessing about which books to take with me on my solo writing retreat when I realized I could just use my Kindle. Huge relief! I also realized there’s no reason to create stress and pressure for myself with this month-long solo expedition into my work-in-progress. The plan is to immerse myself in the drafts I have and go from there. I have no idea where I’ll end up but I do have a sense that I need to wrap this book project up.

I’m pairing the writing with meditation at the nearby Temple of the Universe, run by Michael Singer, author of The Untethered Soul and The Surrender Experiment. And, to kick it all off, I am doing a three-day retreat on the Sadhana of Prana at the Amrit Yoga Institute in Silver Springs, Florida.

I’ll be staying at a cozycottage on twenty acres of farmland outside of Alachua, Florida which is about a twenty-minute drive from Gainesville and fifteen minutes from Michael Singer’s property. 

How did this all happen?

I had the intuitive thought to create a writing retreat for myself, travel somewhere for an entire month. In considering where I might go I thought of Santa Fe or Taos in nearby New Mexico, Ojai, California, where I’ve enjoyed attending workshops before, or, the next thought occurred to me, why not travel to the area near Singer’s meditation retreat and property, as described in his book, The Surrender Experiment. I shot The Temple of the Universe an email saying I was planning to be in the area to write and could they recommend a nearby place to stay? To my surprise, I received a friendly response the very next day with some suggestions and so I landed at a lovely cottage with an amazing hostess. Within days of having the intuition to create the trip, everything fell into place, including reserving my flights using the surplus of miles I had saved up.

In getting ready for this trip, I at first felt like I had to pack everything but the kitchen sink, but once I solved the book problem, I relaxed and now I’m simplifying it across the board. I’m taking capris and my softest most comfortable t-shirts, a swimsuit, a robe, underwear, a light jacket, my bike shorts and gloves, and that’s about it. Oh, and my laptop which I took into the Geek Squad to get the WiFi connection problem I’d been having fixed. Check. My hostess graciously agreed to provide a printer and I bought some ink. I have a few thumb drives with my work-in-progress on them, as well as a hard copy of the MS and notes from my mentors Lidia Yuknavitch and Emily Rapp Black. I’m taking a few meditation books, a journal, and two writing books:

Meander, Spiral, Explode: Design and Pattern in Narrative Paperback – April 2, 2019 by Jane Allison

The Writer's Portable Mentor: A Guide to Art, Craft, and the Writing Life, Second Edition Paperback – September 15, 2018, by Priscilla Long

I will spend some reading time with Marguerite Duras, Alice Notley, Bernadette Mayer, Rainier Maria Rilke, and whomever else strikes my fancy that I can download on my Kindle, but mostly, I plan to write.

Daughters

  

I like to tell how she cried before she was born. Even before she emerged from the birth canal, she began wailing. And it is hard not to because she came second, after her sister, who was born silent. So it was the sound of her cry, like electricity, that connected us at the very first. As it was the sound of her sister’s silence that remains, even now, loudest, the way it lies just beneath the beating of my heart. There’s a thunder in that silence.

I was seventeen when the first girl came. Two days worth of labor. My water broke first and so they induced it. I was a tiny thing. Maybe one hundred twenty pounds eight plus months pregnant. They hooked me up to monitors, IVs, oxygen.

I was a child. “I’ve changed my mind,” I said, finally. “I’m not going to do this.” And I really thought I could just get up and leave. Someone wiped my face with a washcloth. Shushed me.

In the delivery room, the nurse who admonished me, “You wanted this baby. Now you have it!” was sent out of the room after I pulled her surgical cap off and broke the IV line in my arm, blood trickling behind it. I became an animal giving birth to a human.

A loss of consciousness, finally, and when I came to, a lone doctor in the room, perhaps an intern, pushing on my stomach.

“Where is my baby?” I asked, confused by the sudden emptiness.

“You had a girl.” He said. “Now push. We have to get out the afterbirth.”

I don’t know if it was days or hours before I saw her, my first girl.

She was born not breathing. While I lay unconscious, she was resuscitated, incubated, whisked away.

The second daughter was born in violence. Her father battering us the night before her birth. The only memory that dark room, my long hair, his fist in my stomach.

With the morning came my water and, because this had happened with the first one, I knew it was time to give birth. Again, I was induced. This time labor was fast. She was born within three hours after induction, screaming into the world. Born the same hour and minutes as the month and day. At ten twenty-seven on ten twenty-seven. She announced her arrival.

Daughters know how to break mothers. Or is it the other way around? We break each other. I was a child mother. My girls anchored me to the ground. Like twin soulmates they swirled around the satellite of me, their mother, and kept me from drifting into oblivion and space.

Daughters are not supposed to be the anchors. But mine were.

I don’t know how to say sorry for that. Because they still are.

I am the great grand-daughter of a witch, and so my daughters are her great-great- granddaughters. A lineage hard to come from, that of the designated witch. And that of child mothers.

One daughter has distanced herself from me of late. Both have broken my heart. My blond and brunette daughters, day and night, green eyes and brown. The loves of my life. Irretrievably, endlessly, broken.

When she was nine and I married their stepfather, the eldest said, “Now we won’t be the three musketeers anymore, Mom.” She looked steadily at me, her soul spilling from her eyes.

“We will always be the three musketeers.” I told her. Fiercely. But she wants nothing to do with me lately.

‘I am not your friend,” she recently said. She means she can’t take care of me. You see, she used to, child of a child mother. Neither of us are children now.

The second daughter calls to tell me her five year old girl’s latest antics. She is strong willed, like you were, I tell her. Like I was. We shake our heads a little, but secretly, we both take pride in her strength.

I can’t solve this mother daughter puzzle. My own mother is no longer close. I dream that, because my daughters each have a daughter, they will comprehend the way I love them someday. They will get it like a bomb going off in their chest. The stars will align and the universe will right itself anew. But there is no guarantee. There is really nothing but this river we come from, in which we swim, which swims in us, its tributaries of shame.

