I've Just Seen a Face (The Beatles)

My friend request message, sent over the last day and a half: "It's officially The Apocalypse - I've joined Facebook!" - loosely translated: "What in the f*ck did I just do?!?" I finally signed up so that I could view my daughter's Europe pictures and live vicariously through her experience - I never envisioned quite such a headfirst tumble down the rabbit hole...

I have been fighting Facebook kicking and screaming for years - my main defense/objection has been... if I can't keep up with the "real people" in my life (and I'm always in overwhelmed mode), how in the world can I made the time to connect/reconnect with friends all over the country/world... not to mention acquaintances from my past?

I have a MySpace account (begun in December 2007) but, really, it's in the name of my concert series - it isn't about me personally at all, but rather a good PR tool to promote, and keep up with, the music...

I also have this blog, started in May 2007 - I use it as a journal/scrapbook/exercise in creativity. I'd like to post more often but seem to lose track of time - comments from readers (what readers?) are immaterial to me, as I'm really just downloading what's in my heart/brain/soul at the moment...

But Facebook? - in my less-than-48-hours experience with the social network, I have learned that it is truly In Your (or My) Face! It has been a pendulum from fun to frightening and back again... as I vowed to start out slow... which snowballed into "just one more" (friend, that is) - it's exhilarating to read all the repeated "welcome" messages (makes me think of Dar's "we're so glad that you finally made it here" lyric)... but it's exhausting to consider the effort it takes to reply and follow-up... not to mention the trepidation of opening various Pandora's Boxes...

High School? - ack! Suffice it to say, since it was 68-72, my memories are vague - I recall being high every day of my senior year, yet making the Honor Roll every quarter. I remember football games (with dances following), a handful of amazing girlfriends and being on the annual staff as well as head of props for our senior play, "The Matchmaker" - I also recall tubing down the Chattahoochee River (with a beer cooler in tow), a few special guy relationships... but also a less-than-full social calendar. I can't remember who I was back then - even more interesting, part of me is now wondering who I was in the eyes of others (in terms of The Breakfast Club... I was more Ally Sheedy than Molly Ringwald... :-)

So... although, as I said in a reply earlier today, "balance is not my strong suit", I have vowed to enjoy the experience while still motivating myself to handle all the day-to-day stuff it's easy to let slip by the proverbial wayside - I have to finish the folk club newsletter (already 4 days late), clean house tomorrow for dinner guests... and prepare for the concert I'm presenting Saturday night (not to mention catch up on various e-mails owed)...

In the meantime, though... I'm delighted at the thought of so many special people (friends and family) from all aspects of my life being in one place - it's a big-*ss cross-pollination... and I can't help but sport a broad smile across my (I should be reading a Book) Face (although I'm wary of the poke, whatever the h*ll that is... :-)

SONG: I've Just Seen a Face by The Beatles

BOOK(S): Ophelia Joined the Group Maidens Who Don't Float: Classic Lit Signs on to Facebook by Sarah Schmelling

Facebook Me! A Guide to Having Fun with Your Friends and Promoting Your Projects on Facebook by Dave Awl

POEM: Remember by Joy Harjo

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star's stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is. I met her
in a bar once in Iowa City.
Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother's, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe. I heard her singing Kiowa war
dance songs at the corner of Fourth and Central once.
Remember that you are all people and that all people are you.
Remember that you are this universe and that this universe is you.
Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember that language comes from this.
Remember the dance that language is, that life is.
Remember.

QUOTE: “It’s surprising how much of memory is built around things unnoticed at the time.” ~ Barbara Kingsolver

Old Dogs (Bill Staines)

For my dear friend Melanie, who only yesterday lost her beloved dog Xena... <3

SONG: Old Dogs by Bill Staines

BOOK: Dog Heaven by Cynthia Rylant

POEM: I Ask Percy How I Should Live My Life by Mary Oliver (Percy being her dog)

Love, love, love, says Percy.
And hurry as fast as you can
along the shining beach, or the rubble, or the dust.

Then, go to sleep.
Give up your body heat, your beating heart.
Then, trust.

QUOTE: "You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us." ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

Three Women (Carrie Newcomer)

How amazing to think I've been back almost three weeks... and haven't posted in almost two weeks - overwhelmed and sensory-overloaded and crazed, oh my!

M just offered up A Challenge!, which I'll rise to in the next day or so - in the meantime, I wanted to mention a most lovely evening at my friend Nancy's a few nights ago. I appreciated The Circle of Life theme... and it was nice to celebrate a few friends' August and September births as well as honor mom's passing - thanks to all for allowing me a chance to talk about the experience, even for a bit... and with more than a few tears...

