Been tired here, can’t seem to catch timing right And would think I would know, things have a habit of turning differently. Have walked the dogs, mom & aunt have taken the reins Of this particular day and I need to step back. They are happy.
In the darkened theater my friend softly Snores through a needed nap as I watch the Movie she chose An adventure of a drab mouse who Strikes out against the odds to a quiet Place of courage A somewhat silly movie I enjoyed as much For that aspect as the call to charge into ones Life with belief.
Mom and I do errands, always taking The long routes through familiar villages As we like. She speaks of her childhood, her mother's life Then dying young and her father dying younger Of the sugar. To hear my mother talk, to share the tears Of the lost times for asking those gone on We both know.
Up at 4am to drive north, mostly smooth. Listened to old cd's and the songs I had chosen To honor you, Emmy Lou & Ian, strong hands & circles, And songs of winter. Not exactly the season But plenty fine To carry me to family and feasting To carry the sadness, memories, joy Of loving you.
Christmas Eve, which I have spent alone, preparing to leave Very early, heading north. It is quiet and cold here and all is Ready to go. I am feeling simply quiet, not full but not empty either. Just a softness of the evening passing, simply letting time Move me along.
Evening approaches on this date of the year When the day first begins to grow longer. It is warm, I leave to hear the carolling, hold a lit candle aloft At the little white church nearby, to be with some good friends Here, there is a soft drizzle with a good wind which Rouses through the trees, these are the kind of days I like. Ever, miss you.
And the past is gone. It must be then, while in grief, I am upset for some one who is not there. A friend wrote this but I did need to change a few Words, something to someone. This does define simplistically What grief is. Sometimes it is needed to define what is past that Which does carry the present before seeing where the future can be possible.
Through these wee hours of another day gone And from waking early yesterday morn has My soul wept - In a remembrance only I feel and know- that On yesterday's date you went willingly to be healed Trusting it so. Earlier this eve, friends came by and I cooked for them As I loved doing for you. My heart yearns for you Alone with company.
Four years ago that night we slept alone, Apart but for your ring given into my care To hold dear. A small comfort in that large bed, Waiting, worries for what the morining Would bring you. Alone I sleep still but for an errant cat And for the ring you trusted, a small comfort I hold dear.
Because of this issue I have stayed close to home, a choice I have rarely opted to exercise these Past few years, Choosing to be, BE, just be anywhere but here. Slowly I have elected to be here rather than engulfed in large groups. This weekend, because of this malady, I have been Alone but not so lonely, keeping company painting, Just being here.
Still, I have done enough to make the place presentable To my friends coming in and more, enough that I will not Worry over it. Instead, will enjoy these few precious days and evenings when There is company and conversation and laughter from Sun-up past sun-down.
Since I have been home have spent time with fall chores. They are needed and I do as I can. It isn't enough to keep It all up. Not up and looking great and I do like that, but it is too much To do that and other chores and paint and consequently none gets Done very well.
A friend said, what was it? Oh: We can do what We want. Not only what others want, expect of us. Whoa, what really? I have spent a lifetime doing what I have been Expected to do. Female, maybe, you do thus always. And I did. I did...but now? Why? Only if it settles for me. For me, will it do? If not why do it. This is another Country to learn.
A front overhead, deep lavender clouds Obscure the evening star but not the blaze Along the horizon. Back on this land, the last home we shared, Back still considering next steps. My mom Only gets older. Is it wrong to know I will miss this pine I lean on As much as many of the people met? Ah, what gives Sense of place?
Frankly, I expected to come up on this trip, have Questions answered and a direction determined With solid conviction. Ah well, instead it was one of my more ambivalent Messy trips, oozing quandries, doube and yet I know On one level Being near my mother would be so good for her, and me. As a widowed friend said: DOn't count on anything but death To be final.
On this Saturday after Thanksgiving, I am grateful for the company Of my mother, my aunt. Widows all, we put together leftovers and I Light three candles: One for my Dear, who graces my memory. One for all on this journey, may peace light their path. One for all Who have gone before. To my aunt I say: We remember Them in our hearts. A glass of wine raised to all in grief, Prayers sent, godspeed.
A sweet interlude at a friends' creek side home where The room I enjoy is called by their son's name And by mine. A kindness and welcome, I also bestow on certain guests Hoping that they are as pleased, warmed as am I By such recognition.
Sometimes I need just to cry, cry, cry You are gone, and I do not really know how To go on. As time moves, as time moves, really It does little to assuage the loss. How I miss you, A constant always. I do my best, Dear, I do, and mostly do well. Until I remember the sweet moments that so Filled our days.
