Things To Stew

Here's an idea to stew over--from the mouth of a zen master, to the ear of a friend, to me--an analogy for life. We are like kids sitting on our parents' lap driving a car. We have our hands on the wheel so we think we're really driving, but we don't realize that our parent has a hold of the wheel as well. According to this zen master, that parent is our higher self, already aware of the path we are on and what we need to get out of this life. Sometimes it is best to just let go of the wheel and let things happen as they're supposed to happen. Just be at peace and the universe will happen naturally.

And in honor of the late great poem Seamus Heaney, here's one of my favorite poems by him:
Postscript

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open. 

Don't Force It

I didn't post anything yesterday because I honestly couldn't think of anything interesting I wanted to say. There are a lot of situations in life where the maxim "fake it till you make it" holds true, but writing isn't one of them. I don't like to force it--I prefer for it to come organically. And sometimes your heart and mind just need a day off. I remember reading an article in UTNE reader some years ago where one of the contributors was talking about recovering from back surgery, how it was fine once they truly gave in to just laying low. They spent a whole summer lounging for hours in the backyard reading books and just being; accepting the pain they were in they learned the value of stillness. I think about that on days where I find myself wanting to do nothing. It's a reminder to me that it's okay to do, that I should embrace nothingness while I can because it's not afforded all the time or to everyone. I'm pretty good at lounging and listening and watching a small patch of the world for a good stitch of time. And for as much as I like to explain myself and to carry on conversation I'm also really good at silence. When I feel silence in me like I did yesterday I go with it with the knowledge that that is what's supposed to be and it can only mean that I'll have a whole lot of thoughts to write about. This blog is my retreat. So if there are days where it seems like more of a chore than some fine thing I will refrain. That's better for everyone because who wants to read words that are forced, detached from heart.

For A Blue Eyed Woman

My buddy Tim told me a story the other day and I felt it was an important one to share. First I should say that he attracts all sorts and manners of strangers, and often the people he chats up are the people most would cross the street to avoid. He told me about a homeless couple who had been slumming it all the way from Virginia to Des Moines. The fact that they were alcoholics was obvious, but they kept themselves clean and never asked him for money, though they did accept his offerings of food. The guy had only a 4th grade education--he was 50 and couldn't read. Can you imagine getting by all those years without reading, without an education? Tim only gathered bits and pieces of his story when he would run into them on the street, and he never learned much about the woman, but he did notice how beautiful her blue eyes were, how they were kind, how they didn't seem to be affected by her alcoholism, which was an uncommon thing. He saw the gentleman a few days ago and he was looking rough--unkempt, shaky, babbling. Tim asked about the girlfriend, who'd he'd seen 10 days prior, and the man said she had died. Cirrhosis of the liver. All Tim could think about were those clear blue eyes. For the first time the man asked for money, said he was in desperate need of a drink. Would you have given him the cash? Would you have cried for the woman? Would you have cared about the lot of these human beings who drank themselves to oblivion and lived on the streets? Yes, they had clearly made poor decisions, but who knows what kind of environment they were born into, what kind of life they eventually fled, what kind of life they dreamed of. I think about that woman now. I picture her blue eyes filled with love for her companion. To me it doesn't matter that she was an alcoholic and a bum, I choose to honor this woman by writing about her now, and I vow to not be the person who crosses the street to avoid the homeless, but to offer the dignity of noticing every life.

A Poem On A Monday

Here's an older poem of mine, and I'm including it today because it reminds me of the feeling I had coming off of this weekend. How our life can begin new again and again. Before I include the poem, I also want to add that the kindness and love extended to me continued on into yesterday as well! My friend Tiffany called to offer me an opportunity for some part time work with her homegrown company, {made} community, where they sell jewelry and other wearables made from sustainable sources. You can find their website HERE. I'll dedicate a future post about Tiffany, but for now here's the poem:

She’s Glad She Didn’t Fix the Blinds

A woman wakes in some part

of the world, a mountain at her back,

a sun sliding through the broken

slit in her blinds, a line across her bed.

