Thursday, September 23, 2010

Harvest Moon

Tonight, the full Harvest Moon, tucked away in crowded mental files, for the day I find I've lived my last and need to recall once again the beauty that was never mine. She belongs to no man and we are a sad lot for taking her for granted; especially one so lovely and precious. This moon changes you, forces you to pause and reflect, to go slowly through your intentions like stepping stones through a zen garden. This moon reveals things, uncovers them at their most awkward, painful, and spare. This is a moon of childbirth, lunatics, and dreams coming to fruition or lost under the tines.

The harvest moon serves to remind us the seeds we planted so long ago have come to bear for good or bad and we are each responsible for our own lot. My sincerest hope is the majority of your harvests bring you what you desire, bless you with bounty in all good things, and if they are lacking, may you find in your heart the seeds for next spring.

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns. George Eliot

Thursday, September 16, 2010


I do not own a desk.
My work is built in the ether.
Spread across beds and couches.
On shabby cat clawed chairs.
Swept into tidy piles of dusty spiders.
Under sunlight, moonlight, lamp light.
Between cracks in the grout and mildew.
Inside machines and engines with rpm.
Beside lovers and friends and enemies.
Over asphalt and glass and gravel.
Below the grass and dirt and slate mountains.
Etched on subterranean rock with my thumbnail.
Stained on the dome of the sky in my blood.
Orbiting in the space between you and the universe.
Winged and free like hawks and butterflies.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

The Geometry Of Shelter

My virtual friend, the Lady, has honored me by reading my flash fiction story Litmus on her podcast, Call of the Lark. She did a wonderful job and I am humbled to be appreciated by her in this way. Thank you! Check out her podcast; she will be reading literature and poetry as well as taking submissions.

In her introduction, she spoke to my writing here in this space, and the pieces of ourselves we share with the world. Often we bloggers write to cast ourselves in the best light possible, but we also operate under the knowledge that life is not all pretty prose or well crafted pieces of art; life is the chaotic stimulus gestating these shared mementos. Sometimes it takes the hardships to produce a beautiful sentiment, a thoughtful gift, or a genuine reflection. Sometimes it takes joys to make us see how much hardship we unintentionally create.

This space, this small room called pneuma, is a window into my musings. I'm really here, passing by the window every so often, offering a glimpse inside. This space is a comfort to me, a fire-lit hearth room of sorts, where I can be myself, but not negative, not pressured, not anything for anyone but me. It is a shelter; a safe haven.

There are other shelters I seek refuge in; places I can be someone else. For example, in my stories, I can be anything or anyone. I can be any saturated color of emotion and paint for you a picture that would move you to tears or laughter, make you want to hang it on your wall or burn it to ashes. This shelter is the basement; inhabited by clicking claw creatures. These shadowy figures are the ephemeral ideas and emotions I brave the darkness to gather and craft into a story.

I am grateful for being able to share my home with you; both the cozy rooms as well as the dark corners. The doors here are never locked; make yourself at home.

Friday, September 3, 2010


The banks of the creek are steep; a dearth of rain has exposed the deep roots of the great leaning elms and oaks to air they are unaccustomed to feeling. These trees remember now what it is like to be a sapling; struggling again for a hold, a grasp on their place in the world. Below them the creek flows, its thin waters crystal clear, the rains of autumn have yet to fill them with clay and silt. In these shallows, beside the mossy gnarled roots, we sought refuge from the heat of the day.

We waded into the water, the creek bed shimmering with tiny pebbles, shells, and smooth stones. Ahead of us, to the west, a small curve in the bank was tattooed with skinny finger prints, like a dozen children escaped in their pajamas and toddled here for a moonlit meeting. They left behind what to my eyes looked like drowning butterflies, iridescent and glimmering, beckoning me to touch. The raccoons had feasted on the mussels, each delicate shell left clean centimeters below the flowing surface; a simple meal for them, a moment of wonder for me.

My children and I sat for an hour there, catching breezes and chasing minnows with our toes. We collected many of the open mussel shells, their lovely shades of lavender and silver muted in our hands. At some point I became restless, thinking we needed to leave, we had been there for so long. But a simple question from my youngest stopped my rushing things immediately, "Why?"

All of my wanderings and dreaming and seeking the depths, and I still fall prey to my adult perception of time. I forget what it is like to be a child, when time had no value, no relativity other than spending all the time it takes to enjoy, explore, and learn. They know intuitively to spend the least of it worrying, not having fun, and forgetting the really important things. They reminded me to be a sapling again everyday, even every moment, and to appreciate the gift of being alive; struggling again for a hold, a grasp on my place in the world.

We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.
Anaïs Nin