Saturday, September 30, 2006--Evening

My kids and niece and I visited Sand Hill National Park outside of Hutchinson, Kansas this afternoon. After passing through the generic entrance to the park we came to a low grove of trees that was reminiscent of a fairy tale. Throughout the park, the path was clear and mown clean about three feet wide, but beyond the path all of the plants grew thick and wild. After the grove was an open, hilly, area covered with all manner of vegetation. We passed goat's beard with its purple blossom, and its already-turning-white tuft. There was daisy flea bane with its yellow core and tiny white petals.

When we mounted the top of the largest hill we stopped and looked out over the land. The sun was lowering and blurred the autumn colors into a guaze of sienna, yellow, greens, orange and red. As we drew nearer the red trees at the bottom of the hill we could make out their tiny dried red "berries" and their leaves--some green, some fiery red. My niece explained that these were the sand hill plum trees the park is named after.

In the sky was a half moon with pink and lavender and blue in layers up from the horizon line. An airplane flew over with its lights blinking. A hawk flew low across the meadow seeking its prey. At one point, we stopped suddenly to listen to and watch a small animal scurry through the underbrush. We heard its feet scamper and watched the grasses tremble as the animal retreated from our voices. Bo saw the top of its head and decided it was a hare. We moved along the path.

The prairie grasses were varied colors of purples, reds, yellows and browns; and varied textures of coarse, straight, spiney, and hairy. We saw the common sunflower growing and blooming in bundles beside the path. And there was whirled milk weed with its yellow blooming tufts. A dead tree jutted out of the ground like a monument surrounded by bushes with white berries and bushes with red berries, and so many plants I could never name them.

In low places along the meadow stood patches of fog that floated slowly like spirits along the landscape. And the sun made a dream-like haze over the prairie grass. We walked for at least a mile along the path until we came to a forest. We followed the path for a while longer, until we decided to turn back before the darkness fell.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Begin where you are, with who you are. In order to go where you want to go creatively, you have to start somewhere. And the best place to start is precisely where you are.

--Julia Cameron
Walking in This World


Today I was a little tired and quiet. My allergies have shut my mind down and made me zombie-like in this lovely fall weather. The wind blew the leaves about, but the sun shown warmly down on me as I sat outside and watched the ducks float across the surface of the small man-made pond outside of the Bradley Fair shopping center. Bradley Fair is where I go to window shop and to be snubbed by wealthy East-siders. I consider my presence there to be a gift to the affluent to allow them to feel superior to me. It’s kind of fun watching a well-dressed middle aged woman walk past with her nose in the air, unwilling to make eye contact or say hello. I consider such creatures a different species but entertaining nonetheless.

I looked in the windows at all the beautiful clothes, the rich fabrics, the deep textures, and varied colors. Such attractive things inspire me artistically. My life has tried to teach me not to want nice things. As a person deeply concerned with social justice and equitable resources for all, I have thought that it is my very obligation to go without. I’m learning that, for me, this is an error. Care of the Soul by Thomas Moore teaches us (reminds us, really, as such books do) that the things that captivate us are important and necessary to the soul. For me, these exquisite objects awaken my senses; they make me feel more alive. These things even give me hope that the abundance of the Universe is at my fingertips, waiting for me to reach out my hand.

I’m not sure how to do the last part—reach out to grab that abundance. I know a woman who shoplifts. She has stolen the most amazing things—think trampoline. I cannot steal, so that option is out for me. Other women I know are given expensive gifts from men. That comes at too high a price for me. Others work themselves to near-death or actual death. I don’t like working that hard. I know my route to abundance is through World Ventures and my creative endeavors. I truly do have abundance at my fingertips since I have the ability to create. I am still learning how to turn my creations into an excellent income.

My blog entries give the impression that I am preoccupied with money. That’s because I am preoccupied with money, not just in the sense of trying to survive day-to-day. That is there, of course. But I am also deeply interested in the creative process of attaining money. I realize that the attainment of wealth is very similar to the creation of a painting or poem, and I am still learning that process and want to document it in order to aid others in understanding it. So I am not merely materialistic; for me, (believe it or not) this journey is very much a spiritual one.

Today at the pond, I thought sadly about my once best friend, Candace. I missed her today and thought about the times we laughed together, the times she supported me when I felt very alone, the times we fought. I don’t let myself miss people very often. I don’t think it’s healthy, constructive, or worthwhile, maybe that’s why they come to me in my dreams. But today I thought of my friend, so I’ve included this poem for her. Above is a painting “Old Bones” about a nightmare I both dreamed and lived—Candace was there for me.

Candace

she dreams
of Bosnia
and blackouts at night
the young warriors
haunt her their turning
away from war they broke
and ran from children
they killed they got drunk
together they carried her home
she dreams the soldiers
names the soft sounds
of their names she dreams
them away from death
she dreams her breath of life
into them they have never
killed those parts of them
have never died

Saturday, September 23, 2006

All day today I have managed to procrastinate and avoid grading my student papers. Teaching three classes is hard for me, although I know many people who teach five writing classes. But for me, managing seventy-five students and their papers gets a little crushing at times. The hardest part of grading is getting started. After that, it’s not so bad, but the anticipation sometimes is almost unbearable. I start to seriously consider other job options.

I find myself stopping a lot as I write today—thinking and wondering what a blog is. When I started my site a couple weeks ago I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to write about World Ventures in order to encourage other people in their own similar pursuits. I wanted to share my art, my poetry, and some of my ideas about life. In some ways I wanted to use my site to encourage myself. As time has passed, I have found my entries to be more and more personal. Although I am a somewhat shy person and prefer anonymity, I also tend to connect with others on a very personal level—that is obvious in my poems and paintings, I think.