How I love them.

VOCATION

 

     With National Poetry Month in mind, as well as the start tomorrow to a poetry workshop, and an upcoming poem a day challenge, I pulled out some of my favorite poets.  This poem by Alice Ostriker struck me because it captures the fire that burns inside at the same time it shines a wide angle lens across a life halfway spent.  Writing is my vocation and called me when I was six.  Now I am sixty and have finally answered the call.  I try not to look back, but reading this, I saw the child, the teenager, the young adult and woman I have been. How small I was, in my own thin coat:


VOCATION

To play among the words like one of them,
Lit from within—others can see it,
Never oneself—


She slips like a cat through traffic,
A girl alone downtown
For the first time, subway fare in her purse,

Fear of losing it
Clamping her chest,
Wind whipping tears from her eyes,

Fried grease and gasoline in her nose, shoes and
Jewelry in shopwindows. a spike
Of freedom stitching her scalp—

Though she dreads the allergy shot at the clinic
She feels herself getting brave.
Now it begins to snow on Central Park South

And a flight of pigeons
Whim up from a small pile of junk in the gutter
Grey, violet, green, a predatory shimmer.

The marquee of the Paris Theater
Looks at the rapturous child
Through downcast lashes, condescendingly.

I watch her over a distance of fifty years.
I see how small she is in her thin coat.
I offer a necklace of tears, orgasms, words

                                                      ~ Alice Ostriker

- See more at: http://www.persimmontree.org/v2/summer-2010/poems/#sthash.rJUUllho.dpuf

And Here's What The Fuck I'm Gonna Do About It

Writing the Body Retreat with Jen Pastiloff and Lidia Yuknavitch in Ojai, California this past weekend, the title is a prompt given to us by Lidia. An amazing experience unlike any other. Believe it. #womanchurch #gratitude

 

     I will allow Source to carry me, to provide, to guide.  I will do what’s in front of me to do: the next step, and the next and the next AS THEY APPEAR before me.

     I will stand in this gorgeous light of my soul and nothing – including myself and my whiny ego – will get in the way.

     I will write this book.  And the next one. And the one after that.  And on – into infinity.

     I will drop the guilt that wants to suck me into the abyss. I will forgive all my sins – even the worst ones where I harmed another – to write about the way out for all of us, to show the great light that cracked me into this new life of passion, love, and ALL OF ME expressing.

    I will drop my hands, wash my face, and dance*, motherfuckers. If you do not see or recognize me, I will shake the dust from my feet and Let.You.Walk.

     I am here.  I have arrived. The big “I” of me, not the small and I am fucking tall. My heart is HUGE and it is big enough now, big enough for it ALL.

     I will not be small.  I am here to love everything. Don’t be afraid of me. I will release all fear like pebbles into the ocean.

     Look at that Big Water.  It has come for me and I’m going to ride the waves all the way to the tallest peak.  I will ride and go high and then descend as water droplets, as spray, foam on the very edges, god damn it. 

    I am every single piece of sand and I am the water licks at the edges. I am moving with the air and the rivers and the rain and I am Giving It Up.
 
    ALL of it.  I am not wasting a single fucking breath. Watch my fingers.  Moving on the page.

     *Bishop T.D. Jakes Let Them Walk

A Room Of Our Own

Passing It Forward:

I'm excited to highlight a fellow writer's work on KellyBlog. 
This piece by Jennifer Erickson made me howl.

An excerpt from:
Turning Shit into Gold (with apologies to Joseph Campbell)

Who can be a hero? Anybody. Yes, you heard me.

You don't have to be  perfect: you're human, after all. You can be old or young, rich or poor, and you don't need an education or prestigious job. You don't have to be charming or nice, although becoming a hero might require some painful introspection. Your life may have started out crappy, but that's actually an advantage, because being a hero is hard, and a miserable childhood can toughen you up.

A hero does not have to be male, by the way. Yes, in the movies women are mostly decorative, but in real life there's more to women than cleavage and painful shoes.

I'm going to warn you right now that becoming a hero will be the hardest thing you have ever done. It's not all ticker-tape parades and Oprah interviews. It's a long, difficult journey. The good news is that your  journey is already there, waiting for you, and you may have started that journey without knowing it. You just have to have the courage to finish.

The hero doesn't start out wanting to save the world. As a matter of fact, you can be a screw-up. One colossal mistake leads you in a completely unexpected (and unwanted) direction. It might be a drunk-driving conviction or a jumbo mortgage. Or there might be some sign from the hidden world that things are about to get weird, like your boss asks whether there's something else you'd rather be doing, or sewage comes up through the bathtub drain.

 Either way, you're not impressed, and not particularly keen to go gallivanting off on an adventure. You'd really rather watch American Idol and have a beer.

But after having decided to do nothing instead of adventuring, you start to see the emptiness, the meaninglessness of your life. You sink into depression. You're trying to figure out how to get out of your rut when something happens to remind you that adventure awaits. And this time you feel a little less afraid. After all, what do you have to lose? Your life sucks. Before you can chicken out, you leap into the adventure.

Immediately, you are submersed in a world of monsters and seduction and strange supernatural stuff. Often, an intimidating mentor helps you until you get the hang of it.

Eventually, you get a little cocky. What you don't realize is that this is just a warmup. Hero boot camp.

The real journey begins then, with terrors beyond any you had imagined, and even worse, your mentor isn't returning your calls. You're going to have to go deep, psychologically speaking, and it will be painful. Your old self will be annihilated, but when you come through it you will realize that you had nothing to fear all along.

You might think this is the end of the story, but really it's just the beginning. You must raise your level of consciousness to succeed in every new trial. You are growing up.