I loved everyone's contributions (Sandy's Gibran, Alisa's P.D. Eastman, Judi's poems, one of which is reprinted below) - I also reference the perfect book Susan P. gifted me with (she had no idea we used to use that song in our pre-K graduation video, oh so many years ago, in my preschool director life). I brought a few photo albums as well as Mom's plastic tiara (which many of you will recall I had on a pillow on her couch back in Georgia before bringing it home to rest on a shelf in my curio cabinet) - the feelings are still fresh and the grief process at this level is new to me. I don't want to segue into "business as usual" and gloss over what is real and deep and ongoing - I cherish my women friends, their importance being one of the many legacies from my mom...

The below essay came to me in a forward, unattributed - it suits...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

GIRLS IN MY CIRCLE

When I was little, I used to believe in the concept of one best friend, and then I started to become a woman. And then I found out that if you allow your heart to open up, God would show you the best in many friends.

One friend is needed when you're going through things with your man. Another friend is needed when you're going through things with your mom. Another will sit beside you in the bleachers as you delight in your children and their activities. Another when you want to shop, share, heal, hurt, joke, or just be. One friend will say, 'Let's cry together,' another , 'Let's fight together,' another , 'Let's walk away together.'

One friend will meet your spiritual need, another your shoe fetish, another your love for movies, another will be with you in your season of confusion, another will be your clarifier, another the wind beneath your wings.

But whatever their assignment in your life, on whatever the occasion, on whatever the day, or wherever you need them to meet you with their gym shoes on and hair pulled back, or to hold you back from making a complete fool of yourself... those are your best friends.

It may all be wrapped up in one woman, but for many, it's wrapped up in several... one from 7th grade, one from high school, several from the college years, a couple from old jobs, on some days your mother, on some days your neighbor, on others, your sisters, and on some days, your daughters.

Thanks for being in my circle.

SONG: Three Women by Carrie Newcomer (scroll down to page 17)

BOOK: Forever Young by Bob Dylan, Paul Rogers (illustrator)

POEM: Just Lying on the Grass at Blackwater by Mary Oliver

I think sometimes of the possible glamour of death -

that it might be wonderful to be

lost and happy inside the green grass -

or to be the green grass! -

or, maybe the pink rose, or the blue iris,

or the affable daisy, or the twirled vine

looping its way skyward – that I might be perfectly peaceful

to be the shining lake, or the hurrying, athletic river,

or the dark shoulders of the trees

where the thrush each evening weeps himself into an ecstasy.

I lie down in the fields of goldenrod, and everlasting.

Who could find me?

My thoughts simplify. I have not done a thousand things

or a hundred things but, perhaps, a few.

As for wondering about answers that are not available except

in books, though all my childhood I was sent there

to find them, I have learned

to leave all that behind

as in summer I take off my shoes and my socks,

my jacket, my hat, and go on

happier, through the fields. The little sparrow

with the pink beak

calls out, over and over, so simply – not to me

but to the whole world. All afternoon

I grow wiser, listening to him,

soft, small, nameless fellow at the top of some weed,

enjoying his life. If you can sing, do it. If not,

even silence can feel, to the world, like happiness,

like praise,

from the pool of shade you have found beneath the everlasting.

QUOTE(S): “If you carry your childhood with you, you never become older.” ~ Tom Stoppard

"Friendship is a combination of art and craft. The craft part is in knowing how to give and how to take. The art part is in knowing when, and the the whole process only works when no one is keeping track." - E. L. Konigsburg

You've Got to Have Friends (Bette Midler)

Entirely too much going on this week to post anything of substance - realtors and moving trucks and estate accounts, oh my!

Will attempt to do justice to the life I am lucky to call my own, both here in Flowery Branch, Georgia... and soon to be returning to South Florida - in the meantime, I've been working on the following (since before mom passed, actually)... and wanted to scatter the seeds now... :-)

TUT: A Note From the Universe (7/16/09)

Every single minute of every single day, they're there, Susan. They may be hidden behind circumstances, people, or light poles. Challenges, closed doors, or lost keys. Camouflaged, dovetailed, or whispering. Purring, kissing, or hissing. But more often than not they're laying about in the open, under a clear blue sky, in plain view. Absolutely. Guaranteed. You'd throttle me otherwise. 10,000 reasons to be happy.

Jumanji, baby -

The Universe

Susan, how many do you see now??

