Rear Windowing

As Arthur Hitchcock fans will attest, being housebound with a broken leg gives one the license to spy on neighbors.

While I haven't spied any neighbors committing murder or mayhem yet, boredom has been somewhat alleviated as I've raised my father's field glasses to watch (1) fencing going up to the south and west (like watching grass grow), (2) the neighbor on the south (NOT the owner of the fence going up) planting bushes to disguise the new fence posts and field wire that will eventually house another neighbor's cows (humorous), and (3) the new house construction on the 20 acres directly across the road from us.

For those spatially challenged (I include myself), 20 acres in the city could yield a close-knit neighborhood of at least 40 families. Out here in the sticks, we're used to a lot more elbow room. If the wind is just right, we can occasionally hear our neighbor children's voices, but can't distinguish between shouts of joy and screams of terror.

So where is the young couple pouring their dream foundation on their gorgeous 20 acres with two ponds? Directly across from our driveway, I'd guess 30 yards back from the dirt road, the abundant dust of which is the only drawback I've found to living here.

Fortuately our view of their pond will be restored once the gravel and porta-potty are retired.

As I focus daily on their progress, or lack of it, questions arise--enough, fortunately, to keep a one-legged woman cogitating on a host of issues:

Why when you dig a huge hole for a new house do you need to haul in dozens of truckloads of new dirt?

How do men work all day in temperatures nearing 100 degrees?

How much money does the pudgy guy who parks his white truck in the shade and watches the others work get paid?

Why is their driveway to the far south when their garage is going to be on the far north end of their house?

Have they noticed me watching them yet?

Why don't the workmen wave back when I wheel myself onto our driveway and
coast down to the barn (I only yelled "whee" the first time).

When they've moved in and we cross the road to empty our mailbox, should we avert our eyes?

In the meantime, here's looking at you, kids.

#writer #writerslife #writing #author #rehab

Winter Sculpting

in a workshop in the land 

of redwoods and cool pine air 

he caresses the possibilities

of what might emerge

from the wood before him 

on the bench are knives, rasps

a mallet—deceptively heavy

because divining what has been 

long-buried is not light work

a laying on of hands and a long 

calculated cut begins the winter 

sculpting, smoothing and slicing

toward a vision of what awaits

the shape that draws him to it

on a train that slices through snow

tall buildings of concrete and steel

she fills a poem with wood smoke

the scent of pine, the way the sky 

reflects a silver ocean when 

the world turns upside down 

in a circle of Cyprus on the headlands

a hollow of tangled limbs 

sprawling vistas

beneath his searching hands 

her reflective images

the long-buried possibilities  

of their imaginings 

taking shape

It's a Balancing Act

In the early morning dark, awakening to a call of nature, I slipped out of bed, balanced on my good leg, spun 180 degrees, and sat down on the floor. Groping for the bedside lamp, I discovered that, instead of my trusty sidekick wheelchair, I had parked my energy-sapping walker by the bed. I had to laugh. (Once I checked that my steel-sealed tibia hadn't suffered a setback.)

I had to laugh because I'm an optimist . . .

Because I daydream of once again dashing about Four Mile--hauling hay bales into the east stall so our rescue horse Saul can bunk with Travis and Skipper in the west wing of our 86-year-old barn.

I plot how we will put up more fencing to create a dry pen for the horses to keep Travis, our "easy-keeper" roly-poly Tennessee Walking horse, from equine obesity.

I fantasize mornings in the round pen directing 1200-pound pets at a walk, a trot, a canter, quick halts, inside turns, and long, trusting backings.

And I look forward to once again being in the saddle, looking out over our seven acres with gratitude and awe and the knowledge that I am incredibly fortunate to have landed here. (Maybe not the best word choice.)

But first, I need to master wheelchairs and walkers and getting to and from the bathroom and managing my expectations. I have to laugh. Seriously.

#writer #writerslife #writing #author #rehab

When Women Were Birds

Many thanks to Marsh and Carol Galloway for the rehab reading: When Women were Birds, by Terry Tempest Williams. Anne Lamott found it "Brilliant, meditative, and full of surprises, wisdom, and wonder." I concur. It recalled me to Tillie Olsen's Silences, another marvelous meditation, but on the absence of women's voices.

Among so many notable reflections in William's book, these are some I suspect have found permanent purchase in my own head-heart:

"Beside a well, one won't thirst; beside a sister, one won't despair."

"There are two important days in a woman's life: the day she is born and the day she finds out why."

"Not the lotus without the mud."

And as a writer . . . "Empty pages become possibilities."

#writer #writerslife #writing #author #terrytempestwilliams

Just One of Those Things

I wanted to write something funny today
but my daughter threw up
tomato soup on celery-green shag
the tile-and-floor man finally came
before I could dress
and poke holes in my hair for my eyes
and nobody kissed me
the whole damn day

#writer #writerslife #writing #author

Stumblebumming

LetterPoem to Linda Gracen

my last morning in Mendocino 

I see red rose petals scattered through 

a Cyprus grove on the headlands

velvety bright surprise, like finding you again

at Ten Mile, perched above white water

a vista as spectacular as your smile 

and the amazing capacity of your heart 

that cradles the walking wounded 

their stumblebum migration to mental health

not unlike my own return each year 

to my abandoned heart, all those 

still beating along the coast that speak to me 

of braver choices than my own

even the glazed-eyed highway walker 

pad-padding to and fro in her flip-flops

relentless in her unfathomable quest

and dusty Spencer in decade-old dreadlocks 

forever hitching rides between Mendocino 

and Fort Bragg, and I wonder what if I’d stayed

what if I returned, what if I rediscovered

the rhythm of a heart not lost but merely 

misplaced like our friendship along the 

many miles I’ve traveled away and back again 

always yearning for what gets left behind 

on this meandering trail going no place much

after all

#writer #writerslife #writing #author

Expecting the Milky Way

He's almost afraid to meet her again,

he laughs into the phone,

especially in the nowhere-to-hide 

flatlands of their youth.

He wonders will she see beyond

the graying hair, face creased with 

the harsh march toward middle-age,

to the lean, light-hearted lover

curved over car engines and red beers

and her own velvet awakenings,

yet their voices meld into the old cadence,

surging like sparks along the wires 

that reconnect them as they reminisce 

about cars and mutual friends,

and what she's remembering is

the sweet searching of his tongue 

circling  just inside her lips,

his hand a subtle curve under her breast,

and she too wonders 

if they can meet again

to talk of roads taken and not,

of children and jobs and obituaries,

and not the dreams that bloomed like moon flowers

under star-encrusted skies of the heartland

when hopes were so bright they could blind

and young hearts kept expecting the Milky Way

to shower down stars like an anointment, 

blessing them with the impossible—

a future without sorrows,

life without regret.

#writer #writerslife #writing #author