You start to see that all is one: you stop thinking of things in terms of opposites: you and I, good and evil, masculine and feminine, success and failure. You see the world in all its messy perfection. Everything is necessary to the whole, including this shitty journey you're on.

You master the world, but that's not where it stops. You realize that the whole world is in you as you are in the world.

Woah.

Yeah, but that's not the end of it. There's trial after trial, and the hero in you just lets it happen. Desires and hostility dissolve. Your soul is stripped bare. You lose everything. You might think you have had enough, but alas, no.

You step into the void, the world beyond the world. Finally, you are at peace, and you don't want to go back to humanity and opposites and strife and people with their petty little egos. Who can blame you? You worked hard to get this point. Even if you're in a coma, you're content.

The problem is, you're a hero, and the sacred duty, the destiny of a hero is to bring back your wisdom to society. So with regret you tear away from the void, where all was perfection and peace, and dive back into ugly, petty humanity.

And when you arrive with your hard-won wisdom, you're talking a little bit above everybody else's understanding, so nobody cares. Yeah, they call you a weirdo, a loser. It's even in the newspaper: "So-and-so sucks.". Your spouse takes the kids and moves in with your mother and you're not invited to Thanksgiving dinner. And so the trials continue. I told you being a hero would suck.

Find Jennifer Erickson at:  http://jenniferericksonauthor.blogspot.com/

Facebook

 I got nothing.

No status update today.

Not even another selfie;

I’m tapped out.

I’ve been talking to you

Like you’re out there.

But you’re the 21^st century

Mirror, mirror, on the wall

You’re the post post-modern

Religion; a prayer posting

Prison.

     ~K.Thompson

This poem was entered in the Writer's Digest Poem-A-Day Challenge in April, 2014 and was selected as a Top Ten Finalist. 

Lead Us Not Into Temptation

     I was born in the fifties.  It was such a confusing world, even then.  By the time I was six, it was the sixties.  Being raised in a religious cult-like sect made it even more confusing.  When I was nine we moved to the suburbs, a big deal.  There were about three models of brick homes, or homes that looked brick, anyway.  Ours was the plain vanilla box version but we were very proud of it.  We had a lot on the corner of  Linda Sue and Leonard Lane.  Since my father’s name was Leonard and my oldest sister’s name was Linda it was meant to be.  

     We had a fenced yard and an incinerator where we burned our trash once a week.  There was a clothesline where our mother hung clothes to dry and we kids made tents, flinging blankets over the line, shining flash lights in each other’s eyes after dark, telling scary stories. 

     Being a religious kid, I gawked at the sophisticated ways of neighbors, my mouth hanging open, greedily drinking in a world I couldn’t imagine, but secretly longed for.  We dressed like the Lord’s people, so I felt dowdy, plain, and even naked, next to Binky and Pat, the neighborhood party couple.  Binky was a pro baseball player and he and Pat had a sleek convertible parked in their driveway.  Pat wore silky scarves and dark sunglasses before Jacqueline Kennedy, looking glamorous with her nude lipstick and matching nails.  Binky and Pat threw wild parties with another couple, Lou and Betty, from the neighborhood.  Once, in the early morning hours, I saw Binky, clearly intoxicated, wandering down the street with Pat on his shoulders, whooping and hollering.  Betty and Lou stood on their concrete porch laughing and waving cocktail glasses as the rising sun cast a pink glow all around.

      I doubt my parents were invited and even if they had been, they would never have attended such a “worldly” event.  We were the chosen people, the implication of which made us better than others, people like the Binky and Pats of the world.  As far as I could understand, we were better in a sad sort of way, because we had to sacrifice a lot to be God’s people.  Instead of having fun, we had to be examples. 

    But at the swimming pool, I stole quarters from beneath other people’s towels.  I shoplifted candy from Duckworth’s, slipping it beneath the bathing cap I twisted nonchalantly on my fist. 

     I was that kid. 

     We didn’t own a television set, so I had to see the local kids’ shows in Denver like Fred and Fay, and others like The Man From U.N.C.L.E., Leave It To Beaver, and Superman, at my friends' houses.  Once the magic box was on, light and shadows flickering across the forbidden screen, I was mesmerized.  My friends, accustomed to its spells, often had to physically pull me away and out of the instant trance I would fall into as soon as a favorite show came on. 

     “C’mon!” they might yell.  “Yoo-hoo!”

     They waved their hands in front of my face and laughed at my inability to see or hear anything but the sights and sounds emanating from the screen. Reluctantly, with much yelling, shaking and pulling, I would drag my attention away from the magic.

    “Huh?” I might mutter, eyelids blinking in confusion.  Sometimes they had to just go stand in front of the set or turn it off to release me from its spell.  I felt guilty then, as though I had just secretly masturbated or something worse.  As far as my parents knew, I was outside playing.

     We lived in a magic time.  We kids ran up and down the streets of the suburbs hooting and hollering, wearing towels like Superman capes, playing hide and seek, Red Rover, Mother May I, even as the street lights blinked on, dark fell, and one by one, we headed off to our respective homes and bedtime.  Every Halloween we went trick or treating. It’s all mixed up together, how the times were changing then. 

     President Kennedy was shot.  I was in fourth grade and we all laid our heads on our desk in a moment of silence.  I was too young to understand anything but the dead silence underneath the quiet sobbing of my older sisters as it echoed through the rest of the day, the weeks, and months, even years that followed.  It was like a warning, that silence, full of dread, covered over by the hysteria to come:  the manic flood of young people, the blasting beat of rock and roll accompanied by the drifting sweet smell of patchouli oil and marijuana, into the streets.  

     When relatives from small towns out of state came to visit, my parents took them for a drive down Colfax so they could see the long haired hippies.  They’d come home shaking their heads, muttering disgust.  I watched their consternation from the corners of my pre-pubescence, my stomach twisting with the clashing mores.  My head ached with wanting. 

