a poem for the new year

I am tired of resolutions, those promises borne of guilt
around which I manage to skirt indelicately each year,
shuffling past the gym membership, the calendar of art classes,
the workshops aimed at improving what, apparently,
I don't trust I can improve on my own.

But when I look back at these dozen months,
it's hard to muster the self-criticism required
to ordain the itinerary of the next dozen. I see only footsteps
which delivered me from there to here, the path I cobbled together
out of necessity, what I have done and seen and felt wonder at.

It's not that I don't believe in the act of etching fresh purpose
into the life that is yet to be. I'm a sucker for adventure,
for the stretch and pull of the heart. I'll take, even, the challenge
of sleeker thighs, the dexterity a paint brush requires, the unending
desire to get better at everything, to keep building my little pile of stones.

But let me not forget the leaves and all their miracles.
Let me hear the tumult of the ocean for the invitation that it is.
Let me understand how to sit at love's table, to eat from its generous plate.
Let me remember to add wood to the fire when the light dies down.
Let me see my own hands, how far I can go just by reaching.

all the doors in the world

maybe it's just midnight speaking,
this first, quiet hour of a new day,
when nothing is being asked of me and I have yet
to ask anything of myself, my body exactly parallel to the earth,
to an entire solar system, all magically
bowing to the laws of magnetics, the tides, the solstice,
everything beyond what I can change or destroy or impede,
and how in this powerlessness, this incapacity, I can see more clearly
all the doors in the world, like wet petals, yawning open.

up all night

Although I always seem to be the one asking for sex, it's hard for me to crawl into bed with my lover at 10 or 11 p.m. I can come in for a moment, offer a kiss or a caress, but really, for me, the night's just getting started.

It's not that anything of much substance will happen. Maybe a poem will come, some piece of a short story, the beginning of a letter. A dribble of writing, if that.

But oh, how I melt into that silence. The absolute stillness of the house, so quiet I can hear a squirrel outside skimming his cache. So quiet I can make out the slightest echo from the freeway, a big rig muscling its way up north.

At this hour, even the dogs are hushed into sleep, bereft of a reason to keep up their watch for the UPS man or the neighbor's children retrieving an errant football from our front yard.

Soon enough, it is midnight, then 12:30, then 1, then 2. On a good night, I stay awake long enough to greet 3 a.m., and by then I've gone soft completely, my contacts blurring my vision, my brain fuzzy with half-thoughts, my heart pliant and flexible as ever.

And then, when it couldn't possibly get any darker, I ease into bed and listen to the sound of slow and steady breathing. It's not quite a lullaby, but almost.

that bit of light

it's easy to keep your head down -
so much crap in the street to avoid,
loose bits of a city, impolite with proportion,
a sidewalk breaking up unexpectedly, repairs to the concrete
all intended to smooth things out but really, mostly,
the path often nothing but a series of hazardous missteps,
a jungle of obstacles and intrusion. you have begun to expect
the lack of easy thoroughfare. you have begun to believe all the reward
is in the work. so yes, you tend to angle your eyes southward,
not because there is beauty there underfoot, not because there's
any lithe romance in the way you have to step around the potholes,
the dog shit, the errant broken toy preventing this narrow course
from being truly pristine. you look down out of obligation,
out of self-preservation, out of a conviction that this is how
to avoid every unpleasant surprise
lurking just beyond your immediate square footage.

so of course, you will miss the topography's great remainder -
each precise chisel of doorway, each translucent window,
each hillside, each bird, each postcard of a view.
you will miss the luminous angle of the moon,
that bit of light which never warns of its arrival,
and yet, once here, changes everything.

you reading this

I have this idea. I was driving home last night, thinking about what to write, and specifically what to write for the blog, because the whole thing about blogs seems to be about keeping things fresh, current, updated, and there's this pressure (self-induced, but still) to add a new entry more often than not.

So I was driving home, thinking about what to write, and I looked down at my gas indicator panel and my gas was nearing empty. And this made me think about the writing process, and how we can only do so much in solitude, and that so much energy and spirit comes alive within the context of community. Even in the virtual sense, I always feel like the writing I put up here gets lengthened and broadened, is given an elasticity and depth and...coherence because there are other people there to read it.

As I've gotten to visit the work of other blog writers, and as I've begun to know, in a certain sense, the bloggers, writers and readers who are visiting me, I've been thinking about the power of this community, how important it's been to me to be able to share my thoughts, my work...to share myself, and to really feel seen in the best sense.

So, for those reading this, my idea is to gather a group next summer for a long weekend writing retreat. I live in Northern California, and there are plenty of places here that would serve well in that capacity. But I am also happy to travel elsewhere, for the convenience and ease of others. Basically, what I'm picturing is a writing intensive - Thursday through Sunday or thereabouts - that would involve some serious blocks of time set aside for personal writing, and also ample time to share with the group. There are many ways to do this - with writing prompts that we all would jumpstart from, for example - but on the whole, I see this retreat as a place to get more creative juice, to tap into the wisdom of a group of writers and be able to share our process, our challenges, our hopes and visions and whatever we might need help with regarding our writing practice.

For some reason, I get all squirmy whenever I hear the words "sacred space" (it could be the East-Coaster in me), but in a way, the goal of this retreat would be to offer up a safe and soulful environment to go deeper into the writing, and to share in that exploration with others. I love having a blog, and I love knowing (at least in a virtual sense) other bloggers and writers, but I keep thinking: Wouldn't it be amazing if we could all write together in the same room for once?

Thoughts, impressions, feedback, questions, ponderings welcomed...

tidbits from home

1.
it's not so much that the new house
feels like i've arrived somewhere.
it just that i can more clearly
see where i'm going.

2.
a neighbor down the street
delivered fresh quince from the tree
in her front yard. i wanted to cry.
how is it that i had stopped believing
in such simple kindness?

3.
even the dog has calmed down.
at night, he buries himself in the couch,
bookended by pillows. i wonder if he's
as relieved as he looks.

4.
there's an island in the kitchen graced
by a bowl of fruit. last night, a loaf of bread
and a small dish of olive oil heralded our supper.
Simple, simple.

5.
winter is so close, but i'm stubborn.
1 o'clock in the morning, and i'm thinking
of guitar lessons, and whether i'll ever learn
to hang glide, and how much paprika to put
in the stuffed peppers for friday. i'm not ready
to call it quits just yet.

6.
Beverly says the apricot tree in the back
is merely taking a breather this year.
it looks like a relic of its former glory,
ready to be made into kindling if you ask me,
but i'm willing to wait, just in case.

7.
the bulletin board thumbtacked with
reminders from the therapist to
"receive, listen and focus."
she told us that love is a
foundation of constant surrender
and refuge.

8.
this morning, i almost said,
"I don't believe in deep breathing."
then i thought about the bulletin board.

9.
there are people i would like to invite
to my living room, and i guess, in my own way,
i do, even if they don't live anywhere near me.

10.
a green pad of paper with my name on it.
deposit checks, it says. vehicle registration.
washer and dryer. insurance renewal.
not two years ago i would have railed against
such domestic checklists. now i am seduced
by the power of crossing things out, returning
the phone call, clearing the dishwasher to make way
for the next round. it's not a bad science.
less talk, more action.