She watches, remembers a dream—

walking barefoot over cut glass coating

a street she’d never been on, she blinked

and the glass turned to light, and the street

wasn’t a street, but rolling hills.

She stirs her hand in and out

of the stream of light, then glides

out of bed. She leans

in the sliding glass door in her kitchen,

watches the sun clarify the frost

on her porch, her neighbor’s roof, her mountain.

She hesitates once unbuckling the door

to the cold, her naked feet

on the porch, skin an unexpected

welcome shiver, as if a tiger

flexed around her bones. She walks

to the edge of her lawn, the frosted grass

breaks underfoot, and she doesn’t feel

ridiculous. She senses some core

of herself, a tiny moon, places one hand

on her belly to touch its balance. 

She seals her soft eyes shut, and

when they open, her life begins.

Casey Lord

What A Wonderful World

This weekend is exactly what I needed. My heart is bursting with joy and gratitude. I drove up to Madison to see one of my best friends (sorry you couldn't make it Kristina). I'd felt lonely hearted of late and though I know that we have to be our own source for energy and comfort, to be able to fulfill ourselves, sometimes it is just good to be surrounded by the love of friends and let them build you up. I needed a good talking to and a good hug and I got it. Jessica and I spent hours (15 hours straight to be exact before we crashed out blissfully) spilling our hearts and providing insight for one another.

 Here we are and everything is A-okay. Someone taking our photo suggested we do something with our hands, that people should always do something interesting with their hands--I like that idea.

And another...

Jess wanted me to stay on another night but my neighbor's 40th surprise birthday party was Saturday night and I wanted to be there to celebrate with her. So after little sleep I drove back through the bluffs and plains and farms and though I was tired it was a much better drive than my lonely one the day before. I was reminded of my strength, reminded of the love of friendship, reminded of my belief in myself: I got this...I can do anything. So I returned to Des Moines, made a strong coffee and headed out 30 minutes later to the surprise party. Wherever I have lived I've been blessed with great neighbors, and Jen and her husband Jay are tops. There was good food, drink, and a karaoke machine. I sang some Patsy Cline. I was wrapped in several more hugs and kind words and gratitude and again for the second night in a row had my heart filled. There are so many kind and loving people in the world--let them give you a hand every once in a while. We are only as alone as we let ourselves be, only as loved as we let love in, only as broken or worried or happy or thankful as we allow. I got this. I can do anything.

This morning after waking to the sunrise, doing some writing, and then going out for a run I returned and shot this photo as proof of my glowing, peaceful state. And all day I've been tearing up at scenes of beauty--a young couple walking hand in hand, a mother and a teenage daughter enjoying coffee together, the frenzy of a hummingbird, the daytime moon, the wind, and the recollection of so many sweet people I have had the privilege of knowing.

In A Moment

Yesterday the kids were tyrants, testing every last brain cell of mine. There must be a secret code among kids--every time mine can clearly see they've crossed the line of my patience they never fail to toss in the sweetest remarks as if to dispel the trouble they've caused. Phoenix's famous line when she can see I'm at my wits end is "I love you in the whole world." And Fisher tells me I'm the best mom ever and that I'm a sweetie. Dammit it if it doesn't soften me right then and there. More than money or toys or anything kids just want your time, and we spend a lot of time together coming up with cheap thrills. A revolving door in a downtown building while we wait for our food order to go have a picnic--heck yeah:

It's just a moment of fun, but it was probably the highlight of their day. I like coming up with spaces and objects that amaze. After I finally got them in bed last night I talked for a long while with my friend Jessica and decided we're both in need of a good person-to-person-heart-to-heart. And so I blurted out that I'd head up to Madison this weekend to see her. I need a good friend that bad! So that's where I'm off to--following a serendipitous moment. Have a nice weekend ya'll.

