Do you believe in love at first sight? Some may dismiss it, But I’ve fallen for so many women that way. Been swept off my feet by deep feeling females each brilliant in her own light. Lyndsay who gifted the courage for poems, Lauren was definitely love at first sight, Lacey, my very first friend at the red table closest the door. Amy, so wild, so creative, Andrea who prays and reads like she means it, Katy, who laughs when kids pee on her floor. Haley and Emma and Alisha and Layne on-call regardless of gravity or pain. An actual secret sisterhood I can’t mention by name cause they’d literally kill me- funding my funeral with their own pocket change. Internet friends, Fran, Anna, and Sharon, go-getting and knitting yarn and backyards, memes and machines, nothing and everything in between. There are countless comrades I can’t even name. More yet I don’t know, haven’t met, but will soon each face familiar on the broken-heart news. And they’re all so consistent. Lifting up, cheering on, lingering wings waiting, breath bated, hearts beating, saddled up, ride at dawn, ready to roll, to kick ass and cherish, to cheer and console. Ride or dies knotted together, a bracelet woven from threads of time, common ground, common love, common purpose, each one attached to the girl come before her, pulling behind her the girl further down. So forgive me for falling so deep and so quickly. Forgive me for not mentioning each one by name. You see, they are Limitless, Infinite, Eternal. Impossible to not fall for, to not love each the same.
3/8/22 – International Women’s Day
The Air Here
For the Dining Room Light
I have not yet met all of the birds here, nor been introduced to the squirrels. The trees are lovely acquaintances, but we haven't progressed much past small talk. I wonder how long it will take to stop feeling like a foreigner. There's the promise of many social engagements come spring: the hydrangea and that mysterious plant out front. But for now I am the new girl at school, waiting to be asked -finally asked- to sit at their lunch table, Waiting in the meantime for them to sit up and take notice of me. At least I have the light, steady companion from birth, the kind of kindred beloved at first meeting, like Lauren from the library eternally validating, each morning it pours reassuring warmth into my soul and gosh, it is so good.
At Quittie Creek
Yesterday the most incredible thing happened to me. I don't know why it landed in my lap. I fear telling you, speaking it out, may weaken it. I saw a woman sitting stock still, pure and holy, motionless as I was, both of us transfixed by a crisp flock of crimson cardinals, the most I have ever seen in one spot. For five minutes I watched them before even noticing her. A mystic right under my very nose so still, so very still on the opposite creek bank that I'm still not convinced she was real. To share knowledge of her is to profane some holy mystery. And yet I am compelled to tell you she exists Crosslegged in the snow under a grove of bamboo, a basket in one hand, the other upturned. The cardinals swoop closer and closer and I saw one almost brave enough to land.
The Girl on the Plane
Recommended eating at Fuddruckers. This was after she told me about The decision to put her grandma Into a nursing home. There had been a "loud discussion" Regarding medication. Comments made about Negligent use of prescription drugs. Grandma, herself, shuffled To the airplane lavatory. "I hope she falls in the toilet." My nausea set in As we bounced over River, junk yard, Past, future. She filmed the take off To show her mother But not the landing.
Hello! (And an update)
Gosh and golly gee, it has been an absolute minute since I’ve written much on this old blawg. We’ve moved from our beloved Cleveland to the Hershey, PA area and so many things are in flux.
When I flew to Harrisburg in November to look at houses, I randomly picked up a book of Mary Oliver’s poems at the airport. I couldn’t stop myself after that, poems just poured out of me. I’ve shared quite a few on Instagram, but I’ve got a few more in my pocket that I’m planning to share in this space.
The Debbie Downer part of my brain says that no one reads blogs anymore and even fewer people are interested. Probably true. However, I’m learning that much of the writing process is less about engaging an audience and more about getting pen to paper. The writing process is cathartic and valuable even if no one reads it but me. Getting it all organized and typed in one spot (rather than scrawled all over the world and in my phone Notes) will give me an opportunity to practice editing.
So, all that to say, welcome to my new project. If you’re subscribed to new posts via email, you may get quite a few blasted at you at once…apologies in advance, haha! If you’re not subscribed via email and you’d like to follow along, be my guest!
My plan is to organize poems by months written, which will serve as a journal of our first year in our new home, this kooky little house on a hill. Thanks for joining along and for growing with me.
As always, you are tremendously loved!