My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

Emily Dickinson

Birth. the emergence of a new individual from the body of its parent. the act or process of bringing forth young from the womb. beginning , start. lineage , extraction. to bring forth or be brought forth as a child or young.
to bring forth : bear. the point at which something begins. origination, rise; bearing, childbearing, labor, parturition; begetting, breeding, fathering, generation, mothering, reproduction, siring, spawning; fatherhood, maternity, motherhood, parenthood, paternity.

Birth. Elusive. Unempowering. Loss. Defeat. Pain. Singularity. Fugitive. Unobtainable. Evasive. Removed. Apart. Isolated. Unapproachable. unreachable, untouchable. Withdraw. deprivation, dispossession, penalty; sacrifice; bereavement, agony, distress, pain, suffering, torment; dejection, depression, desolateness, desolation, despondency, disconsolateness, dispiritedness, distress, doldrums, downheartedness, dreariness, forlornness, gloom, heartsickness, joylessness, melancholy, misery, oppression, sadness, unhappiness, wretchedness; regret, remorse, rue, affliction, anguish, dolefulness, dolor, grief, heartache, heartbreak, woe.

I will graduate in May. Five words that I recognize should elicit some sense of joy and relief. Yet in place of feeling joyful I feel panicked. My heart begins to race as my mind sputters one thought upon another . . . I feel it even now, my heartbeat increasing as I think about this semester and the next. Latin, statistics, anthropology, geology, senior thesis, my current schedule is in order, yet it looks and feels foreign to me. What destiny have I put in place? Latin? Why am I learning Latin when I want to speak Italian? This question is easy, the school does not offer Italian, as an aspiring writer Latin is a logical choice. Aspiring writer? When did I become an aspiring writer? It's always been teaching. And I have not taken one single writing class, and when would I write? I hardly have time to place a few words on a blog every now and then. My degree has no room for writing classes, for pots of paint and empty canvas, for literature to inspire or enrage. How did I get to here? Academically speaking I have arrived at a juncture that has me questioning my academic career and the choices I have made.

New arrivals

My sister Heather is having a baby boy in January. My sister Emily is adopting, probably around the same time. We are very excited to have two new members of our family on their way. Perrie is alight with anticipitation, looking forward to baby showers and trips to the hospital, Perrie has also offered her babysitting services!

I neglected to add one very important point about swimming, or perhaps this will be two. First, I have been taking myself to swim alone, without Perrie, this provides a completely new dynamic to being in the pool. And second, swimming in the nude is by far superior to the only other option - the swimsuit. I first swam nude years ago with my sisters, I had taken Perrie to Florida on my family vacation; after tucking her in at night my sisters and I would head to the backyard and swim in all our glory under the stars. I loved it! In fact, it is one of the few moments in my life when I have felt completely uninhibited. Few things in life are better! I would love to find a nude beach.

I have begun to swim again. It feels wonderful, water rushing over skin, the dive into a calm pool of water . . . I had allowed myself to forget how light my body feels in the pool, how calm my senses become, how flexible my body feels, head arched back, stretched in the water I feel weightless . . . euphoric.



I end each night in the hot tub, steam rising in the dark . . . looking up at the moon, water slowly dripping off my body, the experience is one of reverence, one of calm.

I just came home from the country. When I say “country” I am speaking of Southern Utah, Toquerville to be exact, a small town that lies on Zion’s horizon. Through the kitchen window you can watch the sun rise over Zion’s peaks.
Toquerville is a four hour drive south on I-15. A town of folk and farm that evokes images one might call “Rockwell-esque”. It is easy for me to relax there, easy to sleep late and retire early. It feels good to be under the sun and in the gardens. One afternoon picking strawberries, the next making jam. I came home with a bounty, fresh picked corn and carrots, zucchini and squash, tomatillos and Serrano’s, leeks and kohl rabi. Fresh herbs and homemade breads. The afternoon spent making strawberry and blackberry jams and syrups was my favorite.
Perrie loves being in Toquerville, we went to the Tuacahn outdoor theater while we were there. An hour’s drive from Toquerville the Tuacahn sits among a backdrop of red rock, the location sets a stunning stage. Perrie also loves going to the theater, especially musicals, at Tuacahn we saw the musical Les Miserable. We hope to drive down in September and see the Secret Garden, (if I can break away from school for a few days). It felt wonderful to get away from the house and the move and even the dogs. I felt rested.

