It sure has been awhile but I think I am back to blogging. I took my haitus from everything this past year and focused it on two things: school and new relationships. I am starting to feel the burden of my year off, however. People always say its good to take a break but instead I feel like it has done nothing but destroyed what I knew. Perhaps people were expecting me to fall of the face of the planet and I just lived up to that, or perhaps it's me. Who knows? All I know is that I have big goals for myself this time around. This is a new season. And its september and what I know of september is this: September is the best time to start whatever you need to start, because the world is finding peace. It is easier to invite chaos in when you are surrounded by peace.
Lets begin:
1. Make my relationships good and full and embody love in all parts of my life.
2. Lose weight (this is so ridiculous but so needed right now in order for me to be happy)
3. Find myself a life. I am ready to grow up. (scary thought)
4. Find my literary calling and embrace it.
and 5. Inspire others. I need to do a bit more of that on a daily basis.
Would you like to journey with me? Hopefully we both come out safe and happy in the end.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Dear Gus, in Memory
Today you died and I am very sad, more sad than I thought I would be. I mean you were just a dog and crying over dogs is sometimes silly. But I have to be honest, you were good to me. You did all the things dogs were supposed to do like jump on my friends, pee on the carpet, and chew holes in everything. I just read that book Marley and Me, and I thought of you. You were the bad dog. The dog who thought his name was No Gus. You were the dog that ate momma's flowers and danced around the living room after getting into the house with mud all over you. You taught our other dog Sammie all the bad things dogs do. But you were the best dog. You let me ride your bare back when I was little, put my feet on your belly in the summertime. You would lick me even when I cried and screamed. And when I carried on about how miserable I was you were the only one who listened to me. We would walk late at night throughout the wilderness surrounding my house and you protected me. You fought for me. You helped me feel strong even when I felt weak. It's silly to cry so, but I loved you Gus. I loved you with all of my heart. You were the only thing in this whole universe that knew me inside and out--because you sat with me those nights on the porch swing where I would sing to you made up songs and tell you every little secret I had. You were every bit a part of our family. We all loved you so much. I am so sorry I couldn't be with you, to help calm you down but rubbing your ears (the way you like). I am sorry that we couldn't take you with us as we moved all of our different places. Gus, you were home to us. I will miss seeing you run so fast around our circle drive and how you jumped up to greet everyone no matter how many times we told you not to. I will miss seeing you wag your tail and hop around like a little puppy even though you were an old man. We love you Gus. You will always be a part of our lives.
Love,
Meg
ps- here is a poem for you
A Dog Has Died
My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.
No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.
Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.
There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.
So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.
Pablo Neruda
Love,
Meg
ps- here is a poem for you
A Dog Has Died
My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I'll join him right there,
but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.
No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.
Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea's movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean's spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.
There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don't now and never did lie to each other.
So now he's gone and I buried him,
and that's all there is to it.
Pablo Neruda
Sunday, January 07, 2007
poems
We Still Fight
We sat at Uncle Bob's funeral
in troops. My dad and brother
the suit troop poised with pointy teeth
and winged tipped shoes against my mother
and me. My sister is lost in the middle,
in the endless tug of war of custody battles,
car troubles, and dental care. And nobody
is listening to Ecclesiastes. We glaring
at each other. Fighting each other still,
even in mourning.
My Uncle Bob was an airplane pilot. An aviation engineer.
He fought the second world war with wings
and in the war of the Johnsons
fled with the implement of the draft.
I remember projector screens with scratchy
black and white 35mm film with gray planes
flying in mild skies. And we would watch
them loudly over my parents voices.
The drives to Bob's were stifled and cold.
The volvo broke down once. Dad left
all of us on the side of the road, waving and smiling
out of a tow truck window. That's when Bob
gave us snicker bars and told us to be good
because good children were easier to love.
Today, my dad is talking as the procession is starting,
about family and values and Bob's bowl of happiness.
I am staring at my hands, my bitten off nails,
and chewing on the inside of my cheeks. The war
of my parents marriage continues. The struggle
of the good life versus the bad life.
We all wished we held Bob a little bit closer, listened
to him with more attentive ears, and were better children
so that we were easier to love.
*
Grocery List
Coffee unground undone and roasted darkly
with the finest flavors of mexican flour tortillas
barbeque chicken chips ranch dressing and spinach fun
dipped into the dumpling stew of rare lamb thighs
and thick carrot sticks of spagetti noodles
penne fettacuinne linguine. Angel hair
with a bow tie covered in Prego Garden Select of asparagus
who chokes the heart of the alfalfa sprout
while pumpkin squashes the aloe vera vine
and cheese beets the radish over and over and over.
In season strawberries pink like salmon and whipped
creamy on top of coconut and butterscotch and rum raisin
drunk like cranberry juice without pulp.
Swedish fish swimming through tunnels of laffy taffy
and twizzling around in lollipop land.
Captain Crunch calls for a stop to the violence of vegetables
against vegetables and says we're all fruit anyway and gets booed
from the popcorn melted buttered colored stage.
Tomatoes rotting in the hot sun dry near potatoe latke
for summer vacation thrills cotton
candy to swirl and spin sugar into a bed
of bright flours and marshmallow pillows to catch their fall.
