Truffala Trees and Other Examples of Life Imiating Fiction

Myakka State Park. Sarasota Florida riverboat ride.  As I looked up I found myself thinking of Dr. Suess, truffala trees and our species (myself included) to collect "Thneeds" -the thing that everyone thinks they need. I found myself caught up in the beauty along the river, seeing native species of bird and gator in their natural habitat.  I love the diversity of birds, all birds, but especially water birds.  They leave me breathless.  Odd that I have never taken up birding. As I lose time when I am in the company of birds.  I listen and watch.  I recently had a conversation of sorts ( I am not sure what forms of electronic communication constitutes conversation these days) about the experience of raising wolf dogs. How my friend learned from the creatures in their care about how the universe is ordered.   I began chewing over this conversation the next several days, as the order of the universe is something of a struggle for me, more specifically our human role.  As a species we are highly overrated.  We have gotten way to big for our britches.   I am convinced in the great scheme of things we are all simply specks on a broader landscape.  I am simply befuddled and confused, and at times somewhat embarrassed-by my own very human nature.   As it is for my friend and his wolf dogs, I am drawn to the birds. I find comfort in how they interact with each other and their universe.  I feel a kinship with birds.  Birds are intelligent, adaptive, communicative, social and intuitively plan ahead and learn from the past.  How much of this is instinct- I don't know.   As they say it is outside of my field of study.  I do know that when I see a bird build a nest from what's readily available or thrown aside; a heron fish, a  male blue jay defend his mate; a buzzard eating roadkill; I am struck by the elegance of their economy of living.  Of using what is readily available, of adapting to the nature of surroundings,  forming strong relationships and returning to the nest.  I love the metaphor of the nest.  I cherish the comfort and sanctity of the nest.   I want less of "things" and more time surrounded by  strong relationships and to learn to live in a spirit of natural communion.    A few pictures below of the birds in Myakka State Park.

National Poetry Month: Epic Fail and Talisman of the Noisy Brain People

April was National Poetry Month and I did not write a single poem.  I did not join a Poem-A-Day Challenge or submit a single poem for publication.  I am convinced I am an "Epic Fail" as a poet; and sadly I am way to comfortable with my own lack of poetic motivation.  These days the only poems I write are of the transitory nature-those that skim the surface of my subconscious, tickle my brain begging me to write them down.  I have one of those noisy brains-a pinball brain, that shoots out with force, ricochets off  objects, skitters around for random contact; until momentum is lost.  I am comfortable with my own random noise; calmed by the sound of it's sputtering engine, a raucous din of voices both familial and foreign.

The photo the sunset at Punta Gorda, Florida; a evening boat cruise with my folks and my husband.   I love seeing the people in my life.  I believe that as humans we are somewhat tribal in nature, and I miss my tribe.  We have scattered farther than seeds in the wind, thousand of miles separate us, sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews,mothers, and fathers.  I want to gather them close to me.  Modern life is odd.  Actually it's fucking strange.  Technology allows us to peek into each others daily life, to be current, yet I find myself wishing for direct human contact.  I loved sitting on the lanai drinking coffee with my Dad, going thrift shopping with Barb, holding Michael's hand in a new place. So much is lost in technological contact, the timbre of voice, the scent of us, the glimpses of love between two people who have spent a lifetime together, the empty minutes.  I love the empty minutes.  How given opportunity we fill these moments. Stories well up and spill into these minutes.   Stories you've never heard before. Stories as familiar as your face in the morning mirror,   I wanted to weave these moments together into something tangible, something practicable, something to drape across the knee, or wrap around my shoulders- to create  a familial  talisman; a tribal symbol of love and acceptance for the tribe of the noisy brain people.

