love this time

"I chose to love

this time

for once

with all my intelligence"

We are deep in transition what was and what will be: between knowing what is coming, totally unable to control it. Last week I longed to be outside, running in the loving sunshine, knowing it would be gone. A fierce wind has replaced those sunbeams shaking every last leaf from the trees. Last week I ran through a fairy forest of gold and bronze, today I am inside looking out. Rain comes down in sheets and it is difficult to love this time. I dress in layers, but my nose is still cold. My monarchs are gone, enjoying the warmer southern climates where temperatures are more inviting. There is a sense of grief that permeates the cells. An inconsolable grief I am unable to comfort with promises of spring. Can I love this cold wind? Can I find glory and gratitude in it's efforts to sweep away the illusions we harbor of a mild winter, and a seductive autumn. I rely on the collective intelligence, far more knowing than the puny intellect. The intelligence intrinsic to my very being and loving in it's ferocity. The same intelligence which repaired my ankle and M's collarbone and turned my backyard into a jungle paradise filled with butterflies. What is the wind talking about? Is it clearing the way for another season of wonder? Normally I would crank up the heat, check the airfare to warmer places of endless summer and resist the place I'm in, resist the wind, and pretend it isn't happening. I would chose to disassociate from the event and my feelings. But today I refuse these givens, these old habits and patterns born from an instinct to survive, to individuate. I chose to be with this fierce wind because it is here and now, rather than live in the memory of last week's sun or next summer's butterflies. This moment is enough time, the perfect time, to love in glory and gratitude.

Splittings

Splittings

from The Dream of a Common Language

by Adrienne Rich

1.

My body opens over San Francisco like the day –

light raining down each pore crying the change of light

I am not with her I have been waking off and on

all night to that pain not simply absence but

the presence of the past destructive

to living here and now Yet if I could instruct

myself, if we could learn to learn from pain

even as it grasps us if the mind, the mind that lives

in this body could refuse to let itself be crushed

in that grasp it would loosen Pain would have to stand

off from me and listen its dark breath still on me

but the mind could begin to speak to pain

and pain would have to answer:

We are older now

we have met before these are my hands before your eyes

my figure blotting out all that is not mine

I am the pain of division creator of divisions

it is I who blot your lover from you

and not the time-zones or the miles

It is not separation calls me forth but I

who am separation And remember

I have no existence apart from you

2.

I believe I am choosing something now

not to suffer uselessly yet still to feel

Does the infant memorize the body of the mother

and create her in absence? or simply cry

primordial loneliness? does the bed of the stream

once diverted mourning remember the wetness?

But we, we live so much in these

configurations of the past I choose

to separate her from my past we have not shared

I choose not to suffer uselessly

to detect primordial pain as it stalks toward me

flashing its bleak torch in my eyes blotting out

her particular being the details of her love

I will not be divided from her or from myself

by myths of separation

while her mind and body in Manhattan are more with me

than the smell of eucalyptus coolly burning on these hills

3.

The world tells me I am its creature

I am raked by eyes brushed by hands

I want to crawl into her for refuge lay my head

in the space between her breast and shoulder

abnegating power for love

as women have done or hiding

from power in her love like a man

I refuse these givens the splitting

between love and action I am choosing

not to suffer uselessly and not to use her

I choose to love this time for once

with all my intelligence.

Lite Bleu

Is it a coincidence that it's the same color as her first bike? I remember how she struggled to master the two wheeler, with her Grandmother's encouragement and guidance. It seemed like she would never get the hang of it, find her balance and master her fears. High expectations stood in her way. And at 26, after breaking her collarbone and 2 near brushes, she has graduated to 4 wheels and 2 gas tanks. A truck with room to spare. Imagine her, with canoe on her rack, headed for the BWCA. It wasn't an impulsive decision, there was considerable research, like a well crafted paper. Pros and cons turned over and over before falling asleep. Encouragement from outsiders, input from friends, until it became as easy as falling off a log. And once she was behind the wheel, she melted. We never forget our first car, our first truck, our first kiss. The look on her face as she took me for a ride, as she offered me her keys was unforgettable. An obstacle removed from the journey to her dreams. New responsibilities in exchange for freedom, comfort, and convenience. Another great opportunity for growth.

Swaddling the roses

A day for deep healing:

went to the arboretum with M, to run a little,

picnic a little,

and say good-bye to the roses.

Those beauties are all wrapped up,

ready for hibernation,

yet it hasn't frozen yet

and they are all still blooming.

M compared them to swaddled babies...

A is excited about the Phoenix Marathon

on 1/16/11.

I will plan to go with him

and hope for some sun and inspiration.

He is moving out on November 1st,

not far, maybe 5 blocks.

We had brunch together this morning

at Lucia's Bakery

Not St. Honore but, decadent chocolate cake.

Until today

I could pretend winter would skip us this year

Now it's pretty obvious it has us on it's list,

closer to the top than comfort allows.

The heat is on and I will fill up the humidifier before I fall asleep.

dead heads

Is it too late? The truth is : we don't know when it will freeze, snow or how much more blooming will happen before cold occurs. All we know is that the mums and asters need water and that they still have buds-just like the roses-and they are not afraid of lower temperatures. I move through my day, hoping this is not the last, refilling the birth bath and removing the faded flowers, the dead heads, the make room for the new buds as they unfold. My feet are saying good-by to summer as I crunch through the leaves piled on the sidewalks and take note of my neighbors decisions to drain their fountains for the new season. I watch as they bag their leaves and plant next Spring's tulips. Like my friends, I add new bulbs, a ritual for me that turns my attention more firmly to the future. I imagine myself on the other side of our Minnesota winter. Yet I look forward to the magical landscape of ice and snow. I savor my plans to eat roasted root vegetables and buttery squashes, the fragrance of harvest filling my cozy kitchen. I plan to take longer, leisurely lunches with lovingly prepared food and a glass of crisp chardonnay, as if I were my own private chef preparing a meal for my beloved child. Dreaming menus, shopping in my imagination, relaxed and at ease in my own body. After years of restricting my food consumption to maintain performance weight, I am so grateful to be at peace with food. No more weird diets, senseless self-denial and tasteless empty calories. Gratitude and joy are my guidelines at the table.