We sat at Uncle Bob's funeral
in troops. My dad and brother
the suit troop poised with pointy teeth
and winged tipped shoes against my mother
and me. My sister is lost in the middle,
in the endless tug of war of custody battles,
car troubles, and dental care. And nobody
is listening to Ecclesiastes. We glaring
at each other. Fighting each other still,
even in mourning.
My Uncle Bob was an airplane pilot. An aviation engineer.
He fought the second world war with wings
and in the war of the Johnsons
fled with the implement of the draft.
I remember projector screens with scratchy
black and white 35mm film with gray planes
flying in mild skies. And we would watch
them loudly over my parents voices.
The drives to Bob's were stifled and cold.
The volvo broke down once. Dad left
all of us on the side of the road, waving and smiling
out of a tow truck window. That's when Bob
gave us snicker bars and told us to be good
because good children were easier to love.
Today, my dad is talking as the procession is starting,
about family and values and Bob's bowl of happiness.
I am staring at my hands, my bitten off nails,
and chewing on the inside of my cheeks. The war
of my parents marriage continues. The struggle
of the good life versus the bad life.
We all wished we held Bob a little bit closer, listened
to him with more attentive ears, and were better children
so that we were easier to love.
*
Grocery List
Coffee unground undone and roasted darkly
with the finest flavors of mexican flour tortillas
barbeque chicken chips ranch dressing and spinach fun
dipped into the dumpling stew of rare lamb thighs
and thick carrot sticks of spagetti noodles
penne fettacuinne linguine. Angel hair
with a bow tie covered in Prego Garden Select of asparagus
who chokes the heart of the alfalfa sprout
while pumpkin squashes the aloe vera vine
and cheese beets the radish over and over and over.
In season strawberries pink like salmon and whipped
creamy on top of coconut and butterscotch and rum raisin
drunk like cranberry juice without pulp.
Swedish fish swimming through tunnels of laffy taffy
and twizzling around in lollipop land.
Captain Crunch calls for a stop to the violence of vegetables
against vegetables and says we're all fruit anyway and gets booed
from the popcorn melted buttered colored stage.
Tomatoes rotting in the hot sun dry near potatoe latke
for summer vacation thrills cotton
candy to swirl and spin sugar into a bed
of bright flours and marshmallow pillows to catch their fall.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Bippety Boppety Boop
Oh Cinderella is so cliche', but I would probably give a half a million to have a fairy godmother right now. I would ask for some new shoes (preferably flat soled and as cute as my kinzies) and then for some guidance. I do not think that I deserve to be in the position that I am in, and sure, I think that it all really just sucks. But am I doing the right thing? Fairy godmother??
Ick, I am so stupidly unstable right now.
I am going to try to start over. Friend L. said that I need to discipline my mind for the time being. I need to stop doing the things that enevitably wind up hurting me and then get on with life, as L. says, "doing the things you loved to do before this all started/ended/started again." She's right. What were those things?
park
friends
books
coffee shops
work
writing
poetry
I think I live somewhat too simply. I really miss the bustle of the city, the heighten sense of always having company even when you were lonely. When I felt alone I would just go to the park and sit under a tree with about a hundred other people around me. But yet, I was comforted there. I was still alone but still surrounded. I loved walking down my street, in my neighborhood, winding up in the busiest center of the world. I miss that. Then, I think, oh but I miss the lovlieness of home, the country, the solitude of the stars and the middle of the road.
Where is the middle? Where is happiness? Is it here or there?
I am a rambling mess and it is at times like this that I am truly fearful of the life I am living. Where will I be in two years and who will I be with?
Time moves too quickly.
Ick, I am so stupidly unstable right now.
I am going to try to start over. Friend L. said that I need to discipline my mind for the time being. I need to stop doing the things that enevitably wind up hurting me and then get on with life, as L. says, "doing the things you loved to do before this all started/ended/started again." She's right. What were those things?
park
friends
books
coffee shops
work
writing
poetry
I think I live somewhat too simply. I really miss the bustle of the city, the heighten sense of always having company even when you were lonely. When I felt alone I would just go to the park and sit under a tree with about a hundred other people around me. But yet, I was comforted there. I was still alone but still surrounded. I loved walking down my street, in my neighborhood, winding up in the busiest center of the world. I miss that. Then, I think, oh but I miss the lovlieness of home, the country, the solitude of the stars and the middle of the road.
Where is the middle? Where is happiness? Is it here or there?
I am a rambling mess and it is at times like this that I am truly fearful of the life I am living. Where will I be in two years and who will I be with?
Time moves too quickly.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Today's Lesson
to forgive, to move on, to push forward, to stop and listen, and to be aware of everything. to spend time away, to spend time here, to show love, show friendship, and show the ugly, to conceal the crazy, to let the air come in, and to give affection when affection is worthy.
i love yet i have lost. isn't that always true?
i love yet i have lost. isn't that always true?
Monday, October 16, 2006
Today I wept. I rarely weep with such force but today I did. For the first time in my life I know what it means to have fallen into a miraculous spell, to finally have the feeling (for the first time) that my whole life means this person, the next moments, until our moments are gone. Today I felt a loss greater than any in my life and everyone I love is still here. I just sensed the lonliness I may eventually feel.
In Blackwater Woods by Mary Oliver
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
I am in love.
In Blackwater Woods by Mary Oliver
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
I am in love.
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