From a Road Trip

"Don't break down," she said, "this is the devil's playground." This from a woman cleaning the rest area near Needles, CA. It was some years ago--that road trip out west that inspired the poem from Monday. It was 111 degrees, cars overheated and cast on the side of the highway like road kill. An old man had just died at the rest area because of the heat. The lady pointed at a missing poster on the billboard in the rest area and said she'd seen that girl come through a few weeks prior and she was with a guy and looked happy so she didn't call her in. We told her we were headed to San Francisco and she said "oh it's on there, man." Said the last time she was there she kept bleach with her at all times to ward off drug sniffing dogs. That was the trick. "And remember don't break down out here and if you do don't go walking for help cuz people get picked up and never come back." As if the heat and days on the road and tenting it every night hadn't left us weary enough. As we made our way through the desert to the coast the only life seemed to be on the road itself--the towns themselves ghost-like, thirsty for bodies. It was the eeriest place I've ever been in the states. I suppose being so on edge and watchful makes a person more attached, more a part of the surroundings. I suppose that hyper awareness has a way of sticking to the surroundings and so maybe that eeriness is born of the lingering stares of everyone who passes. Myself included.

A Poem On a Monday

This is one of my favorite poems, and I'm including it today because it reminds me of the vibe and mystique I felt at Mark Kneeskern's reading this past weekend, where he read from his book The Last American Hitch-Hiker, Tales of Wander. I've taken a lot of road trips across the country, and this poem was inspired by the trip I took down through Colorado, across the southwest, and up Highway 1 to San Francisco, CA. I was 18 or 19 at the time, cruising in a minivan with the license plates that read "rolling" with good friends. Years later and the scenes we passed still clutched to my brain and inspiring a poem...

Summer Storm, New Mexico

Maybe you’re alone in the heat, driving

from one mirage to another,

the only certain thing—southwest,

where storm clouds gather their dark roots.

Brass and terracotta, blotches of sage,

more real than a voice in this slack light,

you’d think the world tipped here.

Dust held down by the weight of air,

and your body is weather, limber as

atmosphere, the breath of anywhere.

            A vulture makes a home for roadkill. 

So many breakings behind you.

Let stray dogs and wind bury them. Further on, a neon sign

offers promise—a cinderblock shack gives ground

to petrified wood, turquoise and whiskey,

postcard for a lover you can only wish for.

You stop because west deals rain, because

it’s the only sign you’ve seen for miles.

            The white-haired man inside hasn’t left

            for years, or he’s always been there,

born of the stale bone air. You order tequila,

a burn that will release you, pitch your chest

            forward into imagined dark.

            This is your body, alone,

and no one driving by would know you.

Outside, the road and cacti age in the absence

            of sun, explaining little, a kind of texture

you’ve come for.

One afternoon, name this—

your life.

-Casey Lord

Gone Fishing

I took the kids to see my sister and her family at their campsite last evening. We wasted no time piling in the back of a truck and driving to a fishing hole--Fisher and Phoenix in awe of riding in the open air. We trekked through prairie grass awash in wild flowers and music of grasshoppers until we came to a pond, everything held together under the golden August sun. Fisher was made for fishing--he was the most patient of all the kids, just sitting there watching his bobber and believing great things would come. He caught 3 fish, which was more than anyone. The rest of the kids continually casting as if to taunt the fish to bite. Phoenix just kept reeling her line through moss over and over and I had to clear the sludge off her hook and recast for her over and over, all the while telling her to just leave it be for a while. Then my dad said to me just let her fish however she wants and you'll both have more fun. Of course things are that simple. It must have been my morning of dealing with her loud tantrum while partaking in the flood the downtown Des Moines sidewalks with chalk event or her constant screeching all day for me to pick her up and set her down and get her this or that--but I had forgotten this nugget of truth. I immediately let go of trying to control and just let it be. That really is the best parenting advice--be idle, just let them be. I've always wanted an airstream trailer to travel and see all the beautiful places of this hemisphere. (What a great word by the way: hemisphere.) I follow worksology on instagram--a man who collects places, who sold most everything and now travels in an airstream with his wife and young son. I love viewing this stranger's pictures, a peephole into a life. If I ever met him I would say way to go.

