“. . . if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen.” ~ Joseph Campbell, interview with Bill Moyer



A thing too perfect to be remembered:
stone beautiful only when wet.

* * *

Blinded by light or black cloth—
so many ways
not to see others suffer.

* * *

Too much longing:

it separates us
like scent from bread,
rust from iron.

* * *

From very far or very close—
the most resolute folds of the mountain are gentle.

* * *

As if putting arms into woolen coat sleeves,
we listen to the murmuring dead.

* * *

Any point of a circle is its start:
desire forgoing fulfillment to go on desiring.

* * *

In a room in which nothing
has happened,
sweet-scented tobacco.

* * *

The very old, hands curling into themselves, remember their parents.

* * *

Think assailable thoughts, or be lonely.

~ Jane Hirshfield


Music by Antony & Bryce Dessner, “I Was Young When I Left Home”

“Words become powerless to express your pain; what others hear from your words is so distant and different from what you are actually suffering.” ~ John O’Donohue, Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom


In the morning it takes the mind a while
To find the world again, lost after dream
Has taken the heart to the underworld
To play with the shades of lives not chosen.” ~ John O’Donohue, from “The Visitation”

Saturday evening. Rainy and chilly.

I did not sleep well last night. Every time Shakes would cough, I would sit up and look at him to make sure he did not stop breathing, so today has been a whole lot of nothing on the computer, lots and lots of knotted muscles, and forgetting to eat until I got a headache.

The above lightning gif appeared on my tumblr dash. As you know, I love lightning, the crack, the flash, especially lightning over water, so this image, as violent as it may seem, is very comforting to me.

I won’t even try to write a regular post, just share an image, a quote or two, and a poem. In a Gaelic kind of mood.

More later. Peace.

Music by Anne Jennings-Tauciene, “The Rose of Allendale”


Beannacht (Blessing)

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

~ John O’Donohue

“It was as if some space had opened up, a little rift, between words and whatever they were supposed to be doing. I stumbled in that space, I fell.” ~ Steven Millhauser, Dangerous Laughter

Shakes Sailing Across the Water


“The heart breaks and breaks
and lives by breaking
it is necessary to go through
dark and deeper dark
and not to turn” ~ Stanley Kunitz, “The Testing Tree”

Friday afternoon. Cloudy and humid, 80’s.

This post is very depressing. You may want to just skip it.

My dog Shakes is dying. He’s the fat, gay mama’s boy, the bigger Jack Russell, and he’s 12. He has congestive heart failure. That wheezy cough that I thought was allergies, wasn’t.

Christmas 2010: Shakes after the Packages

In the past 24 hours, he has collapsed twice, once, his heart seemed to stop. As I’m typing this, he’s at his usual spot, on the floor next to my chair. He’s been on medication for two days, but frankly, he seems worse.

I know that this happens. I know that if you have pets, the chances that they are going to die before you do are great. I know that loss is part of the process in deliberately choosing to open your heart to something. I know all of these things. Ask me if it makes a damned bit of difference.

In my lifetime, I have lost three dogs of my own, not including the deaths of those dogs who lived with my parents. Ascot was a rescue from the pound in Christiansburg, the first few months after I married my ex. She had hip dysplasia, but we adopted her anyway, knowing that she wouldn’t have a long life, but she would have a good one. Then I lost my first lab, Mokie, to old age and illness. And my second lab, Murphy, died of heart failure, and it happened on the one weekend that Corey and I decided to go to the Outer Banks with friends, so she died without me.

I won’t let that happen to Shakes.

“Until we have seen someone’s darkness, we don’t really know who they are. Until we have forgiven someone’s darkness, we don’t really know what love is.” ~ Marianne Williamson

The two boy Jack Russells came to us from my mother, who bought them from the woman who used to live behind her. I had always wanted a Jack Russell, that is, until I found out that they are truly terror terriers. Never mind. She brought them over and announced that they were birthday presents for the boys.