I have also found myself dwelling on, thinking about, (and experiencing) many more dark feelings than I had originally intended. This is also a part of who I am, of course. In other words, I tend to be confessional and negative by nature; although, I am insistent that I can change my nature, and I will. Some might ask why I would want to change a foundational aspect of my own personality. My answer is that my negativity has not worked well for me. It’s fun; don’t get me wrong. I really love dark energy and find it addictive, but I guess what it comes down to—its essence—is, I want to be happy. The only way I know to be happy—on a daily basis, moment by moment—is to choose to be by directing my own thoughts. This is difficult, of course, but it’s the only way to change my state of being.

I know many cynical people. I know many sarcastic people. I am not one of them. Basically, I do believe in humankind although I get rather disgusted with humans on a regular basis. But I am not cynical; therefore, I also believe in my own happiness.

I told one of my friends that I wanted to be happy, and he said that he didn’t find that interesting and he wanted to retain his “humanness.” Too bad. I think I can be human and happy too—at least I hope so. As to what is interesting, even drama gets tiresome after a while. Serenity has its own attraction. Does it not?

When I first started this site, I had no audience. No one but me knew where to find me. I have been “marketing” my site now, and a few people have found me. That changes everything. Now as I write I think of my audience. Of course, I teach my students that when writing we must always consider our audience. But my audience before was myself, and now my audience consists of people other than the many who reside in my own head.

Does this affect me? Of course. Should it affect me? Of course. Will it change what I’m doing on my blog? Only insomuch as I need to process incoming information. One thing about me—that anyone who knows me knows—is, I am totally me. This sucks for me and others sometimes, but this aspect of who I am won’t change. In other words, I am internally motivated. I am motivated to be most fully my self. If I change, I change for me. My fierce independence of mind has cost me a great deal in my life, but I’m glad to pay that price. I’m not saying I am independent in all things—that would be a lie—but I am independent of mind.

Well, that being said, I want to address one comment on my blog. One person advised me to write about my childhood growing up in Western Kansas and recall the weather I experienced there. I might do that. One reason I hesitate to start to address my childhood in prose is I draw upon so much of my life in my poetry and art. Prose seems too overt for me. Because I am so confessional, directly addressing my childhood might not be very effective. It could easily become too much. But I’m not sure. I’ll think about it.

But in the meantime, here is a poem that draws upon images from my childhood in western Knasas, the inclusion of which was inspired by the commenter. It’s entitled “Home.” Above is a painting, “Horizon,” which is my abstract representation of the western Kansas landscape. Thanks for the advice.

Home

I dream I come home;
you are walking to meet me in the driveway.
There are dogs. I am exhausted and pressured
to confront you, but the drive was long,
and I’m tired. I ask to sleep awhile, afraid
to meet my brothers after such a long time.

When I finally come home, I park beside old cars abandoned
in the driveway. My children whisper
behind me. No one is there to meet me. No one
is home. A dog is barking.

Even in my dreams, my dreams are restless.
Sometimes, I try to tell my sister, try to explain
so she will know, but you are listening, Mother,
although you are much more exhausted than I.
Tomorrow, I’ll explain it; we’ll talk to Grandma.

My kids and I stand beside the car, waiting
for everyone to return from the reunion. It has been
ten years since I’ve seen this place. I point to the trees,
to the one I climbed as a child. It has grown taller,
and I tell my children I would never be able to climb it now.

Then I’m screaming,
screaming at you in the driveway, screaming
and wandering through a damaged building
where I’ve tried to make my home. It is a beautiful home,
but the building is crumbling,
and it is cold.

At the reunion, the moment is awkward.
In the middle of all the aunts, there in front
of Grandma, I introduce my children to my brothers
for the very first time. When my cousin hugs me,
she hugs me embarrassingly long. No one asks
why I’ve stayed away so many years.

I’m trying to explain myself. I circle
the neighboring bar, walking back to our driveway
where everyone is parking. It’s all right now though;
these cars are how you earn your money.

That night I am sick from nerves, and happy
the lights are out. My children lie in sleeping bags
on the floor. My mother has asked me to take her bed.
I hear her in the next room, washing dishes.

I’ll be over to the bar to dance.
My brothers will meet me there. A woman
with long hair, like mine, is in love with them,
but they do not love her anymore.

The other end of the trailer, my sister sleeps
beside her husband. Mother curls up to her dog
on the couch. In houses the opposite sides
of the yard, my brothers and their families settle.
The wind flutters softly against all the houses.

I go to the house of my childhood and sink into bed.
I feel a strong wind--a tornado is forming out of sky.
I can hardly walk, all of us going to the shelter.
I am moving fastest, but the door is padlocked.
I need my brothers. Blanket and pillow;
I could not find my books. Where is my sister?
My children? The dogs? I don’t care anymore.
I have to get out of this wind. I need to sleep.

I awaken often to check my little ones. The chest
of each one rising and falling gently. Dim light twinkles
through the window from the star-illumined distance.
The smell of the house is childhood. There is no noise
except a high-toned chime tinkles above my bed
whenever the wind tenderly shifts direction.

Friday, September 22, 2006

Everything is quiet except distant voices coming in through the balcony door. It’s supper time, and both cats are sleeping in separate chairs on either side of me as I type. The kids have gone to their dad’s so I’m alone again for the week. I called J.D. today and told him I’m desperate for money, so he met me at a coffee shop, bought a cup of Joe for me, and helped make a dent in my mounting debt.

J.D. and I were together for six years, and until about four months ago, we lived together. People ask me what happened between us, and my answer is an honest and quite stunned (still) “I don’t know.”

But sometimes I miss him. It’s taken most of our time apart for me to grasp the idea that we are actually apart. It’s starting to sink in sometimes, but I wonder too, occasionally, if he has not quite fully accepted our separation, either. Oh well, I guess what I have to come back to is “I don’t know.” I’m not going to know for a long time. I’ve just got to take care of me, and doing that is my priority.