Passion. That fleeting rise in the heartbeat of anticipation. Passion. The flush of ones cheek. A wet hot heat. Passion. Desire burning steady, the promise of another, the love of another, the heat of another, the presence of another, the passion of another shared, one soul, enmeshed with mine.

Passion, lost in distance lost in time. Moments past, regrets that last. Passions never bridled, passions unexplored, passions undiscovered. Moments lost for fear.

An early morning

Sometimes I wonder, what am I doing here? Wrapped up in life’s daily chores of living I question my choice of path to tread upon. Sometimes I tread lightly, feeling an understanding and belief in the good of the world, but other times my feet are dead weight and the world appears to me unmasked in a state of disrepair. Then there are times when just one small event can give me hope, one smile, one line of a song or just one note, one laugh, just one word or just one touch. There are women in my life who often greet me with an embrace, I am sometimes uncomfortable, but I have begun to realize the importance of touch and affirmation, I have begun to pull down the walls I have so carefully put up – it feels good.

This morning I was up before 8 feeling nauseous, (a medication I’m taking), I came down the stairs to hear a light knock at the door, there stood a neighbor holding out a bag of zucchini and squash, asking if we would like squash from their garden. As I thanked him and he turned away I thought to myself, this is a moment to tread lightly, a moment to feel gratitude for those who extend themselves, their talents and their gifts freely, a moment to feel gratitude for the gifts of the earth.

Thoughts from last week...

So much has been happening in my life lately, in our life, as I recognize my life is connected to so many others . . . so much has transpired that I have neglected my blog. I often compose a blog in my mind, a running journal entry of sorts, only to later abandon transcription.

I am taking a four credit hour photography class on Mondays at Westminster. I am in the class for five hours every week for eight weeks. This has proved a much greater challenge than originally anticipated. First, the cost. I did not envision having to purchase Ilford RC Multigrade paper in bulk quantities, nor twenty some rolls of Kodak Plus X 125 black and white film. Secondly, the assignments for the class consume quite a bit of time, both in and out of the lab. Hours in the lab developing negatives, hours trying to capture the right shot for the assignment. I anxiously await the development of my next four rolls of film; negatives which I pray will demonstrate an ability to capture motion and depth of field. I spent the most beautiful Saturday morning last week in the gardens at Thanksgiving Point. Alone with my backpack and sunscreen I searched the gardens for shapes and textures which caught my eye and then my lens. It was a hot dry day and I was grateful for the four bottles of water I had placed in my backpack earlier in the morning. I will know before the weekend is over if my efforts were fruitful. I have a new respect for the art of photography and even more so for the artist behind the lens.

I moved into my new home, our new home. In fact I’m still technically moving in as there are a dozen or so boxes stacked in the backyard. I knew this move would be a challenge, I anticipated the exhaustion that accompanies any move, yet this move has almost licked me. Balancing school and relationships and Perrie and moving while feeling this constant panic about my senior thesis and the lack of time I have spent in its preparation . . . breath in breath out breath in breath out . . . to say I am overwhelmed would be an understatement. Thankfully I had an amazing amount of support from my younger brothers and their spouses, two incredible sister-in-laws that have been there when asked, when tired, helping me after working all day, and my two younger brothers who gave of their time freely, I feel blessed. My sister Amelia showed her maturity, to my surprise her presence often made the workload feel lighter. My father and Abby and CJ tackled projects I could not face. I have many thank you notes to write and much to be grateful for.

A week before moving in I painted two rooms. I painted Perrie’s room yellow, per her very specific request, and I painted the living room and entry a soft blue. (I could not live inside a living room the color of mud, this is a home, not a bomb shelter.) And we have neighbors! Living breathing thinking neighbors, the kind who stop by and say hello. I have even been invited to be part of a neighborhood book club. Imagine, a neighborhood of women who do not make me feel as if I have stepped into the movie set for Stepford Wives.

Robert Rauschenberg

I have been thinking about my own existence with greater frequency over the last few weeks. Thinking about those who have already gone and those left to go; I obviously included in the latter have the privilege of reflection. And then today I read that Robert Rauschenberg died. Rauschenberg is an artist I fell in love with years ago, more so his paintings than his sculpture. I remember when I first saw a Rauschenberg painting, I had gone to the East gallery to visit ‘Lavender Fields’, only this time I wondered further. My heart drops when I connect with a work of art, like the feeling one gets on the first hill of a roller coaster. This was the feeling I got that day as I stood in front of his work, asking myself, “Who is this man, and how does he know how I see the world?”.

