waiting

waiting

In this piece, my 25-year old niece across the country attempts to make sense of the string of days in quarantine–before the uprising… (a follow up post on her blog captures her reluctant participance, tear gas and committment)

the queer apostate

I took a walk this morning. Well, afternoon. Remade into morning with coffee and buttered toast. I feel my body remolding into a sitting shape, criss cross applesauce on my bed embroidering, or on the couch reading, or lounged in front of Grey’s Anatomy. Things aren’t tasteless yet, but still my days feel like lumps of dough rising on the counter; alive, yeast turning sugar into soft porous shapes, but waiting to be kneaded into a new form, so much waiting.

In the neighborhood, there are also signs of life made by waiting. Someone’s ceiling fan is drying with a fresh coat of white, propped up on old paint cans in their driveway. Someone else painted sweet gum pods rainbow colors and hung them by ribbons from the slender, bare limbs of another tree. Kids are sitting in the patches of grass along the sidewalks, or even in the gravel…

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Potato Chips for Breakfast

Potato Chips for Breakfast

In the 25+ years since I moved to the mountains from the Mid-Atlantic, I’ve seen my share of May snowfalls, the latest recorded–May 18th–which would have been the year we lived on Ames Hill in the one bedroom fishbowl apartment, with the floor to cathedral ceiling windows, which was just after my youngest was born. (That place had a great kitchen, small but so functional.) He’s 18 now.

This May, however, is the most I’ve seen consecutive snow, flurries mostly, until today, when we’ve risen to a world in white, which was already true earlier this week over on Hogback, with just a little more elevation than us.

I finally got my seeds in this week, a whole lot of work. I stopped when the rain picked up. My fingers were raw. I wonder what the seeds will make of this covering. Or if they won’t.

My son has an Ultimate game this afternoon. Home game. His tournament last weekend upstate was canceled as was the one the weekend before that. Fields flooded. (Those were the last oof his high school tournaments.)

Imagine if this snow was on a Saturday when a bride was planning her spring wedding. We’re heading to one soon. Across country. Forecast calls for high 80s. Flood warnings there through yesterday.

I thought I’d cleanse this month, but instead, I’ve taken to alternating between kitchari and spring greens–and baked goods, chocolate & caffeine. I don’t know what my body will make of this. But I’m learning to rock more and resist less. To let myself be rocked. To surrender the ride.

Potato chips for breakfast.

(Spring 2019)

Bounty: Southern VT

Bounty: Southern VT


I wanted to share some of the nourishing fall programs & events happening in our area of Southern Vermont (and online.)

First, my longtime friend/artist/mystic Jess Weitz is offering two online programs: Inner Landscapes: exploring our psyche through the landscape and Archetypal Doll Making, the latter also in person at the River Gallery School where Jess leads Art & Meditation classes as well as daylong retreats.

Secondly, in addition to her weekly WORD CAFÉ gatherings in downtown Brattleboro, my gentle, soulful & talented neighbor Robin Marie MacArthur is offering a 6-week Fall Writing Workshop for poets, fiction & non-fiction writers which she describes as (and to which I can attest) “supportive, encouraging and semi-formal.” www.wordhousebrattleboro.com

Lastly, our esteemed teacher & dear family friend Scott Willis is offering his Hits The Spot Yoga Teacher Training/Immersion Program in 2019-20 which was for me (in 2012), a touchstone during a time of radical personal change & opportunity. Scott’s mastery, style, humor & compassion continue to inspire my personal practice & teaching.

We are so fortunate to have the depth & breadth of artistry, creativity & service in our area. When you enroll online or in-person for an ongoing class (or travel for a single-day event), it’s a win-win-win. You support an artist/teacher, they, in turn, support you, while the work that is shaped–on the mat, on the page, on the canvass–nourishes consciousness, connection & community.

Yours in abundance & gratitude,

Kelly

Links:

Jess Weitz, River Gallery Art School
Robin MacArthur, Wordhouse
Scott Willis, Hits the Spot Yoga

and on the coast in Maine, former Vermont neighbor/author/friend:

Jodi Paloni, Maine Coast Writers Retreats
…Sweater-weather writing workshop, (leaning) into moments of nature, exploring the narrative of place, how outer landscape can mirror the inner landscape of our narrators, how setting can be leveraged to evoke an atmospheric tone in our poems and prose. We’ll write about the beauty we see before us and the grief we experience when we remember what’s at stake for our beloved planet. We’ll walk the magical coastal trails for peace of mind, healing ritual, and creative self-care. A hearty harvest menu will shore us for our forays.”

 

 

A People, Divided

A People, Divided

Small Talk

My husband explains to me, again, how small talk is emp/f/phatic communion (I always get the word wrong.) So every few weeks, especially if I’ve had caffeine, I give it a try, and just the other morning, the cashier at the Co-op played along.

“We brought the ice packs because it’s so warm out,” I joked, as she rang up our groceries.

“I know,” she said, “It was really cold at our house this morning.”

“39, at ours,” I added, and then we both spoke at once, so “communed” had we become, with the same beginning sound too, except that what came after her “B,” was: BEAUTIFUL; and what came after mine: BRUTAL.

~


Stranger Angel

Waking to 39 degrees and not being among those who celebrate such disregard for gardens (and summer souls), I meditate on this guy, who was waiting for someone at the farmers market on Saturday morning, leaning shyly, I thought, against the compost with his bouquet, while l just as shyly asked if I could photograph him before escaping the crowds.

~

Procession

I’m not much of a boater, but seeing them on the road in August is like seeing a hearse drive through town, carrying summer.

~

Surrender

45 after 44 has been so excruciating that I can barely think about 44. But for this, I’ll make an exception:

His & Michelle’s summer playlist:

~

Warming Again

Goldfinches in the cherry tree
Last light on the birches
Bread salad with basil & heirloom tomatoes on the table

~

Tomato Legacy

My mother, my grandmothers, my great grandmother…

~

39

About this time of year, the chaff is separated from the wheat, and those who delight in the sudden plummet of heat, without regard for the life of tomatoes and basil, are thus made apparent; just as 45 made apparent so many things, which is what I thinking as I biked up to the farmstand for Sunday morning scones, shivering; And while my disdain for their disloyalty to summer may not be as strong as my disdain, say, for those who (still) champion 45, they had that very morning, chilled and cloud covered as it was, come alarmingly close, particularly with the forecast of 39.

~

Antidote

Summer gratitude collage—an antidote—not so much to grief, which is necessary & fruitful—but to pissy attitudes of not enough (my own.)

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