Tag Archive | photos

A Cranberry Bog in Every Pot

Nov20

CALMLY RANDOM

cranberry-bog

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Liberté, égalité, fraternité. A room of one’s own. What is it that makes a woman feel complete, that her life is worthwhile? Is it a full belly, true friendship? Love? Hope? Maybe it’s freedom. Maybe respect. In 1851, freed slave and anti-slavery speaker Sojourner Truth said, “Look at me. Look at my arm! I have plowed and planted and gathered into barns and no man could head me. . . And ain’t I a woman?”

Imagine having to justify your very existence as Truth was compelled to do. Imagine living a life devoid of respect, lacking in trust. Imagine fighting for the most basic of rights – the right to be black, to be a woman, to vote, to be free.

In comparison, my life is a ball. It’s a fairy tale, an amazing dream existence. I know it. Lately I’ve been thinking of buying an organic cranberry farm. I could work the fields, build wind turbines for power. I could make cranberry wine and chocolate covered cranberries. I could live by the shore in the beautiful sandy flatlands of southeastern Massachusetts. I could plow and plant, or hire someone to do it for me. I could gather my harvest, a bounty of ripe, crimson berries. Berries with roots that dig deep into the Native American soil. Berries that clung to the soul of this land for eons before those old Pilgrims ever stepped onto our windy beaches.

In pursuit of happiness, will I be happy? Would I be more content with a full belly, with a simple chicken in my pot instead of a cranberry bog? Would fraternité please me more than the lonely bogs under the stars at night? My cranberry bog might be my room, the one place where I feel free to write and create and be who I need to be. One thing I know – égalité is something I won’t give up on. Even now, even 160 years after Sojourner Truth cried out with such humility and common sense for justice, the world tries to hold women back. There are those who say we should be content with the privileges we have. There are many who rail against women who use their voices for change. There are some of both genders who show contempt for the female sex. Why? What’s wrong with being a woman? Ain’t I a woman? Are you saying there is something wrong with me?

So we know that Truth’s work is not done. Every woman has the right to find what makes her happy, where her freedoms lie, what constitutes her liberty. A reason for living, each one deciding for herself what that reason may be. A pot for every woman. And the cranberry bog of her choice in every pot.

De-cluttering

Oct29

CALMLY RANDOM

messy

True tales from when I was selling my house…

 

I’m selling my house and the realtor said I had to clean up and de-clutter. Rather freaking out here. Heavy lifting is done but clutter is still everywhere and the entire house needs dusting, vacuuming, cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. Did I mention cleaning? Ugh! In my future life, I plan to be wealthy enough to hire a weekly house cleaner. Also, I intend to simplify. I do not want stuff anymore!

Showing to 5 potential buyers on Sunday at 11 a.m. (this is Friday evening). With any luck, one of those 5 buyers will love the house and offer full asking price or something reasonably close. I am feeling very lucky lately – will keep you up to date. Wish me good fortune and a quick sale!

PS If you read any of my novel PERSEPHONE IN HELL, you’ll find the character Joyce who is Glory’s mother. Joyce is the world’s worst housekeeper. She is not a traditional mother. I am not as bad a housekeeper as my character Joyce. That’s about all I have to say.

 

Foot Fetish

Sep10

TRAVELS

We had a simply mah-velous time in Greece and Italy, despite the various setbacks we encountered. Okay, so it’s a little strange for me to have taken so many pictures of feet.

Feet at the Acropolis, Athens Greece
This foot was at the Vatican (why can’t I get it to load properly? Please touch your right ear to your right shoulder to view this photo!)
Tired sideways feet at the Spanish Steps, Rome Italy

Even feet need feeding in the Greek isles!

Very, very, very tired feet at the oracle of Delphi, Greece (no, I didn’t get my fortune told, the priestess was on break) Left ear to left shoulder, please.
Famous pigeon feet of Piazza San Marco , Venice Italy

These feet were big enough for a person to sit between (if we could have hoisted ourselves up!) Florence Italy

Young, happy foot (presumably the other one is too) Pompeii, Italy
Extremely old, extremely unhappy feet, Pompeii
Sleepy feet, Coliseum, Rome Italy
Balancing feet, Venice Italy

Foot of the goddess, with mortals

 

Melancholy in the Pines

Aug16

 

DREAMS AND MELANCHOLY

Pomegranates

There is no good reason for my melancholy tonight. It just happens sometimes.

