10.27.14 A Small Short Story

Some days were just like that, for Lilith. Days when you just might as well go lie down. "I am so lucky ", she thought to herself. How her friends had situated her, this way. 

That they felt this way about her. That she had room to be the courageous, powerful, maimed individual she was . The best friend of Mira , as a child; Mira who had thought and planned and got her away from her family to Mira's boisterous loving parents and protective big brothers, to finish her growing up in love and laughter and peace .

Some days, she would emerge from her small cottage, tucked to the side of Mira and Gemma's house. Where the fence enclosed the whole property, made by Forest. To look decorative, but in truth, to make Lilith feel protected. Even as she was learning that she did not need protection. 

Her front door had a large dog door, and a small dog door. For the families' dogs to come and go, as they wished. Dog doors in the main house too. So that the dogs at times would wander in, in the middle of the night, and crawl into bed with her. Sleeping with her. Cats too. No fishercats here. The dogs keeping the coyote away. So the cats seemed safe. Back from the road. 

And they would wander from one house to another. 

So she had her place here, on Mira and Gemma's land, up close to the house, built by Forest. Her own tiny cottage, enclosed by the hearts of her friends. Family, now, really. 

And somehow, over the years, over the number of times that Mira showed her ,truly. And Forest. And Gemma. And the children. That there was a place for her here. Simply because there was. That she owed no one. But they had enough, and they had chosen to do this. 

Just because it felt true, over time, she found peace with this. Not as a weak person. But rather, as a particular sort of being on the earth. In need of space. Time. To spend her days in the dance and the consequence and the needs of unwinding injuries. As she slowly rebuilt herself.

When it was a distressed day ,when everything was spinning about , she would put up a deep blue flag. On the inside glass window of her front door.
And the children would understand. They'd been taught. 

Maybe they would come and knock on her door, and leave Chamomile tea and coffeecake, from Gemma. Or a sachet that they created from the dried flowers of the gardens. Or a drawing of something vibrant and hopeful. Or a salt clay sculpture, warm from the oven, of two hands , holding each other. With their initials and hers on perspective fingers.

On days with ease and resilience, she put up a yellow flag. And then maybe she would have no visitors, or maybe Forest would've come by to do one thing or another with house or kids or Mira , or Gemma ; and, catching sight of the door, would come wandering over. To start fixing up something on her small front porch. He was so subtle. 

She would smile to herself, and go out, offering him some cool well water. Sit in the swing he had attached to the roof of her porch. The porch of the house he had built for her. Saying to her "Why not?" And "We all need your wise self here, with us, in our family." 

And eventually he would perch upon the stairs, and talk casually about one thing or another
Or Mira would show up, taking a break from writing, the two-year-old and three-year-old and five-year-old and seven-year-old and 11-year-old with her, in unpredictable combinations. 

All of them playing an hysterical, raucous game of kickball in the yard between her cottage and the house, the dogs underfoot. And she could not contain her laughter, spilling out of her one magnificent room cottage, running into the fray with them. 

On good days, she would make up a vegetable bean loaf, with gravy, big, and bring it over in the late afternoon; then sit down at the long kitchen counter with Gemma, drinking cafix or tea , sitting quietly, or talking about simple things, as they folded laundry, took care of kids, or mended things, as Mira finished writing upstairs. 

Sharing dinner with the whole lot of them. Helping to clean up, folding a few more stacks of clothing, meandering off in the labyrinthian home, to put things away, dropping in on kids here, stroking curled cats there, in all the nooks and crannies of the home.

One day she looked out, and saw all of them getting on their hands and knees in the herb garden, which was shaped like a maze, and scooting about, each one making a different silly noise. 

Bumping into each other and making a big crashing noise! Turning about, like a robotic vacuum cleaner, heading off in a different direction. until she would laugh, having had too much of it, and go crawling out of her door too- both dogs coming up to her with delight, bumping her with their muzzles, lick licking her face, as she laughed, playfully grabbing one paw , and then the other ,to tease them. And then slinking through the maze, until she went around the corner and surprised one or the other of them. Both screeching!