SONG: You've Got to Have Friends by Bette Midler

BOOK: Vital Friends: The People You Can't Afford to Live Without by Tom Rath

POEM: When My Mind is Still by Paul Beattie

When my mind is still and alone with the beating of my heart,

I remember things too easily forgotten:

The purity of early love,

The maturity of unselfish love that asks --

desires -- nothing but another's good,

The idealism that has persisted through all the tempest of life.

When my mind is still and alone with the beating of my heart,

I can find a quiet assurance, an inner peace, in the core of my being.

It can face the doubt, the loneliness, the anxiety,

Can accept these harsh realities and can even grow

Because of these challenges to my essential being.

When my mind is still and alone with the beating of my heart,

I can sense my basic humanity,

And then I know that all men and women are my brothers and sisters.

Nothing but my own fear and distrust can separate me from the love of friends.

If I can trust others, accept them, enjoy them,

Then my life shall surely be richer and more full.

If I can accept others, this will help them to be more truly themselves,

And they will be more able to accept me.

When my mind is still and alone with the beating of my heart,

I know how much life has given me:

The history of the race, friends and family,

The opportunity to work, the chance to build myself.

Then wells within me the urge to live more abundantly,

With greater trust and joy,

With more profound seriousness and earnest service,

And yet more calmly at the heart of life.

QUOTE: "Good friends and excellent teachers -stick close to them! Wealth and power are fleeting dreams but wise words perfume the world for ages." ~ Ryokan

Smiling (Richard Shindell)

I just got back from visiting with a long-time e-mail friend (in August, it will be 12 years), whom I've only met face-to-face once... and that was 9 years ago - this time around, he was in Miami for about 36 hours for a work-related conference, and we decided to get together for breakfast at his hotel. What used to be a daily correspondence has become spotty the last few years, and I take full responsibility - I don't seem to be doing so well in the time management department lately...

Anyway... it was sweet, exciting and ultimately comfortable, as we caught up on kids, spouses and life in general - we only had a two-hour window of opportunity, which wasn't enough time... but it was...

There's a story here - suffice it to say it has a happy ending (and no one was harmed in the unfolding... :-)

SONG: Smiling by Richard Shindell

BOOK: Kindred Spirits: Relationships That Spark the Soul by Dianne Hicks Morrow

POEM: by Jane Gentry - On a Perfect Day

... I eat an artichoke in front

of the Charles Street Laundromat

and watch the clouds bloom

into white flowers out of

the building across the way.

The bright air moves on my face

like the touch of someone who loves me.

Far overhead a dart-shaped plane softens

through membranes of vacancy. A ship,

riding the bright glissade of the Hudson, slips

past the end of the street. Colette's vagabond

says the sun belongs to the lizard

that warms in its light. I own these moments

when my skin like a drumhead stretches on the frame

of my bones, then swells, a bellows filled

with sacred breath seared by this flame,

this happiness.

QUOTE: "There are three ingredients to the good life: learning, earning, and yearning." ~ Christopher Morley

A Place in the World (Mary Chapin Carpenter)

What do you get when two Leo women delay their Instant Gratification selves and *finally* come together for a co-celebratory birthday lunch? - a 3 1/2 hour yak-, sob- and empa-thon, fueled by multiple glasses of wine, more than a few heartaches/breaks and stories, stories to tell!

I appreciate M for so many reasons... but especially for being a "forever friend" - we experienced our first clicks in March 1997... and have run parallel, perpendicular, intersected and tangential throughout the last 11 years, remaining committed to the choice of staying connected, even when we drift.

Yesterday we conversed non-stop about our children, our partners, our mothers' health, our own physical/emotional/spiritual well-being, our jobs (or lack of, in my case), her cat's passing, my dog's old age, ancient history and present times - it was refreshing, it was empowering, it was much-needed and long-overdue... :-)

Thanks, M, for the perfect card, the gorgeous windchimes and for always being there - I cherish the fact you are a sounding-board, a touchstone and a foundation in my life... <3

SONG: A Place in the World by Mary Chapin Carpenter

BOOK: The Geography of Bliss: One Grump's Search for the Happiest Places in the World by Eric Weiner

POEM: Logos by Mary Oliver

Why wonder about the loaves and the fishes?
If you say the right words, the wine expands.
If you say them with love
and the felt ferocity of that love
and the felt necessity of that love,
the fish explode into the many.
Imagine him, speaking,
and don't worry about what is reality,
or what is plain, or what is mysterious.
If you were there, it was all those things.
If you can imagine it, it was all those things.
Eat, drink, be happy.
Accept the miracle.
Accept, too, each spoken word
spoken with love.

