A magic evening watching a friend’s dream evolve In front of us, her words spoken on the venerable Old P’town stage. And this swirl of sweetness carried us blind Through snow, tough driving, lifted by the success of This dear friend.
In the serene lobby of a small Boston hotel, meet friends For dinner, for music, for the incomparable Leonard Cohen. Seated on high In his tower of song, enveloped in his words and voice and sound, An honored evening for gratitude and thankfulness. We are Seated on high.
Spent the morning with another, who was looking For other than me. Went...why? Curious. But little else Nice enough person Spent the afternoon neatening my house, better use, To be on my own. My own, mine, I willingly learn To own alone. To allow the time past is a breath of heartbreak lengthened Through hurt to hallowed moments serene, to walk the field paths Under the sunset.
These last few days I have ridden with friends, each day A different horse, good to be with others a few hours In each day It seems i have not been alone here more than a few days yet, Though that isn’t true, I feel I’m moving on shifty sand, still trying to find stability Find contentment within these walls and within myself Find taking time to do this good, and find time to ride Josh, Bourbon, Blue.
My mother and I spent the previous day slowly prepping, A task that allows this morning also to be easy as guests trickle in early Precious were the years she would come and join us Precious this year, wary gratitude, as time has a way of pulling us up short.
Leave out early to drive north. The drive is uneventful, good. The dogs sleep I drive and eyes on the road, my mind there On the one in front and also on the road yet To be taken. But somedays I feel I can not look down that road For any great distance as it still remains clouded, where I wish clarity.
Start this week spending a few days at the beach. At a friend's house, three of us meet to paint and talk. The dogs play. Best is the company shared, knowing others are near. Glad for the quiet and good talk, beach walks, feel the need For slowed time.
Company, a favorite cousin and his friend are here. They have wended their way south and back, looking For the blues. An evening listening to her play guitar And get interviewed on the radio. Tired, slept well.
This week has been consumed with yard work. Your chainsaw, I give to another as I will Never use it. I will find, eventually, one more useful for me. For now, a new sawsall, leaf blower, rake help me tidy. And all solidifies in my mind, I can do this alone, I can, alone, even find some peace in that but not In my heart.
Twenty five years ago we were wed. Expected to wake this day, together, in a special place, Arms wrapped round. Interesting that having been slapped hard by it, There is not now such fear of death, nor do I court it. Life is special. Perhaps, that is the special of this unimaginable Anniversary for which the only silver given is In my hair.
Pink sky this evening with an ember sun, Corn is down and fields replanted In winter wheat. Have spent the last few days framing, Packing, doing last minute things to two years worth of paintings. The car is full, in two days will be off, again, This time to fill the front galleries with my work.
In this is the hour of rockwell's light Slanting golden across the tree tops, There I look Past the colors deepening into perfect, Feeling the hint of chill that echoes ever The soul's sadness. No longer overwhelming, only a constant Tinge of sorrow, deeply rooted, haunting as The cry of geese.
WWT, because need time to wonder wtf happened. To wonder what ever is next, wonder will that happen, And wonder how? To wonder who ever will believe in me, wonder on beauty, Wonder on good and colors and where to go. Still in Widow Wondering Time
A week of learning new painting skills to use when back In my own studio. A week on an island edge, a place totally New and different. I have been moving and doing a lot and do realize, all Has been turning to seek what is now my life alone to hold New and different.
After all this travel, glad for the friends, the family (sometimes are the same) glad for the music, glad to see Gorey's home. Appreciate getting a reminder that I failed. That reminds why I need live alone. A life alone is okay. Death...it came sooner than I expected.
Returned here to sit again your bench as the day ends With dogs exuberant in freedom, a glass of wine and my own thoughts. My own thoughts, this year I did welcome the shelter of tall corn. The last two did so need to see distance. Come back to rain and corn cut.
Ah to see across vast, flat fields and be here: at home, a home with mixed emotions
1700+ miles I've travelled these last ten days. What have I learned? Hmmm first off and come last: a reminder how I still often let my fear rule. Had I an idiot's breath of sense perhaps my dear would be here yet. Good to be reminded Of my failure. Yet before coming here, I did enjoy the company of friends, Of family. Listened to the creative sound of others, the beauty they gave.
In an evening slightly warm by a Rhode Island inlet, With my new widowed aunt, we eat seafood watching the Block Island ferry. My mother, a seasoned widow, enjoys the food, the space. Three widows and a dear coz, all at different places, learning Living with out.
I so enjoy traveling with a friend, this afternoon She kept company with me and shared a beer with You and me. We travelled on with thoughts shared, talking and I followed to share her evening of music and memory Of sharing time.
