End of May. Spring is fast ending—at least as it is interpreted by May. Between graduation parties, weddings, work and more work, I've barely had the chance to enjoy the cool, pale green grasses and tiny wildflowers that are scattered across the trail I walk on every day to get to my mother-in-law's house. At 88, she still gardens like mad, but she totters more, so I like to check on her.
We have been getting submission after submission for the Native American section of the next volume of Many Mountains Moving. I have been sending stacks of poems and stories to Diane Glancy who is our wonderful section editor. So many voices from so many tribes across the U.S.
Had dinner with my friend Helen who is back for a quick, three-week hiatus from Thailand. She doesn't work but her husband, an engineer, oversees a factory for Seagate in a tiny village in Thailand. She has moved into an apartment in Bangkok because there is more to see and do. She invited me to come out to Thailand to visit her and I had to laugh. She is lovely, but I can't identify with her easy life of maids and drivers and long, listless days in a country inundated with sex trafficking.
Rachel was married over Memorial Day weekend and what a lovely wedding it was. The service was officiated by a priest and a rabbi. The prayers were spoken in Hebrew and English. The gazebo was completely shrouded in the white, delicate fabric of the chuppah. Aaron was one of the ushers so we finally got him to cut his long hair. Now, he looks like my son again!
I was able to dance a little before my feet finally gave out, but I am always so at peace when I am spending time with my husband and sons and Aaron's Kristin who sits by me and talks when I can't dance any more. I was happy as I watched Rachel dance in her white gown, white rose in her dark hair. I thought of a sweet poem I had read in Poetry by the 7th century lyric poet Alcman which was translated by A.E. Stallings:
Halcyon
O girls who sing so honey-sweet and true,
My dancing days are through,
My limbs don't have the strength to carry me.
If only I could be
A cerulean bird that flew
With the kingfishers over the bloom of the waves,
Heart unflinching, brave,
Spring's sacred bird, as purple as the sea.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Needles and Nerves
A canyon wren's call is a lovely sound. A claretcup cactus in full, blood-red bloom is a spectacular sight. I thought of these things as I lay on my back with the acupuncture needles protruding from my ears, head, feet and legs. All this to quiet my nerves and to help with the painful dystonia in my feet, particularly the right foot that has a penchant to twist inward in the early mornings and late evening.
Needles.
I thought of the Needles area of Canyonlands where I was this past Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. Utah is so beautiful this time of year. Little, salmon-colored lizards darted in and out of the slickrock and the thick, yellow barberry bushes were fiery with light. The world could have ended in the red sand for all I cared. I was diverted from my pain by dark green Mormon tea and the way the Indian paintbrush dared to place itself brazenly amidst this strangest of grasses. Orange mallow, scarlet gillia, ivory yucca blossoms, evening primrose and tall sage were like immutable prayers.
Needles.
I don't want to ever leave. I want to stay on this earth and take its pain and push it back again and out like giving birth a million times. I want to watch in silence how the gold light on the Colorado River sinks and rises and rearranges its shape like a nervous spirit. There is a nerve as raw as mine and yet translucent. I adhere to the colors and movement around me. They take me up with them.
Needles.
Carol pulls them out of my body, one-by-one, dozens of needles. I am afraid to move, afraid the days, the weeks will disperse the feeling of the desert into tiny particles that will sink below currents, below a surface I long to skim across like light. My feet are the heavy adversaries in this story. After needles though, they tingle and promise to behave. They have just been dancing in the desert.
Needles make you confess. You winch a little as they are put in and manipulated, but later, you sleep like you are truly sliding and skimming across a surface and you don't sink below. That fear is just an illusion. I say this to myself throughout the week as the beauty of the desert recedes gently. I walk my dogs through the crunchy pine cones along a familiar Colorado trail. My feet are working at this moment and I am happy. I must confess.
Needles.
I thought of the Needles area of Canyonlands where I was this past Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. Utah is so beautiful this time of year. Little, salmon-colored lizards darted in and out of the slickrock and the thick, yellow barberry bushes were fiery with light. The world could have ended in the red sand for all I cared. I was diverted from my pain by dark green Mormon tea and the way the Indian paintbrush dared to place itself brazenly amidst this strangest of grasses. Orange mallow, scarlet gillia, ivory yucca blossoms, evening primrose and tall sage were like immutable prayers.
Needles.
I don't want to ever leave. I want to stay on this earth and take its pain and push it back again and out like giving birth a million times. I want to watch in silence how the gold light on the Colorado River sinks and rises and rearranges its shape like a nervous spirit. There is a nerve as raw as mine and yet translucent. I adhere to the colors and movement around me. They take me up with them.
Needles.
Carol pulls them out of my body, one-by-one, dozens of needles. I am afraid to move, afraid the days, the weeks will disperse the feeling of the desert into tiny particles that will sink below currents, below a surface I long to skim across like light. My feet are the heavy adversaries in this story. After needles though, they tingle and promise to behave. They have just been dancing in the desert.
Needles make you confess. You winch a little as they are put in and manipulated, but later, you sleep like you are truly sliding and skimming across a surface and you don't sink below. That fear is just an illusion. I say this to myself throughout the week as the beauty of the desert recedes gently. I walk my dogs through the crunchy pine cones along a familiar Colorado trail. My feet are working at this moment and I am happy. I must confess.
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