Blog Dusting and other forms of Random Information Sharing

It's been over a year since I've dusted the shelves over here at the Art of Breathing, mostly because other forms of random information sharing are easier. Face it, 140 character tweets and responding to Facebooks daily question "What's on your mind?" are easy outs.  I have always preferred direct face to face conversation, talking, for communication (for anyone under 25- talking requires sounds).   Phones are actually equipped with speakers and microphones to facilitate conversation.  As a mother of a twenty-something who  relies on the text as a primary form of communication-I often hear this

"Mom-why did you call?"
 I just wanted to talk you,
"We talked yesterday"
No we texted yesterday, sometimes I like to hear your voice
"Whatever"

At this point, I am wondering why I called.  I find that I prefer meatier forms of communication, letter writing (paper or email), dinner conversations, morning coffee with my husband, long phone calls with my folks, and the blog.  I find that blogging at times a way to communicate with others and frankly more often with myself.   It's the sit down dinner of electronic random information sharing.  I'm tired of  fast food take-out.  Photo of Caddo Lake after heavy rains.  I liked the contrast of the red bench, a spot of bright in a dreary day.  I'm committing myself to post twice a week.  Bring your coffee cup and sit a bit.


Drop me a line in the comment section if you are reading.

Happenstance and Tide Pools

I miss my blog, this one and the one at Jumbo Petite-I greatly enjoy reading the blogs of other more steadfast bloggers.  Perhaps I am simply not steadfast, or my monkey mind has grown to gargantuan proportions and I can no longer focus on anything more than a 140 character tweet-or a fly by status update on Facebook.  I am unsure if completing 316 levels of Candy Crush Saga is something brag worthy or requires locking away in my guilty pleasure closet, along with my stealth reading of my daughters copies of Cassandra Clare's shadow hunter series (both the period and modern day series) and my life long love of harlequin romances.  I used to be an avid reader; more so a book addict-an eight book a week habit that was never truly satiated.  An equal opportunity word-whore reading all genres. Anything within arm's reach was fair game-autobiographies, historical non-fiction,  classical fiction, modern fiction, poetry, science fiction, murder mystery and my guilty pleasure-harlequin romances. I would read 5 or 6 books concurrently, stacked on my bedside, bathroom, desks (home and office) with chocolate wrappers, parking receipts serving as bookmarks.   Sometimes I stealth read books of my roommates-while they were at class or at work. There were never enough books, never enough money for books, and never enough time to read them. I read and read and wanted to read more.  Then I stopped.  Stopped. I still read but more so as a comfort; my choice of books gifts or pure happenstance.  I stopped reading with ferocity and passion.  I miss the passion and romance I had with reading. This makes me sad.  I am thinking level 317 can wait.

Letting Nature In

A snapshot of the living room of the Frank Lloyd Wright Usonian home in Florence, this one I took with my iPhone. I took many more with my Nikon, just haven't had a chance to play with them. I loved this home, the function of form and design, the sparseness in furniture selection and accessories. The signature designs in light fixtures, the use of nature to warm the nearly utilitarian interior. The rich cypress wood that felt as if it were flowing, warmed by the sun, the patina of years, cocooning its inhabitants. Every roomed seemed in harmony, with simple furniture, open spaces. light filtering in through brass screens, and almost hidden nooks and crannies lined halls, and provided the necessary space for the messiness of human living. The women who lived her entire adult life in this home, came here from New York as a young bride, raised 4 boys here, was wife and then widow, she brought with her a concert piano, and a loom.

I loved how her work complimented her house, the rich colors and her choice of designs, I found myself wondering how much living in this home, on the banks of the Tennessee River, influenced her music and her art. I found myself wanting to sit in these rooms with my arms behind me, knees bent in front of me,  leaning back into the sun. Warmed.

Currents

We are empty nesters. It's odd. It's exciting. It's sad. It's a celebration. It has left me a bit off center as I have defined myself in my personal life as Rachael's mom.  I have signed notes to teachers, to other parents with my name and in parenthesis (Rachael's Mom).  Michael and I were cooking dinner on Tuesday and I said I really miss her today.  He said I miss her too, she is where she needs to be, she needs to find her own way. I told him I went in her room and it felt weird, as if she would be home any minute.  He said even when she comes home, it will be different. Not the same as having her here everyday. We are parents of an adult. This is how it is supposed to be, this is a good thing. He also added (because he is Michael), she better pass all of her classes.   I have been mulling this over the last couple of days.  I am enjoying the empty nest, exploring being a couple, thinking about taking a photography class, taking a trip with Michael, but like Rachael, perhaps I am still finding my way.

