Absolute September

How hard it is to take September

straight—not as a harbinger
of something harder.

Merely like suds in the air, cool scent
scrubbed clean of meaning—or innocent
of the cold thing coldly meant.

How hard the heart tugs at the end
of summer, and longs to haul it in
when it flies out of hand

at the prompting of the first mild breeze.
It leaves us by degrees
only, but for one who sees

summer as an absolute,
Pure State of Light and Heat, the height
to which one cannot raise a doubt,

as soon as one leaf's off the tree
no day following can fall free
of the drift of melancholy  

~Mary Jo Salter      

Good Friday 2014

My heart, vacant and desolate
As the host-less tabernacle;
Veiled in black as the crucifix.

I am moved in remembrance
Of the depths of beauty and complexity
Of the human spirit.

In the wake of this weighty hopelessness,
Humanity's Good Friday,
I remember resurrection.

St. Andrew's Abbey Cemetery

Lives like seedlings sewn in wait,
The mountains, these their keepers.
A deathly stillness that is not dead,
Their silence the substance of symphonies.
These holy ghosts whisper life.

Is it my hair?

I was waiting at the bus stop for my forthcoming bus, standing there in my nice gap pants with my cute red wedges, stylish anthropology shirt, and long coat with a fuzzy hood.  A man, who might have been attractive if he had cut his shaggy beard and took a bath, scootches up next to me and says: 

"Hey, are you looking for a shmerrffshkjd?" 

"I'm sorry?"

"Are you looking for a good ksdjfhksjdhfjks?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you looking for a good place to get mushrooms?"

"OH!! NO! Thanks!"

I have had some interesting experiences with people at bus stops before, but I have never been offered mushrooms! My bus stop Downtown is a prime location for that kind of crowd, but never before have any of them pegged me as someone who might be interested. 

Gee dee it, Butch Hair. I blame you.

November 5th 1999

I still remember this day, exactly 13 years ago. I remember the smell of the hospital mixed with the smell of flowers. I remember family members squeezing into a smallish room. I remember my uncle making some comment on how song lyrics used to be much less complicated and then quoting the Beatles' "I love you, yeah yeah yeah." I remember seeing my Grandfather cry inconsolably. I remember standing in a circle around my Grandmother's hospital bed. I remember holding her hand. I remember what her last breath looked like. I remember saying the Lord's Prayer while holding hands with my family around her bed after she left.

I haven't really talked about this memory much. This was one of my first experiences with death, at 11 years old, and it was terrifying and sickening. I wrote this date down in my little kitten diary, though, so I would never forget it.

I'm wondering now if I should post this - it's a bit morose and personal. I was intending to write more about my gratitude to Eleanor for mothering my own Mother, who in turn so wonderfully mothered myself, Jenny, and Louis with such profound wisdom, compassion, joy, whit, and skill.

And oh how I miss Grandma's yellow kitchen, that blue room, that den, that bookshelf with unlimited Dr. Seuss books, that living room with the spinning clock on the TV, and that dining room with all the pictures and the candy dish. What a magical, magical place.

My participation in Fall

Walking to church this morning, I couldn't help but feel a little like the many trees around me. Today the leaves suddenly decided to expedite their Autumn festivities by shedding themselves in a red fury of swirling wind, leaving their trees exposed and bare. You see, I cut my hair yesterday - like really cut it - and it is shockingly short, sharp, stylish, and not very Laura-like. On my walk to church early this morning to rehearse for my vocal solo, I felt humbly exposed and bare.

Singing in front of the congregation this morning, I experienced something really nice. Perhaps it was the humiliation from my new hair, but my music was more intimate and heart-exposing than it has been in awhile. I sang "Cry of the Broken" by Darlene Zschech - a song that deeply resonates with me. There is something so solidifying about proclaiming your faith in front of other people, especially through such a personal and intimate medium as singing. Through my own experience of worship before my congregation and the words of others this morning, I am reminded of one of the very few things I've known I'm meant to do. At the age of 25, I am still not sure what I am supposed to do with my life. However, I know I am meant to sing true things in front of other human persons.

So despite my hair, I am grateful for the effect it had on me today.

"Gratitude begets generosity"

...said a woman from my church a few weeks ago. Ohh. and ouch.

This phrase has been cycling through my thoughts so much lately. Since my brother convinced me to participate in nablowhatchamaloo, I've decided to use the topic of gratitude as a theme for the next month of blog posts. Not that every post will necessarily be a list of things that I'm grateful for, but maybe I'll use the concept of gratitude as a color with which I shade my thoughts and words.