Tales of Wander

Can you imagine sitting by the side of some dusty road thumbing for a ride for 8 hours or more? Alone with the stars and crows and wind. And then hopping into a car with a complete stranger with no inkling of what lies ahead? Last night I went to a reading by Mark Dean Kneeskern, whose book The Last American Hitch-Hiker, Tales of Wander was recently released. I should say first that I forgot to bring along cash and thus asked Mark if the book was available for order online. He handed me a copy and wrote his address, told me to send the money for the book there. Clearly the road has not left Mark weary, hasn't turned him hard, hasn't extinguished his faith in humanity. He sang, read poems, and told stories of his wanderings. My favorite was when he was in south Texas, white work truck after white work truck passing by without a glance his way--all headed to an oil refinery and thus per company policy wouldn't stop for hitchhikers. It was hot and dusty, his water running low and so he started to give the "I need water please pick me up" sign. And then this--someone who'd seen him while going the opposite way had gone and turned back, bringing him a huge jug of ice cold water. And just like that his faith in humanity was restored. It warms my heart to know there are people in the world like that--people who notice the plight of strangers and actually do something about it. And also people like Mark who live on the fringe, observing the world and capturing its stories. He had this to conclude: there are lots of low points while standing by a road, but just like that your day can change--keep trying and you'll succeed eventually. One just needs a heavy dose of patience.

Song of Myself

Lately I've been striving to capture and hold to the still point inside myself--to truly be comfortable alone anywhere, to carry that quiet light wherever I go. I go for walks alone, go out for dinner alone, go to movies and to see live music alone. I never feel ridiculous about it, though I'm sure it makes others wonder about me all alone in these coupled places. When you're alone and quiet the conversations of others are magnified; you hear how people seem to fill up the air with words and laughter as if to fill some void. And I can sense them watching me, no doubt thankful they aren't "lonely". I want to tell them I'm not sad, I'm just getting closer to myself. I read this line by Deepak Chopra recently so this is where my head is: "you are not in the world, the world is in you. Whatever you need to know about existence will arise nowhere outside yourself." So this is my aim--I'm trying to figure things out, to get closer to meaning. We can't do that if we don't take time to understand and enjoy ourselves. I think my quest for getting comfortable with now, with silence, with my own heart is rubbing off on my kids. The other day Fisher got a pillow and laid out on the porch staring lazily at the sky, saying he just wanted to enjoy the day. And Phoenix? She's never silent but she is comfortable with her wild streak--you can find her dancing anywhere, alone in her room or among a public of strangers. Just being herself.

Some Great Lines

I've been reading the book Peace Like a River by Leif Enger and I've been so struck with the beauty of the prose that I read with a pen in hand, underlining passages that capture me so that I can thumb through and reread them when I'm in the mood to be seized by good words. It's like a sunset or a beautiful landscape--a really great line or a phrase spreads through my chest, curls its fingers around my heart, and leaves me with the feeling of having been touched by something akin to magic. So here are some lines I have underlined so far:

"The mist corkscrewed away."

"...the smell of the dream hung around me; all sorts of lunar imaginings had hold of my brain."

"Nor the comfortable, fluttery feeling it gave me, as though someone had blown warm smoke through a hole in my center."

"So thoughtlessly we sling on our destinies."

"Her fingers were the oldest part of her. I couldn't think of what to do with this information. I couldn't think of anything at all. The locusts neared. The bits of orange her fingers placed in my mouth were so ripe I barely chewed."

"It only felt powerful, like truth unhusked."

"I remember it as October days are always remembered, cloudless, maple-flavored, the air gold and so clean it quivers."

"And when did he know just what he'd done? We've wondered that, Swede and I. When did it come to Davy Land that exile is a country of shifting borders, hard to quit yet hard to endure, no matter your wide shoulders, no matter your toughened heart?"

"...as a picture of American underprivilege it could've won awards. You never saw people of more threadbare hopes, their eyes dustbowl-flat."

