My uncle gives me poems. Sometimes recounting them on walks down on the flood plains, soybean and tobacco fields shorn for the season and as he speaks paintings come to mind.
So I scratch down the poem onto a canvas board. On this one Derek Walcott-
then I layer paint over and over until it feels right.
A bit of gold foil in the top corner. A bit of sun breaking through some days. Under all the oil & effort it says:
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
And since some of you have asked for them -If it speaks to you – you can own it. See more here.
A couple weeks totally alone remind me that I’m an extrovert mostly. Alone is good too. Alone is necessary. Out here in the country on the river days pass without speaking to a human. But in the mornings sometimes on my runs I see three deer running in the woods beside me. The river garden is throwing out its last fit of glory. Even the poison ivy is putting on a fall show. And I’m breathing.
I’ve stumbled onto this. It’s called 0neOeight & it’s a yoga, meditation, fix-yo-inner&outer-business website & community. I recommend it. So far – I’ve honest to god used it. A lot. Visit their site if you want to know more: www.oneoeight.tv
I still have a lot of boots.
I liked that sentence. I wish I could John Wayne out and say vague words & throw up a picture of a tree sway & leave it the heck* at that.
*See how I cleaned that up- it’s in ode to my Sapphire. Turns out she used to read my blog religiously. And I cuss. curse. blaspheme. And she would cluck and harrumph & tell me I’d never enter the ministry successfully with a mouth like that. She can’t remember to check a blog nowadays. She can’t remember lots. But I try to hold back a cuss out of every 3 – just for the sake of her.
I’m in my old room in my old house. In my house, Pumpkin Hill, where I can successfully grow no pumpkins but blessedly the heirloom roses limp along in fierceness and glory. I downsized and minimized until I gave away almost every piece of hard work duds I own. So I brought the boots; and the dog. After being here a week I bought: a sweater & a dress, 15 gallons of paint, and a shitload of flower seeds. For fall planting.
I’m scraping the old girl – the house not the dog. I’m caulking and sanding and climbing around on ladders, with my ass hanging out of a few pairs of old jeans, and my arms growing stronger. My head thinking too much and my days full of gratitude. I love this place & this time of year. I’m not cutting corners. I’m paying penance and homage to the last year I lived in her – I neglected her awfully when just trying to survive myself and heartbreak. And then I left.
My pals around here are newly in love. It’s a glory to watch. I mean it. Trill on untarnished and devouring starsong bird diving love.
I’m newly in love too. Loving my little house -my piece of sanity and warmth, with newfound appreciation.
I’m living with my friends who have been renting her for the past couple years. We’ve all lived together off and on variously throughout the years. A decade more or less now. I love my little home’s family. The way we get irked in close quarters, brushing shoulders past her one bathroom door and the way the house is a full bosomed bird; cozy and kind, spreading her voluminous wings around us all. There is no lonely at Can’t-Grow-One-Pumpkin-Hill. I like that & how many folks tell me my little house is home to them, there are so many. The house likes it too -our respective ample bosoms fluffed up from purpose and our hearts warm with love of the thing. Shelter. It’s so good falling back in love with an old flame.
All I need now is whiskey, for October to last forever and for my back and feet to not give out. And Jane music. On the front porch every night. Ruth Moody should come too. I think they’d play well together.
Jane Music - click that name.
Girl gets better and better. And she wrote two songs for me on her new cd. My anthems, not necessarily on purpose… but grateful for them all the same.
When I get done painting I’ll put my hand back to sewing. Until then here are some photos of my lately: