saturn

I have been reading about astrological Saturn transits and what they mean. Saturn has been transiting my sign (Libra) since late October of 2009, and it has been a somber 2 years. Saturn will leave Libra in late October this year. As I learned from this incredibly informative site, "Significant decisions are often made during Saturn's hard transits to our personal planets. These transits slow life down (or at least, that is how we perceive it) and force us to live our lives in the present. Although Saturn transits can make life feel like a drudgery (these are often times when our lives seem to move at a snail's pace and advancements are hard to see), they also give us the opportunity to gain inner strength, to become more responsible for what we do and say, and to cut out waste or excesses in our lives. Basically, what happens is a form of paring or slimming down in the area of life affected by Saturn. We are getting rid of things in our lives that are not working for us in the real world, and focusing on improving and strengthening the things that do serve a useful purpose."

Yep, uh-huh. This is about right and then some.

Today also came with a poem that is (as almost always) quite fitting....


Men at Forty

Men at forty
Learn to close softly
The doors to rooms they will not be
Coming back to.

At rest on a stair landing,
They feel it
Moving beneath them now like the deck of a ship,
though the swell is gentle.

And deep in mirrors
They rediscover
The face of the boy as he practices tying
His father's tie there in secret

And the face of that father,
Still warm with the mystery of lather.
They are more fathers than sons themselves now.
Something is filling them, something
That is like the twilight sound
Of the crickets, immense,
Filling the woods at the foot of the slope
Behind their mortgaged houses.

--Donald Justice

ringing in 2012

After over a year of neglect, I am returning to blogging. I am not going to tackle a poem each day as before, but rather be more organic. 2011 was a strange year: funny and sad...mercurial, to say the least. So, on the last day of this year, looking forward and backward, here are some highlights of 2011 and hopes for 2012.

Highlights

• Quitting smoking after 15 years
• Moving across Texas twice in less than 6 months
• The end of a soul-sucking, destructive romantic relationship
• A desert hiatus 
• Alice: I am so proud of my odd, neurotic girl. She has become such an awesome dog.
• Denton, TX: it took leaving for a little while to realize you are home.
• Being able to ride my bicycle to work and school. It makes me feel like a kid again.
• Return to being a herbivore: my conscience and body are clean.
• Two new jobs in one year: the first I hated, and the second I love.
• So much love. 2011 really showed me how lucky I am to have my family and friends. I was loved even when I didn't love myself. 

Hopes

•  Take a long road-trip, just me and Alice to camp, explore, swim, hike, and get lost and found.
• Become a good vegan cook.
• Find a good spot for a garden and compost at my new house. 
• Write 
• Do more yoga.
• Explore more nature preserves, trails, etc. in the area.
• Be more generous: with my time, with myself, with my thoughts.
• Stop waiting for _____ (whatever I am waiting for) to do _____ (whatever I want to do).
• Practice honesty and optimism.
• Become more stylish. I know this sounds kind of vain, but seriously, sweatpants are not a good look for me. I should be having more fun with my clothes, jewelry, etc.

Love, love, love to everyone. Happy New Year!!!

little miss alice and some icarus

So things don't seem that great lately. I'm school overworked, and have a bundle of other troubles (small and large) that are likely just part of being a person and living a life. I lost my sweet Evie dog 2 months ago, and that is a grief that deserves it's own post (and will get one, when I can). Suffice it to say after 2-3 weeks of crying and zombie-like existence, I realized I wasn't going to stop crying until I had somewhere to put all that love that Evie created. And so...enter Alice.

Alice is almost 6 months old. She is half German Shepard and half traveling salesman. Honestly, she looks like a miniature German Shepard. Alice is very dainty, so very sweet and affectionate, loves people, but is a bit on the insecure side. I got her from a rescue out in the boonies in Oklahoma; I've had her a little over a month and I adore her for her own sweet little self. She's getting braver slowly; she ventures further out in the yard, wrestles with Ott (my boyfriend's dog), absolutely loves the lake and swims around like crazy, plays with other dogs (as long as they aren't too big and rambunctious). But, she has had a huge problem with the leash. In fact, she would go down on all fours, spread-eagle the minute you gave even the slightest tug on the leash. She was never abused, and was born at the same rescue I got her at where she was well-loved and taken care of. So, it had to be something else.

Meanwhile, I'm taking a heavy load of classes during the summer session, and I haven't had time to really work with her on the leash. My few attempts seemed to result in more negativity, and I ceased them immediately so as not to worsen the issue. And I'm feeling like a failure. I hear Cesar Milan in my head, "You must walk as a pack...you must relate to the dog as calm assertive pack leader...you must give off the right energy...exercise, discipline, affection...otherwise, the dog will never be balanced." I know little Alice needs to get out there, run and walk, and get excited. She will go many places with me in her life, and I know from experience that the way to a happy dog is exercise, exercise, exercise, and socialize, socialize, socialize, and routine, and love, and, and, and...
It's always been so instinctual with me and animals, but now, what if I become a colossal failure as a dog-parent? What if this means I'm a colossal failure in life?

