triumph.

I was looking through some of my old pictures today and I stumbled across this beauty. I don't mean to say I think I look good - quite the opposite actually. But this was taken at the top of Harney Peak last summer. We started hiking early that morning and made our way through the sweat, rain, fog and blisters to the summit. When we reached the top, the fog was so thick, we couldn't see how far we'd come. But if the fist pump doesn't give it away, we were still ecstatic.
It was one of the most grueling physical tasks I had ever done. More than once, on the way up, I wanted to just sit down and say "hey, I'll wait here, you guys go ahead." But, together, we kept putting one foot in front of the other, helping each other, laughing together and leading each other. And nothing could eclipse the feeling of reaching the summit, wet, exhausted, and hungry, but together.

"Do a little more each day than you think you can do."

get back.

It has become apparent... that I have lost track of where I started.
I hate it.
I hate feeling like I'm not connected any longer to the person I once was, the goals I had made for myself, the ideals I believed in, the values I held fast to.
I'm changing.
But, I'm moving back to the center, to where I know I need to be.
And just realizing that, knowing that reformation needs to happen, I think is important in itself.
For so long, I've been completely ignorant of the fact that I had moved away from the core of everything I believe is true.
Now, I'm making a conscious effort to get back.
To get back where I started.
Remember who I used to be.
And who I want to be.
And that I am not chained down by anything in this world.
But I can move forward and grow and use the things of my past to become better today.

inspiration.

i've been seriously lacking.
my world is packed, crammed tight like these jeans today (i need to work out).
i have about 600 pages to read before next tuesday (understatement).
papers to write.
students with whom i need to meaningfully convey the textual importance of the illiad.
to give second-graders the gifts of quality time and compassion and instill the values of good manners and kindness.

that's my to do list.
this is my blog.

so i've got this hour. to do whatever the heck i want. an hour i didn't plan on. but it snuck right in and here it is and now i've got it. my hours of freedom are so rare, it's hard to even think about what i would do with an entire hour all to myself. in my beautiful idealistic version of life... i think i would love an hour every day just for me. i realize it sounds selfish... but a girl can dream.
if i had an hour every day i would:
1. paint my nails.
2. read a high quality mag.
3. read anything other than a text book.
4. vacuum.
5. go for a walk.
6. write out a list of long-term goals.
7. watch the news.
8. draw.
9. memorize a poem.
10. practice cartwheels.
11. have a long phone conversation with my grandma.
12. take a nap.
13. organize my sock/underwear/bra/tanktop/swimsuit drawer.
14. write a letter.

i think i could fairly easily daydream away the rest of this hour... but it's half over and now i've got to consider what to do with a half hour...

forgiveness.

I'm all for originality... but India said it better than I ever could.

"I got the call today, I didn't wanna hear
But I knew that it would come
An old true friend of ours was talkin' on the phone
She said you found someone
And I thought of all the bad luck,
And all the struggles we went through
How I lost me and you lost you
What are these voices outside love's open door
Make us throw off our contentment
And beg for something more?

I've been learning to live without you now
But I miss you sometimes
The more I know, the less I understand
All the things I thought I knew, I'm learning them again
I've been tryin' to get down to the Heart of the Matter
But my will gets weak
And my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think it's about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don't love me anymore

These times are so uncertain
There's a yearning undefined
And people filled with rage
We all need a little tenderness
How can love survive in such a graceless age
And the trust and self-assurance that lead to happiness
They're the very things we kill, I guess
Pride and competition cannot fill these empty arms
And the work they put between us,
You know it doesn't keep us warm

I've been trying to live without you now
But I miss you, baby
The more I know, the less I understand
And all the things I thought I figured out, I have to learn again
I've been tryin' to get down to the Heart of the Matter
But my will gets weak
And my heart is so shattered
But I think it's about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don't love me anymore

All the people in your life who've come and gone
They let you down, you know they hurt your pride
Better put it all behind you; cause life goes on
You keep carrin' that anger, it'll eat you up inside

I wanna be happily everafter
And my heart is so shattered
But I know it's about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don't love me anymore

I've been tryin' to get down to the Heart of the Matter
Because the flesh will get weak
And the ashes will scatter
So I'm thinkin' about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if you don't love me anymore
Even if you don't love me anymore" - India Arie/ Don Henley

Intentional Prose.