"...but getting closer we saw it was a crow after all, and dead. Struck by a car it lay all mashed to the road but for one free wing, which rose and fell by the gusts. It was a much more grievous sight than you'd think, a dead crow lying in the road out in the heart of noplace, and just before we reached it the wind brought up that wing again so it looked like a thing asking mercy."

May you take these words and carry them with you throughout this fine day...

On Fickleness

I put a lot of stock in words, believing people should say what they mean and mean what they say. For all of the interesting people I've met of late I've also been struck with this fact--not everyone gives the same value to words. I know not to expect or desire for others to have the same values, but something like the words you say should hold some weight for everyone shouldn't it? If I tell someone I'm going to do something I do it (though I am admittedly more lax when it comes to telling myself I'll do something). It seems pretty basic though, but I've been surprised to discover that not everyone does this. And I feel like an old curmudgeon for even writing this, but it's been my experience that a lot of people don't hold true to their word and so I can't help but think of the term fickle to ascribe to them. I'm tempted to think it's a generational phenomenon, but a friend with some fewer years than I told me she's had the same thoughts as well. It seems she's always the one inviting and often they aren't reciprocated. So if not age then perhaps there's been a lot of empty promises in several childhoods. And so I appeal to everyone--let's be real with one another.

A Poem On a Monday and a Recap

So I was away from a computer over the weekend, which will happen from time to time. The point being--I can't always post daily on here. But here's a recap of the weekend...

 I took the kids to the Iowa State Fair last Friday, where we saw lots of big things and some tiny ones too. Interesting how size garners such attention and mystique.

 Just dragging this gigantic pumpkin around.

 They insisted on a few rides, this being their favorite.

 No better way to cool off than with a hot beef sundae! 

 Went for a run and paused to stretch here, thinking how these arches looked like rib cages, still and silent as bone.

 My current audience to witness my accordion playing.

Oh yeah, I did a lot of this over the weekend--practiced for hours and still with hardly any sense of what the heck I'm doing. But I vow to master it and then I will take over the world!

Pablo Neruda is one of the most passionate poets I have ever read. To honor my new passion today's poem is one of his beauties. Here it lies...

Under the Sky

It's curious and amazing to me how the state of the sky can affect the state of our minds. It's as if we mirror the canopy of air overheard. Days where it's cloudy I find myself looking inward, more contemplative--holding on to thoughts longer than usual the way the atmosphere remains tucked in under the clouds with nowhere to go. And under the clear sun I am clear minded, I feel more open and lighthearted, like nothing can bring me down. I love the sharpness of autumn, my favorite kind of sky. And the eerie whimsy of snowfall--think how it quiets the mind, how it seems to make you feel new and like anything can happen. Even day and night has an affect on our mood--always more of a sense of searching at night, a sense of being able to get away with more. I have more energy in the summer and I always wonder what it would be like to live somewhere that was hot and dry all the time. I feel like people in desert climates are angrier. And there's a reason why the Northwest, with its rainy, brooding skies, has a higher rate of depression and suicide. Do people who live in the mountains always have a sense of foreboding? Perhaps the culture of different areas of the country is formed by the type of sky that is most prevalent there. I'll take the Midwest--a balance of seasons to season my mind. I want to know every kind.

Polka Anyone?

I have a new passion I'm going to pursue...playing the accordion. (Bet you didn't see that one coming.) I picked up this beauty yesterday at a pawn shop and she's all mine now. I'm thinking of naming her Cleo or Ruby or Flo. I have no idea how to play--never even held one in my arms before yesterday--but I'm going to learn. A neighbor of mine recently retired and now he's taking guitar lessons. I knew a gentleman in Mankato, MN--a retired plastic surgeon--who was 80 and still learning new languages, still feeding his mind. Nobel Peace Prize winner Desmond TuTu was the commencement speaker at my undergrad graduation and I'll never forget these words he spoke--never allow yourself to be affected by old people's cynicism, go on dreaming, go on being the idealistic people you are. It is something I have always kept to heart, and so with this in mind I'm going to master the accordion and maybe next year I'll be touring with the Decemberists or maybe you'll find me playing on some street corner during the farmer's market or on a stage in New Ulm, MN for Oktoberfest. You can rent me for your party, I'll play the polka and you can dance. There is no limit but that which I deny.