It is clearly becoming bigger than the leash.

And then today, I went out the gate to put some trash out and didn't bother to latch it. Alice has never left the yard of her own volition, so I didn't think I thing about it. Next thing I know, she's pushed herself out of the gate and is wiggling over to me. And I hear Cesar Milan, "You must be in the moment with the dog...dogs live in the moment...use their energy." So, I go all excited with Alice, and we bounce around in the driveway, and I chase her further and further out, and she chases me back, and then I think, her leash is right inside the gate...let's try. I get the leash, she follows me back in the yard, she follows me back into the driveway, we bounce around some more and get all wound-up again, and I put her leash on her while she's getting a belly rub, and then I go. Before she knows it, we're running down the sidewalk, she's sniffing everything, running back and forth in front of me, bouncing here and there like it never occurred to her that it just might be fun. And there I am, in boxers and a t-shirt, no bra, and wearing flip-flops running with little Miss Alice down the street, talking to her like a crazy woman, egging her on in a high-pitched baby voice. (Dear neighbors, I apologize for any trauma caused by this.) We went 3 blocks down and on the way back, Alice was pulling me. In the moment, things were different. In the moment, I didn't realize anything because I was in the moment running with my little dog, and we were having the time of our lives.

Cesar Milan is quiet now. My instincts are in tact. I will know what to do and when to do it. If nothing else is clear, I know I can trust myself.

Thank you for the walk, Alice. :) We'll do it again tomorrow.


And here's today's poem, how appropriate.

To a Friend Whose Work has Come to Triumph
by Anne Sexton

Consider Icarus, pasting those sticky wings on,
testing that strange little tug at his shoulder blade,
and think of that first flawless moment over the lawn
of the labyrinth. Think of the difference it made!
There below are the trees, as awkward as camels;
and here are the shocked starlings pumping past
and think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well:
larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast
of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
Feel the fire at his neck and see how casually
he glances up and is caught, wondrously tunneling
into that hot eye. Who cares that he fell back to the sea?
See him acclaiming the sun and come plunging down
while his sensible daddy goes straight into town.

"is that womyn with a y?...oh, do you have to ask?"

Calypso

I've gathered the women like talismans, one
by one. They first came for tarot card
gossip, mystified
by my hands, by offers
cut with escape. They came

undone in my studio, sailing long eyes, heavy
with smoke and wet
with the force of dream: a vagina
folding mandala-like
out of herself, in full bloom. I used them. I used

the significance
of each card to uphold the dream, soon
they came back with others. I let the bitch
twitch in my lap. I listened. I let the tea steep
till the pot was black. Soon

there was no need for cards. We would use
stills from our daily lives, every woman
a constellation of images, every
portrait each other's chart.
We came together

like months
in a lunar year, measured in nights, dividing
perfectly into female phases. Like women anywhere
living in groups we had synchronous menses. And had
no need of a wound, a puncture, to seal our bond.

--Olga Broumas

Few things to investigate before I comment. Back soon.

twinklings and twinges, wood and water

The Bean Eaters

They eat beans mostly; this old yellow pair.
Dinner is a casual affair.
Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood,
Tin flatware.

Two who are Mostly Good.
Two who have lived their day,
But keep on putting on their clothes
And putting things away.

And remembering...
Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,
As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads
and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.

--Gwendolyn Brooks

Forgive my lack of posting the past few days. There's been some technical difficulties and a massive hangover in the way.

Love, love, love this poem. I remember my mom telling me years ago that the definition of adulthood is deferring gratification. So true. You give up what you want today for what you want to come. Buddhism tells us that the path to contentment is gratitude and acknowledgment of what you already have--not longing for what you don't. I believe that this is mostly what this poem is about. Our old yellow pair isn't resenting beans for dinner; they're taking it casually and grateful for the food that is there. Right now I am a bean eater. Happy for the roof over my head, the food in the fridge, the "Mostly Good" folks in my life. True, I also have a back room full of receipts and bills and uncertainty, but this is not what defines my life. It's the beans on the table in my favorite old bowls, the warm body beside me at night, the friends that make me laugh and give me perspective, the big sweet doggies lounging everywhere, my old cat with her funny expressions and opinions, my kitten who thinks he's a dog and hugs me back when I pick him up, the time to write, the time to think, long baths, and knowing I'm not alone.