QUOTE: "We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures." ~ Thornton Wilder

Santa Monica (Everclear)

From today's Writer's Almanac:

It's the birthday of poet Edna St. Vincent Millay, (books by this author) born in Rockland, Maine (1892). Her middle name came from a hospital - St. Vincent in New York - where one of her uncles was saved from death immediately before her birth.

Her parents divorced when she was little and she and her two sisters moved constantly with their mother. Throughout their moves, her mother always carried along a trunk full of classic literature, including the works of Shakespeare and John Milton, which she often read aloud to her daughters.

Edna was in high school when she entered a poetry contest and wrote a poem - "Renascence" - which she recited at a poetry reading, and a woman in the audience was so impressed that she paid Edna's way to go to Vassar College.

She was a rebellious student at Vassar, then moved to New York City, where she lived in Greenwich Village and had numerous love affairs with both women and men. Edmund Wilson thought she was almost "supernaturally beautiful." He proposed marriage and never got over the rejection.

In her poem "First Fig" she wrote:

My candle burns at both ends;

It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—

It gives a lovely light!

And in "Second Fig": "Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: / Come see my shining palace built upon the sand!"

I've written about my friend R before - I knew Edna St. Vincent Millay was her favorite poet but only just remembered they shared a birthday. R would have been 55 today - her shining light is much missed...

SONG: Santa Monica by Everclear

BOOK: What Lips My Lips Have Kissed: The Loves and Love Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay by Daniel Mark Epstein

POEM: Lament by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Listen, children:

Your father is dead.

From his old coats

I'll make you little jackets;

I'll make you little trousers

From his old pants.

There'll be in his pockets

Things he used to put there,

Keys and pennies

Covered with tobacco;

Dan shall have the pennies

To save in his bank;

Anne shall have the keys

To make a pretty noise with.

Life must go on,

And the dead be forgotten;

Life must go on,

Though good men die;

Anne, eat your breakfast;

Dan, take your medicine;

Life must go on;

I forget just why.

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

Sweet Old World (Lucinda Williams)

I don't really know how to start this story... but I know altogether too well how it ends - two years ago today, one of my very best friends killed herself...

I met R in college, although I can't even recall the particulars - one day she was a stranger to me and the next I couldn't imagine life without her. She was brilliant and joyful and compassionate - we ended up working together (at the boutique where I bought my wedding dress), she as manager and me as her assistant. There were busy times but we had just as many slow moments, and it was only natural to share our past stories, give advice on present relationships and look toward the future - turned out we were both English majors. She was from a very small town in Georgia and had been dating someone very well-to-do from South Carolina -he taught her many things about culture and society... and she in turn gave him adoration. We never thought they'd actually end up together because his mother was so disapproving of him settling "beneath" their family status - to this day, I believe he proposed to get back at the matriarch. [ He remained critical and penny-pinching and philandering throughout their marriage - I rarely speak ill of anyone, and it was hard for me to watch my friend allow herself to be mistreated for decades. ]

I went to her wedding and she came to mine - there were many women late- or non-drivers in my family and I vowed not to follow the pattern. R taught me, at the age of 23, how to feel comfortable behind the wheel of a car... never minding that we sometimes only went in circles in a parking lot for hours - when I finally got my license, I gave her all the credit...

They moved back to South Carolina and we continued to stay in touch - my daughter Sarah and her daughter K are three months apart... and there is six months difference between my son Robby and her daughter A. I also hold her responsible (in a good way, Martha) for talking me through the first few months of my third pregnancy, when it was most definitely not in the plans. I've said before that Eric is a chosen child - R was as much a mom to him as she could be without actually giving birth... :-)

She and her family, due to her husband's relocation, moved around a good bit, as did we - I still have boxes of letters she wrote to me when we lived in Puerto Rico for 4 1/2 years, complete with book and music reviews from magazines she'd include. My photo albums are filled with pictures of us comparing pregnant bellies... cookiemaking days... zoo or duck-feeding at the lake excursions - we'd threatened to blackmail our children with the countless bathtub pictures, five of them squished in like little fishes. R was a lifeline to sanity during a very stressful time for me - I know I also provided that for her on many occasions...

We both loved music and one of my favorite memories is returning from a friend's party with her, both of us nine sheets to the wind, and sitting in her car in the driveway, belting out Van Morrison's Into the Mystic at the top of our lungs, complete with the horn solos - she also loved shag/beach music and every time I hear something from that genre, her face appears before me...

