The girl who was once from NYC, transplanted to the sticky trap of the CT countryside. Teacher, singer, writer, hippie chick. Dancer along the path through the dark.
~May words and music and laughter light the way to kindred spirits, kind of heart~
Also a Mommy. That's the most important thing that's happened along the way, but not what this blog will be about.
let me just say how thankful I am to all the people who never made me feel like some cheap piece of plastic with no feelings and no wisdom, no heart, and no needs. Thanks for being there when I needed a friend. Thanks for trusting me to know what I was talking about. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to talk and share in real time. I’m grateful for the reciprocation and sincerity and care. I’m grateful for the love and warmth and friendship that was real/that is real. That’s what makes it possible to hold my head above water when the things turn black.
and wondering about these past several days. At the other house with my husband and kids for the storm, remembering why I love him, remembering why we don’t live together. There were some warm cozy moments of family that were sweet. But mostly, it was nice to feel that partnership we have now and then, but unfortunately it’s not a “most of the time”. So grateful when it’s there though. And there were other reminders this week. Reminders that the people you want in your life are the ones that care for your heart, and care about your heart, and care about you. And that life is suddenly not there and there were so many tragic tales to hear this week that happened to other people, people I didn’t know, but I cried anyway as I read. (I know tragic, and maybe that’s why I have little patience for the let’s-make-drama of the world and the phony people who need drama and don’t realize there’s so much without even trying.)There were wonderful kindnesses to be seen, as well, and an outpouring of care for those less fortunate in the wake of horror and loss. I didn’t do much writing this week—none really—but I did a bit of reading. It was very enjoyable those “late” night (it was like 10:00)candle and flashlight lit hours on the air mattress in the living room, reading Nora Ephron’s I Remember Nothing, and listening to the complete stillness of the woods around the house once the generator was turned off. We were lucky, my family of four and I, and my family in NYC and my other family in CT. No one was hurt, or for the most part even terribly inconvenienced by the effects of the storm. I count my blessings, I cherish my friends, and enjoyed some silly and not so silly texting with old friends across time and space and work friends who make me laugh. Life is hard, these scary things that come along give pause for thought even more than the usual pause for thought I already have built in from an almost entire lifetime of seeing hard and heartbreaking, and true and joyful and honest. One thing I stumbled across this week as I was reading and learning—that ever long of life for me—this great quote:
“There are three kinds of men. The one that learns by reading. The few who learn by observation. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence for themselves.” ~Will Rogers
I guess this applies to women as well, but in my observation, woman are quicker and wilier than most men, so much so, some men don’t even know how taken-in they are until they’re already gone.
All of a sudden, as I was sitting and working with one of my students this morning, I was transported back to the early 1970’s, sitting on my couch in the den, snuggled up over at the far side, toward the doors, lights dimmed, and Sesame Street was on. They were singing about numbers: “….five, five, five, five…let’s sing a song of fiiiiiiive. How many is five?” I miss those days of easy and innocent and comfort. I think we all long to find that again in our lives. The feeling of knowing you are where you are supposed to be, no question about it.
divided we, and dipped way down encountering
a spongy pass
with holes to slip
but sunk up to our necks we knew a pain to last
and filtering across the leaves in all of our imagining
the sounds of what was really for four ears alone
and all I ever wanted was to feel at home
and know a place was always safe for me…
the flow the feel the force the drive
the way the keys depress in time
but in all actuallity it’s pen and ink I miss tonight
and so perhaps my writing mind
my love of lilt, language, and rhyme
will seek the pad and pen and peace
and let my script do what I please