 

Melancholy in the Pines

I miss you
Umbrella pines
Pistachio trees
Green olives hanging
In front of my eyes
And cypress, so tall
And slim and graceful
An Italian dream
And the pomegranate bushes
Heavy with the fruit of Eve
Don’t take a bite
Vesuvius will open up
And swallow you
And keep you silent for eons
For two thousand years or more
And you’ll suffer for it
The gods are harsh
They’ll punish you
For being a strong and independent woman
Who knows her mind
Who wants a bite of that apple
That pomegranate apple
From that tempting tree
I can’t blame you
There is a world of temptation
In the olive branches
In the pines
There is melancholy in the pines

I miss you
Cypress trees
Unripe Greek pistachios
Waiting to burst
Pomegranate promise
Eve

 

 

In Defense of Privacy

Aug12

MOTHER NATURE

In defense of privacy, I call to witness the dogwoods of spring. Those flush petaled beauties, such showy persona, so bent on drawing your eye to their wonders. Your face can’t help but look upward at their pink delicate bounty balanced on graceful trunks and lacy branches. You don’t see what sustains them, what pulls them into the earth. Roots growing down into the sexy soil. Grasping for touch, for contact with the dark wetness. Tugging, teasing, persistent,their life force unseen. Drawing them to the deepness, to the watery well. The pink pulls you up and away on purpose. Dogwoods hide their desirous parts; they prefer to keep them private.

On Lily Streetlace-and-dogwood
Pink dogwoods
Make secret love with the earth

Then there are the tulips. Fighting the gravity of the world. A burst of color defines their loveliness. What is a tulip if not delight? Their fields cry out in splendor. Hallelujah! The hued beauty of the earth revealed! But the true glory lies below, in the privacy of the grainy ground. There, a single bulb splits open and surges its shoots toward the sun. Driven, desperate, pushing its way against the very tide. Wanting to live in two worlds, the rounded hidden one that nourishes it, the grassy air-lit one it desires.

On West Chestnut
Intense tulips bloom and strain
Straight up toward the compelling light

And finally I call the garden moss to testify. Tiny forest green and emerald parts that make the whole, they live in harmony with one other. They cover the rocks and stones and creep anywhere that suits them. Anywhere they can thrive. They exist on the morning dew. Their privacy springs from the anonymity they share; not one can be counted unique. Growing in dimension, spreading in unmeasured delirious abandon, considering no one but themselves. Oh, the greedy happiness!

On Pond
Steamy moss feasts

And nothing
Nothing
Nothing will stop
Their desire.

 

Je Comprende

Jul30


DREAMS AND MELANCHOLY

birds-on-high-wires

I get it. Finally, I understand. Je comprende.

The upscale, modern, sleek term is epiphany. But I find that just too fancy for me. I’m not a fancy person. I’m plain, I’m not high falutin’, I’m not zen. I’m average, common even.

Dawn breaks over marble head, that’s what people used to say. Do they still? Duh, how stupid can I be? I’ve got a head filled with hard rock, stiff and unabsorbing. Inflexible. Solid. Dense. Dull. Dull as a doorknob, the old saying went. Do people still use that phrase?

That’s it, that’s the news. What I finally understand. What has taken me all these years to comprehend. The truth. That is, there is nothing in particular that is special about me. Nothing unique. I’m a common sort. Slightly above average intelligence, below average in stature, average in every other aspect.

For all my wondering if there is greatness in me, years of searching and questioning, angst and despair, the simple answer is no. Not feeling sorry for myself, just stating the reality. If there were anything incomparable about me, that specialness would have shown itself by now. Logic dictates. I could zen it up, but one can’t escape one’s realities, however tempting it may be to try. Best not to continue to fool oneself. Got to face the truth.

What is real? What is my reality? I’ve lived a life that has no distinct meaning. Nothing exceptional, nothing extraordinary, nothing worth getting excited over. With apologies to my family, since obviously they are important and meaningful. But take out procreation and raising of children, which is in essence an animal act of instinct, what is left? There is no reason to gravitate to me, no reason to find me in a crowd, no motivation to choose my company. No reason to love me more than any other. I am simply here, one in a crowd of billions.

I won’t fight it anymore. I surrender. I finally understand. Je comprende.

 

 

The Search for the Rest of Your Life (or) Welcome to the Long Run©

Jun26

CALMLY RANDOM

summer-plate

Just the other day a teenager asked me how many hits I get on this blog. It was a good feeling that someone young enough to be my son had any interest in me at all. It’s rare for anyone to ask about my writing. So I answered with joy and pride. “Over 12,000 hits!” I confessed eagerly.

He looked at me and asked, “A day?”

“No,” I answered with childlike naiveté. “Over 12,000 hits since I started writing it, over a year and a half ago.”

I saw the look on his face. Pitiful, he’s thinking, downright pitiful. He remained courteous.

“After all,” I continued, my defenses rising, “my blog is mostly poetry and artistic writing. It appeals to a certain small audience, not a mass market.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he answered carefully, looking down at his cell, clearly embarrassed for me. Clearly done, interest-free.

It was okay, because kids nowadays have incredibly short attention spans. I wasn’t offended. But in the aura of his sudden apathy, I wonder – am I just killing time? Am I wasting my life with irrelevant writing that no one cares about? I’ve blown serious amounts of time over the years, hours and hours I’ll never get back. Years even.

Am I simply repeating the same mistakes over and again? What is the long run of my life? Am I destined to merely exist and never produce anything of real value? What constitutes value? Is it making money, or finding popularity with thousands of daily hits? Is it serious juried critiques and literary fame? Is it the satisfaction of pouring my emotions and thoughts onto a virtual page, no matter how unlikely it is that I’ll ever find a publisher who wants me?

