happiness

What makes one happy? Do we simply choose happiness in place of regret or loss or disappointment or guilt? Do we need to choose happiness at all? Perhaps it’s a point of perspective; rather than choosing to be happy we simply need to change the lens through which we view our own lives.

Painting Under Stars

Sneaking out in the middle of the night, in lieu of candles, stars. Darkness proffers moonlight. Armed with easel and brush, canvas and oil, I lie in the grass; let the brush move my hand. The movement, fluid. The colors acquiesce. A woman in red emerges.
Last night I found time, time to be alone, time to create, time to express, time under the stars in mindfulness. My body lies under sky. I finish two canvases. The passion dripped from fingertips.

So Much For Promises

There are two subjects of which I self advised to never plague upon my blog. The first is infertility. The second is politics and religion (as a demonstration of my patriotism I treat them as one and the same). I found it imperative to avoid these subjects as their discussion has the tendency to bring out my bitter bitch; every woman has an inner bitch (if you disagree you are: A. not a man B. not a man married to a woman or C. not a man who has ever met a woman). I, however, have replaced my inner bitch with a bitter one.

So much for promises made to thy self . . .

I hate pregnant women. Is that statement too biting? My teeth seethe when I walk in front of a maternity store, its patrons’ rosy with anticipation “oh how wonderful, my genitalia will stretch to accommodate an un-ripened cantaloupe, what wonderment, my nipples suckled till raw and red, losing all resemblance of their former shape!” Much worse than the maternity store is the never-ending parade of pregnancy walking down my block; these are the women announcing with each step forward their refusal to gain a pregnancy pound, electing instead to move fat from their ass to their firm round belly. Is my bitter bitch beginning to show herself? In the presence of the expecting I am expected to give up my seat and preferred parking; I’ve been carrying around an extra 20 lbs far longer than nine months, where is my reserved parking spot?

Living ‘childfree’ in Utah has frequently made me a target for questioning. No-orgasm Nancy’s feel it their God ordained duty to “be fruitful, multiply and replenish the earth”. Amazing they even find the time to cast judgments. Questioned in the lobby of my doctor’s office I responded . . . why my husband says my pussy is far too pretty to go through childbirth . . . at once Nancy shut her mouth, in fact, every mouth in the lobby shut . . . or fell open . . . as if I were watching synchronized swimming.

Into the wood...

I have spent the last two weekends amidst a castle of trees. The Manti La Sal mountain range lies two hours south of here, its forest dense with life untouched, unharmed. At home there is nothing to suspect that I am anything other than a city girl…painted toes and silken scarves perfume behind my ear…but in the forest I am Ianthe, a river nymph come home to her wood. Lain back, my eyes are captivated in the luminosity of the night sky, falling forward as the background darkens the stars appear as night has given birth. The flames begin to smolder; the glowing red ash casts obscure shadows at my feet. River rushes over rock, my lullaby into sleep. Thoreau went into the woods to inhale life; I go into the woods and exhale.

She stands quite alone among the most distinct and luminous stars.

- m. sambrani

I have more than a dozen blogs to post. During my trip to the DC area as well as NYC I scrawled my thoughts and ideas onto small steno pads, their little yellow pages now everywhere... my purse, wallet, coat pocket, book jacket, luggage...there were even a few in my toiletries bag! I would also like to post excerpts from the Me Book I compiled last spring for a class. So maybe, just maybe, I can overcome the fear that prevents me from posting my thoughts...better to wait and see before making any promises.

On Solace

I am never alone. And on the very rare occasion that I selfishly insist on being alone, I find myself in the presence of guilt and thereby am still not alone.

I keep listening to the same song…something one can choose to do in solitary while hurting those that we love. Here I sit, at last, alone in my own home, repeating the Foo Fighter’s song “Razor” over and over and over again, all the while asking myself… how did I get here? At this very moment there are thousands that await to be fed, emaciated for lack of companionship, while I, undeservedly I assure you, I am in the presence of at least one other 24 hours a day seven days a week. Where one soul finds isolation another finds solace; how strange that both should occur in the same place.

Maybe the desire one has to be alone is merely an illusion; I question myself, do I yearn for quiet moments that I may hear the sound of my own heart beat...or do I need to hear the beat of another in order to recognize my own?

This seems like big news, and perhaps it is, my birth father called me. How strange and unfamiliar it feels to be typing those words as I hear them resonate in my mind.

untitled

I am living in my own private hell. A place I have created, a space I alone fill. My voice is not heard, each word not projected. My thoughts are mere whispers on a far away hill.