She gifted my kids with so many classic children's books over the years, all inscribed most thoughtfully and lovingly - we've always read her copy of The Polar Express each Christmas Eve, even now when mine are all grown up. She called me every birthday - I reciprocated. She connected with Edna St. Vincent Millay (the poem below was her favorite) and I actually found an album of ESVM reading her own work and gave it to R for her birthday that year - she continued to call it her best present ever...

Throughout their moves, R continued in a mom/housewife role, but when they moved back to South Carolina, she was finally able to pursue her own dream of returning to school to get her Masters in Library Science, eventually becoming an elementary school librarian and then working into the position of county-wide coordinator - she changed so many lives, as I read in all the testimonials posted after her death. No surprise there - I knew her when...

Unfortunately, we had lost touch for a few years when her family moved to Korea - I finally caught up with her, by Instant Message, a month after her February birthday and we had a delightfully long chat. Life again intervened and the following December (2005), I got a phone call from one of her dear friends in South Carolina, telling me of R's death - her SOB of a husband hadn't bothered to contact me and I was indebted J took the time and energy to track me down, albeit belatedly. I sent R's husband and daughters a sympathy card, enclosing a long letter detailing how and why she meant so much to me - I never heard back from him...

I was devastated then and I am to this day - it seems a waste that a woman with such generosity and gentility and joie de vivre could willingly remove herself from this earth. I knew she was in pain - I always hoped she would continue to work through it. I've heard it said that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem - I'll guiltily berate myself for not being closer emotionally, even though the geographic hurdles were daunting. Desite my anger and confusion and hurt, I forgive her - I know in my heart R felt that was the only way out...

SONG(S): Sweet Old World by Lucinda Williams

After All by Dar Williams

Sunshine by Todd Snider

BOOK: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

POEM(S): The Investigation by Jeffrey Harrison

There were some things I would never know —

I realized that, but I wanted to understand

as much as I could before I let it go.

I couldn't stop making phone calls to Chicago —

to his doctor, his insurance agent, his doorman;

the coroner, who told me more than I wanted to know;

to his psychiatrist, who made a show

of sympathy and dismissed out of hand

my speculations — but I wouldn't let them go.

The detective sounded weary, which was no

surprise: it was 2 a.m. He patiently explained

what he could, then sighed, "You'll never really know."

I weighed the possibilities, made lists, wrote memos

to myself: was it spontaneous or planned —

and for how long? I couldn't let it go.

I kept calling my brother and sister to let them know

what I had figured out. Each time they listened

but then told me what I had always known:

we would never understand. I had to let it go.

Renascence by Edna St. Vincent Millay

All I could see from where I stood

Was three long mountains and a wood;

I turned and looked another way,

And saw three islands in a bay.

So with my eyes I traced the line

Of the horizon, thin and fine,

Straight around till I was come

Back to where I'd started from;

And all I saw from where I stood

Was three long mountains and a wood.

Over these things I could not see;

These were the things that bounded me;

And I could touch them with my hand,

Almost, I thought, from where I stand.

And all at once things seemed so small

My breath came short, and scarce at all.

But, sure, the sky is big, I said;

Miles and miles above my head;

So here upon my back I'll lie

And look my fill into the sky.

And so I looked, and, after all,

The sky was not so very tall.

The sky, I said, must somewhere stop,

And -- sure enough! -- I see the top!

The sky, I thought, is not so grand;

I 'most could touch it with my hand!

And reaching up my hand to try,

I screamed to feel it touch the sky.

I screamed, and -- lo! -- Infinity

Came down and settled over me;

Forced back my scream into my chest,

Bent back my arm upon my breast,

And, pressing of the Undefined

The definition on my mind,

Held up before my eyes a glass

Through which my shrinking sight did pass

Until it seemed I must behold

Immensity made manifold;

Whispered to me a word whose sound

Deafened the air for worlds around,

And brought unmuffled to my ears

The gossiping of friendly spheres,

The creaking of the tented sky,

The ticking of Eternity.

I saw and heard, and knew at last

The How and Why of all things, past,

And present, and forevermore.

The Universe, cleft to the core

Lay open to my probing sense

That, sick'ning, I would fain pluck thence

But could not, -- nay! But needs must suck

At the great wound, and could not pluck

My lips away till I had drawn

All venom out. -- Ah, fearful pawn!

For my omniscience paid I toll

In infinite remorse of soul.

All sin was of my sinning, all

Atoning mine, and mine the gall

Of all regret. Mine was the weight

Of every brooded wrong, the hate

That stood behind each envious thrust,

Mine every greed, mine every lust.

And all the while for every grief,

Each suffering, I craved relief

With individual desire, --

Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire

About a thousand people crawl;

Perished with each, -- then mourned for all!