Spent the morning feeling penned, hemmed into a corner, Restlessly moving, prowling this house that still feels larger Than I like Spent the afternoon wrapped in my own uneasy lone-ness Finally paint and work a panel into night to a good place and A good result
Laid to rest this day a woman beautiful And well-loved in her day, however long that Day is past... Gone beyond the joys of a life expected Into one that so bewilders, sometimes beyond Scope of reason. I paint on, just another with her own future fears Of life lived without my love, who was my family, Of life lonelier.
On your bench I sit watching the go-go's frolicking through the tall grasses as the skies darken, promise Of rain arriving. A friend calls to thank me for being there for his wife. Asks “where you now”. “Sitting in my yard.” “That’s a good Place to be”.
Returning is a sack filled of mixed feelings One part glad to be here, another part forever sad From the missing. Someone wrote: my dear died, not I. True, I know but that is not learned deep through in A few days. So returning here no longer feels like home, As we had home. Yet, slowly, perhaps it changes to Something I accept.
I meet this day learning more about my craft, having the company of friends and knowing another's mother has died I see this day and all days with the soft knowledge of you Ever in my soul, thoughts, deeds, done with you, wrapped warmly in mind Greet this day, softly gleaming as the latest pearl on a string Of good days with which to to adorn my soul, as this day, I am another year older
To learn that others paint in a way I would like, That I can open a book and go to a museum, really see their work. What a delight, to hear and see another use these Techniques, to go back to my palette And try myself.
The day spent painting and listening, looking At my work, at others', learning more what I can do with brush, paint The evening spent with a new friend, widowed Longer, and I listen and over good food, learn life can be embraced
In a darkened theatre watched a marvel of ballet, Of acting, singing swirling together, creating a Small space wonder. A magical morning spent with this Production of the lion, the witch and the wardrobe, Four of us watched with smiles, with tears, Willing to allow the amazement To course through.
Right now, where I am, there is just me. Right now, have no wish to learn to adapt to another Adapting to life as it is now takes my all: Learning the why, the how, the what all do I want, Need from life.
Read: Follow the heart, trust intuition, allow Uncertainty, accept, give love. Fear is Based on ignorance. Uncertainty I have, love I had. Out of these, where do I go. On a level wish someone would say here be with me, all is well. Would be foolishness.
In P'town I saw a painter whose words resonated with me when she wrote her paintings were not about loneliness, But about solitude. I have to consider solitude more, not as an option But as a destination, a place to embrace, feel comfortable in And to own. For now, while encompassing this, I miss the relationship Of a good marriage. We were good our own. For now, I do Still hurt often.
Three months ago was told its getting late, best I be on my way. No idea where I'd go, just be gone. A mother's wish. Went, wondering why leaving family, hers, was better than staying. Left that night going back, no, no going back My back gone. As was hers again and how we deal with our hurts does not Always make sense. Sometimes hold only to what we are, slight Though it be.
The days and evenings in cherished company, Not what I had, that sweet envelope with you, but, It is good. In my own way, am coming, still often kicking and screaming, To cherish not only the sweet time with friends but also, My own time.
Somewhere I read and marked Quiet anticipation is the mainstay of a life lived alone. Whatever that means. Anticipation, yes I would say mine is quiet waiting For the return of a group of friends with whom I'll Paint and enjoy.
Saw two eagles this afternoon while riding It has cooled, it is beautiful, the air soft, The horse good. It is the second week of this month Of commitment and contemplation, of learning How to stay. Never thought it would include such as this Equation of life as it is now. And here There is good.
Driving home, again, rounding Philly Listening to the radio, I hear a poet Reading her work:
To love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you've held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the silt of it. When grief sits with you, its tropical heat thickening the air, heavy as water more fit for gills than lungs; when grief weights you like your own flesh only more of it, an obesity of grief, you think, How can a body withstand this? Then you hold life like a face between your palms, a plain face, no charming smile, no violet eyes, and you say, yes, I will take you I will love you again.
The Thing Is by Ellen Bass from her book Mules of Love
In a shop, leafing through a book, read this quote: Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, Which I find myself constantly walking around In the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell. Edna St. Vincent Millay
The Studio at Line's End Farm is where I paint and try to find some joy again, and some equilibrium, not simple these days. One weblog records thoughts, ideas, methods and mixtures, palettes, observations, actually anything that intrigues me concerning my painting and working in the studio. Another observes only the horse in paintings that I find influential. The last are done for my sanity. All are my opinion only, open to other suggestions.