I had planned to go to the Jeff Worley poetry reading tonight at Watermark, because I enjoy Worley’s work, but by the time I left the college—since I was serendipitously called in to substitute today—I was tired and shy of people. I came home and lay in bed with Ali who licked my neck, clawed and bit my fingers, then leapt from the bed. Alone, I became bored, so I got up to look through art magazines for grant opportunities. Finding none, I decided to write. My blog grounds me. I love the way it makes me think of the specific. My site helps me focus on my creative work, and I’ve realized I have quite a body of art and poetry. I guess I’ve always felt that I hadn’t written or painted enough (which I haven’t), but I hadn’t realized how much I had created. My blog helps me feel like I’m doing something with my life, too, as despairing as that sounds. Well, anyway, I love it. This site is for myself, but it’s not only for myself.

Even now I hear more noises in the courtyard—a neighbor kid bouncing a basketball, a mother hollering for her child, a dog barking. If I listen closely, there are voices. I am not so alone as I sometimes feel.

Above is the painting “Separation I” from my “Separation” series. Here, though, is a group of poems that at points refers to lost loves. I wrote them when I was with J.D., so he is not one of the lost ones to which I refer. Nevertheless, there is a similar loss I am living now. People I care about often return in my dreams. I cannot completely leave them behind, though I try.

Collage

In Wichita, the wind blows
and the birds don’t fly—
lightning and torrents of rain
over the porch roof where we watch
the sky. Thunder rattles the river black,
the clouds black
then bright with lightning.

* * *

I dreamt of you last night.
Not so much dreamt of you
as had a dream and you were in it.
You had been relegated to a side note,
an off-stage hand and voice—
a passenger.
We were walking to a convenience store.
You were hard to see,
and I was trying to tell you something,
but you weren’t listening.
Then an apartment and all the adobe walls—
white—and terra cotta roofs, and tropical plants,
and the apartment
furnished lavishly, but you don’t
live here now. You are moving. No,
you’ve already moved,
and you’ve forgotten to tell me
good bye. You forgot to tell me.

I choked on my sorrow.
In my dream you did not listen.

I am choking still.

* * *

One year the tree gave peaches—
peaches in a bowl with cream.
I’d never tasted a fruit
with hair.
I pretended to like it.

In those days we had no neighbors,
but cows, when the corn grew up
to the yard and the few trees we’d planted.
In Western Kansas, the dust blows.
Dust peels the sky like a fruit—on normal
days—the people there don’t trust you,
and who can blame them?
They’ve had to fight their way.

The cows watched me.
Then they blinked.
They ate stubble
then blinked.

This is how the days pass in Western Kansas.
You watch the sun move--that one puff of cloud cross
the sky. Yesterday, the Widows’ bought
a tractor. Today, the wheat blows.
There is sky.
And some years—peaches.

* * *

In Kansas is wheat,
but I’ll always remember corn.
Corn—the stalks—hovering
over us like adults—with fuzzy ears.

* * *


Horses. Five horses run the pasture
tilting their heads.

* * *

We kill each other in our cars.
Where are the fields now?

Where have gone the five horses?
Highways slice the prairie.
The cows in feedlots.
There are birds, still—hawks,
especially—perched on road signs
to remind us
of ourselves. Heads tucked down,
they do not threaten.
They do not even see the cars,
and as we pass,
we do not see them.

* * *

Passing Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” on I-70
I asked to stop to get a SoBē,
but no convenience store for miles.
You had a headache
since we came down from the mountains—
too much oxygen.
But I’m thinking of Van Gogh’s ear
swaddled in cotton in a box
just arrived at the doorstep.
The pain was ecstatic—
the tearing of flesh, profound joy.
All I know is I can see his “Sunflowers”
from the highway.
I turn around to watch them pass,
all light and oxygen.

* * *

I was angry at them,
so I got into my car and drove
out on the night highway
to leave them.
I looked up
to see your truck
in front of me. I knew it
by its bright green.
I didn’t want you
to see me, sad and broken up
as I was. So I stayed back,
but you were in the bed
of your truck. That’s how
I recognized you. And you were
drinking champagne. You held a toast
to me, and you were happy.
I was happy for you sad as I was,
and you didn’t notice
my loneliness. In a moment,
you were gone into the darkness
of the highway, and no deer.
Only your taillights receding,
I, alone there, and in my hand,
an empty glass of champagne.

Thursday, September 21, 2006—Evening

The children are in bed while the cats and I are still awake, I, just long enough to update my blog. The fall weather is definitely here, with a cold breeze and the dark clouds that have spread across the sky all day. Earlier today was a tornado warning—just bad enough to terrify Bo who is obsessed with tornados. We put each cat into a duffle bag, zipped the bags and carried them with us down to the laundry room. We sat there for about five minutes before the warning was over, and we came back to our apartment. Bo was relieved, and so were the cats for that matter, and I just reminded Bo that I’ve been through enough tornados and tornado warnings to know that there’s no need to get upset. The truth is, the worst part of anything awful is the fearing of it, which I am trying very hard not to do. I am at least trying to remind myself that fear is destructive, and as I was reprimanding Bo about his “irrational” fears, I was also acknowledging my own different and no less “irrational” fears.

Tomorrow I go in for my interview with the temporary company. I’m hoping to get enough money to pay for all of my now bounced checks—ha, ha. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret writing my checks. I needed new tires, and new windshield wipers, so I’m grateful I have a safe car now, even though I’m paying the price for it, for sure.

I don’t understand my life. The more I think about it lately, the more overwhelmed I get, so I’ve just been trying to enjoy my babies and my kittens. I’ve been trying to keep it basic. We all worked together today to clean the apartment, then we watched a movie together and ate lasagna. Now the house is clean and the cool air blows from the front room to the back of the apartment. The cool autumn air makes me sad—I think of falling leaves and pumpkins and warm light through the windows of cozy houses. There is definitely, for me, a sense of loneliness to autumn, a sense of isolation, the sorrow of death. It helps me live with the feelings of loss I have experienced lately. Autumn helps me look out into the world and see my own internal reflection. I’m thankful for that.

Below is a poem I just submitted to my friend’s very classy literary journal entitled Project for a New Mythology. J. Quinn has a blog by the same name as the journal. I’ll try to get a link for it. I don’t know if he’ll publish my work, but I hope he likes the poem. Above is “Shade” a painting I also submitted to his journal, even though it’s probably not appropriate for the periodical as its complex texture may not copy well. We’ll see.

Not Looking

I found her
In the deepest night,
crossing Eleventh,
and a slight, warm breeze—
a car had hit her.
The breeze had done it.
Mangled. With chunks of fur missing.
Only, she was me.
And she was bleeding profusely.
She tried to speak words
but could merely say, Me!
and Yeeow!
My fur was shades of gray
in stripes, just like in life.
And I held her.
I was so sad for her,
there, bleeding.
My front leg hung,
bent beyond the joint at my shoulder.
I was giving in.
My tail in tatters.
I didn't see the car as it rounded
the corner.
Distracted by a fluttering,
I never saw what hit me.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

It is raining today. The rain fell all night and cooled down the apartment as the kids and I slept. Syd sleeps on the floor and Bo and I share one sunken-in bed. The rain came in on Syd as she slept under the window. Fruity sat in the window sill all night and watched the trees, the sky, the rain. This morning Syd woke me to drive her to school. While I slowly and blindly put on my shoes she stood out on the balcony and took in the rainfall. She has always loved to watch a storm, and she takes time for herself for those moments. I'm not as good at taking time to commune with nature as is she.

Today, I love the rain. It's exactly how I feel, and I'm thankful that Nature has agreed to echoe my state of mind. I've continued to be ill with some sort of virus, which has taken up residence in my sinuses. I always get my bugs in my sinuses. That must mean something, but I'm not sure what it is. I feel overwhelmed lately, stuck, at a loss as to how to take control of my life and my thoughts and feelings. I'm more and more aware of how truly destructive that is; therefore, I try very hard to fight my discouragement. I don't know how good a job I'm doing. I think my financial fears, fears of being alone--which I am without my long-term relationship for the first time in six years--are all being lodged in my sinuses, right outside my brain. Just beside the mind which has the power--I know--to change my entire creation.

The painting above is called "Self-Portrait with Flowers Falling." This is one of my first paintings and one that captures an important aspect of my personality. I have rarely shown this work because it is a part of my own collection, because of what it means to me. It is very personal and symbolizes a great deal about the adversity I have faced in my life. Included below is a section from a very long poem entitled "Haunted" that explores that very powerful--and even beautiful--dark energy:

--from "Haunted"

They stand waving to me
from the ragged shore.
It is night,
and the wind batters their hair.
They have big eyes,
and they are frightened.
They cry to me,
but I do not attend their calling.
They are crying for me there
on the rocks, and they are waving
to me over the water.
They see that I am lost,
and they’ve become afraid.
They call for me, but I barely
recognize their faces.
Their voices are dimming
in my ears.

I turn to follow the willow-the-wisp
who beckons me across the water.
She beckons and I follow.
I don’t remember them anymore.
They have become mere shadow.
Their cries annoy me
like faint and worthless birds.

I would disown them, if only
I could remember—these
and any others who might love me—
stranded on the rocks.
And my heart a jagged, green stone.

I cannot recall that I named them.
I cannot remember their names.
Only something there
distracting me from my purpose.

But I head on alone
toward the pale shimmer.
Now, solitary she leads me.
It is only her I follow.

A storm rages, but I heed no warning.
I do not care that I am tossed on the water.
I do not care that I am flung overboard into the sea.

What is the sea to me anyway?
My heart is filled with green water.
The tears that fall from my children’s eyes
are the color of the sea, but I do not see them.

I do not care anymore.
Let me die here tonight
on this water.
Let the ocean swallow my life
and all that it has touched.
Let what is worthless fall away into oblivion.
Let what is bad wilt into never-existence.
Let the memory of me in those
who shiver and gesture on the shore
be erased for all eternity.
Let them, instead, forget my name.
Let them be filled with bright flowers.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006--Mid-Morning

This painting is called "Waiting for God." It is a study which I will eventually paint as a 3 x 4 foot work and is intended to be remeniscent of Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot. I mean for it to conjure that existential sense of watching for something magical or supernatural in my life and sometimes fearing I am abandoned in that. I work to overcome those fears, but that feeling can be very powerful. Take today for instance.

This morning when I was driving out of the parking lot of my apartment I smiled and waived at a man standing beside the road who stared at me without response. I looked up at the road in time to see a large, silver SUV drive over a mourning dove. The dove fluttered and fought against the radiator of the big truck, but was overwhelmed by the SUV. The driver made no attempt to slow down or swerve. After the truck passed, the dove stumbled across the road, wounded and apparently without hope of survival.

I was angry. I cannot understand why a driver would run over a living creature with no thought to its life, its pain, or its suffering. When I drive to work, I go along a back road. It's paved, but there's not a lot of traffic. Because of the fall weather and the heat of the road, caterpillars crawl across the road constantly. They are big and furry and move quickly, so they are easy to see. I steer my car among the caterpillars like I'm driving through an obstacle course. There's no need to kill them. Of course, if I had to choose between the caterpillar and endangering my own life or the life of another driver, I would crush a caterpillar without hesitation, but that has not been the case for me.