I have found myself in foreign territory. As if I floated to its shore off some far sea. The land is harsh and unforgiving, the skies stay dark at day. The air is thick and breaths are shallow, the sand is damp and cold underfoot. I do not see the sun. I know its presence hangs above, yet visible it is not.

A metaphor for where I am, or perhaps for where I am going. I feel alone. As if I’ve lost my compass and the tour director has gone home for the day.

Distance
in feet or inches
in depth of space
or separation of time
distance to be counted
or to be counted upon
distance in the physical
between you and I
steps to be taken
distance to be reached
distance to be spoken

The deeper the wound the slower to heal, or so it goes something like this. But some wounds heal whilst keeping the injury deep inside. Like a stabbing may leave a knife tip behind, wounds may leave behind grief or pain, words spoken and words unspoken.

I wonder now, who I’ve wounded, what wounds have healed, what wounds have I inflicted leaving something behind?

I wonder of my own wounds, have I enough thread and needle to close them once and for all?

I hate mother’s day. I have fond memories of waking up early with dad to make mom breakfast in bed. Every year a handmade card, until I took a job at a local florist shop and made my mother a wrist corsage each year, seven tiny purple roses, one for each child.

Mother’s day is a grief that can’t be spoken, it’s a pain goes on and on.

These are not entirely my words, some credit should go to Victor Hugo; yet when I feel the grief of infertility I hear his words… a grief that can’t be spoken… how very true. I am not allowed to dislike pregnant women. I am not allowed to show disappointment when my sister, who marries in January, conceives in April. A healthy young woman, once willing to carry my child, now having children of her own, spending her days casually as I struggle to get up in the morning and face the days work that lie ahead.

My sisters have formed a kinship, my childlessness excludes me from this, and this makes me so very sad (difficult to type through tears). I have lost my sisters to motherhood, I have lost my heart to grief, I have lost my soul as it were only a lie, I have lost my hope with each breath took. I have lost my will with each new disappointment.

I have lost.

I found a house. An 1897 colonial. Original architecture around the windows is still intact and original wood floors remain in several of the rooms. Sadly, the bathroom and kitchen have been gutted and 'modernized'. The home has one-third of the square footage of my current home, I would need to give up 75% of my possessions and let go of my own personal space. However, on the upside, the home is 130K less than my current home. I'm excited, yet trying not to become overly excited at the prospect in the event it does not work out. I have conflicting emotions. The stress and headache of moving again, the time and energy expended in packing and purging. What to keep? What not to keep? So many thoughts.

I went to bed at 4am, back up at 9. I have been on my feet for more that fourteen hours, I thought my legs might give out on me. I am physically exhausted,but it is a good tired. The kind of tired that comes from a hard days work in which you see the end product - for my efforts and those of family and friends who came to help, our reward, laughter and smiles. At one point during the evening Perrie said, "I am loved". Yes she is.

amazing the love of a dog, deliberate

amazing the love of a dog, sometimes wet

amazing the love of a dog, without judgment

amazing the love of a dog, kisses

amazing the love of a dog, comprehension

amazing the love of a dog, faithful, loyal

amazing the love of a dog, comfort

amazing the love of a dog, nose to nose

amazing the love of a dog, cheek to cheek

amazing the love of a dog, companion

amazing the love of a dog, my friend

I will not be hushed
with stares and eyes
and telling looks
my voice
my voice
my voice
my voice will now
be heard

my words of joy
and sound of laughter
I will shush no longer after
my voice
my voice
my voice
my voice they want to silence

let them want
let them wait
til last breath take
I will not
be hushed
be hushed
be hushed
be hushed from life
for nothings after

Some run from death
Some march towards death
Some scream at death
Their bellows fall silent

Others fight off death
and swear at death
and beat off death
their arms grow tired

some laugh at death
some cheer at death
some faint at death
their suffering unheeded

others question death
And feed off death
And wait for death
Their pain now ended

I want for death
I hope for death
I seek for death
Anticipations thwarted

Slowly drips upon my cheek

I blink it falls once more

overcome or come undone

move further from the shore



eyelids heavy chest is full

breath is shallow fast

drips still fall as from it all

much longer shall it last


noon day sun full of light

night as dark as day

love is lost deepening frost

words from lips to say