     My friend’s brother was sent to Vietnam. She had scant information, garnered from conversations by adults not meant for her ears.  My sister skipped school and, in a family scandal of huge proportions, was featured on the front page of the Rocky Mountain News wearing a mini skirt and picketing to change the school dress code.  She had become sick of kneeling down before the school authorities to have the distance between the hem of her skirt and the top of her knee measured.  My friend and I had no words for the fear we felt for our siblings, unnamed worries circled our heads like vultures.

     One sister got married and moved away.  The other sister joined the hippies on Colfax.  I worried about the neighbors, who were going to hell, because they didn’t know the Truth, weren’t God’s people. 

     It didn’t seem fair.  Plus I was struggling, just like David facing Goliath in the Bible story. 

     When I went to Carol and Cheryl’s house to play, we got into their big sister’s make-up kit and I brushed mascara on my eyelashes, smeared lipstick on my lips. Their parents both worked so we had the house to ourselves. Carol and Cheryl put on records by Bobby Darin, again raided from their big sister’s stash, and we danced so hard to “Dream Lover,” replaying it over and over, that we fell, exhausted onto the floor, breathless with giggles.  Then I tried to scrub all the makeup off before I went home where my parents would see it. 

     I loved dancing to Bobby Darin, Chubby Checker, and James Brown at Carol and Cheryl’s house.  They taught me (or tried to teach me) how to do the Twist, the Mashed Potato, and the Frug, among other dances. Their parents weren’t religious and their older sister was an endless source of inspiration. I liked mascara and lipstick; I who had been forbade even clear nail polish.  Carol enticed me into playing girlfriend and boyfriend.  We placed our hands in front of our lips and fervently kissed. 

     Like I said, it was all very confusing.  Dancing and makeup were considered worldly in the Truth. My public face was kept scrubbed, clean of adornment.  Scissors, true to biblical instruction, had never touched my waist length hair. My dresses, hand sewn by my mother, reached the middle of my knees.  Man would soon land on the moon.

     Age thirteen, I huddled in my bedroom, listening to the Monkees, “The Last Train to Clarksville.”  At fourteen, babysitting, I discovered the Beatles and “Hey Jude.”  NaNa Na Na Na.  Hey – ay-ay-ay Jude, I sang. 

     I thought I might die, the way my heart pounded against my ribs day after day. 

    

  
     Everything, it seemed, was denied me. 

    

 This essay was first published October 1, 2014 at:  http://essay-a-day.blogspot.com/2014/10/lead-us-not-into-temptation.html

Seven Poems

 

 

                            for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life

                                                                    ~Rainer Maria Rilke

 

 
     Oh craziness become me.  I feel like an abstract painting, perhaps a Picasso, struggling to pull my displaced parts together.  My writing is not going well but my writing is going well. 
     Something has stopped me in the writing of the book.  In the meantime, it's National Poetry Month and I've written seven poems, one for each day of the month thus far.  I've tweeted stanzas daily.  Like this (from a poem entitled "Selfie"):



I would cut one of those apples, slice it

Wide open before carving my ear

Off completely, just to tell you

I am here.

 

     Writing is my dream life.  And because it is the heart of me, my deepest desire manifest, it is making me crazy.  Following my passion, my bliss, my heart of hearts, has brought my deepest fears, inadequacies, and insecurities out of the closet. 

     I wake up from a dream, to a volcano within, find myself sobbing.

     "I am a failure.  I have always been a failure.  And now I will fail at writing," I say when my husband asks why am I crying? 

     Woah!  Where did THAT come from? I am grateful that Wayne is my best friend, that I can show myself so starkly and raw, that he can just sit there and hold me.

     Wherever it came from was dark and deep, at the very core of me and felt true, seemed so real.  It is not a belief I can brush aside, not my usual delusion. 

     For days, I puzzle over it, the dark ring of truth.  "I am a failure."

     I have failed at many things.  And, dear reader, I know, you have too.

     Synchronicity. A link to an Ann Pachett essay from her book "This Is The Story Of A Happy Marriage" appears on my news feed.  I read:

 "I believe, more than anything, that this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers.  Forgiveness, therefore, is key.  I can't write the book I want to write, but I can and will write the book I am capable of writing.  Again and again throughout the course of my life I will forgive myself." 

     Thank you, Ann. 

     I may fail. No.  I will fail.  However, life has taught me that it is not the failure that matters.  What matters, is that I do it.  I show up.  I keep writing. 

     I keep writing. 

     I write.  I write against time.  I write against hope.  I can do this.

    

  

Just Between Us

 

   Wayne says that he’s the one who took care of Clyde.  He does not want to take care of another dog.  

 

    But Clyde and I know differently.  Clyde and I had an agreement.  Wayne needed someone to take care of and Clyde and I agreed he would be the one.  This was our secret. 

 

     That was partly why I loved Clyde so much, because he and I agreed that he would take care of Wayne by making Wayne take him for daily walks, and give him treats, even bake him special liver treats handmade by Wayne, and feed and water him, and teach him how to behave.  I’m the one who really taught Clyde how to behave, but that was our secret as well.  Wayne did not know any of this and he will not believe it now.  It was just between Clyde and I. 

     Right when we very first got him, I taught Clyde to stay off of the Persian rugs in the house.  I did this by using a spray bottle filled with water and squirting him whenever he went onto the rug.  Clyde thought this was a dirty trick and looked at me askance, sort of with a sideways glance, to tell me that not only was it a dirty trick, but that he knew it was a dirty trick.  He agreed to stay off the Persian rugs and the Himalayan rug too, but from then on he always put one paw on the edge of the rug just to let me know, just to remind me that the spray bottle was not nice; it was a dirty trick but he still forgave me.