I live near the river, and along the Arkansas river, here in Wichita, lives a lot of wildlife--especially squirrels. I have managed to drive along the river regularly without once running over a squirrel. Yet every day I see squirrels crushed into the road by careless drivers. What is the deal? I just don't get this. One day, I saw the lady in front of me slow down and swerve for a squirrel. I prayed for that lady. She renewed my faith. Lo, I witness a god.

Blue Herons

Finally coming out of winter
and after the long rains,
we decide to canoe for the first time
with the children. The air is cold,
and we shiver, but we paddle to the beach
on the far side of Cheney lake.
Sydney helps gather damp leaves
for a fire. The only wood—
the drift wood—is sponged,
but it burns. We make sandwiches
and lie on the sand. I tell Bo, for the third time,
to stay away from the puddles,
but he walks through a deep one,
and his shoe is soaked. He sulks
and sticks his foot near the fire.

The sun is setting on our way
back across the lake, which is now
vibrant pink around us.
It is quiet and still out here
on the pink water. The kids are calm
and watching in the boat.
The only sound is the paddle,
except from across the lake
comes a low heron flying,
looking down and circling above us.
He flaps back again out of sight
to where he came from.
Then come two blue herons,
the first bird and his mate.
When we all turn to look
at the two herons returning,
the boat rocks and I gasp feeling us turn over.
But I am wrong, and we are still here
gliding safely across the bright water.
The two birds fly low to the lake and disappear.
We sit silently paddling, all of us together,
until we reach the far shore.

Saturday, September 16, 2006—Early Evening

Today the wind is insane. It has slammed car doors, blown trash all over the roads, and basically wreaked havoc on trying to get around in any sensible way. By the time I’ve gotten from car to building today my hair looked like a crazy bee’s hive. Yet it’s hot—the air-- and muggy even. My apartment is warm and somewhat insufferable, but I like fresh air, and I want a low electric bill, so I keep the door and window open.

I slept late again today and thought I might be too sick to get up, until I decided that that’s boring and depressing. So I got up, and Bo and I went to McDonald’s for our iced-tea refills. I decided that I felt better and that the best way I could show my faith in the Universe is to go to WalMart, have them put two new tires on my car, along with new windshield wipers, and write a hot check for all of it, knowing full-well the check will be covered somehow. The person interested in buying my refrigerator and giving me a windfall (no pun intended) to help pay for my tires, hasn’t responded. Oh well, I’ll get to update later on how all of this worked out so well. By the way, I added $20 worth of gas to my car too, so the Universe has a bit to cover now. I can’t wait.

The above painting "Dream Trees" I just donated to Woofstock to help animals, and this poem received Honorable Mention in Mikrokosmos in 2005.

Cheney Lake in Spring

It’s raining on the lake again.
All the people have gone away
but us. My little boy fishing,
I’m trying to cast my line out
far enough to impress him. I throw it
half way out to the buoy. We know
it’s no use. Not a fish nor even turtle is biting.
Instead the rain is pelting our heads.
For this three days we’ve stubbornly
stood out the rain. At least, there’s no lightning
this time. Just a long slow weeping of the sky
into the water. My girl is wringing the wetness
from her dog’s fur. She sits beside him
and brushes his coat with her hand,
to no avail. He is soaked like a sponge
but happy with her brushing.

We are together.
J.D. in the tent when all of us, dripping, enter.
We shed our clothes and crawl under covers to dry.
In midday we are silent as night.
The tent shudders, and water drops in rhythms.
The world is singing to us here,
lulling us into contentment.
We lie on sleeping bags and half sleep.

Last night, before the rains came a hoot owl
sat in the tree above us and cooed.
We awoke from our dreams to listen—
a song escaping from somewhere in the sky,
flying far up, up, over the rain, and out of our little lives.

Friday, September 15, 2006—Night

The wind is blowing. The wind is a constant in Kansas. Today was especially windy and dusty, but now the air is cool, and blows through my balcony door. The trees and tall decorative grasses in the courtyard sway and toss. I hear voices across the yard and see a woman sitting on the stoop with her dog. Even though it’s late it seems the wind has made some of us restless. I’m completely exhausted, yet I don’t feel like I can sleep. I watched my usual sitcoms: King of Queens, Frazier, and M*A*S*H. I’m usually asleep by now, but Bo, the cats, and I are all still active.

Syd went to her cousin’s birthday party for the night, so Bo and I went to a movie. We never get to do that, so I made it a point for us to go. We saw Cars. Now Bo’s playing a video game, and soon we’ll settle in for the night.

I haven’t felt my best today. I made myself get up before 11:00, but at the movies I was pretty sick. My students may have shared some sort of bug with me. Off and on I have read out of Think and Grow Rich. The book is very exciting to me. It reminds me of what I already know and gives me a new way to think about it. It shows me some of the areas in creating my life that I am not addressing as well, such as believing. I’m good at focusing on what I desire, but then I step back in disbelief and wonder how it could ever happen. As I meditate tonight, I will work on believing. It’s strange to miss something so obvious, but really it’s easy to miss.

My knees are sore, which is a sign of my weird illness. I’ve not been eating as healthy foods as I should, so it’s no wonder I don’t feel too well. I think that’s where I’ll focus tonight—on my health, feeling and looking great. Then I’ll let the breeze lull me to sleep.

Friday, September 15, 2006

What I have to remind myself of, what is so important for me to remember is my life is a creative process. Reading Julia Cameron's books The Artist's Way, Letters to a Young Artist, The Sound of Paper, and currently, Walking in this World, I have learned to be more "allowing" more forgiving and less controlling when it comes to creating a painting or a poem, but when I was reading Cameron's work I sensed, I even knew somewhere inside of myself that the same concepts that Julia was talking about with regards to creativity are true regarding the rest of my life--most importantly to me at the time was the financial aspect.