Your Cards are Dealt

A friend recently said to me "your cards have been dealt." At first I agreed with the sentiment, but the more I think about it the more fatalist it sounds. It's as if we don't have a choice in any future but the one we started following years ago. If the only constant is change, then our cards are shuffled and dealt over and over again, and even then we can choose how we face it. There are countless alternatives that arise with every decision and countless ways to react. Nothing is ever fixed. So I don't buy that phrase. To think that a single hand we are dealt should lead to a singular life is to think only one thing matters. But we are like sand dunes--forever shifting and changing, every day the possibility of being new.

On Struggles

If my words are light these days it's because I'm spending some time going deeper. Way in and questioning what things mean. When it comes to struggles I'm finding that the easier it is to face means it is the right answer for now and it won't lead to much change. But the harder the struggle, the bigger the pay off ahead. It means what your hurdling will lead to greater reward and awareness and change. It's more difficult to face because the end result doesn't happen right away and we're left in a state of wonder, which isn't comfortable or easy. So my struggle is to feel confident and secure with wonder and just go with it, to trust that it will lead me to contentment and a greater sense of self. And why shouldn't we trust our hearts?

Speaking of hearts, I love the idle, open, and seeking heart of my friend Nicole Helget. She has a way of cutting to the core of what matters, forget all the fluff and second guessing. I'm so glad the kids and I stopped to see her and Nate and their brood last week--it's exactly what I needed. She too has a blog where she recapped our visit and you can check it out and follow her here: http://nicolehelget.blogspot.com/2013/08/bird-nests-and-friends.html

A Poem On a Monday and a Recap

I didn't have access to a computer until yesterday and then I've been dealing with network problems. But I'm in now. The kids and I had a great time on our mini vacation to Minnesota. We stayed with friends in Mankato one night and then drove on up to the cities where we took in a Twins game, had some beach time on Lake Calhoun, walked a heck of a lot, stayed with more friends and were rewarded with listening to Derek Tellier put poems to music, and then checked out the Como zoo and park before heading back. Here are some pics of our famous times:

 Two tough mommas (that'd be me and Nicole Helget)

 Catching up with one of my best buddies Nate LeBoutillier. He and his wife Nicole have 3 kids together, and 3 from a previous marriage makes them a regular Brady Bunch. They have such a great, cozy, eclectic home. I love the vibe there. And they recently had their co-written young adult novel published. It's titled Horse Camp. Go on and get a copy.

 Phillip, Gordy, Archie, and my Fisher, throwing down some tough poses.

 Taxi to the Twins stadium

 We arrived just in time, scalped some tickets, had a stranger take this picture, and then made our way in, where we indulged in hot dogs, soda, cotton candy, and pretzels. No holding back on vacation.

 And of course we got some foam fingers.

 We headed to Lake Calhoun after the game and spent a few hours making sand castles and swimming.

And since it's Monday and I'm coming off a road trip I'll include a driving poem. I don't think there's any set up needed with this one so here it is:

Driving

The lady driving her car in front

of me rolls her window up to the

wind, checks her tossed hair in

the rear view mirror, adds order

to the world. My window is down,

arm hooked on the door as if to

check the pulse of the road beneath,

leave the mess the wind makes. 

I’ve known this wind: weeks ago it was

at my back, lifting. Now it claps

at my face for recognition.

I trace its source, come up empty,

think of wind in Venezuela,

wrapping the skirt of a woman

planting seeds in her yard tight

around her thighs and calming,

or pushing a pocketbook down

the street in India, all those eyes

watching it go. I breathe in hard,

hoping for a scent of China, the air

of New Zealand, the Philippines,

plead for the woman driving in front

to roll down her window, forget herself,

welcome all things with the wind,

swallow rock dust, water, longing.

Casey Lord