Poetry Thursday-Favorite Lines

Wild nights-Wild nights!

Were I with thee

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!

~emily dickinson

Dying

is an art, like everything else.

I do it exceptionally well.

I do itso it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say, I've a call.

~sylvia plath

I first started reading poetry when I was a teenager -well, who didn't? These lines were among my favorites, and pretty well exemplify the roller-coaster ride that was my emotional life in those days. No, I really wasn't bi-polar, although if there had been a barometer on my feelings, it might have appeared as if I were.

For years, I didn't read poetry at all.

And then, thanks to Poetry Thursday (thank you, thank you, thank you!)

I found these lines:

Every day

I see or hear

something

that more or less

kills me

with delight,

that leaves me

like a needle

in the haystack

of light.

It is what I was born for -

to look, to listen,

to lose myself

inside this soft world -

to instruct myself

over and over

in joy,

and acclamation.

from "Mindful", by Mary Oliver

Not coincidentally did I place these words in the center of the page. These are the words that restore balance to my life, overfilled as it sometimes is with minituae and busyness.

These are the words and set me on the right course, when I seem to be veering off into some dark distance. These are the words that remind me "what I was born for."

I'm now long years away from being a teenager, and, no, my nights are not "wild" by any stretch of the imagination. But, neither do I dwell in thoughts of the "art of dying." I'm happiest when I can "lose myself in this soft world," and "instruct myself in joy and acclamation."

Teaspoon Tuesday -Dream House

In my dreams, I live in a house by the sea, high atop a grassy hill with the water spread below me like an endless blanket of blue. I awake to the sun sparkles of a million diamonds, dancing across the waves, and settle into my favorite chair at the end of the day just as the brilliant orange orb sinks into a rosy glow over the horizon. As you can tell, it isn't so much about the house for me, as the place where the house is. Of course, I'd like to have a nice home, but it doesn't need to be a huge mansion. A house with lots of windows so the water is beside me at every turn. A room big enough to hold my baby grand piano, with built in book shelves from floor to ceiling all round, and a couple of big overstuffed chairs. A bedroom with doors that open wide, so the rhythmic lapping of waves becomes both lullaby and wake up call. A wraparound deck, with panoramic views of the water at every turn, and lots of big wicker chairs to plop into. It would be a shiny new place, with slick hardwood floors and bright white cabinetry and woodwork. I'd decorate in all shades of blues, from the darkest navy to the palest periwinkle, and accent with red, dark greens, and yellows. A home full of light, with crisp brightness, yet warm and inviting as well.

Ah, yes, a home by the sea. In my dreams....

One Deep Breath-The Unseen

soft breeze caresses my cheek then sighs spirit's breath whispering my name comforts my soul

When I was out walking today ~ which was a true gift of a day, a cloudless blue sky, and air filled with the fragrance of crunchy leaves baking in the warm sun ~ I stopped for a minute in the park and closed my eyes, letting the cool breeze gently wash over my face. I felt a fleeting moment of true peace, as if the wind carried the gentle touch of an unseen spirit, sent to calm my heart and ease my mind.

Sunday Scribblings-Bedtime Stories

If you want to get a good night's sleep, the experts say, you should develop a bedtime ritual and stick to it. I've been heeding that advice since I was a very little girl, and the main ingredient in my bedtime ritual has always been stories. When I was very small, someone (usually my mother or grandmother) read the stories to me. Johanna Spry's Heidi, was a particular favorite. When we reached the part where Grandfather and Heidi shared a glass of warm goat's milk and fresh bread, invariably I would become very hungry, necessitating a trip to the kitchen for a glass of milk and some bread and butter of my own. I also clearly remember one of the "Little Golden Books" that had a picture of puppies on the cover, and I could never go to sleep until I had covered the book up with a blanket so the puppies wouldn't get cold. As soon as I was able to read on my own, I kept books and a flashlight under my pillow, so I could read well into the wee hours of the night - which usually turned out to be all of about 11:00. I'm sure I wasn't fooling my mother at all, who was wise enough to play dumb about my late night reading under the covers. During this time, I remember devouring Madeleine L'Engle's Wrinkle in Time series, Maud Hart Lovelace's Betsy and Tacy books, and Louise Fitzhugh's Harriet the Spy. I also started surreptitiously reading Jane Eyre and Gone With the Wind at bedtime, because, at age 10, my mother thought I was too young for them. (I think I did fool her about that!)

I still go to bed with books - as a matter of fact, we had a power outage last summer and I took my book to bed, even though I couldn't read it - just holding it helped me fall asleep! Crawling into bed with a good book remedies even the worst of days, and serves as a reward for a day well spent. I've probably never gone to bed without a book in my hand. I'm even pretty sure I took books on my honeymoon, although I can't remember just how much reading I actually did! Books are my security blanket at night, my magic carpet away from the worries and concerns of the day, and my passport into a land of sweet dreams.

my current bedtime reading

How Old Am I Really?

Today's post is inspired by my inner brat. It seems that in spite of my advanced age, there is still a 15 year old girl dwelling in my psyche, capable of righteous indignation and insane jealousy. I just have to talk about this to someone, and - guess what? - you're it. Here's the backstory, as briefly as I can tell it. I was once a member of a local musical group. There were 13 of us (we were a handbell group, which isn't really important, but partly explains why we were 13), and we traveled and made CD's and did concerts, after which there was much wine drinking and general carousing. It was a huge amount of fun, but also a huge time committment. So, two years ago, I (regretfully) resigned, with many promises to return to and subsitute, fill in, etc., which I have dutifully done on several occasions.

It's impossible not to miss being in a group like that. Oh, I don't miss the endless rehearsals, with 13 women trying to get a word in edgewise about how things should be done, nor the hours of home practice, trying to emulate the action of handbells by using every last one of my kitchen spoons (don't even ask!). What I miss the most is - #1, the interaction between talented women, working together to accomplish a common goal; #2, stretching my musical capabilities; and #3, performing for live audiences and being adored and admired!

Now, also a part of this group was someone whom I would consider my best friend, and my musical mentor. She was in the group far longer than I and she decided to "retire" the same time I did. Over the summer, there was a "temporary" vacancy in the group, created by a member who wanted to take a year off for personal reasons. Well, it seems my friend was asked if she would step in and fill this one year vacancy, and she agreed.

Here's where the inner brat comes in. WHY DIDN'T THEY ASK ME??? They didn't even ask me. And, without ringing my own bell too loudly, so to speak, I know I am a really good handbell player. So now my friend is telling me about all the things she's doing with the group, and how they're preparing for this, that, and the other concert. On the outside, I'm smiling and nodding, and on the inside, I am just fuming.

I don't consider myself to be an overly sensitive or insecure person. Way back when I really was 15, I wasn't type to get in a snit because my friend didn't call me back when she said she would, or invite me to her party. So the jealousy and hurt I'm feeling right now are (thankfully!) quite unfamiliar. At issue is, how do I handle my feelings? The 15 year old says, "fine, if they want to be that way, they can forget about asking me to substitute anymore, and forget about me coming to their dumb old concerts." Of course, the adult part says, "either suck it up and forget about it, or talk to the group director in a mature adult fashion and let her know you're interested in returning if another opportunity arises."

Naturally, I know the right answer. But it's amazing how easily immaturity rears it's ugly head from time to time, even when you're a supposedly "mature adult." In some ways, it's kind of nice to know there's still a little bit of a teenager in there somewhere. I just wish it was the part that weighed 95 pounds and wore a size three!

Thanks for listening...