My ex-husband told me to watch What the *Bleep* Do We Know? Even though I had been questioning along these lines already, the movie boggled my mind. I watched it with my kids who had seen it before, and they had to assure me that the movie was true. When I saw the pictures of the water crystals I was stunned, completely disbelieving, and my kids told me that this wasn't made up. I went to bed that night, not being able to get those pictures out of my mind. I thought about the movie for days, and the more I thought about it, the more confused I became. But I kept watching the movie, now with my students, and we would discuss it. Some of my students were thrilled about the message of the movie, and others were completely bored. Some were just glad to have a movie day. But the engaged students did lend insight to me, and that's when I came across a strange little book at the bookstore. I walked past Ask and It is Given and almost laughed at the cheesy picture on the cover of the sky with a bird flying through it. But I was intrigued. I sat in the bookstore and read almost half of the book. Then I had to buy it. I ravenously finished the book. In short, it woke me up. Ever since I finished the book, I have been unable to think in my old way. When I start to delve into that monster mind, I at least know now that I am choosing my own insanity. I mean that.

Well, I have had to drive to two libraries to finish uploading and creating my blog for the last few days, and there's a guy about to cough all over me and die right beside me, so I'll go for now.
Is that negative? Maybe, but I think it's funny.

Thursday, September 14, 2006--Evening

Waking up, well, right after I wake up is the hardest part of the day for me. I would say that morning is the worst part of the day, but often I sleep until the afternoon. When I wake up I feel negativity—resentments, fears, all sorts of bad imaginings—come over me like a blinding fog. In the shower and getting dressed I often have to remind myself that my feelings aren’t accurate, that I will—if I put effort into it—feel better soon. So I start to nudge my thoughts toward thankfulness. I easily slip back into destructive thoughts—arguing with the girl at the coffee shop, telling my students to go to hell, wanting to kill other drivers on the streets—and I haven’t even left the bedroom.

But I keep directing and redirecting my thoughts until they turn lighter, until I can laugh at my previous self and my destructive thinking. But some days it is much harder to dig out of that space, especially when I’m tired (I suffer from Chronic Fatigue) and/or hormonal. For instance, today I slept until after 1:00 in the afternoon, which is pretty late even for me, then I got up, went for iced tea, shopped at the dollar store, came home and ate lunch. By 3:00 I was in bed again, sound asleep with Ali curled up at my shoulder. I didn’t wake up again until after 5:00. I groggily (and grumpily) rushed getting to my World Ventures appointment across town. It was no surprise, the way I was feeling, that my appointment cancelled after my WV sponsor and I waited for about fifteen minutes.

But my sponsor wasn’t moved. It didn’t bother him that he had driven an hour for a meeting that didn’t work out. I was discouraged. I need new tires on my car. The radial belts are showing through both of my front tires, so it’s not wise for me to drive even my half hour to work, but of course I have to. I want to pay two people I owe. I want to start having more money than I need—not less.

Finally I remembered what I read in Think and Grow Rich yesterday. Hill wrote in the 1930’s, “More than 500 of the most successful people America has ever known told the author their greatest success came just one step beyond the point at which defeat had overtaken them.”

I have experienced this so many times I should know how it works. Just last month this happened to me. I had been holding out to attend the WV’s Mark Accetta Acceleration Training in Kansas City. And things just weren’t coming together to make it happen. Just when I had given up, and had not yet walked away from my desire, it all fell into place. I recall this feeling occurring many times in my life. Many times I have given up, start to throw my fit and toss my hands up in defeat when the thing I want finally happens.

I’m not yet at the step beyond defeat, but in some ironic sense I felt better that I am now steps closer to despair, so I can get to my great success sooner. There have been many times in my life I have felt despair. I learned to turn my defeat into works of art. Here is a poem from one of those times. The painting above goes by the same title and is a visual exploration of the poem. The painting is published in Mikrokosmos 2004. The poem is now submitted to Calyx:




Blood and Water

What did you think the time in the evening shade,
the windows open and the honeysuckle breeze?
You were lying on the couch
a shadow beneath a sheet.
when I crunched my hands into fists
and punched the nose, the eyes, the lips
until broken they bled hot and red
down my face, onto my blouse.
You tried to move quickly, so sleepily
tried to hold my arms stiff behind my back.
I was strong and kept smacking then flopped
on my face crying a bloody puddle
on the hard wood floor. We have come to the lake

to heal. My lips cut and swollen,
I sit stiffly by the fire and stare.
You tell me I am beautiful.
You’d never leave one as lovely as I.
When I smile, it opens a cut on my lip and stings
my nose bruised and swollen shut.
You say you love me. I don’t tell you,

I dream a woman drowned herself
in the black river. Tree seeds floating on the water.
She broke her neck when she dove
from the Eighteenth Street bridge by our house.
Her spirit is caught there in the water. In the night
I am startled by her mourning dove cry.

When I awaken in the tent, the wind is blowing.
I see flashes of lightning and hear the rain.
You open your eyes and ask me what’s wrong.
I had a dream, I say, I can’t remember
what it was. When the wind kicks up
I think the tent is going to fly into the lake.

I ask should we zipper the ceiling window
beneath the clear-plastic cover. The wind
won’t catch so easily. When you rise
in your clumsiness you nearly fall on me,
but you fumble with the zipper and finally
tighten the window closed. When we fall

together back to sleep, I am drowning
and someone is howling like the wind
from far out in the lake. She has jumped
from the stone jetty in a midnight thunderstorm.
The fish are fighting the waves to eat the seeds
from the surface of the water and her hair.