Amongst the many things we are required to have, Licenses for this and that guarded by government, But not healthcare. Until now, and much as I welcome it finally coming, Why oh why, did those in power allow it to be botched So irritatingly completely?
Read today words by Guillaume Denoix de Saint Marc, president de l'Association des familles des victimes de l'attentat du DC10 d'UTA: "On est forcement marque a vie par ce type d'histoire, donc on Ne peut pas la fermer, mais on passe a une autre phase; une phase Sereine, de reconstruction." "We are out of necessity marked for life by this type of history, Therefore we cannot close it, but pass to another phase; a more serene phase, of reconstruction.
"I will wait for you as long as I need to." Is a phrase past due for you and me. Where are you Now? Yours is a different now than is Mine now. I fear here is no longer Waiting for us. If I knew, I would allow in this vast cosmos if We could meet, yes, but if not? To keep you waiting Is not fair.
I am here, once again, seated on that bench You built so I could breathe easier in the Off river breeze. But not for sunset, I missed it. For the rising Of the evening star. Falling back has not been A change embraced. I am on the cusp of change, my choice now. Stay, Go, you have my heart. Mine? Wherever, I have me. All that is.
This weekend Cohen's coming home is the music I needed to hear, to feel; going home without my sorrow Going home tomorrow. Going home with a lamp fixed, as well as any thoroughly Broken thing can be fixed. Going home to where it is Better than before. Going back to let the light between the cracks, able To let Light in again. Going home without my burden, Just going home.
The sky this evening is exquisite, The cloud cover beautifully patterned, Colors just perfect. A lovely contrast with lavender clouds Over the palest of viridian overlaid with rose Lining the horizon. I can sit here every evening, and mostly do. Entranced with the specatacle before me and Memory of you.
Within the sound of surf, I am These presious days, at a friend's Fine beach house. Within the sound of surf, I stay In a serene room listening, feeling The pounding surf. Within the sound of surf, I let The fullness of space come through Heart and soul.
In that corner of the field three deer startled, leap Into the pine stand, white tails flagging, quickly Out of sight. But not hearing, as brush crackles beneath hooves And breath snorts in huffs from their exertions, Then all quiet. Except the hum of combines a mile across the river, Of small birds chittering over golden bean fields, of My heart thumping.
A wee bit past midnight, to our friends' daughter A boy was born. The spoon you carved her first born Is very treasured. Hearing of this birth, I did pick up your tools, your wood, And honoring past ans present, did carve a spoon for Jaxson, Aidan's brother,
St. Paul declared "Love" the highest of three spiritual gifts: Faith, Hope, Love. I have read St. Agustine saw "Hope" the greatest Of these gifts, Saying Faith assures us that God is, and Love tells us God Is good, but Hope tells us God will continue to be among us and Work God's will. And Hope has two lovely daughters: Anger and Courage. Anger so What must not be, may not be; Courage so what should be, can be." Anger and Courage.
On this beautiful Friday evening I am seated Watching the sun flame the sky. The air is Warm and soft. Under a canopy deepening through blues, Under pine boughs lacing patterns, I Remember and reflect On a Friday afternoon twenty six years ago, A day perfect in my mind and heart and soul and I miss you.
Beneath lucid skies, the sun departs Leaving sweet colors stretched over head. Joy for eyes. Geese are calling to each other and the grackle Sound of a neighbor's old tractor drifts Across the fields. Beyond the fineness that my retinas record, My soul is fed. Not as with you but enough To get by.
The difference between grieving and grievance. The latter perhaps has, seeks time to strike out or Intentionally to hurt. In the former, I know, one hurts so badly on a path So narrow, so treacherous, there is no time to think beyond a moment. And I know, also, when time finally expands, it is gratitude For the treasure remembered that fills one, not wasting Time on grievances.
Landing in an alien place was not so hard As, hey, I was not in charge and Lack of sleep By now is normal; as is greeting the day Honed by tired, only supported by friends, in love With the new. Grateful for good comrades who, when I hit the wall Of here without you, held me in their kindness 'til My footing firmed.
The skies here are always awesome, always. Frame the settling sun sweetly and Yes I am Seated, again, on your bench swatting flies, Watching dogs romp, hearing horses snort, Wine in hand. A tradition that falls short but still allows quiet Space to remember, to apprciate and in that Wrap love around
Even under the brightest of sunlight comes softly, Unbidden, moments of crisp clarity, past shared of When we were.... These push through with talons not dulled by time, Take breath, take tears to move through, even as now I recognize signs. Recognize that grief does not so much diminish As finally learn its proper place, even as it still feels need To push forward.