A man was starving in Capri;

He moved his eyes and looked at me;

I felt his gaze, I heard his moan,

And knew his hunger as my own.

I saw at sea a great fog bank

Between two ships that struck and sank;

A thousand screams the heavens smote;

And every scream tore through my throat.

No hurt I did not feel, no death

That was not mine; mine each last breath

That, crying, met an answering cry

From the compassion that was I.

All suffering mine, and mine its rod;

Mine, pity like the pity of God

Ah, awful weight! Infinity

Pressed down upon the finite Me!

My anguished spirit, like a bird,

Beating against my lips I heard;

Yet lay the weight so close about

There was no room for it without.

And so beneath the weight lay I

And suffered death, but could not die.

Long had I lain thus, craving death,

When quietly the earth beneath

Gave way, and inch by inch, so great

At last had grown the crushing weight,

Into the earth I sank till I

Full six feet under ground did lie,

And sank no more, -- there is no weight

Can follow here, however great.

From off my breast I felt it roll,

And as it went my tortured soul

Burst forth and fled in such a gust

That all about me swirled the dust.

Deep in the earth I rested now;

Cool is its hand upon the brow

And soft its breast beneath the head

Of one who is so gladly dead.

And all at once, and over all

The pitying rain began to fall;

I lay and heard each pattering hoof

Upon my lowly, thatched roof,

And seemed to love the sound far more

Than ever I had done before.

For rain it hath a friendly sound

To one who's six feet underground;

And scarce the friendly voice or face:

A grave is such a quiet place.

The rain, I said, is kind to come

And speak to me in my new home.

I would I were alive again

To kiss the fingers of the rain,

To drink into my eyes the shine

Of every slanting silver line,

To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze

From drenched and dripping apple-trees.

For soon the shower will be done,

And then the broad face of the sun

Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth

Until the world with answering mirth

Shakes joyously, and each round drop

Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.

How can I bear it; buried here,

While overhead the sky grows clear

And blue again after the storm?

O, multi-colored, multiform,

Beloved beauty over me,

That I shall never, never see

Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold,

That I shall never more behold!

Sleeping your myriad magics through,

Close-sepulchred away from you!

O God, I cried, give me new birth,

And put me back upon the earth!

Upset each cloud's gigantic gourd

And let the heavy rain, down-poured

In one big torrent, set me free,

Washing my grave away from me!

I ceased; and through the breathless hush

That answered me, the far-off rush

Of herald wings came whispering

Like music down the vibrant string

Of my ascending prayer, and -- crash!

Before the wild wind's whistling lash

The startled storm-clouds reared on high

And plunged in terror down the sky,

And the big rain in one black wave

Fell from the sky and struck my grave.

I know not how such things can be;

I only know there came to me

A fragrance such as never clings

To aught save happy living things;

A sound as of some joyous elf

Singing sweet songs to please himself,

And, through and over everything,

A sense of glad awakening.

The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear,

Whispering to me I could hear;

I felt the rain's cool finger-tips

Brushed tenderly across my lips,

Laid gently on my sealed sight,

And all at once the heavy night

Fell from my eyes and I could see, --

A drenched and dripping apple-tree,

A last long line of silver rain,

A sky grown clear and blue again.

And as I looked a quickening gust

Of wind blew up to me and thrust

Into my face a miracle

Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, --

I know not how such things can be! --

I breathed my soul back into me.

Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I

And hailed the earth with such a cry

As is not heard save from a man

Who has been dead, and lives again.

About the trees my arms I wound;

Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;

I raised my quivering arms on high;

I laughed and laughed into the sky,

Till at my throat a strangling sob

Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb

Sent instant tears into my eyes;

O God, I cried, no dark disguise

Can e'er hereafter hide from me

Thy radiant identity!

Thou canst not move across the grass

But my quick eyes will see Thee pass,

Nor speak, however silently,

But my hushed voice will answer Thee.

I know the path that tells Thy way

Through the cool eve of every day;

God, I can push the grass apart

And lay my finger on Thy heart!

The world stands out on either side

No wider than the heart is wide;

Above the world is stretched the sky, --

No higher than the soul is high.

The heart can push the sea and land

Farther away on either hand;

The soul can split the sky in two,

And let the face of God shine through.

But East and West will pinch the heart

That can not keep them pushed apart;

And he whose soul is flat -- the sky

Will cave in on him by and by.