The sun rises sadly behind the thick clouds.
I brush my sore teeth, check for bruises
inside my lips and think of sitting
by the fire in the night. You got up for a drink
of water. Your back to me and the fire,
I watched wanting you to turn around,
afraid to be away from you in the dark.
A light tap on my left shoulder from behind.
When I turned, only trees in the distance,
then a woman covered with seaweed gliding
over the grass, gliding and bending
toward the iron water. Fishermen tell

of a woman who haunts this murky place.
Sometimes at night her nude body rises
to the surface, her breasts bob on the water,
and lilies float at her willowy feet. She’s so lovely
the men still and stare. When they paddle toward
her face her mouth is missing. Fish have torn bits
of her battered lips until a grimace remains
and a moan sounds from low within the lake.

This morning she walks sadly
beside me through the drizzling rain
out to the shore where the two of us
watch waves work to haul themselves up
out of the frightening, deep water.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006—Evening

This is “River I,” a picture of the painting I donated to the Wichita Center for The Arts auction to raise funds for the gallery. This is my first contribution to the center, and with all of my recent donations (another is “Dream Trees” to Woofstock), I am running short on paintings. I am now in a position of having to paint so that I’ll have enough work for my upcoming exhibit at Watermark (another reason I love that place). But it feels great to donate my work and to know that my art will be shown in several places next month.

I’ve really been thinking a lot about poetry lately, so even though this poem has no painting that is directly connected with it, I want to share it with you now. It was published in the South Dakota Review Winter, 2004:



Deer

Leaving the Grand Canyon in nighttime,
we came upon deer undisturbed
by harsh bright of our headlights.
We pulled over as they stared at us fragile
through the windshield.
Steam rising from their nostrils.
We wanted to touch them
and turned out the lights,
groped through the darkness until
we found the pine trees
they were standing among.
The deer snorted from out of the deep night.
A sliver of moon in the sky
and the spattering light of stars.
Somewhere, the canyon
we could slip into.
We blindly reached our hands out
into the shadow
feeling for some magical body,
for something to connect us.
Neither of us able
to reach anything at all.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006—Evening

In the entire day today I did not mention my World Ventures work to anyone, yet I worked at World Ventures all day. This morning I went to my local corporate coffee shop for my usual short, half mild, half water, with room for cream (you do the math), and reminded the barista that I only pay for a refill on my drink instead of $1.30 for the regular short.

Keep in mind I have been frequenting this coffee shop since it opened three years ago. The way I came up with the fair tally of the refill price was through another barista who felt I was paying too much for half a drink and mentioned the refill price as a more reasonable option. Well, this morning the girl who poured my luke-warm coffee proceeded to lecture me on making sure I “don’t do that in front of the manager, or he’ll be mad.” She spoke to me as if I were an unruly child. Everyone in the coffee shop heard her reprimand me. I was unhappy. I was offended and angry when I left the coffee shop and didn’t much enjoy my drink. For reasons only a psychologist might understand, this little interaction left me quite humiliated, partly because I experienced another such embarrassing moment as this in the same store only months earlier.

I sat in my car and cried, then fumed, then cried and fumed. Then I decided to talk it out. After talking to my self and a friend’s tortured answering machine, I decided to go to my ALL-TIME FAVORITE COFFEE SHOP—Watermark Books and Café on Oliver and Douglas in Wichita, Kansas.

Upon entering the store I was greeted warmly by the owner. Sarah smiled at me and asked me if I needed help finding a book. I declined her offer, and later came back for help in finding Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. I spoke to one of my Watermark friends, M.B., about the book Prince of Tides that my Syd is reading. M.B. and I were amazed at the loveliness of the story and language in the book. My other friend, J., and I talked about blogging and teaching. M.R. listened to me complain about the corporate coffee shop. I have different friends depending on who is working that day. I love Watermark because there I am treated like a person. When I don’t go into the store for a while, they actually miss me. When I order my drink, we laugh together and make jokes. They ask me about my life. S. loves the French language and used to teach it. M.A. just took up roller derby. I went to see two of the Irish girls dance and play the mandolin. L. goes to the YMCA every morning to workout before coming to Watermark, even though she is busy with her family.

As I think about it, I know a great deal about the people who work at the corporate coffee shop too, and I consider them my friends. I guess that’s why I felt so bad when I was treated like a number—like 80 cents to be exact.

I left Watermark feeling happy. I started to look forward to teaching my classes, and I kept thinking about things that bring me joy. I forced myself to think about the things that I’m glad I have. At first it wasn’t as easy, but I started to get into it pretty quickly (since I have been practicing this kind of thinking for a few months now). Working at feeling good, enjoying my life is my job now—this is World Ventures.

My classes went well, and the energy was high, and everyone seemed happy. I was also able to put money in the bank just in time to make my car payment.

As I said, I have been working on my thinking for some time, even before I came to World Ventures. In fact, this is what led me to WV. I wanted to earn money in a way that is easy and makes me happy. Then I was introduced to this opportunity.

So many of the jobs I have had have left me broke and empty. I never really tried to be happy at those jobs and I never was. I don’t believe in jobs, even though I grew up with models of the most hard-working people there are. How can employees be happy when they don’t care about their own customers, when they can’t pay their bills, when the chances for their futures dwindle as they age? Don’t get me wrong some of the happiest people I know work at menial jobs making little money and getting even less recognition. These are people who have chosen to live simply and to be happy. I, on the other hand, choose to have money and be happy. But be warned, there is much working against those of us who make the choice to be happy.

I want to leave with a quote from the book The Art of Everyday Ecstasy by Margot Anand. This quote makes sense out of my small experience at the corporate coffee shop and addresses the societal belief that we cannot and should not be happy:

We have a vested interest in keeping the game going. Your industrial-military complex understands this very well. That is why it opposes mightily any attempt to install a war-no-more government anywhere.

Your religious community also holds this clarity. This is why it attacks uniformly any definition of God which does not include fear, judgment, and retribution, and any definition of self which does not include their own idea of the only path to God.