Shakes Sleeping like a Human

So we welcomed William Shakespeare (Shakes), and Alfred, Lord Tennyson (Alfie) into the fold. Murphy was still alive at the time, and the boy puppies put a new spring into her step. We soon found that the boys were escape artists, managing to find any hole in the fence, regardless of size. The neighbors became aware of the two white dogs who lived on the corner, and sometimes returned them before we even knew that they had escaped.

Shakes has always been my dog, following me from room to room, sleeping by my side. Alfie, not so much. In fact, Alfie is probably a wee bit psychotic, going into prolonged growls for no apparent reason. Canine rage, it’s called. The vet prescribed meds, but said that Benadryl was just as effective. So Alfie gets his dose of Benadryl in a blob of peanut butter. Everyone is happier.

So my canine boys are old now, and I’m facing yet another loss. And as we all know, I don’t do loss well, and, well, this is coming at a time in which my defenses are already weakened, and my spirits are mighty low.

“We scribble our little sentences.
Some of them sound okay and some of them sound not so okay.
A grain and an inch, a grain and an inch and a half.

Sad word wands, desperate alphabet.” ~ Charles Wright, from “When You’re Lost in Juarez, in the Rain, and It’s Eastertime Too”

Let’s add a really fine topper to this whole situation, shall we? Corey is leaving tonight. It’s been great that he’s been home, but the time spent running around trying to take care of things has made it so that we’ve hardly had any time with each other, and now he’s gone for at least another five weeks or so.

Shakes and Tillie Vying for the Ladder

And so, and this is very selfish, I know, Shakes in all probability will die while Corey is away.

I dealt with Tillie’s massive seizures without him, and lots of extraneous bullshit without him, and no, this isn’t his fault, and I’m not even close to suggesting that. It’s time and circumstance, both of which seem to be in collusion to bring about that perfect storm (a phrase which used to have real meaning before the media seized upon it and used it ad infinitum), the circumstances in which I will surely approach that point at which just one more thing, even pebble-sized, when added to the precarious perch upon which I find myself, will send me crashing.

Did you follow that?

“Thus I spoke, more and more softly; for I was afraid of my own thoughts and the thoughts behind my thoughts.” ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, from “Thus Spoke Zarathustra”

I know that I’ve mentioned the circumstances of my parents’ marriage more than once. Short version, my father spent most of their marriage (we’re talking decades and decades) at sea. They essentially lived separate lives until he retired, and when they were together, they fought and fought and fought.

Shakes Pulling Back the Curtains for a Peep Outside

It was never the kind of marriage to which I aspired. I mean, I’m not that kind of crazy. But now I find myself in the kind of marriage in which one of us is gone for weeks and weeks, out of touch by telephone, and yes, it’s great that there is e-mail, but it’s not the same. It’s just not the same.

Yes, he’s working. Yes, he’s making good money. Yes, we’re able to pay our bills. No, we’re not going to lose our house. No, our utilities are not going to be shut off. No, I’m not going to lose my health insurance.

The adult part of my brain, small that it is, understands all of this. But I have always been ruled by my heart, not my brain, and my heart aches. It simply cannot bear the weight of all of these things, piling on in quick succession. And, I have to say this because it’s true, I hate that, hate hate hate that about myself. Why can I not be better about all of this? Why can I not weigh the pros and cons rationally? Why can I not handle the stress with more aplomb and less angst?

I have no answers. Face it. If I had any answers, I wouldn’t be asking these stupid questions.

“All will go
And one day
We will hold
Only the shadows.” ~ Carl Sandburg, from “Losses”

Shakes Under Cover

So, full circle. Shakes is lying on the floor, head on front paws, breathing relatively well. The image seared into my retinas of his tongue hanging out of his mouth is still fresh, and it’s right there next to the horrid memory of Tillie’s face pulled back in pain and her eyes beseeching me. And all the while, I am of little more use than a lamp post.