     Clyde was a big dog but he did not feel like that should count against him.  He thought that even if he was a big dog, he should get to jump on people like any happy ass dog would so I had to teach him a special command, “Off!”  The way I taught Clyde that was I would turn my body away whenever he jumped on me and ignore him.  Clyde hated that.  Wayne would probably say he’s the one who taught Clyde this, but Clyde and I know it was me, even if Clyde is no longer here to verify it. 

    We had to teach Clyde that because, even at nine months old, when we first got him, he was huge and beautiful.  He had a shiny coat of black fur and a long red tongue that fell out of one side of his mouth because he lost a tooth when either a moose or a horse kicked him - back when he was an orphan before his original owners, whoever they were, abandoned him and left him to die by the side of the road.  Or maybe it was a ranch.  The story varied every time Clyde told it.

          But Clyde never forgot to remind me how we fell in love at first sight, he and I, when he almost knocked me over with that long happy tongue and his big happy grin just like I never forgot to remind him that I hated dog licks until I met him and it wasn’t the crazy wet tongue on my face, it was the quivering ecstatic shaking of joy filling his big 60 pound puppy body that got me, that made me feel it too, that joy deep in my cells, a joy Clyde brought with him, his purpose in life, to remind me.  Life, his joy said.  Live!

         Clyde knew, as I knew, that he had been a wild mustang in his previous life and that I had been a wild girl, a barefoot girl, who once rode him bareback through meadows where high golden grass grew tall and waved in the breeze like Clyde’s mustang mane did that lifetime, like his proud tail shaped in an S flew proudly behind him.  Clyde and I both knew this, though we spoke of it rarely, and in hushed tones.  We knew we were not supposed to remember such things in this lifetime, but sometimes we couldn’t resist and then we would just run and run down on the beach on Kachemak Bay behind the house in Alaska Wayne built us.

     Clyde and I shared secrets we never had to put a single word to, like the one about taking care of Wayne.  The day Clyde chose to leave; he was sick with a rare blood cancer that came suddenly and out of nowhere, at least for me, (Wayne had known, Clyde told me in our secret code, even though I hadn’t, that he was that sick, not just sick like in getting better sick like I thought) so it was terrible for me to suddenly have to face losing him in one day and he knew that but he knew too, and told me clearly and in strong language, how it had to be for Wayne – that he couldn’t linger, that he would if it was just me, because he loved me, but he reminded me of our deal about him taking care of Wayne, and, of course, how we both knew Wayne couldn’t handle that, Clyde lingering, Clyde suffering.  Clyde could, if I needed him to, he said, just to hang out together a little bit longer, but is that what we wanted to put Wayne through, he asked me?  No, he said so clearly.  I’m doing my job here, he said.  I know, I said back.  I know you are, Clyde and I love you for it and we both love Wayne, don’t we?  Yes, Clyde said.  We do. 

     And so, just between us, we said goodbye and part of our goodbye was thanking each other.  We thanked each other for loving each other, but mostly, we were just both so grateful to each other for how much we each loved Wayne – that we were a team – and how we shared that.

     Now I keep thinking maybe if we had another dog, I wouldn’t miss Clyde so much even though I know that I will always miss him that much.  But Clyde is still with me and he says be patient; he says that I am not just missing him, but I am missing how we shared our love for Wayne.  Clyde says we may or may not have another dog someday.  He says remember our pact that he will take care of Wayne?  Yes I say.  Well, Clyde says, I've never stopped.  Besides, you never know when a great spirit may enter your lives again.  It could happen.

     Clyde shows me this picture then (because Clyde mostly thinks in pictures) of him climbing into the truck with us the day we brought him home, how happy he was to find us, how perfectly we fit. 

     When and if another great spirit comes, Wayne will know, Clyde says.  Just like he did when you found me.  Remember?  Yes, I nod.

       I came as a dog this time, Clyde reminds me.  In another life, I was a mustang.  Who knows in what form we’ll meet again?

     I swear I can feel that big lug of a puppy lick my face again. 

     Keep an eye out, Clyde tells me. 

     I promise.

     He sends me another word picture.  He is headed down toward the beach, right at the beginning of Jeremy’s trail.  He pauses a second, looking back.  Our eyes meet, and then he disappears into the brush, leaving the fireweed and the devil’s club behind.  I get a last glimpse of his tail, shaped like an S, then he’s gone, headed, I know, straight for the water he loved, the ocean he once swam in, chasing some imaginary ball out on the horizon.

     Any minute, I know, he’ll come trotting back with it.  I just need to keep an eye out.

    

     

    

From This Broken Hill

     
     If It Be Thy Will by Leonard Cohen has been speaking to me lately and I recommend listening to the song (posted below.)

     I am writing memoir and Cohen's song pretty much describes my writing process.  A memoir involves taking the stuff of one's life, as though clay, and creating a third thing with it, hopefully art.  It involves telling the truth, a loaded subject in the world of publishing over the past decade (another blog post altogether.)  
 
    I agree with those who say truth is critical in memoir. However, it is emotional honesty I am striving for; no, not striving, rather, it is being demanded. It is not facts I am concerned with or some chronological rendering of the events of my life, it is some deeper truth.

      I now understand what writers over the ages have referred to as the muse.  My muse requires from me not only honesty, but a true voice, although I am writing from a broken hill, as Cohen sings.  I am writing to end the night...to let the rivers fill.  I am not in charge.  The muse is and for that, I am grateful.

     Each day, before writing, I light a candle.  I play this song.  I ask that mercy spill onto the page, that my burning heart be made well. I ask that the tattered rags of memory be clothed in light.  I ask to be let to sing.

     If it be Thy will.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNfNdflTs5E&feature=player_embedded

To the Lighthouse

     You can see that I haven't blogged since September 2010. I won't try to cover that lost ground, just start where I am. I committed to an innovative writing project aka The Book Project at The Lighthouse https://lighthousewriters.org/ located in Denver, Colorado. We relocated here from Alaska in late August 2010.

      Let me clarify what I committed to:

      I committed to myself and my lifelong passion for writing and reading.

      I committed to a daily writing practice. I committed to emerging myself in a writing environment, one where I am in daily contact with other writers and readers.

      I committed to writing a book even if I don't know how, even if I don't know what, even if, in the end, the book I'm writing turns into something else or equals three different pieces of four different books, or one short story, or two essays or maybe a poem.

      I committed to listening to and following my Intuition; because She has taught me the hard way that all the other voices are liars.

      I committed to living the writing life because it is the Life to which I have always belonged even as I rejected it in favor of anything, anything, anything else.

      Last night, in workshop, I shared a selection from my memoir in progress where I describe the death of three friends by suicide related to alcoholism. This morning I get a Tweet about a piece in The Atlantic by Rob Delaney, an excerpt from his memoir ROB DELANEY: Mother. Wife. Sister. Human. Warrior. Falcon. Yardstick. Turban. Cabbage where he describes the death of three friends, essentially, by suicide.  http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/11/drugs-will-kill-your-friends/281418/

      His piece is, by far, more polished than mine but so what? I was tempted by the Liars in my head to completely dismiss my version, throw myself on the floor, and give up writing due to this discouraging coincidence, or is it synchronicity?

      But instead I decided to start blogging again here on the KellyBlog. I'm gonna keep Writing About What Matters as long as it matters to me.

Life Happens

It's funny how life blindsides us from time to time. I haven't blogged since June 2009 and so much has happened since then. My most recent post (before this one) features a poem I wrote March 26, 2009 after learning I was to be the grandmother of triplets. The same day I received the news, Redoubt, a volcano located in upper Cook Inlet, part of an area near where we live in Homer, Alaska, had just erupted with ash emission 65,000 feet above sea level. Along with writing the poem, I collected enough volcano ash from our rain gutters to fill a jam jar.
One of my daughters, Jennifer, had been undergoing a struggle with fertility issues for several years prior to a successful IVF implant that, against the odds, resulted in that good news. The sucessful implantation (after three failed attempts) was only the beginning of what became one hell of a miracle rollercoaster ride. The eruption of Redoubt paled in comparison.
In August 2009, I traveled to Brooklyn, New York, where Jen lives, to hang out with her for the remainder of her pregnancy. I had originally planned to fly to NY around mid-October, my intuitive guess for when the babies would choose to arrive. However, by August, Jen had been hospitalized twice with pre-term labor concerns. My son-in-law, Karim, was out of the country on business and it became clear: my daughter needed me and needed me yesterday.
So, the months of August, September, and October 2009 were spent in my daughter's third floor one bedroom apartment cheering her on in her heroic and determined effort to keep three babies in one place: inside her womb. She was magnificent.
As big as a house and growing bigger by the moment, she religiously drank two gallons of water (she had been told that, in most cases of pre-term labor, the expectant mothers are dehydrated), ate nutritious foods, and swallowed a handful of pre-natal vitamins daily.
The babies' optimal chances for good health and survival grew exponentially with every day they stayed in the womb up until 36 weeks. Then, the doctors informed us, should they reach that magic number inutero, they would need to come out via C-section. Eventually, the C-section was scheduled for October 19, 2010, timed at 36 weeks gestation, although we were told repeatedly that, with triplets, the chances of making it to a scheduled birth are not good.
She made it. On October 19, 2009 she gave birth to three healthy babies, two boys and a girl. Hannah (Baby B) and Rayan (Baby A) weighed 4.5 and 4.7 lbs each. Yasin (Baby C) weighed 5.2 lbs. Three days after birth the triplets and their mom came home from Columbia University Hospital to that one-bedroom, third floor Brooklyn apartment and three of everything.
Jen, Karim, myself, and my husband Wayne (who joined us a week ahead of their birth) hence took turns feeding, burping, and changing three beautiful babies in a constant rotation that was exhausting, even with four of us on duty.
Did I say exhausting? Yes. Have you ever experienced the kind of exhaustion that comes with what is, perhaps, your greatest work, your best achievement? That kind of exhausting.
Wayne and I flew home to Alaska just short of ten days after the babies' arrival. I had been in NY for almost three months and needed to go home, but saying goodby to my new grandbabies was bittersweet. I had so little time with them. Their life-affirming baby smell, the silky feel of their newborn skin, the distinct note of each of their cries, and the long, treacherous journey my daughter undertook to get them safely born had soaked into my pores and filled my senses with an uncommon, crazy love. They had safely arrived and with them, that miraculous thing we call life.
It knocked me for a loop. It's not the first time life has stopped me in my tracks. It won't be the last. So, if anyone happened to notice that I haven't blogged a word since a year ago June, just know this: Life happens. Aren't we lucky?

Yes!

Yes!

(written March 26, 2009)
Dedicated to Karim & Jennifer


One day

I wake up to the not so far off rumble

Of Mount Redoubt, esteemed Volcano Mother of

The Land of Ten Thousand Volcanoes, down the street and

The land line ringing off the hook, three loud br-rings! before I reach

To say hello! Flipping on KBBI 890 Homer, PBS to hear a volcano ashfall

Advisory "...in effect from noon to four p.m."...then the voice on the other end

Again, "Mom, there's three! Triplets!" Hold fast there girl!

"I'm so scared." You can do this. Anchor yourself there girl-woman!

Before the noon day sun is hidden behind gray dust,

A miracle has dawned in the labyrinth of our old, deep love, that

Love that, when it chooses, comes right into the house,

Doesn't even take off its shoes. Whoosh! Pushs molten rocks up and off

Like they're marbles, shakes out the hair and flings open the windows.

Later, after the advisory is called off, all of my laughter comes.

I run down the bluff to the beach

Tell the sea, "Thank you ! Thank you! Thank you!

