its burden and greatness
My only advice for you is this. Go within yourself and probe the depths from which your life springs, and there at its source you’ll find the answer to the question of whether you must write. Accept this answer, just as you hear it, without hesitation. It may be revealed that you are called to be an artist. Then take this lot upon you, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without asking for any external reward. For the creative artist must be a world for himself, and find everything within himself—and in nature, to which he is devoted.
Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Painting: the sphinx by Helene Knoop
be like the bear
Be like a bear in the forest of yourself.
Even sleeping you are powerful in your breath.
Every hair has life
and standing, as you do, swaying
from one foot to the other
all the forest stands with you.
Each minute sound, one after another,
is distinct in your ear. Here
in the blur of mixed sensations, you can
feel the crisp outline of being, particulate.
Great as you are, huge as you are and
growling like the deepest drum,
the continual vibration that makes music
what it is,
not some light stone skipped on the surface of things,
you travel below
sounding the depths where only the dauntless go.
Be like the bear and
do not forget
how you rounded your
massive shape over the just ripened
berry which burst
in your mouth that moment
how you rolled in
the wet grass, cool and silvery, mingling
with your sensate skin,
how you shut
your eyes and swam far and farther
still, starlight
shaping itself to your body,
starship rocking the grand, slow waves
under the white trees, in the
snowy night.
homemade granola
- 5 cups organic rolled oats (or any oats of choice)
- 1/3 cup ground golden flax
- 1/2 cup maple syrup (or maybe agave?)
- 1/3 cup oil of choice
- 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
- 3/4 teaspoon sea salt
- 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
- handful of slivered almonds
- handful of raisins
In the bowl of a food processor, add 1 ½ cup of oats and flax. Process until a coarse oat flour is produced.
In a large mixing bowl combine this flour with the remaining 3 ½ cups of oats, maple syrup, oil, cinnamon, salt, vanilla.
Stir until all ingredients are thoroughly combined and moistened.
Spread onto a sheet pan coated with parchment paper, silpat mat, or lightly oiled foil.
Bake at 300 degrees for 35-50 minutes. Bake until crisp and golden brown.
Cool completely on sheet pan. Store in air-tight container.
*Add in ideas:
- dried fruit
- goji berries or any dried berries
- banana chips
- chocolate chips
- any combo of nuts
- any combo of seeds
- toasted coconut
playing dead
the girls have a new game they play outside -
one lies down on the ground, face up, eyes closed,
dead grass knotted in her hair.
one sister comes to the rescue,
placing the dead sister in the little red wagon
and carting her to the gazebo, which is really the hospital.
The sister pulling the red wagon is really a doctor
who saves the other sister
with concoctions of dead leaves, berries, and dirt,
which they call medicine.
the father leaves the door open while he works,
listening as the sisters play.
meanwhile, the contractions become
more intense, and the mother
makes a batch of homemade granola
for the nest.
… only a few more weeks,
dearest friends.
illustration from the dead bird by margaret wise brown
seedling
image – not sure of the origin – found at the lovely arielawonders
poem: a ring of changes by denise levertov
this notion of time
anniversary poem
later, you would shave your head. and i would trim the hair
on the nape of your neck. this notion of time, a passing year,
another we’ve made together.
you ask me – what sex is the baby.
but i don’t answer. instead, i tell you
it is okay for you to remarry when i die.
i see it in my face more than yours.
these gray roots and the lines around my mouth.
- she will have your eyes.
i woke up last night, and the porch light was on.
i swear i heard rain. a ghost reached for you.
and then i found you -
asleep between two daughters,
wearing an old sweater
i bought you years ago.
the baby kicks
And then it was over, this world we had grown to love
for its sweet grasses, for the many-colored horses
and fishes, for the shimmering possibilities
while dreaming.
But then there were the seeds to plant and the babies
who needed milk and comforting, and someone
picked up a guitar or ukulele from the rubble
and began to sing about the light flutter
the kick beneath the skin of the earth
we felt there, beneath us
a warm animal
a song being born between the legs of her;
a poem.
image via old lawrence
joy harjo poem: when the world ended as we knew it