Eye Candy

Cycling

Taken at Saint Louis Cemetery near the French Quarter in New Orleans.

I am rusty in blogging. I have been out of pocket of all things creative for most of the last several years. I was remarking to my friend John (a artist) that perhaps creativity is somewhat cyclic. Perhaps what I meant to say is that the need to create is somewhat cyclic. I am finding that I have gotten more than a wee bit lazy on the creative front. I like to tell myself that is predominantly because I have been busy and focusing on other aspects of my life. This is both truth and lie. I have been focusing on work and family; savoring time with my daughter and husband. I am learning how to middle age nest and preparing for the next phase of my life (truth). I have had no time to focus on the creative (lie). I have had time here and there to create, to feed the creative, to photograph, draw, write and scrapbook and instead of doing so, I have settled in to an old movie, every episode of Law and Order (cool sound effect) and  vegetated or as my daughter would say, became one with the couch. I am highly proficient at being over-busy. I fill my day completely that at the end, all that is left of the cognitive and creative is little more than grey matter detritus.

I keep the spark alive by random acts of creativity and chance encounters of the poetic kind (a photographic book for my father, photos such as the one above, creating a news letter, a week or two of daily poeming, dropping into workshop, attending a class). Truth of the matter is that creativity takes work. Writing a poem that is publishable requires revising, submitting and facing rejection. Producing images that evoke emotion, that bring a moment to life and evoke thought take opportunity, insight and training.

The need to create in me is cyclic. The process of creating is hard work. I can't speak for anyone else. And so the cycle begins.

Just blog dusting.

 

Simply dusting off my blogs, both here and at Jumbo Petite.  I am thinking about consolidating the two blogs into one space. Not sure I have the technological skills to merge them the way I would like with two sections, but one url.  Might have to ask my husband to help, one of the benefits of having a engineer husband. We are officially empty nesters, our daughter away at school.  We are both missing her and enjoying couple time.  It's an odd feeling, and I am struggling a bit more than my husband.  Especially with the stand back and let her make her own mistakes and solve her own problems.  I am trying to learn to be simply a safety net and not a spotter. She said to me yesterday, I know you are trying-but you need to try harder.  I don't want us to fall back into old patterns, so today with every step I take, I am going to say to myself, try harder, have faith and remember she's a great kid, trust her.  We will see how I do.   The photo one I took from the car-I was parked along the roadside, trying to catch the birds in flight--as soon as I pulled over to watch, the birds quit practicing their take-offs. I suspect there is a lesson in that for me.



Anticipation of Stillness

I spent my morning reading blogs.  I like Blogs.  I like Blogs a lot.  I might even love reading a good blog.  I find that Facebook has been the demise of the frequent blogger.  Myself included in that demise.  The photo above, a tree in odd light, I found fascinating--I took about 20 photos of the tree trying to capture the emotion the tree evoked.  I am not sure if this shot is "the shot", I wanted. Still processing over 400 photos the remaining 19 included.  I am groovy.  I am actually simply.  In the Bebe scale of personal states--Simply is near the top.  Perhaps a theme for another blog--Bebe's Scale of Personal Being---I am missing the words, more so I am feeling the urge to write, as if the words are beginning to seep from pores, dropping where ever they seem to fit--in fact I am tripping on the damn words.  There is also an urgency to write.  As if the words have come full circle. I find if I am still even for a few moments the words begin to stray into the thoughts of the moment--as if they have simply been waiting for me to be still. Which I suppose explains everything. Which is perhaps what drew me to photograph this tree, an anticipation of stillness--I am simply, I hope the same for you.

Bird Wars

In less than a month Rachael will graduate from High School (fingers crossed on Calculus), the first of the festivities was a Mad Hatters Tea her and her best friend Haley hosted for their friends.  It was the first time it felt real to me, my daughter graduating, moving on to the next stage and leaving Michael and I behind.  It  hit me and all of sudden I wanted to bawl my eyes out.  The last couple of years have been a real trial for Rach and I, as we are often oil and water. I am a bulldozer( a well meaning one) and Rachael a concrete pier that can not be moved no matter what gear you have the damn thing in.  Rachael is like a well rooted tree that if you cut it down its roots will give rise to a new tree 5 feet away.  Rachael looks like me but is  more like her Dad in personality; we do share 2 traits-what I call the P traits. Perverseness and perseverance, and in that lies the problem.  I find myself wanting to simultaneously hold her here and push her out of the nest, if only we were a bit more like birds; where instinct and not sentiment tells us when to let go.  I am excited for her choices and each day brings us closer to graduation and her to the next stage of her journey.  Hopefully I can learn to put the bulldozer in idle gear.