--Neale Donald Walsch
Conversations with God

Monday, September 11, 2006, Evening

As of yet, I have to go to the library to access the internet, so I am at home typing on my computer and saving my blog entry to my jump drive. I sure hope I can figure out how to move this onto my site tomorrow. I asked my daughter, Syd, for advice, and I think she’s given me the insight I need. Syd is 15, and my son, Bo, is 10. They know much more about technology than I. I’m not like, Kip, from Napoleon Dynamite when it comes to technology. But I love words.

And I love the weather tonight. From my third floor balcony I can see the dark Kansas clouds billowing over the courtyard and neighborhood. The breeze is cool, and my wind chimes are sounding. Fruity is meowing in the background in thanks for the meal I just provided her, while Ali is curled in my lap, resting as I type. George Winston’s Forest plays from the little C.D. player at the back of the apartment, and although I am alone except for Fruity and Ali (my kids are at their dad’s), I am very happy, even grateful for this time to reflect.

What I came here to write about though is Art Aid 13. Each year Positive Directions has an art auction to raise money for victims of HIV/AIDS. Last year I donated a piece, “Burden,” a large work with layers of reds and gold that revealed the faintest shape of two hunched-over human forms. I was proud to have my work included in the show, but as I was out of town for the auction, I was unable to attend the main event. This year, I have just today decided, I will be donating another large piece (3’ x 4’) entitled “Whirlwind in a Thorn Tree.” This piece has recently been published on the cover of American Literary Review and is dedicated to Johnny Cash. I am including with the painting a poem I wrote in honor of Johnny at the time of his death, “Funeral Song.” Needless to say, I am a great fan of Johnny Cash’s music and his passion for justice—in essence, I am a fan of his life.

I hope this painting will sell for a good price to help out this important charity. Although it is difficult to part with a work of art, especially a larger work, this is the most important cause I feel I can give to, and I’m very happy I can do so. Below is a copy of the painting if I can figure out how to import it onto my blog. In addition, please find a copy of my poem. Enjoy.


Funeral Song
--for John R. Cash, 2003

Since you died, the last of the autumn roses withered,
and no more blossom in the yard.
The lawn is spare of summer birds.
All but few have flown where once they stood, gathering.
And these last few scarce can croak the saddest tune for you.
You died so near to winter.
Yet nearer now to June.
The country mourns--you’ve drawn
your unluckiest card--and I mourn.
In the night, I sit on the porch, the screen door open,
your ghostly voice echoes down the street
and back now to my childhood where you sang to me then,
the haunting beat, coming to me over the fields and the few trees
and the highway to the small house there.
I loved something in you then, something I couldn’t speak.
I know it now, and still I seek for words but do not find them.
I would drink a beer or wine or smoke a smoke to you.
Instead, I look up through the trees
and mark a star, a pair, for you. No, have them all.
While in the cool, the leaves have begun to turn,
and I am still here waiting for them to fall.

Monday, September 11, 2006

I haven't been feeling very good about teaching lately, since I had a student complain to the Dean because I told him to be quiet during my lecture. Everything turned out just fine, and I wasn't worried about it, but it did disillusion me (again) as far as what it means to be a college instructor. But World Ventures has taught me--and this has been a lesson I have been trying to learn before World Ventures anyway--that if I don't feel good about what I'm doing, my results aren't going to be very good.

On a kind of side note: I forgot to mention in my list of interests that I am into Zen meditation. I am very young at this, and I practice with the Southwind Sangha when I can, and I practice my own variation of Zazen alone.

So, because of how I've been feeling about my classes, last night I realized that it was time for some meditation. For my own variation of Zazen, I tend to focus my thoughts, which is contrary to the teaching of watching one's thoughts pass. I nudge my thoughts toward a positive focus (when I am practicing at home. When I am practicing with the Sangha, I work toward stepping back and watching my thoughts). Therefore, last night I practiced a great deal of positive visualization and thankfulness, which helps me worry less and feel much better about my life. This also helps my life go much better--this outcome is what I am seeking, so that it perpetuates a cycle of being more and more joyful.

This morning as I was driving to class I decided to aid all of my students in "raising their vibrations" (I picked up this terminology from the book Ask and it is Given by the Hicks'). When I got to class, for today's journal entry, I assigned the students to list all the things they could think of for which they are grateful. I wrote my list at the same time. I explained to the students that as a younger person I remember being told to be grateful for what I had, but no one ever explained why I should be thankful (nor did they know). So I grew up thinking being grateful was like taking out the trash--a chore that I was told to do that had little to no reward (except that a judging God might look favorably upon it). But, I told them, I have learned lately that being thankful not only feels better, but in a very practical sense it determines my life circumstances in a positive direction. In other words, if I feel like shit, shitty things happen. If I feel good, good things happen.

We all wrote our lists and shared some of the things for which we're thankful. We had a high energy, positive, fun class after that. I don't think it's just coincidence.

Saturday, September 9, 2006

This is my first blog entry and I'm excited. I have just recently become a travel agent with World Ventures and it's a thrill. Make a living.....Living! and that's just what I'm doing. I spend each day trying to focus on that which makes me most happy and enjoy promoting my business. Today I spent the day at the Kansas State Fair meeting people, visiting booths, and looking at all of the items for which Kansas is known--tractors, RVs, saddles, horse trailers, and farm animals.

I hadn't been to the state fair since I was a kid, and I hadn't been interested in attending since I became an adult, but today I realized I really am just a western Kansas girl, and I like this stuff.

In addition to being a travel agent, I am a self-taught artist. My work can be found displayed in the Wichita area. Currently, I have an exhibit at Clay Art Studio in Delano. I have my MFA in poetry and teach writing at Butler Community College. I publish my work regularly. Later I'll share my poems and art as well as the details of my travel business.