(Then I tell myself…) Most people never write a blog posting every week for more than a year and a half. Most people don’t write poetry. Most people haven’t written a novel, or started a second novel…I tell myself. These are worthy endeavors.

I cling to those notions. I am serious about writing. I don’t know what the long run holds. Keep trying, I imagine me saying to myself. Don’t give up just because you’re not so popular. Just because you count new hits in analog instead of digital speed. Because you can’t compete with a generation born into computer ease. Don’t give up. Your long run is just beginning. The rest of your life is upon you.

 

 

In Celebration of the Summer Solstice

Jun25

MOTHER NATURE

spring-flowers

In celebration of the summer solstice, I say goodbye to this difficult, demanding, dissonant spring.

 

[Excerpt from PERSEPHONE IN HELL]

“Spring had come again, a time of great confusion in the natural world of southeastern Massachusetts. A time for tiny delicate crocus to bud, only to be buried and sometimes crushed under a late snowfall. For robins to fly home from their wanderings even before the earthworms work their way out of the frozen ground.

Azaleas bloom one week; daffodils another. Antisocial forsythia’s already come and gone along with the snowdrops. Cherry blossoms and rhododendrons and tulips awake in no particular order. Crab apples usually flower last, but not always.

Skunk and raccoon, squirrel and chipmunk scurry out of their nests willy nilly, looking for something fresh to eat after the long lonely winter. Everybody’s lean and hungry. All living things in the spring look for their chance, search for a place to thrive, jockey for position.

Perhaps there is harmony and concordance in a New York spring, or in Pennsylvania, or Washington DC. But in southeastern Massachusetts, Mother Nature cries out a dissonant prelude. She doesn’t desire a symphony of bloom. She fights to keep everyone and everything under her domain on guard.

She prefers to conduct a guessing game. Can I keep that blue jay from stealing my nest? wonders the worried female cardinal just laying her eggs. Maybe I could use that nest to lay my eggs, the tired female blue jay thinks, searching for a suitable place to land. It is survival of the fittest, and Mother Nature is cruel. She’s tough, demanding disorderly progressions in spring. Because she knows once summer comes, both flora and fauna – anyone who’s survived the spring grows strong.

There is an inevitable harmony in the summer solstice. That’s the easy part. But it’s the getting there that counts. Spring brings chaos and uncertainty, discordant notes and solo acts whose timing may be all off. It’s meant to make us fit and able. Any good mother wants her children fit and able for the times to come. It’s the law of nature.”

 

 

The Difficult Season

Jan27

CALMLY RANDOM

icy-branches

In this excerpt from PERSEPHONE IN HELL, Madeline Standish is Glory’s physics teacher. She’s caught Glory daydreaming again; unacceptable for one of God’s chosen people. Glory assures Mrs. Standish that she’ll try harder. Madeline is the quintessential Yankee – tough, proud, and determined to keep all things in their proper place.

“Madeline drew up her papers into a neat stack and erased the formulas on the board. It’s potluck tonight, she remembered. Descendants of the Mayflower night.

She looked out the window. Hope this blasted sleet doesn’t cancel our meeting. The difficult season is upon us. But I pride myself as a true Yank, and a little bad weather won’t change my plans.

She thought of the pickled cabbage dish she’d be bringing for potluck. It was the same dish she’d been making her whole life, following Grandma Prissy’s recipe. Her friend Helen, the home economics teacher, had suggested adding a pinch of cinnamon for excitement. But Madeline was unmoved. No need to change a thing, she thought with unbending conviction. It’s perfect just the way it is.”

To give Madeline credit, an inventive person can go mad waiting for a New England winter to pass. Perhaps those old weary Pilgrims had it right. Best to accept and hunker down, filling any irregular open gaps with a life that could be lived over and over again. Better to block those cold annoying breezy thoughts with considerations that don’t stray outside the norm. To surround oneself with casseroles and company as constant as the steady oaks. With tested deliberations that conquer the difficult season for generation after generation. With hearts all set in a single direction.

With chronic cough and March in the making…

 

 

Birth Song

Jan21
AS SPIRITUAL AS I GET
I came screeching into life

On a frigid snowy evening

Winter day in Massachusetts

Winter day in Massachusetts

Not unlike this one
But oh, so many years past
And mother almost dropped me
Right in the car
While father panicked
Sliding down the road with
Rear wheel drive
Another beat up old black Buick
Skating on invisible ice
But she held on
My mother, strong
Determined to control the night
Swearing, carrying the pain of humankind
In her slim and tired form
She held tight
While Dad steered the way
Through the gloomy woods
And cloud laden fields
Cow pastures locked in white
Flakes as big as a baby’s fist
Shielding the murky sullen way
But through the frozen gloom
A wonder world appeared
An oasis in the bitter storm
Utopia
And the hospital cheered us on,
Praise be!
Hallelujah!
Or so it seemed
Its glaring bright lights
Full-lit windows
Bigger than any moon
Starred, dotted with smiling faces
And helpful welcoming hands
They took us in

Thus was I born