The Gift

Jim surprised me yesterday with a very early birthday present. Neither one of us has the ability to hold back a present until the approaching holiday; the excitement of seeing another’s expression as they open a gift to which you gave so much thought always wins out! Everyone who knows me is aware that my favorite book is “To Kill A Mockingbird”; I read it every year. This summer I am reading it page by page to Perrie, at the end of each page illustrating with words the scene that just took place and emphasizing what I believe Perrie will find the most joy and familiarity with. This summer I am seeing the book for the first time through Perrie’s eyes. Befittingly, Jim surprised me with a copy of the 40th Anniversary edition, signed by Harper Lee. I was stunned; to know that Harper Lee held my book and it bore her signature made me feel giddy, it was Christmas morning and I am looking at my shiny new bike, it’s pink and white streamers glistening in the sun’s reflection off the snow.

Neglect

I have been neglecting Perrie’s blog, and my own; it feels as though there is always something impending, something more that I have to, need to, should, must, ought to be doing; cognitive distortions race through my mind as if flipping through the pages of a dictionary. There is so much I desire to write down, countless ideas and thoughts and ramblings; some of importance, but these are few. The same desires I have for writing engage my need to paint; the same feelings and distortions prevent me from accomplishing both.

Summer Reading

This summer I have made reading a priority; not my first priority, but nonetheless it has proved fruitful. I began the school break with the Pulitzer Prize winning “Middlesex” by Jeffrey Eugenides. I was astonished at my reaction, joining the world of Eugenides characters was swift, easily facilitated by his beautiful prose and superb character development. I felt despondent at the books end; I longed to keep the characters alive, their journeys going forward beyond the turn of the last page.

“The Memory Keepers Daughter” was not what I had expected. This book, more than anything, is about the unravelling of a relationship between husband and wife.

I next read Nora Ephron’s “I Feel Bad About My Neck”. This book was a light read into the vanities of women, spun through the memoirs of Nora Ephron. I could not understand who the author was writing too; she claimed to be writing to ‘everyday women’ (you and I) however, I do not personally know anyone who does not wash her own hair, yet alone travels to Paris to purchase a $3000 purse!

I read “The Hours” last week after watching the movie version of Michael Cunningham’s Pulitzer Prize winning book. Both the movie and the book were exceptional. I felt such a strong connection to the character Laura Brown, played by Julianne Moore in the film. The heaviness of waking and fulfilling the role of wife, mother, housekeeper; the burial of dreams and aspirations; as Laura Brown I too feel heavy and burdened, and ungrateful for having these feelings at all.

"Stumbling Upon Happiness", "What's Worth Knowing", and a collection of short stories were enjoyable to read, but not good literature.

"Tender at the Bone" was surprisingly delightful! A memoir of a childhood reminiscent of mine - life that surrounds the kitchen table.

This past week I finished, "The Madonna's of Leningrad". I would recommend this book to anyone who has a friend or loved one with Alzheimers, or the art lover who enjoys a good period piece. To hear a narrative from a character with Alzheimers stunned me, it was lovely and sad and terribly real. As the Alzheimers progresses the early memories of the narrator's life become more clear while the more recent memories all but dissapear. The narrator lived in the lower vaults of the Hermitage museum in Leningrad for the long cold winter months during the war with two thousand other refugees in her late teens, it is here where much of the story takes place.

I just finished reading "Snow Flower and the Secret Fan". It is a period piece - 19th century China - from footbinding and the secret written language of nu-shu to the eating of the pigs penis and sharing of the chamber pot - the author transported me into the room with Snow Flower and Lily, I partook of their customs, felt their joys and sorrows, I sang their daughters laments; through the writers purposeful scribe I became woven into the lives of these two remarkable women. This is what a good book does after all; it offers its reader the opportunity to take up temporary residence in a foreign land with a brand new pair of eyes. I know that I've read a great book when I arrive at the last few pages and desire to go no further, I stall, not wanting to say goodbye.

I am now reading "Mrs. Dalloway" by Virginia Woolf; Perrie and I are reading "To Kill A Mockingbird".

Early Morning

I love the quiet of early Saturday mornings, it is just after 7am and the neighborhood is still in slumber…by 8:00 the sound of children and lawnmowers and golf carts on the green will signal the beginning of another day. It is then that I retreat back to bed, early morning clatter resonates its lullaby as I drift once again into sleep. It is Saturday – I have no responsibilities until half past noon, this time is my own…how lovely it feels to type those five little words.

So I Begin

I have been contemplating the process of blogging...overthinking everything in my usual way. I am not sure what I hope to gain from releasing my thoughts and hopes, dreams and memories, into this vastness called universe. Lightness perhaps? I received the most beautiful letter from a friend and her words have had me thinking for days. In the letter she mentions "...expressing yourself is where the real joy lies...". I wonder what truths these eight words hold. There is a large part of me that greatly desires to be heard, to be seen, to be understood...this is in high contrast with the little girl who lies within and hides, fearing her inadequacies and imperfections will be noticed if someone were to look her way. Or maybe it is the other way around, perhaps it is the little girl that wants to be heard and I have neglected her voice...

My favorite photo...

This is my sister Emily at age two. Now married with her second baby on the way she no longer makes a habit of snorting glass doors - but we have this picture to prove she once did!