I believe my mind tends to create poems all on it's own - a sort of musicality connects my thoughts without any sort of consideration to punctuality, punctuation, flowing transitional phrases, efficient vocabulary or correct grammar. Perhaps it is a good thing, but on occasion I believe I am cursed. Constructing a paragraph is tedious, monotonous. I desire to count syllables, create strong metaphors, add accents where tradition would require otherwise. How am I to write an application paper for lit. theory or a book review on "Love in the Time of Cholera", when my mind refuses to release me from the shackles of iambic pentameter. I am hidden on the third floor of the library, behind the stacks of "The Writer" periodicals dating all the way back to December of 1957, attempting to remove all inspiration, rhymed couplets, similes, fluidity and musicality from my immediate aura. I am regretful of pursuing a higher education on a night such as this. How I long to be a starving artist, with only a pen and scraps of newspaper to scribble down my poetic revelations. But, here I am subjected to the confines of assignments lacking the sweet breath of fresh creativity. This evening, I am chaining my pen to the paper and leading my thoughts at gunpoint to the flat and barren wasteland of required texts.
Introduction. Body. Conclusion. Ready. Set. Go.

finger painting.

i am not going
to rhyme this time.
a strict rebellion. release.
wingéd words outside the cage -
that's right. i'm free. let go
of your preconception,
your box, your book of rules.

the more i know, the less i feel
my poetry is mine.
just let me color my world
with fingers and words.
let me return to my ignorance.
child-like naïveté.
where i am me and
have no need
for questioning.

Wednesday.

venti coffee
literary and cultural theory
#2 recycled artists' brush
of sorts. taken and perverted to
the symbols on a page -
white and gray -
linguistics. reading. tutor. teach.
adjust my glasses
blog or read
definition
distraction, bring me back.
focus.
focus.

To Be Titled...

Clean, pure, untainted, lacking color.
Spotless - without stain.
New innocence, fresh righteousness.
Fair song of spring rain.

The purpose of this parataxis
Is to resonate.
Unveiling dawn of Monday morning -
Granted a clean slate.

Perfect bliss to waking virgin eyes.
Accept silently.
Blue skies stream through my open window-
Opportunity.

Release mistakes and errors made, the
Weight of yesterday.
Suffocating memory- erased.
Forgotten today.

I love.

Breakfast.
Sunshine.
Compassion.
Kindness.
The moon.
Wine.
Scarves.
My family.
Bars of soap.
Cloves.
Tall buildings.
Snowflakes.
Poetry.
President Obama (Don't tell my mom).
Planet Earth.
Falling in Love.
"The House on Mango Street"
Pepperjack cheese.
Joni Mitchell.
A good latte.
My best friend, Christy.
Laughing.
Curry Squash.
An open window.
Walking.

You have redeemed my soul.

"You have redeemed my soul from the pit of emptiness.
You have redeemed my soul from death.

I was a hungry child, a dried up river.
I was a burnt out forest, and no one could do anything for me.

But you put food in my body, water in my dry bed.
And to my blackened branches, you brought the springtime green of new life.

And nothing is impossible for you."

eavesdropping

"But there isn't an exact definition for you who you are. It's always changing, evolving. It's like the shape of fluid."

Sunrise.

Painting by Elizabeth Fraser


In quiet resurrection of Your first light.

I experienced Your presence-
Intimate intensity.
Soothing calm swelled by absence -
Void. Solace stilled my misery.

Winter’s death melts from my soul -
Renewal. Rebirth.
Healing fervor - Your console –
Softened frozen Earth.

Blooms adorn once empty bones -
Open gratitude.
Water pours from icy stones –
Unlocked, restored by only You.