One of my favorite zen quotes (I'm embarrassed to say I don't know its origin) is, "Before enlightenment, you chop the wood and carry the water. After enlightenment, you chop the wood and carry the water." Just as our couple keeps putting on their clothes and putting things away, so do I. These little mundane tasks that keep us rooted in this world despite circumstance are a comfort and a constant. This doesn't mean that there aren't "twinklings and twinges" for we must continue to dream and be thankful for the sparkly moments of the past, but they shouldn't haunt us. Chop the wood and carry the water.

Years ago when both me and my brother were undergrads, our dad would always give us a 20 lb. bag of pinto beans for Christmas. It was half a joke at our impoverished student life, but what I hope my dad knows is that it was also a good gift. Those bags of beans were always in the pantry, waiting to be soaked and seasoned and simmered on the stove. I make a mean pot of pinto beans, and I can do it with pretty much whatever I have. Sure, a ham hock, fresh garlic and onions, some tomatoes, and some peppers make them better, but I can also make do and the beans suffer not. I miss those big bags of beans, and the tactile pleasure of diving my hands into the bag, grabbing handfuls, sorting them for little rocks, and knowing that when I came home that evening dinner was there. For these kinds of things I've learned along the way while making-do and surviving, I am grateful. They serve me well.

So, cheers to all our bean eaters, wood choppers, and water carriers...continue on and live our days.

enough to make you happy

Parable of the Gift

My friend gave me
a fuschia plant, expecting
much of me in cold April
judgment not to leave it
overnight in nature, deep
pink in its plastic
basket -- I have
killed my gift, exposed
flowers in a mass of leaves,
mistaking it
for part of nature with
its many stems: what
do I do with you now,
former living thing
that last night still
resembled my friend, abundant
leaves like her fluffy hair
although the leaves had
a reddish cast: I can see her
climbing the stone steps in spring dusk
holding the quivering
present in her hands, with
Eric and Daphne following
close behind, each
bearing a towel of lettuce leaves:
so much, so much to celebrate
tonight, as though she were saying
here is the world, that should be
enough to make you happy.

--Louise Gluck (there's supposed to be an umlat over the "u," drat lack of formatting)

I spent today mostly outside as it was one of those weird very warm January days we sometimes get here in north Texas. I planted wildflower seeds; so many wildflower seeds that if there are no wildflowers this spring (and likely forever more on the property) I cannot fathom what went wrong. Outside, today, the world was enough to make me happy. To make me forget the big and small betrayals and losses as of late--the world (and specifically my backyard) was enough. I forget, but it almost always is enough. I'm dreaming of our summer garden, the hammock, the flowers and vines; I'm seeing it as it will be and I'm ready for warmer days.

So much more going on in the poem, but I'd like to marinate on it for a while. So, just enjoy.

oooh baby do you know what that's worth?

The Pope's Penis

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat --- and at night,
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

--Sharon Olds

Um, I'm going to have to come back to this a little later. Might be quite late. I shame myself for not posting yesterday, and will make up for it at another date. But see, I lost by more than a 10 point spread at bowling tonight, and well, let's just say the wager was stiff...

Ha! The Pope's penis, indeed. More to follow.

Later...

So, the Pope's penis. Despite the clearly irreverent subject matter there's definitely something here. Ms. Olds has to delight Freud. The poem before this one is titled "Early Images of Heaven" and it is all about penises, the beauty of them, before birth becoming from them, etc. etc. I get it; you like the penis. Maybe you even covet the penis. Nothing wrong with that.

Early on in our friendship, me and my best friend were talking out on her back porch about the years I exclusively dated women. She asked why I went back to men, and my cheeky response was that, "There's nothing like a big, fat, weiner." It's true, and my off-the-cuff remark has become part of our lexicon and a long-running joke. I certainly hope most heterosexual women feel that way about the penis (but, sadly, I know they don't). What I believe Freud gets very, very wrong is that women don't experience penis envy (we don't want one of those; I like my genitalia neatly on the inside, thanks); we experience penis delight and curiosity (in the best circumstances).

Now, our poem takes us to the just plain odd idea of the Pope's penis. I know he has one, but frankly, I hadn't ever thought of it much. Furthermore, I could probably have lived the rest of my days not ever considering the Pope's pubic hair. The images Ms. Olds gives us of the Pope's member (not of the congregation, hee!) are almost of dumbly swaying things, not exactly without purpose--bell won't ring without a clapper, and a fish in the water isn't without a function--but there's something mindless in these metaphors. Ah wait, not mindless but of their own accord. You can't get much more sexless than the Pope, but our poem reminds us that everyone is sexual. It's a biology thing and inescapable. In a Human Sexuality course I took early in my college career the overriding message was that we were all sexual beings from womb to tomb. So, even if (like the Pope) we choose a chaste life, our sexuality remains and it has its own accord. The penis will stand; whether for a beautiful woman, or a beautiful man, or nice summer breeze...the Dude abides. Maybe the Pope's penis really does stand in praise of God, and if so, what is more of a praise than that? It would be whole praise, totally of its own accord.