QUOTE: "We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep. It's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out windows, or drown themselves, or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us are slowly devoured by some disease, or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds & expectations, to burst open & give us everything we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) know these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning, we hope, more than anything for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so... There she is with another hour before her." ~ Michael Cunningham

My Friends (Dar Williams)

Last night, a friend sent me the quote below... which felt like the perfect follow-up to yesterday's post - somehow, another Dar song seemed appropriate... :-)

SONG: My Friends by Dar Williams

BOOK: Blue Peninsula: Essential Words for a Life of Loss and Change by Madge McKeithen

POEM: by Barbara Ras ~ You Can't Have It All

But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands

gloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old finger

on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back.

You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look

of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite

every sorrow until it fled, and when it is August,

you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love,

though often it will be mysterious, like the white foam

that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys

until you realize foam's twin is blood.

You can have the skin at the center between a man's legs,

so solid, so doll-like. You can have the life of the mind,

glowing occasionally in priestly vestments,

never admitting pettiness, never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who'll tell you

all roads narrow at the border.

You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,

and it can mean something. You can visit the marker on the grave

where your father wept openly. You can't bring back the dead,

but you can have the words forgive and forget hold hands

as if they meant to spend a lifetime together. And you can be grateful

for makeup, the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia, grateful

for Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towels

sucking up the drops on your clean skin, and

for deeper thirsts, for passion fruit, for saliva. You can have the dream,

the dream of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.

You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,

at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping

of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.

You can't count on grace to pick you out of a crowd

but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,

how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,

until you learn about love, about sweet surrender,

and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind

as real as Africa. And when adulthood fails you,

you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond

of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas

your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.

There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother's,

it will always whisper, you can't have it all,

but there is this.

QUOTE: "Oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are -- chaff and grain together -- certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with the breath of kindness blow the rest away." ~ Dinah Mulock

Coconut Telegraph (Jimmy Buffett)

Lately I have been thinking strongly about my dear friend K who lives about an hour north of me, but who I only see about three or four times a year - we e-mail and we phone chat, but we both lead crazy, busy lives. I arrived home from work today to find a package from her... and inside the box was a delightful card and one of her famous coconut cakes... just because - how unbelievably sweet (pun semi-intended... :-)

I met K through the Dave-and-Tracy discussion list quite a few years back - she lived in Portland at the time (where Dave's music began to flourish) and then posted to the list she was moving to Florida to live with her boyfriend. I dropped her a note welcoming her to my state - we found/made occasions to connect. Dave Carter died the following year (more about this in my upcoming July 19 blog), a huge loss to the folk music community and to those who knew him, me somewhat and K very well. We vowed to get together annually on or near the anniversary of his death - this will be the fourth year we'll meet halfway, at a labyrinth in Delray Beach, to walk, meditate, reminisce, catch up and then go someplace to eat, drink and laugh. Dave would love this - actually, wherever he is, I am sure Dave *does* love this!

Naturally I've already cut into the cake and of course it's delicious... as well as testament to a strong friendship that has survived time, distance and tragedy - I am a lucky woman to have such special people in my life... <3

SONG: Coconut Telegraph by Jimmy Buffett

BOOK: The Chocolate Cake Sutra: Ingredients for a Sweet Life by Geri Larkin

POEM: Coming Home ~ Mary Oliver

When we're driving, in the car,

on the long road

to Provincetown, which lies empty

for miles, when we're weary,

when the buildings

and the scrub pines lose

their familiar look,

I imagine us rising

from the speeding car,

I imagine us seeing

everything from another place—the top

of one of the pale dunes

or the deep and nameless

fields of the sea—

and what we see is the world

that cannot cherish us

but which we cherish,

and what we see is our life

moving like that,

along the dark edges

of everything—the headlights

like lanterns

sweeping the blackness—

believing in a thousand

fragile and unprovable things,

looking out for sorrow,

slowing down for happiness,

making all the right turns

right down to the thumping

barriers to the sea,

the swirling waves,

the narrow streets, the houses,

the past, the future,

the doorway that belongs

to you and me.

QUOTE: "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: "What! You, too? I thought I was the only one." " ~ C. S. Lewis

If I Wrote You (Dar Williams)

I've been pondering the types of friendship lately and, despite (or is it because of?) the fact that intimacy brings intensity, I still willingly continue to run the risk/reward - the last nine years have certainly taught me lowered expectations, patience/tolerance and carpe diem. Whether "for a reason, a season or a lifetime", I can't imagine doing it any other way - that would be wholeheartedly (pun intended... :-)

From Appetites: On the Search for True Nourishment, by Geneen Roth:

"We need to build our friendships on truth and wholeness and expansiveness. We need friends who can be with us in our loneliness, not people who will cheer us up so that we don't feel it. We need friends who get furious with us when we are not being real or true to ourselves, not who get angry when we don't do what they want us to do. We need friends who are not afraid of our pain or our joy. We need friends who are not invested in the way we look, what we do or what we feel, who are willing to see us without reference to themselves. We need friends who are willing to break out of gravity-bound orbits and spin with us into the unknown.

