scratchy
disappointment
gingerly shaving bits
off heart
not crying
feels like flooding
cold water
at feet
worse for wear
or sweeter for
unwear
she who makes rules
gets stuck in them
she who makes rules
gets disappointed
Spinning In Circles
I grew up flailing my arms and spinning in circles. I missioned my heart off twice a week to catch emotions that dizzy-ed through disguise after disguise. Exhausted, my heart sat still for many years shuffling through 3 by 5 cards of vocabulary words, trying to decode love’s true hideaway.
That was close, I’ll try again:
I have sensitive emotions. They are triggered easily. Without a dusty, real ground to settle into, I am all wine with no vine. Growing up requires connection.
Sleep in, Darling
Sleep in, Darling.
Don’t regret it.
Peace is on the case.
Doesn’t Peace give restful dreams?
–Naphtalia circa 2004
Blood Oranges
This time, next week, one year ago, I arrived in Rome for the healing of my spirit. I am certain that I also ate through a small grove of blood oranges. I can’t say exactly what my attraction initially was so many years ago, except that they sounded exotic and dramatic to me as a young, fruit-deprived Minnesotan. We grow great apples, but I was not a fan of apples until a couple years ago.
At this time, however, I think I’m getting a good grasp of the attraction. When I open a blood orange, I am reminded how much deep, rich, blood runs in our fruit. I mean, I know it’s not real blood in there, but those words get in my head as quick as the flesh of the orange gets to my stomach. I am consumed, as I consume, with the thought that my blood, my life, is rich and deep and full of flavor. And I am encouraged to share.
A Tree Within
A tree grew inside my head.
A tree grew in.
Its roots are veins,
its branches nerves,
thoughts its tangled foliage
Your glance sets it on fire,
and its fruits of shade
are blood oranges
and pomegranates of flame.
Da y breaks
in the body’s night.
There, within, inside my head,
the tree speaks.
Come closer–can you hear it?
–Octavio Paz
1914-1998
This poem, first read by me somewhere in the midst of 1998-2003, was the beginning of my connection to blood oranges and trees. My favorite part is “Day breaks,” which in Spanish is “amanece.” This may be my favorite word.
Regarding Disregard
It’s been a long time, a considerable amount of time, since I have sat in the car until a song finished playing. Maybe I haven’t feel the need. Maybe I haven’t felt connected to what I’m listening to. Maybe it’s because I can’t always afford to feel so deeply. What happens in a song doesn’t always stay in a song, you know. You take it with you.
Today, in complete disregard to my emotional bank account and a 7-hour shift, I plunged into a scary moment. It was full of tears and heartache and reconciliation, all in a song, all in the mall parking lot. I just sat there and swam in the clear, honest river of poetry streaming from my car speakers.
Maybe this was made for me,
Lying on my back in the middle of a field.
Maybe that’s a selfish thought.
Maybe there’s a loving God.
I closed my eyes, breathed a strong breath, and opened the car door. I have that moment now. I have it because I took it and held it in my heart.
Sara Groves
Maybe There’s a Loving God
All Right Here (in my heart)
The 2011 Closet
As much as the bed is about comfort and readiness, the closet is about clarity and accessibility. Here are few thoughts:
- Organize by function and frequency. Put the basic layers in an easy to reach place. Mine are in the middle. When I grog out in the morning, I know I can begin right in front of me. My middle is tanks and t-shirts, then I move out to long-sleeves, button downs, sweaters, and dresses on one side with dress pants, jeans, and sweatshirts on the other side. Basically, the middle is the deepest layer of clothing and the sides are the outer layers. This is important because in Minnesota we wear a lot of layers. The only exception to this is vests and fly-aways. These are in the middle for a reason. See #2.
- Organize by weight, sleeve length, and fun. The fly-aways are light and have no sleeves, plus they are fun, so they have to be in the middle. Within each section of clothing, I put the lightest weights first (most toward the middle) and work out to the heavy items so that the heavy items don’t mess with the light weight ones. Sleeve length goes shortest to longest–purely for aesthetic purposes. Lastly, I organize fun to dull, so that I don’t forget to have take chances.