Santa Monica Beach

Playing around with the photos from this weekend. Most of the photos on my camera were taken by Kaylee and Rachael-a lot of photos taken from the back seat of Beverly Hills. These I took at the waters edge where Santa Monica Blvd, dead ends into the ocean. I love the ocean, I would like to retire near water-either ocean, or lake or river, there is something in the movement of water that calms and restores, and stirs seeds of angst. A sense of being aware of the beauty and force of nature.  I find that I am simultaneously comforted and disquieted-perhaps it this heightened sense of awareness, of being in the minute that makes me crave the water. 

Dusting Off and Feeling Groovy

I am dusting off my blogs over the next couple of days, seems I have missed the therapeutic nature of blogging.  Perhaps it is more a dialogue of self than communication with others.  If that is the case then I am most definitely guilty.  The picture taken at Santa Monica Beach this weekend.  I took my daughter and her friend to the Korean Music Festival at the Hollywood Bowl. We had a great weekend-being tourists and simply enjoying each other without fighting.  Of course less than 72 hours home and Rach and I are back to old habits.  She graduates in 30 days, if you are counting, and I am so excited.  I love summer; Rachie and I always summer well together, as the only thing we generally fight about anymore is school.  I believe she is ready for college ( I can't believe I said that).  We are going to college orientation in June and after that-it's finally time to relax.  I did my best in NaPoWri and managed 12 days of poeming, perhaps I have enough poems for the chapbook I am working on.  I wanted 15 love poems, perhaps I have them.  Today Michael and I celebrate 26 years of marriage.  I am glad that we are still together, still love each other, and still having fun. I took this picture because of the smiley--I simply had to fuel that Polly Anna part of my personality.  I can't help it, it is who I am; half cynic and half eternal optimistic.  It drives me crazy.  I am mostly groovy on all fronts. Hope the same for you.

Green Light Go

Finally after nearly 18 months on hyper speed, life is almost normal.  I am beginning to come up for air.   Seems that work and home have synchronized in a temporarily lull.  I found myself reading this week in my spare time--I read 3 books this week. Partly because I spent over 20 hours in a car over 5 days, and simply because the sound ticker on my perpetual list maker must be turned way down.The books a trilogy I borrowed from my daughter called the Immortal Instruments, a teenage story of demon hunters, werewolves, vampires, fey, and warlocks-and some forbidden attractions.  I enjoyed it despite myself-I thought of it the teenage equivalent of another one of my favorite guilty pleasures-Karen Marie Monings Fever Series.  It felt good to immerse myself in an alternate world, and I found myself wondering, how had I gotten to busy to read.  In fact I have been to busy to do alot of things--I miss my friends, my quiet time, my writing time and photography time. I owe the Dallas Poets Community a Winter 2012 newsletter, my friend Pat pictures of her daughter, my friend Bart a print of  his wife, my friends LaDonna and Trish, birthday presents, my friend Theresa a breakfast...a visit to Greenville to see Kelly Jo and Patty and a trip to Louisiana to see my Uncle.  Well perhaps the list ticker isn't turned off-it's just redirecting itself from the extreme focus I have had on work and getting Rachael prepared for college.   Good news is that the regulation is in review for at least the next 90 days (maybe more), my mid March deadlines are on target, and my daughter has settled on 2 schools (either one she indicated she would be happy with).  Both schools states away--but have her degree and for the first time in her life, dyslexia support.  We are waiting to see if she qualified for any scholarships before she makes the final decision.  One school is more expensive and she will have to take a loan for the difference, but ultimately we are leaving the choice to her. She has grown to be a mostly intelligent caring young woman ( I am so proud of you Rach) and it is time for her to stand on her own.  We are mostly groovy.