Mini-Cation

I went to a concert. Experienced the gift of musical genius. There was a minute I felt as if I was part of a greater song, my heart beat in time as it to offer its own feeble accompanient. I stuck my toes in the Gulf of Mexico, felt the sand shift beneath my human mass as the tide lapped my ankles. I spent 2 days in the company of a kindrend spirit; both of us lovers of music and water. I had a fantastic time. Thank-you Kim.

Out of Character

I have started asking my friends for pictures of myself and them which is out of character for me. I hate having my picture made. Generally it sends me to the extremes of self-loathing. For every photo of me I share there are at least 100 rejected to get to one that does not send me over the edge. I think this change of heart was perhaps sparked by my grandmothers death and the photos of us she kept over the years. Going through the photos I realized there were very few of her with us. I found myself wishing for a photo of the time we talked her into wearing shorts, of her talking with us around her table, of her filling the number 5 washtub for us to use as a swimming pool and of her and I at Uncle Charlie's funeral. I pushed her wheelchair and she cracked jokes about how fun the ride would be down the hill, if I simply let go. She said Brenda Sue do you think you could run fast enough to catch me at the bottom.

I am short-fat-round with a goofy smile and hair that I can not color fast enough to hide my near 80% gray, I know that. The people in my life know that. I guess if I can capture those people I love with me in a few snapshots here and there thats a good thing. Granny, I let go and am simply enjoying the gifts of a shared journey and friendship. The photos: Patty, Haddy and myself at Patty's farm 2010, Trish and I at I-Hop June 2010. Life is groovy and I am simply.

Happy Fathers Day

A poem I wrote for my Daddy during one of my 30 day challenges, still in its raw form (meaning still a very rough first draft) and most likely to stay that way. The photos I took last year in 2009 at Camp Caswell. Rachael is working on a Camp Caswell Scrap Book for her Papa, I might clean up the poem and have her put it in the scrap book before she gives it to him. Happy Fathers Day to both my Daddy and that handsome man I married.

Camp Caswell: August 2007

I’m never there after the big melt, when
Daddy brings up the downed logs
felled by winter snow.

He tells me it is an old skill; preserving
the beauty of the log. He uses coarse
marine rope to tie off the 3-point harness.

He hauls the logs one at a time;
behind the four wheeler to the edge
of the woods back behind the cabin.

The secret is in letting the trees season. ‘Bout August,
when the salmon quit running ; when you visit
each summer. He sits on a crude stool he fashioned

from an old stump a few summers back;
with oil, flint and a sharpening stone he hones
the drawknife balanced between two knees.

Its sharp enough when he hollers Brenda Sue;
and yanks a single strand of my hair and draws
it across the edge. Both halves fall as I settle

on the porch. A large coffee mug nested in my hand;
he hums old Merle, Johnny, or George tunes under his breath.
Every now and again I sing the Tammy, June or Dolly parts.

Neither one us of can hold a tune worth shit;
I watch him slowly remove the bark, He sits, judges,
sometimes adjusting the pressure on either side until
the rich marbling of the log begins to reveal itself.

Lines

I am torn again between the color and the black and white photos. I was trying to capture the effects of all of the lines and shadows. I am happy with the general effect, except the tables are washed out and I am unsure how to compensate for them. I am weening myself off relying on the auto settings on my camera. Yesterday I learned that my camera had a in-between setting of P, which is how I took these photos. I also took some on pure auto, and these came out better. Victory dance for the learning photographer. I learned this a fellow photographer who gave me the gift of time when I started with my long list of questions. Thank-you. I have been thinking a lot about creativity and perhaps a bit about my goals ( or lack of goals) for both writing and photography. I am happiest when I feed my creative side, whether in the form of photography, writing, or doodle art. I also am happiest when I can manage to stay balanced between my roles of mother, wife, environmental scientist, friend and creativity. I am working on the right mix. Today I am going to see two of my oldest friends, Patty (35 years) and Haddy (29 years), and I believe it was this time last year that we were last able to get together and that makes me a bit sad. It seems we rush around and so often we don't find time to connect to those we love. I am excited. Patty has a menagerie of critters, I am taking my camera. I am mostly groovy. Hope the same for you.

From the Garden




Still mostly home wallowing, and still enjoying simply being home with my family. Last weekend a wedding of the son of one my oldest friends. A member of what I call My Pack or as my friend Bonnie says My Peoples, there is beauty and acceptance with those you have known for close to 30 years, a confirmation and celebration of shared triumphs and sorrows. Friendship is a gift and I have been damn lucky in mine. Jeff and Tuesdee had a beautiful wedding as individual as they are, the bride forgo the traditional wedding march for a country and western ballad, the recessional was done to " I am a Believer" and the reception was done elegantly in a local winery. At each place setting was a beautiful decorated box made by the bride that we were instructed to fill with candy. Perfect chocolate and wine. Congratulations to Jeff and Tuesdee. I am thinking maybe Mike and I need to throw a big party for our 25th next year, a chance to celebrate our love with those who have been part of our journey. Maybe even after Mike and I can take a 2nd Honeymoon.