We humans seek out animal kinship. We buy, find, rescue dogs, cats, birds, snakes, mice, lizards, even rats. We give these creatures names, and we bestow upon them human characteristics. We talk to them, play with them, feed them, and spoil them. That is, if we are decent humans deserving of animal companionship. I won’t even delve into those beastly humans who inflict great cruelty upon animals because, after all, they’re just fill-in-the-blank, and no, I have not nor will I ever forgive Michael Vick no matter how well he plays football.

I have spoiled Shakes. And in the past few days, I am deliberately spoiling him more, letting him go for car rides, giving him extra treats. I cannot control the fact that he is dying, but I can make his remaining time here as filled with love as is possible. I can say his name lovingly, rub behind his ears gently, and hold him when he has an attack.

And then I can go in the bathroom, turn on the water, and weep.

More later. Peace.

Music by Antony and the Johnsons, “Cut the World”


The Wound

The shock comes slowly
as an afterthought.

First you hear the words
and they are like all other words,

ordinary, breathing out of lips,
moving toward you in a straight line.

Later they shatter
and rearrange themselves. They spell

something else hidden in the muscles
of the face, something the throat wanted to say.

Decoded, the message etches itself in acid
so every syllable becomes a sore.

The shock blooms into a carbuncle.
The body bends to accommodate it.

A special scarf has to be worn to conceal it.
It is now the size of a head.

The next time you look,
it has grown two eyes and a mouth.

It is difficult to know which to use.
Now you are seeing everything twice.

After a while it becomes an old friend.
It reminds you every day of how it came to be.

~ Ruth Stone

“I flee from those who are gifted with understanding, fearing that all their great and illuminating invasions of my being still won’t satisfy me.” ~ Robert Walser, ”The One of Fairy Tales”

by markus43 on DeviantArt (link is broken)


“As a blind man, lifting a curtain, knows it is morning,
I know this change:
On one side of silence there is no smile;
But when I breathe with the birds,
The spirit of wrath becomes the spirit of blessing,
And the dead begin from their dark to sing in my sleep.” ~ Theodore Roethke, from “Journey to the Interior”

I have posted a poem by Olena Kalytiak Davis before, but I came across a few lines of the following one on my tumblr dash, so of course, I went in search of the entire poem. I found it on a lovely site that I’ve recently added to my blogroll: Dragonfly’s Poetry and Prolixity. If you love poetry (and dragonflies, which I do), you might enjoy this new gem.


The Panic of Birds

The moon is sick
of pulling at the river, and the river
fed up with swallowing the rain,
So, in my lukewarm coffee, in the bathroom
mirror, there’s a restlessness
as black as a raven.
Landing heavily on the quiet lines of this house.
Again, the sun takes cover
and the morning is dead
tired of itself, already, it’s pelting and windy
as I lean into the pane
that proves this world is a cold smooth place.

Wind against window—let the words fight it out—
as I try to remember: What is it
that’s so late in coming? What was it
I understood so well last night, so well it kissed me,
sweetly on the forehead?

Wind against window and my late flowering brain,
heavy, gone to seed. Pacing
from room to room and in each window
a different version of a framed woman
unable to rest, set against a sky
full of beating wings and abandoned
directions. Her five chambered heart
filling with the panic of birds, asking: What?

What if not this?

~ Olena Kalytiak Davis

“No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.” ~ William Blake, “Proverbs of Hell” from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Reblogged from Parabola Magazine:


How do you know but every Bird that cuts the airy way, Is an immense world of delight, clos’d by your senses five?—William BlakePhotograph: Yvon [Pierre Yves Petit, 1886-1969] : Gargoyle atop Notre Dame

How do you know but every Bird
that cuts the airy way,
Is an immense world of delight,
clos’d by your senses five?

