it’s just that the head is not always popping off.  you know?

and so i’m abandoning yet another blog, yet another name, yet another label, and now, i’m just… me.

i’m still messing with it, adding a contact form, more photos to the portfolio, moving things around.  but messy has never really concerned me, anyway.

so change your bookmarks and feeds and all, and i’ll meet you there.  and while you’re at it, let me know that you’ve arrived.

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.

Derek Walcott

when i was little, i had this imaginary world i would go to before i fell asleep.  we lived in the trees of a thick forest, and there were bridges that stretched from one tree to another.  i miss that place.

shortcake, dimples, kiki, at the "real" lake

She was poorly behaved yesterday, at a bridal shower.  She did not want to sit and socialize.  She did not perform, smile, or give affection appropriately or on command.  And she screamed like a pterodactyl if she was not allowed to watch the hockey game (what?  whose kid is this?) being played in the adjacent ice arena.  Then, after a while in the hockey rink, she screamed when i wouldn’t let her climb all over the bleachers.  So, I took her outside to continue her screaming. 

I stood on the jogging trail while she threw a fit at my feet.  My eyes followed the too-perfect curve of the artificial lake, and i compared the identical rows of too-perfect rocks where the water met the too-perfect grass.  The windsurfers and canoers looked plastic.  Imperfect, sweaty people passed us by, most of them smiling at the tantrum-ing toddler.  Above it all, loomed the ugly power plant, which Shortcake noticed was making clouds. 

The screaming eventually became whimpering, and the whimpering eventually became silence.  I thought she was asleep on my shoulder when I heard her addressing the seagulls. 

“Duckies.  Not birdies?  I hold him.”

I set her down so she could pursue the flock.  She exaggerated a tiptoe, whispering “I’m just like you, birdie.  Come back!” 

She picked up white feathers, and after studying each one, held it up to the seagulls. 

“Here you are, birdies.”  The ugly creatures continued to evade her, but she followed them—north, then south, then north, again and again. 

“Here you are!  Here is your feather.”  Defeated every time, she would eventually wait for a gust of wind, hold the feather up to the sky, and let the wind take it.  And she would laugh. 

We missed the gift opening.  She did not finish her cupcake.

I’ve just done all of this, too: the tantrum, the whimpering, the silence.  There are changes afoot, and uneven currents in the air.  A dear friend has just blessed me with some red hawk medicine, with the reminder of the hawk’s sharp vision, its awareness of interconnectedness and the highest Intent, and its ability to see beyond what seems to be to what truly is.  Yes, I do believe it is just about time to feel that wind.

from mesa verde

by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world, determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save

(p.s. no. i am not running away… not today, at least.  i just found the poem to be thought-provoking.)

If God said,

“Rumi, pay homage to everything

that has helped you

enter my

arms,”

there would not be one experience of my life,

not one thought, not one feeling,

not any act, I

would not

bow

to.

(Jalaludin Rumi, trans. by Daniel Ladinsky)

recently, i’ve begun to see everything in Divine parallel/connection, in a way that i never have before.  there is much rumi, of course.  and much, much more.  i just have to find a way to tell you.  which is precisely the point, the entire purpose, isn’t it?

 Now, listen, you Wisconsinites.  And even you Minnesotans and Illinoisians (how do you way that?  Illini?)  I want you to drop everything and get thee to YogAsylum in Brookfield on Saturday, August 21st from 2-4 pm.  Karen Maezen Miller is going to be there (see?  she said so herself.), and this is a woman that you do not want to miss encountering.  Believe me.  She is a Buddhist priest, mother, author of the books Hand Wash Cold and Momma Zen, and the blog Cheerio Road.  If you have read either, you are likely dying to find the link to register for the program.  Well, breathe, for goodness’ sake.  Then click HERE!  HERE IT IS!  (scroll to the bottom, click on the link below “Extraordinary Ordinary.”)  Send me an email if you have questions.

Why in the world is she coming here?  Because we asked.  That’s why.

links about a few of my favorite moments from the trip:

San Juan Byway, US550

Mesa Verde

Trevor Hall (continuous stream on my ipod the day spent driving through the mountains on our way home.  i desperately needed lyrics like this: “my strength comes from the river / the eternal Giver.” and “I don’t wanna reason anymore…”)

and then, there was making merry—and music—with my lunatic family.  (if you were my facebook friend, you’d have already watched the video, and surely you’d have been deeply inspired.)

i don’t belong here, in this
Place where i Belong.
i close my eyes as the mountains fade into the horizon behind me
and think that if this were an addiction, i’d be in the tremors of withdrawal.
but though there are tears, and indeed, there is trembling, i sense that
everything remains
that separation is an illusion
that the peaks that brush the faces of stars, and
the canyons that pierce the heart of the earth, and
all the wild, natural magic—all
is within me.
and with gratitude, i learn that my longing
is essential to the experience of life,
and to my return.

dimples, holga, tri-x, kettle moraine

someone once said that the definition of insanity is taking four children on a cross-country road trip.  i think maybe that someone was me, precisely one year ago, when we did such a thing.  but then i forgot, because now we are doing it again.  this one will be shorter than last year’s trip, only 22 hours of driving each way.  last year i spent the entire time in the passenger seat puting newborn dreadlocks into my hair.  this year, i plan to spend the entire time tweeting.  so, follow me through the thrills of iowa and nebraska, through the joys of altitude sickness in colorado.  it’ll be fun.  i promise.  if i can figure it out, i’ll upload an occasional shot of my journals (watercolor, ink, writing, i’m feeling ambitious).  we leave tomorrow morning.  i wonder if i should consider packing?