- As for shoes, do the same. Frequency first, then all the rest. I wear my menswear flats and the two boots to the side of them most often. They are always ready to go in a wink and they match almost all my outfits, including my dresses for Sundays.
- Other basics that are durable get put in boxes, bins, or drawers. I have a box for yoga pants and comfortable sleepwear, one for sweaters, one for the basics, one for scarfs (because I wear them ALL winter and most of the spring and fall), and one for work out clothes (which is basically all the activities’ t-shirts I’ve collected over the years and a few pairs of shorts). Tights also get their own bin and so do belts.
The goal here is to be able to get ready with comfort and ease and to try to reduce the time spent laying in bed wondering what to wear. Go ahead, walk out the house looking as beautiful on the outside as you are on the inside.
On a side note, yes, I did learn a bit of this from Buckle.
I will sew for you miles of lavender…
I will sew for you miles of lavender,
quietly stitching flower to flower.
Laying out peace in the meadow,
pedal by pedal and
shaking up the aroma
of trust.
I will quilt as long as the day is full of sun,
as the honey tree is full of bees,
as the night is full of mothers
singing their children to sleep.
I will sew for you miles of lavender flowers,
flower to flower to flower.
Winter Tree
I am walking. It is early and the December air is pushing hard against my eyes. If I ever saw a morning of wintry resignation, this is it. The trees jut from the hills as frozen investments in the quiet loneliness of winter. There was no escaping the falling of fall and there is neither no escaping the burning cold of this season–nor the separation from the rest of the world. Up here in the forests of Northern Minnesota, winter puts a stop on just about everything. November through March; I must be accepting, too.
I once walked this hill on a rare, 85 degree afternoon in late September. (Everybody writes that, don’t they? Oh, the inspiration of an Indian summer day.) It hadn’t rained for weeks. (It is true, I swear.) A bunch of leaves had fallen and their crushed lives twisted and swirled up to my nose as I kicked down the path; I kept sneezing. If I sneezed today, I would get a nosebleed. The air is exponentially thinner and more dangerous today. Too much reaction and I’m done for. Open my eyes too wide and I will cry. Open my nose, take off my gloves, and my skin will crack. I will bleed. Open my mouth at all and I won’t be able to breathe. Winter can be ironic. I am bundled up in the best that I can do.
One step, two step, three step, four–what if I don’t walk anymore? What if I stand here like the trees and let my insides freeze? I am already numb in my fingers. I could easily let the chill sink in, sink through me. From skin, to muscle, to vein and bone. Let winter become me, let snow come into me. Or become a tree at least. If the trees stoically believe in the coming spring, believe in it so strongly that they calmly submit each year to winter’s battering, can I not do the same? There is a beautiful mystery in this, I am certain. I’ve decided to stand still for a moment and give it a try, right here beside a frozen river. I will try to find the place of mystery.
I am standing now in the middle of a history of giant trees who have stood centuries winters. Snow begins to fall. I hear barely nothings–a stark difference from the sweet nothings of summer. Barely flake against flake. Barely rustle of nylon pants. Barely thoughts. I hear the starts of thousands of words, but I can’t catch the endings. Perhaps it is because endings are so heavy that not even the strong winds of winter can carry them. Arduous–that is the word I keep hearing about endings. Or perhaps I am hearing a beginning. Beginnings are much lighter things to carry.
Could that indeed be spring singing out so gently? I strain my ears to hear something more. The wind begins to whistle now and I close my eyes so quietly; I do not want to disturb the unexpected peace I am finding as I become a tree rooted in winter. I do not want to disturb the hope of my investment.
Praying A Timely Prayer
I prayed:
Lord, I want to be unselfish.
Please bless my sister
and my other sister
and her husband,
but please do not forget
about me.
I began to expound, but had a very quiet second thought.
Perhaps listing all the reasons I deserve to be remembered
would be quite selfish
and really just
dredge up self-pity.
I opened my eyes and
saw the common
prayer for the day
(the one laid out):
“Lord God, keep us from
mumbling on and on
in our prayers when
all we ought to say is,
‘Thank you, Lord.’
Amen.”
Lord, you have kept me.
Thank you.
Amen.
Naphtalia 