~ William Blake (“A Memorable Fancy” from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)

Photograph: Yvon [Pierre Yves Petit, 1886-1969] : Gargoyle atop Notre Dame


Music by Emily Barker & The Red Clay Halo, “This is How it’s Meant to be”

“There is earth | that never leaves your hands, | rain that never leaves | your bones. Words so old they are broken | from us, because they can only be | broken.” Anne Michaels, from “Into Arrival”

“Silent Eiffel Tower”
by overcome (treakearth.com)


Two for Tuesday: Anne Michaels

Phantom Limbs

“The face of the city changes more quickly, alas! than the mortal heart.” ~ Charles Baudelaire

So much of the city
is our bodies. Places in us
old light still slants through to.
Places that no longer exist but are full of feeling,
like phantom limbs.

Even the city carries ruins in its heart.
Longs to be touched in places
only it remembers.

Through the yellow hooves
of the ginkgo, parchment light;
in that apartment where I first
touched your shoulders under your sweater,
that October afternoon you left keys
in the fridge, milk on the table.
The yard — our moonlight motel —
where we slept summer’s hottest nights,
on grass so cold it felt wet.
Behind us, freight trains crossed the city,
a steel banner, a noisy wall.
Now the hollow diad
floats behind glass
in office towers also haunted
by our voices.

Few buildings, few lives
are built so well
even their ruins are beautiful.
But we loved the abandoned distillery:
stone floors cracking under empty vats,
wooden floors half rotted into dirt;
stairs leading nowhere; high rooms
run through with swords of dusty light.
A place the rain still loved, its silver paint
on rusted things that had stopped moving it seemed, for us.
Closed rooms open only to weather,
pungent with soot and molasses,
scent-stung. A place
where everything too big to take apart
had been left behind.


Red Moon over France
by ced (FCC)

11. What the Light Teaches

Language is the house with lamplight in its windows,
visible across fields. Approaching, you can hear
music; closer, smell
soup, bay leaves, bread — a meal for anyone
who has only his tongue left.
It’s a country; home, family; abandoned, burned down; whole lines dead, unmarried.
For those who can’t read their way in the streets,
or in the gestures and faces of strangers,
language is the house to run to;
in wild nights, chased by dogs and other sounds,
when you’ve been lost a long time,
when you have no other place.

There are nights in the forest of words
when I panic, every step into thicker darkness,
the only way out to write myself into a clearing,
which is silence.
Nights in the forest of words
when I’m afraid we won’t hear each other
over clattering branches, over
both our voices calling.

In winter, in the hour
when the sun runs liquid then freezes,
caught in the mantilla of empty trees;
when my heart listens
through the cold stethoscope of fear,
your voice in my head reminds me
what the light teaches.
Slowly you translate fear into love, the way the moon’s blood is the sea.

“I desired always to stretch the night and fill it fuller and fuller with dreams.” ~ Virginia Woolf


The interwebs are a wondrous place. Completely by chance I came across an intriguing photograph, but no source was given. This happens a lot, too much, in fact. But when I want to know more, especially before including said photograph with a post, I go on a treasure hunt of sorts, trying to track down the source, the photographer, the name of the piece, the date, anything. This is how I came across the work of the improbably named Cocky Eek.

The about section of her site states this about the designer: “Since the millennium her work has been mainly revolving around lightweight spatial compositions and her favorite media are wind and air. This resulted in floating or flying experiments or large, voluminous pneumatic forms constructed to capture air. She creates environments that translate this material into a tangible experience of form and volume.”

I wanted to know the source of the picture above. Apparently, it comes from Eek’s “Illumine” Project, of which Eek writes the following:

They become alive when starting to breath
moving their inner light space
the skin is the beholder of their integrity
preventing themselves for being solved in outer space

The picture depicts the balloon dress, and if I’m interpreting the caption correctly, it’s called “Ice Whiz,” from February 2009

Just a bit of trivia for your Monday afternoon.

More later. Peace.

More music by Emily Barker & The Red Clay Halo, “Pause” (just seemed to go with this photograph)


Who am I now without your love?
Who am I alone in a day that has gone?
Without your love to return upon,
I’m a featherless bird in a sky so absurd
Why oh why’s there so much movement

When all I long for is to lay down in love’s pause

And dream I know something of truth
Oh hide me deeper in your peace further
And lose me in this greed I’ve found in your need