shedding

Me and the trees alike.

Time for fresh beginnings, eagerly awaited change, the most sensual memories of the year. Can you feel it? Autumn is coming.

A new road, appearing in my vision, beckoning.

I decided it was long past due for me to begin a fresh blog...I haven't been blogging since Europe (although beforehand I had virtually stopped as well), due to some really rough times. For the most part, I felt drained of all inspiration, much of my hope and passion, and as a result, my writing and other outlets of creativity/vitality suffered for some time.

However, as the season shifts outside and all around, I am beginning to sense a shifting inside of me once more, a subterfuge, a churning and kindling in the deepest parts of my core. Maybe it's the beloved first cool front of the year, or the captivating (some fresh, some familiar, some freshly familiar) influences suddenly colliding to create a spectacular commotion in my life. Simple, minute things are tracing route across my skin and finding secret alleys to my mind and spirit.

Thanks to particular people, unknowingly reminding me of the beauty, mystery, and potential (hard to do, in such a cynical world) filling every corner of this elegant-universe, I am finding my way back. Little foot and hand holds to grasp are making themselves known to me; unexpected connections are gasping their way to life within me, stimulating juices and seeds that have been dormant for too long, now.

A friend said to me recently, "The best escape is within ourselves." I found this fiercely truthful and, while so austere, it was very inspiring, and stuck in my mind. Maybe I am beginning to just now beginning to pick up breadcrumbs leading me back to my outlet of escape, a tranquil place that I lost sight of temporarily: myself.

Oh, joy!

that in our embers

is something that doth live,

that nature remembers

what was so fugitive.

I wanted to make a blog separate from my travel blog, because I wanted to keep those memories in a different place from my "every day life" blog. It's just something my intuition told me I had to do. But I will link the two blogs, to make it a little easier. I'll also make a link when I set up a website with my photography.

"At the end of the day, we can endure so much more than we think we can."

Frida Kahlo

"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."
Oscar Wilde

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you."
Ray Bradbury



























I want you and you are not here. I pause
in this garden, breathing the colour thought is
before language into still air. Even your name
is a pale ghost and, though i exhale it again
and again, it will not stay with me. tonight
I make you up, imagine you, your movements clearer
than the words i have you say you said before.
Wherever you are now, inside my head you fix me
with a look, standing here whilst cool late night
dissolves into the earth. I have got your mouth wrong,
but still it smiles. i hold you closer, miles away,
inventing love, until the calls of nightjars
interrupt and turn what was to come, was certain,
into memory. The stars are filming us for no one.











































Some days his shape in the doorway



Will speak to me



A bird's wing on the window



Sometimes I'll hear him when he's sleeping



His fever dream, a language on his face



I want your flowers like babies want God's love



Or maybe as sure as tomorrow will come



Some days, like rain on the doorstep



He'll cover me with grace in all he offers



Sometimes I'd like just to ask him



What honest words he can't afford to say, like



I want your flowers like babies want God's love



Or maybe as sure as tomorrow will come











There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon



Autumn cooled the open window of her honeymoon



And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her



Wooden spoons, you can hear her laughing again among the scarlet blooms



There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days



Summer blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made



But she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings



Sunday pulls its children from their piles of fallen leaves



[There are sailing ships that pass our bodies in the grass]



A moonbeam calls her back and soothes her 'till she lets things go at last



And she's chosen where to be, though she's lost her wedding ring



Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds



There are things we can't recall, blind as night that finds us all



Winters coming, he tucks her tightly in, kisses her fragile china doll lips



[But my hands remember his, rolling 'round the shaded ferns]



Naked arms, his secrets still like songs I'd never learned



[There are names across the sea, only now I do believe]



Sometimes, with the windows closed, he'll sit and think of her



But she'll mend his tattered clothes and they'll kiss as if they know



What the tenth month of the year will bring them both