I tell the sky, "Thank you ! Thank you! Thank you!"

I kneel on the ground in ash, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

And then I turn in the direction of Mount Redoubt, and this is where

All of my tears come. I shout "Yes! Yes! Yes!'

And the word carries me all the way up to high tide and

The waves lapping the shore, as if to agree with me, their sounds

Say yes, as does the wind, and Mount Redoubt, and the earth making this

Huge Great Birthday Cake, Creating the Universe. I thank you.

"Sentinels": A Painting Inspired my my two Muse Grandmothers In Honor of Women's History Month

Sentinels

Until all of us have made it, none of us has made it- Rosemary Brown-

One of my two grandmothers had these incredible huge sunflowers growing on the borders of her garden. She told stories, played guitar, and sang ballads. I sat rapt at her feet. She always had an apron on and was either gathering food from the hen house and garden, or preparing it for others in her kitchen.
I only saw my other grandmother once before she died, as we lived far from her in another state. I was five years old when she died unexpectedly and young.
During an especially difficult period in my life, I began to imagine peripheral glimpses of her in the grocery store, just around the corner of the next aisle, or passing by me on a road, or just in front of me, as I drove. The sightings comforted me.
Of course I knew that she was long dead, but I had subconsciously recorded bits and pieces about her from things overheard, stories told, comments made by my mother.
We make meaning of our lives through story. When I needed her most, my maternal grandmother’s story came to my conscious awareness and I drew solace and nurturing from it, even imagining her ghost. Like my paternal grandmother, she was a musician. She sang and played piano in nightclubs during the jazz age.
My grandmothers would never dream of calling themselves artists. They did the right thing, as mothers will do, put the needs of their children and families first, and they made music while they did it.
When invited to participate in Her-story Exhibit II, it was my grandmothers’ voices I heard. Their stories, and that of the women I come from, are the stories of women everywhere. They not only adjusted to the circumstances into which they were born and lived, they thrived in spite of them and it is their spirit to which I dedicate this art piece.
The sunflowers symbolize the women I come from, women who turn their faces to the sun, women who follow the light. Architects of my story, of the stories of all women, they stand tall, like sentinels.

The more I think about it, the more I realize there is nothing more artistic than to love others. Vincent Van Gogh

Hades Moon, Demeter's Daughter

Unable to die, (no sharp instruments lie by)
When the moon is full and I have fallen, weak, upon my knees,
Painted upon myself Grief, orange, red, black, instead,
Torn at my hair, and madly rubbed charcoal about my staring eyes,
Down my cheeks; I gather the Objects,
Sacred only to me, to beat the drum of my despair,
I draw ancient symbols on my face, my hands, my skin,
A forgotten language decipherable
Only to the guardians at some ancient gate, then
As the Gods allow, or the Moon, or Pluto himself ordain,
I take another step down,
down the stone and winding stair.

A sister priestess, Her purple cloak about her hidden keening face,
Beckons me come, Lifts up her slender hands and pours into my opened breast,
That deeply drinks, bottomless thirst, of a holy water that knows,
A holy water that reaches, flows, finds the wounded, wordless place,
Dances fire, baptizes the heavy knotted roots,
Holding up its diamond-true, still mirror .

The purpled dark reflection contains All Power,
Collapses stars into black holes,
Births worlds,
Splits atoms, the mother's heart in two,
Like a pomegranate cracked; its marbled veins full,
Thick grief revealed, congealed and
Tracing a sluggish path through the quicksand circle of loss,
The caverns of the heart exposed, labyrinths of sorrow.

A glimpse of gold flashes, the thin thread grasped, and
Death's hand opens. The high priestess,
Embodied robe of poetry, breathes
Water-fire-earth-air verse, softly blows the healing tinder,
Flames the broken mother-heart with Spirit until it burns
The solid matter.

Kelly O'Neal Thompson
copyright February 2009

Poem for Linda and Dickers Undergoing Cancer

The dark glass mirror of each other,
Joined like twin halves of a tangerine
Flowered Lotus blossom.
One heart beating,
Spirit.
Kelly O'Neal Thompson copyright 2009

Linda & Dickers: Undergoing Cancer

Linda, my sister, oldest of we five siblings, sent me a heartbreaking poem yesterday. Dickers, her husband, and my brother-in-law, father to Laurie, stepfather to Julie and David, grandfather to four children, was diagnosed with cancer a few years ago. At the same time, an aneurysm about to burst in his stomach was discovered and he underwent surgery for that. He has been a good soldier through it all and he has an amazing spirit. I know that he stays strong for his family and he has taught me a great lesson about love.

Remember Me

It’s cancer and it’s advanced
I don’t think we heard that right
It’s cancer and it’s advanced
This can’t be right.

Why our brain is screaming
Why us, what did we do
We must be dreaming.

A voice whispers in our ear,
Remember me, I’m here
No…you aren’t here
All we feel is fear.

How could this happen?
What did we do?
Nothing, he says, but
Remember me, I’m here.

Taking one day at a time
Putting one foot in front of another
Our minds are leaden
Our feet are frozen.

A voice whispers in our ear,
Remember me, I’m here
No, you aren’t here
All we feel is fear.

What will tomorrow bring?
We don’t know he says, just love one another,
Remember, I am here.
Oh…as our hearts begin to listen to that still calm voice.

Each day passes, time moves on,
Isn’t this a beautiful day, he says.
Yes, she says…so glad we are here together
Joining our hands as we live each day to the fullest

Did you see the sunrise this morning?
It was beautiful
Did you hear the birds singing?
Causing our spirits to soar.

A voice whispers in our ear,
Remember me, I’m here
Hello, we hear your voice
And feel your presence near and are comforted.