Pond


I took this photo at a native prairie where one of the fantastic girls of Troop 1900 built a bridge for her girl scout gold award project. There were chiggers. Lots of chiggers. The itching stops after about 7 days. I found myself coming back to this small pond to take photos, to see the reflection of the prairie in the water depths. I love water. I also love benches. I could of sat on these benches forever, a friend recently commented on my eye for benches, and I wrote this in an note to him

Yes I love benches, there is an expectation about an unoccupied seat, an essence of all who have occupied them, a resonance of untold stories, almost as if our energies, both fragile and human have imprinted an inanimate object, when I see a bench, it is opportunity, it is refuge, a thread that loosely binds the occupants, past present and future, in the knowing of the feel of the bench, the view, that shared moment. So I photograph them, and I sit on them and simply absorb their stories. I worry that my pictures like my poetry at times becomes a bit redundant. I liked these benches because I was caught up in them being both singular and a set, much like us humans.

Perhaps at some point I might find a poem in these lines. I find that still my most favorite form of writing is letters. A lost art, the art of writing letters. I am groovy, I hope the same for you.

Webs



I found this industrious spider by my back door. He had spun a web from my deck floor to my roof overhang. When he first caught my eye he was busily encasing a bug into its threads. I watched him off and on as I watered the back yard and took a early morning swim. Eventually I came into the house to grab my cameras. I took about 20 photos between 2 cameras, and am unhappy with all of the photos. My favorite is one I took on macro settings, with a small light, it shows the web beautifully, yet the spider is a bit over exposed, this one the spider is perfect and the web a bit under exposed. I am still playing with them in Photoshop, this photo unedited. As it seems like most of the things in my life I have not yet achieved the right ratio of light and shadows, of balance. I am struggling these days in the roles of wife and mother. Perhaps it is simply more difficult to understand what a near grown woman needs. One day she is a mature young adult, seemingly aware, seemingly mature admittedly a bit quirky young woman. The next day she is a petulant child, demanding more of my time, angry for perceived injustices, and we become like oil and water, chalk on the blackboard. I go from being her beloved Mia to MOTHER in the heavy sigh that escapes through her lips. Parenting teenagers is very rough work and sometimes I wish simply to pound my head on cinder blocks. This week I have been both Mia and mother, and I am okay with that. I have been praying that this summer is the summer of transition for her, one where she decides to step up into her own life. To make the commitment to herself and her future. Once she decides that she will be a force of nature. She rocks, I only hope that she figures that out soon. This morning is mom and daughter breakfast with my best friend and her godmother. It is good karma. Today I will likely be Mia.

I started my day with dark french roast and this sky. It seemed to me a good omen after a very rough couple of weeks. I felt as if I had transferred my angst to this sky, allowing me a bit of respite. I have been a bit in turmoil between all of the roles in my life, and it seems I need to spend more time home, more time with Rachael and Michael, and more time simply with the earth. There is no one thing that grounds me more than my faith and my garden. The world makes me profoundly sad, and I look to the earth for signs of resilience, of hope and every time I put my hands in the dirt, my noisy self is stilled and I come away whole. My garden is suffering a bit from a late freeze and the early arrival of Texas's brutal sun. I am adjusting with hardy Texas natives, and perhaps a bit of pampering for those plants not suited for 100 degrees in June. Yet despite the interruption of seasons, the garden is thriving, and my perennials are like long lost friends, my lilies nearly a month behind bloomed this week. I found myself much like an mother, awaiting the birth of a longed for child. I of course had to take their "birth" photo. I am hopeless. Here is my baby.

I finally broke my submitting hiatus and submitted to 4 journals last week, so far two have accepted my work and I have not yet heard from the other two, I am going to try to submit a few more of my older work that is mostly polished. Last year I wrote only about 70 poems, of which I might like 7-10, I am going through those and seeing if any speak to me, and I am slowly beginning to write again. Not in the way I have in the past, and writing feels awkward and foreign to me. My work once again is evolving and changing, and I am unsure about its direction. I also writing environmental poems, which are part of my "Taboo" list, for now I am writing them, but not submitting them, a compromise of sorts on my part. The Dallas Poets Community is updating their website and I have a page on their site, which is way cool beans.