And we need to become those friends ourselves.

The questions are always these: does this friendship lead you toward a fuller life or does it confine you? Does it bring you closer to your heart or take you further away? Does it open you or does it close you? Does it allow you to trust yourself further or does it make you frightened of yourself? Does it enlarge your life or does it make your life smaller?"

SONG: If I Wrote You by Dar Williams

BOOK: The Griffin & Sabine Trilogy Boxed Set: Griffin & Sabine/Sabine's Notebook/The Golden Mean by Nick Bantock

POEM: Postcards by Wendy Cope

At first I sent you a postcard

From every city I went to.

Grüsse aus Bath, aus Birmingham,

Aus Rotterdam, aus Tel Aviv.

Mit Liebe. Cards from you arrived

In English, with many commas.

Hope, you're fine and still alive,

Says one from Hong Kong. By that time

We weren't writing quite as often.

Now we're nearly nine years away

From the lake and the blue mountains,

And the room with the balcony,

But the heat and light of those days

Can reach this far from time to time.

Your latest was from Senegal,

Mine from Helsinki. I don't know

If we'll meet again. Be happy.

If you hear this, send a postcard.

QUOTE: "A friendship can weather most things and thrive in thin soil; but it needs a little mulch of letters and phone calls and small, silly presents every so often - just to save it from drying out completely." ~ Pam Brown

Where the Seeds Are Found (Karen Mal)

So much emotion swirling right now, coupled with lack of sleep - I had promised M I would find something for her, buried in a stack of paperwork... and I stayed up until 5:30 a.m., reading through the entire file, even after I had found what I was looking for...

Long story short is that, 10 years ago, four women (one of whom was the hub connecting us all) engaged in an intense e-mail correspondence (amidst our real-life relationships) we termed our Village, meeting up around the "well" of the computer to share stories, support and sustenance. From March through September 1997, we each wrote (almost) daily, baring our souls... on pregnancy, motherhood, husbands/exes/boyfriends, books, music, food, fears, joys, transitions, rituals, spirituality, etc. - the sisterhood chronicles illustrated our abilities to be incredibly strong, as well as amazingly wise and riotously funny... and we always "threatened" to turn it into a book, changing the names to protect the innocent (guilty?... :-)

At one point, as a gift to all, I made copies of everything and, perusing the pages last night/this morning took me right back to that time, synchronistically a decade ago - it was exhiliarating, it was exhausting, it was fruitful, it was frustrating, we raised each other to new heights, we crashed and burned. Since then, the friendships have ebbed, flowed, lain dormant, re-bloomed... and reading the unfolding history made my heart ache - as Joni would say, "we can't return, we can only look behind from where we came". I *know* the growth, power and love gained in those seven months is immeasurable - I can't help but feel a twinge of sorrow at what is not, and will never be, again. We are different women now, and that's okay - it was a glorious time, and I am honored to include it in my life's resume of experience... <3

SONG: Where the Seeds Are Found by Karen Mal

BOOK: Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney

POEM: The Layers by Stanley Kunitz

I have walked through many lives,

some of them my own,

and I am not who I was,

though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road

precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

QUOTE: "And then the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to bloom." ~ Anais Nin

Your Life Story (Mary Chapin Carpenter)

My husband is fond of saying, "don't worry about how something got to be a problem... just fix it" - for various reasons, a dear friend and I had allowed ourselves to drift out of touch for the last two years... and, after repeated attempts to get together, we finally did this evening... for a few hours, over a couple glasses of wine each and some delicious appetizers. It was delightful to begin the catching-up process and to prove that friendship does transcend barriers of time when hearts are in the right place - we picked up right where we left off and, although there is still much more to share, we made a good start. What I especially loved is that, while we did a bit of reminiscing (so many good memories), we also talked about the present and future - it felt comfortable... and loving... and right... and we've vowed to do it again (thanks, MW... <3>

SONG: Your Life Story by Mary Chapin Carpenter

BOOK: Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells

POEM: A Time to Talk by Robert Frost

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, 'What is it?'
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.

QUOTE: "Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can't remember how you got from where you were to where you are. Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember but the story." ~ Tim O'Brien