I love you forever he says,
She says me more than you,
It feels good to be together
To share our lives each day

We don’t know what tomorrow will bring,
But, we take each day as a gift
We now hear that voice clearly whisper in our ear,
Remember me; I’m here to help you in your journey

We remember you, we remember you
We are glad you are here with us
As we make this journey together
Safe in you, safe in you.

Thank you for remembering me.

Written by: Linda Carlson
February 9, 2009

Barefoot Days

Condo at La Paz Tres Lirios de Cala oil canvas by Kelly

Arrived to whites, browns, maroons, and greens in Homer, Alaska and the crisp embrace of fresh snow, clear skies and sunshine on Friday, February 7th. We left the blue, oranges, and reds of La Paz and the soothing warmth of blazing skies via Cabo San Lucas Wednesday, February 5th.

I began to choke on the closed air of airplanes by the time we reached the Anchorage leg of our journey and a stay in the downtown Sheraton overnight. Turns out it was so cold while we were gone that the hotels water pipes froze and burst. There was huge repair and renovation going on. With the stale, moldy air and a "ventilation" fan in our room that blew constantly, I could barely breathe by the time we departed for the airport and the last leg of our journey home, so the blast of cold as we climbed off the commuter plane and onto flat ground was welcome. El Sol pulled a fast one and burned so brightly in the Alaskan sky that I had to pull out my shades and put them on. It was 26 degrees.

A sweet reunion with Clyde the Fraud dog, who kept the Alaskan home fires burning for us, followed and today, my quick jaunt with him up the road and back served to refamiliarize me with my snug Ugg boots, long underwear, and the need for wearing, well, clothing and shoes.

I'm a bare foot girl from way back, so the freedom of bare feet and shorts in La Paz, with local residents asking me, "Aren't you cold?" (January and 65 degrees in La Paz is considered cold by local standards, but by Alaskan standards it was positively go-naked weather; besides, it was more frequently around 80 degrees the entire month, which, we were told, was unseasonably warm for that time of year. Either way, we are talking tropical and nothing feels better to me than terra cotta tile beneath my bare feet.)

So, while the sun is high and bright in the sky, remaining visible our first few days back in our part of Alaska, and while daylight increases exponentially as the earth continues its rotation (we gained, roughly, 5 minutes and 31 seconds of daylight today in Homer, Alaska), the need for warm clothing, shoes, and propane, wood, or other combustibles to generate heat remains paramount. Even indoors, I have to keep socks on my feet or they turn into cold bricks. Did I mention that I like to go barefoot?

In any case, though I've had to put on shoes and long pants, it feels much warmer than the 20 degrees F reported by the weather underground. On our walk though, Clyde calls me a "wuss" and reminds me that the average low in January was 6 degrees F at Cooper Wounded Bear Kennel, where he toughed it out while, his brown eyes accuse, we were on our "spa" vacation in La Paz, Mexico. The average low in Homer in January was 17 degrees F. The average low in La Paz, Mexico for January was 56 degrees F and the average high 76 degrees F.

We are getting a warm Alaskan welcome home, but I'm going to miss my barefoot days in La Paz.

Note: The above image is an oil I was inspired to paint for our hosts, Al and Michele during out stay in La Paz, Baja Sur, Mexico. (image: Tres Lirios de Cala by Kelly O'Neal Thompson, copyright January 2009 do not reproduce without express permission of the artist)

El Sol

El Sol, the sun is bright today in La Paz. When we left Anchorage on January 6th, the temperature was -15 degrees farenheit, many hours, almost a day later, we landed in San Jose, Bajio Sur, Mexico where it was 70 degrees - a gain of 85 degrees.
The sun's short path across our Homer, Alaska sky this time of year is in stark contrast to it's warmth and proximity here in La Paz. Yesterday we went to the Playa de Belandre. It was especially beautiful - the tides were extremely low and I walked around the southern point observing tide pools along the way, keeping my eyes peeled for shells - the ones I finally began to see, making infinitesimally small pathways in the sand, were surprisingly alive, so I did not gather any after all. Somehow, I had imagined the shells abandoned, not as little houses carried on the backs of living creatures and so I left them to themselves and their unimaginable journeys. Crabs moved so quickly that I could only trace their existence from the corners of my eyes. Clams slammed shut with a pop as I passed. Eventually, I saw a long black and orange snake, possibly an eel and wondered if it was "electric". Wayne ventured closer to it than I was willing to go and claimed it was dead, but I was not sure of its demise and became wary of the existence of others lurking somehow just beneath my feet. The air was hallowed and its embrace healing. Such a difference between this environ and the one in which we live in Alaska! Today, it was almost too hot. Uncaring, I sat purposefully in the direct path of the mid-day sun, soaking up its rays, conscious of how far away that small yellow globe will seem upon our return home, how I will miss its proximity and warmth. At the latitude in which we reside, the earth tips away and toward un-starred space this time of year. Even in summer, when the globe rotates toward the sun, we are still farther away from the sun's warmth than other latitudes, although it lights our lives with nearly endless day. I am amazed at the bright heat I feel today in La Paz. The brightness of the sunshine almost hurts and I wear sunglasses though I still squint from behind their protective lenses. The sun - giver of life - pours forth its warmth here in the south of Mexico and far away, in the north, I imagine our home in mid-day brightening only in cloudless skies, momentarily crimson, before the cold gray of the shortened days. There is something to be said for that cold distance, its shadowy purple indigo flame. Never before my life at that latitude have I been so aware of the sun and its defining role in my welfare, our minute place on this whirling globe, how it turns and turns in space, how much a part and parcel the sun's pull plays on our fortune. I rub tanning lotion into the loosening skin of my legs, then turn my face skyward. The chariot of the gods makes its way across the sky, pulling the sun in an ever-deepening and eternal drama above the known horizon; in La Paz it barely moves, as though suspended. Those who live here hardly notice. They nod against the imperceptible chill, wear long sleeves and pants... dream of summer.