It was then that they would all sit up, and suddenly you could see everyone's heads. All ages. So many hues. Sizes. Then they would all laugh and laugh. And then the kids would cry "Again! Again!", and they would all slink down once more, and start all over .

So often she would be listening and soothing upset teenagers. Helping 11-year-olds with their most frustrating math homework. Playing board games with the 5 year old, as he explained in blazing detail how one machine or animal or mathematical dynamic worked, laughing like a sweet nutso , cat in lap , as he prepared to win! Holding the two and three-year-olds on her lap, (who by-the-way entered and exited through the dogs doors if the welcome flag was up)

She would hold them while they sobbed about one thing or another, taking their small turns, interrupting and filling in for each other, telling the story all over again. 

Forest or Mira or Gemma sitting quietly on her porch swing, glad that the children had someone to go be with , at times like this .

10.26.14 For Yourself: For Others

51°, Sunday. Beautiful cloud covered skies, with some piquant blue showing now and again. I'm on the road, on the way to my brother's, to trade acupressure.

I see the flock of wild turkeys standing quietly on the sides, waiting for cars to notice, so that all of them can safely cross. In this area of town, they've known loss. They've known death and fear. They've learned. That some stupid humans don't stop. And some intelligent humans do. 

Gloriously beautiful, all of their muted colors, their soon to be full-grown babies of this year.
A Red-tail hawk overhead, following the updrafts. 

As we move into town, everyone is walking. Walking everywhere. A wonderful thing.

A few pastures: donkeys and burros and a pack of black horses , and sheep and goats all in their respective places, enjoying the rich fall grass, enjoying their momentary freedom. As their coats thicken and their layers of fat change , set off by the shifts in the light. Their bodies knowing of the season changes coming soon.

At the Lonewolf Deli, , and the Black Sheep Deli, fathers are breakfasting with college sons. Lovers are locked in kisses. People are huddling on benches, or scurrying by with children on their hips.

The beautiful silhouetted figures of Emily Dickinson conversing with her friend, just before her house, reminds us that she was here. Alive. Lived in those rooms. While she slept and wrote. Her Home, with her, long gone, open for visitors today. To wander about, and try to imagine what it was like to be her. And her days . Her choices. The origins.

Hope and Feathers Gallery is open, bright lights and signs, glorious artwork shining through the windows.
The Amherst train station stands as solid and in good repair as it might've been when it was built years ago. Awaiting changes in our train use, awaiting more people coming by, and soon, we will have a train coming through Northampton, too. A good thing, finally.

Further down, are all the homes where students live. . And everyone is fast asleep. Not a soul about. As the leaves continue to fall, sparkly and brazen in their colorful glory .

As high school students run along the sidewalk. Past huge white Stallions cavorting out in a deep green field. . Amethyst Brook rushing by, clean, gloriously beautiful.

People with dogs doing their constitutional's, smiling, the dogs with a bounce in their step, tails wagging, faces smiling with delight.

Kids walking past together, of all ages, laughing, debating, pushing each other's shoulders , back and forth.

Inimitable signs of life. As I drive past a large mailbox set up on a wooden post. Past a woman leaf blowing assiduously, coming to the end of it all with her yard.

The road now double lanes, with a canopy of branches and pine needles and bronze Oak leaves above, protective and beautiful.

As the homes before them hold clusters of chrysanthemums. Gourds. Stuffed people with pumpkinheads. Lovely things.

In neighborhoods where people own their homes, where there's little crime. With adequate food and shelter and warmth. Education. Access to jobs. Even in the easy places, life can be tough.

Imagine life in the tough places. Say a little prayer, today. For your own heart and mind . For your devotion to your species. For the small things you can do. For yourself. For others.

10.25.14 "The World Is A Beautiful Place..." Ferlinghetti

Ferlinghetti:
"The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind happiness
not always being
so very much fun
if you don't mind a touch of hell
now and then
just when everything is fine
because even in heaven
they don't sing
all the time"

10.25.14 Every Once In Awhile

Last Sunday I woke up, and after taking care of animals and myself, before any other responsibilities,kissed my husband and told him I needed to take off. With my camera. And I would be back in awhile.

I had a little bit of energy. And it just kind of hit me. The need to be alone. Not even walking a dog in the beautiful paths or streams or forest.

And so I drove up to Hadley Fields, where I had not been for a while. High up, protected wildlife sanctuary area. People raising money and then buying up farmland, little by little, keeping just ahead of the developers.

Far off in one field was a turkey tom, a hen , and some babies. There was a murmur of starlings circling about, that I know lives at one of the local dairy farms all winter long. Plenty of protection and food.
I drove by a small area on the side of the curved dirt road, that usually has piles of dumped furniture and garbage and crap. But it was clean now. And there was a new sign posted, protected wildlife sanctuary. Nothing could make me happier.

I pulled in, cut the car, and got out, and caught sight of a wildlife path. Followed it down a steep hill of the woods, to a stream far below. Carefully stepping over prickly blackberry bushes and wild roses, making my way down down through the vibrant green and yellow beach leaves,
Down to the stream below.

There was an inlet with water moving into the stream. Oily and copper yellow material polluted.
Later, I traced the origin to a number of farms with a run off going that direction. So who knows. Too bad.
But there I was, far down below the road. As the stream wandered by. As the green leaves of overhanging tree limbs were reflected beneath them, in the water.

It's always something to come upon a place that isn't frequented. No longer can I hike far into mountains or forest. But I can do the small adventures. Sit down on the Sunday morning. Watch the living things that frequent the area. Listen. Smell. Watch the stream.

Gaze at the ever changing patterns of small waves and water movements around rocks, as the current makes its way around the bend. Past obstructions of fallen trees and branches. What is more peaceful than this?

On the way back up the hill, I marveled at the cushioned earth beneath my feet, created by thousands of years of things living in seasons; beings passing by, and things dying.Building up this layer of soil. As I made my way back up to the road.

Far above, a great blue heron flew by. Silent. On their way to one place or another, maybe for Sunday brunch.

In the roadside drainage areas, the Blue Vervain and the Joe Pye Weed were drying now, letting their seeds fall where they may, to grow once again next year.
Such beauty, everywhere you turn. 

I walked up the dirt road apiece, down into small valley, with the stream passing beneath. And up into the entrance of the field, where maybe several hundred starlings were visiting. 

Chattering. I took a few steps into the field, and they began being disturbed; flying here and there. So I decided to leave them to their morning. Turned and walked away.

Back up the curving dirt road, the statuesque Maples alight with fall colors, the field still rich green, waiting for stealthy visiting dear to pass by, for the especially delicious lunch.

Just a taste. Of peace. Quiet. A bit of wilderness. No humans. That's all we need, every once in a while.

10.17.14 Response to Salon Article- Feminism Never Was About 'Having It All'- That Was Just a Virginia Slims Ditty...Remember?

     This Salon article, “ Mainstream Feminism Is Tepid And Cowardly: Work , Sex, Race, “Having it all”, and True Liberation – is  an excellent article. There are what I see as a misconceptions I'd like to comment on .
     I wasn't there in the 1800s or early 1900s, but I was there in the 1970s. 
     I devoured the history and the brilliant feminist tomes of the time.
     I lived in a politico household committed to social justice, that meant sex role awareness also.
     Nobody anywhere ever told us we could have it all. , except maybe Virginia Slims cigarettes ( talk about pink washing). That was a slogan the media plucked from the actual and substantial content , as it skipped away to make cutesey provocative drivel from the very real work and struggles that actual inequity and Feminism were involved in. Feminism was never, in actuality, touted as a sure fire wagon to climb upon, so that you 'got to have it all." That was the ensuing hope, not the point.
     The have it all? Was a Disney movie fantasy that somehow got bought by many of us, not as a concept or belief, but a hope that , without or with a partner, we could pursue meaningful work that was a living wage , have children if we wished, and juggle those, along with nourishing a relationship, if we had one, and parenting with equity and awareness. It was kind of heaping stuff on a little donkey, with good intentions.
      But a lot of careful thought and writing and conversation went into growing ourselves and supporting each other, so that we could assert ourselves in the world, and initiate growth there.
     I think that class , and capitalism ,are always the missing ingredients. And class is one of the main points of this article. That a lot of things happened for women who could afford to burn their bras, so to speak.
     The way our culture works and controls and makes money has a lot to do with the fact that many things like feminism don't become institutionalized. And if they do become institutionalized, lose a great deal of what they originally meant.
     To me, as an 18-year-old, waking up to feminism, reading Andrea Dworkin and then Mary Daly, living in Montague, Massachusetts, where there was a hotbed of women like Adrienne Rich et al, with discourse, writing separatist rags and figuring this out, to me it essentially is about options.
     For every single human. Options for every single woman. Options for every single man.
And relates to my own allergy to sex-typing and limiting us by sex from the moment we 're born infuriates me.
     Feminists' who tittered and ridiculed men taking their first steps parenting their newborn or decorating their house without normal everyday support just pissed me off. Purported feminists throwing slogans at their 4 year old boys, instead of getting inside things, and supporting them and their innate growth, if you just stop type casting and restricting them.
      But now, many of us are older. We studied history, as much history as is available to us. We have some understanding of what remains of life and women from thousands of years ago to now. We have some idea of what impact class and profit continues to have on any social mores. On minimum wage laws. On wage disparity. In income disparity .
     It seems to me that the biggest obstacle to feminism, or options, available to any human beings who are working class or low income, involves classism. And capitalism.
     The struggle we have with the gross nauseating rise in income disparity. That just keeps getting worse. The options for education whose parity keeps worsening also. Options, my dear Watson.
     The changing of the nature of what jobs are available in our culture, which keeps changing  again.
     Giving advantage to those born with wealth, race and class, and passing by all others, even those who work jobs, build up student loans, and eek their way through college .
To me, true feminism holds hands with an awareness of class and capitalism and the way our economy works.
     The equation must acknowledge and include all pertinent bases to even approach a working balance.
     It's not on 'Feminism's shoulders to promise fairy tales, like having it all. Or, bing ! Whacking a reticent conservative or apathetic legislator or powerful CEO with a wand to get them to change their priorities. Their organization, their fleeing factories.
     Change comes from within. It's hard stuff. A dispiriting path .
       There are multiple approaches , from people going down , repeatedly, and still , to New Orleans, when the government has shut its eyes and offices, and keep helping people rebuild and reclaim their homes .
     It's going into Reservations and places of intentional inequity and supporting one project after another.
     It's mentoring young girls and boys in school , so that someone with fresh blood shows up, repeatedly, to assert that kid's innate value and possibility . And help them navigate well enough to find their place in the world .
     It's the woman who started '68 Hours', to provide FOOD! For CHILDREN who don't get enough , between Friday school lunch and Monday school breakfast !!!
     Virtually everything is feminism to me, if done with awareness.
     It's simply all about seeing what can be done, now or gradually , so that as many of us as possible- have access, in our minds and beliefs and our neighborhoods- to as many options as possible. No stupid back- room antics or antiquated useless restrictions applied.
      A dear friend,  for years taught at The Summer Institute for Popular Economics, where activists from all over the country, and all kinds of backgrounds, would come to learn how the economy actually functions , and how to fine tune their activism to be as effective as possible            

     CPE is an amazing collective of lefty type economists who teach an excellent, interactive curriculum to put that information ; those actual dynamics- in the hands of the people.
      It seems that understanding the underlying economic dynamics enables all work on equity and justice to proceed on all economic , sex , race, sexual orientation, and economic levels.
      And as so many who came before us realized. , lay the foundation and show up with the mortar to build feminist awareness and options into all things.

http://www.salon.com/2014/09/14/mainstream_feminism_is_tepid_and_cowardly_work_sex_race_having_it_all_and_true_liberation/

10.23.14 As The Dark Day Continues On

 

It was cold and it was windy and there were torrents of rain, as I got out of the car to zip up my old raincoat, that accompanied me up Mount Washington a few times, with my family, years ago.

Pulled the hood up, fastened the arms, And retrieved Dante from the back of the car, the wind nearly pushing us over; trees swaying, A vast number leaves , of every color flying through the air.