"All I need is the sunrise.
Just a moment of dawn." - Brandon Heath

Harmony

“Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Why lov’st thou that which thou reciev’st not gladly,
Or else reciev’st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling sire, and child, and happy mother,
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing;
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee, 'Thou single wilt prove none.'" – William Shakespeare

One single note played by itself may vibrate, ringing true. But add to it another – harmony. Beauty, softness, strength. And it is music.
I am capable of standing on my own, of walking through life independent and honest. At times I even desire solidarity more than companionship. But the moments of sweetest joy in my life, were experienced not alone, but with one whom so compliments my own spirit with the brightness of their own.
Words fall short of capturing the song when two souls strengthen each other. Be it friendship, romantic or genetic, when two lives coincide and can share that deepest bond, beauty is there.
It is fragile and rare and often does not last forever, but the song may find its way into your soul and stay.

“I can’t push you to ring
I have tried now it stings
to tell
It’s now your new beginning you fell
Coming back to me ringing your bell
Thanks to you I can’t fall
I’ve put back up my wall
with one bell
We know just one bell won’t suffice
Each note comes in pairs just like dice
For harmony I can see
no one else but you and me” – Ari Herstand

Linguistics.

The Madhyamika Buddhist philosopher Nagarjuna said that words are like fingers pointing at the moon. Many people look at the fingers, never seeing the moon to which they point.

“Die grenzen meiner sprache sind die grenzen meiner welt”

“The limits of my language are the limits of my world”
-Ludwig Wittgenstein

"Love Poem 137"

I’m writing again
Because I cannot stop.
No night, no break, no pause.
Continual words
Forming lines or a phrase.
Trying to keep them all
Flowing.
Captured. Concise. Every page.

My pen an attempt
To cut off the wings
Of cupid and strangle
All lovely things.
To keep them from dancing
Around in my head,
Giving hope, peace and dread.

Frustration and anger.
Impossible.
Just try to tie
The fleeting bliss of love
In a poem.

21.

Chardonnay or iced tea. Quoted words, not my own. Why do you still want to hold on to this? Scrambled eggs and mashed potatoes. Red fingernails. Silver hoop earrings. Fire place glowing and candles lit. We played Scrabble as a family. Opened to the first page of my new black leather journal and wrote something poetic, something to look back on, something. Memphis. Montana. Panama. “I’m new here.” Puzzle pieces, I'm not sure where to fit in. I loved to read on the beach as I smoked American Spirit cigarettes. Henri Nouwen. Dostoyevsky. I want to be a teacher when I grow up. Flannel shirts and big star jeans. Grandpa Emory, remember me. A brick backdrop with the tolling bells and walking to class with students my own age.

current playlist:

a good day - priscilla ahn
brandy alexander - feist
rose stained red - ari herstand
finding my own way - charlotte church
away with the pixies - ben lee
faking my own suicide - relient k
annie - dave barnes
all will be well - gabe dixon band
promise me this - pancho's lament
wait for love - matt white
no not one - brandon heath
still - matt nathanson
out loud - dispatch
wash away - matt costa
giving up - ingrid michealson
samson - regina spektor

An indispensable compliation - getting me through my days with a smile on top.

Truth.

"Puedo preguntar mi libro
si es verdad que yo lo escribi?" - Pablo Neruda

"Can I ask my book
if it is true even though I wrote it?"


What if it's not just a book? What if it is a life? What if an entire life has been lived out, according to what one felt was true at the time, and then at the end, the final chapter, you wonder if all compiled it tells the truth at all?

I'm at this point, a pivotal decision-making point, where I have discovered that indecision is actually a decision. And a choice to abstain from volunteering my opinion is actually an opinion all in its own. I wish to be brave and courageous and share a true voice. But I'm not sure that I have one.

I simply meander along, and when I reach a point where a decision needs to be made, I choose whatever I feel. But I don't know that it's original or unique or right or wrong or dictated by those around me or a true reflection of who I really am.

That's a foggy, fluid concept, "who I really am".

Perhaps there is a clear, concrete truth.

But I'm not really sure how much self-reflective thought it will take
to pierce through the fog and find the truth.