Where ever you all are, may this evening have been soft And warming to you and may the grief you know Be by your side As a guest, not so much welcomed, But acknowledged for the manners it may Hopefully, finally developed.
It is true, I have run through the days, nights trying to understand. And I do not; reamed as I have been by loss, emptied Adrift, yet coping. Coping with all you left me, the good and the not. Today mowing, all that mowing, it hit: the best always will Be knowing you. Yet also the flip: the worst in my life is because I knew you, Knew and now here alone, I seek a new equilibrium to just Remember the best.
An interlude here spanning what was into what is: Good friends are here again and have their new silver home Parked in the drive. Interlude, the good times we four spent together. Interlude, the alone time I know well, so appreciate Interlude, time shared.
Staying here, staying here, I am doing it these days, staying here. Maybe the longest time since....and being here, it is clear I am alone. Alone because I am too tired to get up and go as I have been doing. Tired, so glad not to be driving, driving, tired but not able to do Much around here. Yet? Around here? Alone taked more time, efort and energy While only giving back so much. For now, am too tired to Change the equation.
Spent the last few days gathering work To show in a few places. Little hope this Will bring returns But I try, I try, I wish I could be more effective. Hah, something I have never been, but Still I try.
Friends, dear couple, come visit, something for which I am always thankful, because I do know that living here? Few will come. And truth, that is not totally the place’s fault. Fault need also be accepted by me, for who will come Visit? Not many.
Again I have driven, and driven, and driven, I am glad to see my mother and wish I could see her more often But I live too far away from her, too far From all I love. Who do I love now, who will love me back? So this too hot day I drove away, drove back here, to the last place we called home, where we had love but not me alone.
Finally I have walked the grounds of Winterthur, Seen some of its splendors, have driven backroads the Wyeths’ called home. I paint, Dear, and slowly learn my craft. It is not always easy, getting out of my own way. I miss us.
Solstice, the longest day finds me on your bench Under the pine, after walking the labyrinth, the yard Admiring its neatness And order, you would have enjoyed this, And the bug-less evening, soft air And cool temps. A neighbor is haying, his sheep baa-ing You know who and know too you are ever In my heart
Friends have come to share time here along My fields and marshes and then there, ocean front. Two leave tomorrow But this evening, two of us decamp to a riverside Cafe, seated by the wharf in air sun-warmed. Humid and lazy, We delay until from down the bank, fireworks star- Burst above treetops to reflect on the waters, and In our souls
The afternoon light is a clear brilliance Beautiful as cut glass. The wheat has forgone greens For spun gold, Color of precious love gifts, carrying over far acres In air sweet and crystalline. Mostly we did Choose homes well. And I am caught in the seduction of such a spot, In an evening bordering perfection, only not sure now, For right reasons.
My cousin comes to visit and to help me We don bug sprays and bug shields to Wield shrub clippers. As we decide and chop, wheel away debris while Lunch then dinner is considered, his presence is companionable and welcome.
Beautiful days of escape in big old Jersey Shore cottage, Wide porches under striped awnings the ocean crashing near The weather perfect Surrounded by a bevy of friends, chatting, eating, of course Painting. This year I slip easily, gratefully into the warmth Of good companions.
This evening I shall give myself some time To stay in touch, to write a few sweet words To good friends Who all live far away. Thus reminding myself for This time, while choosing life in beautiful isolation I So need them.
The wheat is turning from spectacular blued green as it ripens to a wonderful hazed yellowy sage. The dogs and I have walked the perimeter Under a sky marbled by clouds and now rest Beneath that pine. Oh this night to have your presence, even if only Ghosting in my mind...better company than any others, Even only memory.
A year ago I was painting on this day, Snow Hill, crying as My uncle had died and you were not here but a friend was, Painting with me. And this year she with another came again and we painted here, The farm and your tools hanging until the wallops rocket launched. You would've enjoyed.
This day a friend celebrates her birthday and I sit within a family circle surrounded with good Food and kugel. This I sit in an aerie of a house, an osprey' view Water all around. It is beautiful and tomorrow I will paint But this afternoon I sit with friends and their family, See kindness, and joy, and sorrow, see the dearness In all these.
I need direction, I need light, I need warmth, I need you. From you I found all this. Yet, is time to look hard for direction for light, for warmth, To allow memories of you guide. For now, it is just me and yet, I am no longer so frightened of that. For you, heart and soul, more, left me well
Stood, these past few days, in ten degree weather, Stood in snow on the other side of Canaan, where Once you lived. In frigid air colder than I've ever stood, Painting, learning of the vibrancy of color, Learning allowing vibrancy. Now, home, standing in an approaching front I relish the warmer winds and do not miss You any less.
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.