We made our way down the lane a bit, and then I saw. The puddles. How deep they were. I was in my old sneakers. Oh well. It was just such beauty.
I unleashed the dog, and he went flying down Kestrel Lane. Grabbing the largest stick he could find, triumphantly galloping back to me, smashing me in the thigh, as always, with his youthful delight.

The trick, you see, is to walk along the Lane, or anywhere else, and keep your eyes open for sticks. And keep tossing them-so he bounds off, or, just to keep him off-guard, give a quick throw behind you, so he pivots and races that way. Yes, it's great fun. And yes, exhausts him. A little bit.

On we went, my feet sinking into deeper and deeper waters. First just the sneakers getting wet, then my ankles, then the bottom of my pants. By then, like every other year of my life, I had surrendered. To the momentary chill. To the absolute beauty of the universe that exists within a puddle. 

To the changes of the lane, from just yesterday. So many changes, so fast, always. Everything in flux.

One of the most interesting things to me about reading about others' lives, about gazing at photographs of them when they were young, and then old. Of the words, and anything else they create, or think, a different seasons in their lives, is that invariably, they get to the place where they realize, in their own way, that-all is one.

I've been enjoying Vita Sackville-West's poetry, and snippets. Sometimes the meter and rhyme of the age does become a little tiring, but the amount you discover about her, and her time, from that perspective, has such depth.
And there she is, saying that the one who lives and the one who watches the living - are the same. 

What we have heard from all aspects of life, since the beginning of time. When you get right down to it.

I'm thinking this over, as the puddles become deeper and deeper. As the colors change. As the variety of leaves, and the compositions, shift over and over, while we make our way down the lane.

In the meantime, the wind is blowing sideways. Rain pelting us. The pup, now and then, looking up at me, as if to say "This is really okay?" Makes me laugh. The little boy has forgotten last winter. But we all need a few go arounds, before we began to remember. What all the variations are like. To internalize kind of knowing. Some would say, to remember. From ancestors. Other times.t 

About three quarters of the way down, the whole lane is one huge puddle, and I turnabout, sailboat on a whipped wind ocean. And we make our way back, as I peer into each cuddle, seeing so many configurations of composition. 

Leaves suspended beneath water , reminding me of our Quabbin reservoir here, where they removed towns and towns, peoples lives. 

Now you can rent motorboat, and go down down the long reservoir, far down to what are now virtually inaccessible wildlands, a refuge for wildlife. Because you are allowed to fish, but not allowed to get out of the boat.
So unless you want to hike miles and miles and miles in, the land is undisturbed. Populace moved. The places where their ancestors were born and died no longer exists, or rather, it's just beneath a lake. I walk along, wondering what that's like.

As I watch the rain plummet down upon the puddles, pressing the water this way and that. Forming shapes and contours, around leaves half protruding, or leaves fully submerged. I probably could stand there all day, just watching what becomes.

We get back into the car, going by Northampton on our way home. Toweled off sufficiently.

And in our nearest little city, on this day where the rain has stopped, but is sprinkling, there are different groupings of homeless people, some with jackets and sweatshirts and gloves that match.

 Making the best of their situation. Piles of bags next to them, protected from the rain. 

Enjoying their conversations, holding out cups for donations. Such a wide range of ways that all of us could become without homes. I for one think about this. But as I observe one person and then another, I'm left wondering how they got to this place for themselves.

Back home, we warm ourselves, we dry ourselves, as the rain assaults the mountain range, and the house. Splattering upon the windows, surprising the young shepherd. The cats are all delighted, because despite being a New Englander, I finally succumbed. And the two oil filled radiators are on, one in the bedroom,, And one in the living room. The felines cluster about them, and refuse to move, even when the shepherd tries to play games or intimidate them.

Shiva lays upon our huge bed , upon the floor, just for her, warm and comfortable. The Danto follows her, and tries hard to sneak up for a cuddle, quietly succeeding.

Down her back I work, dispersing inflammation, releasing tension. Working down her sore joints. 

As she sighs and smiles. And the dark day continues on.