Tag: earth’s art

for yourself and your posterity

Stone8

when you write from life
you sometimes hit pockets of dark

Stone7

and just when you don’t think you can take any more,
you hit pockets of sparkle

Stone5

it is not linear, writing from life.
oh sure, you can start with your earliest memory,
but before you know it,
you’re writing about something that happened just yesterday.

Fragments

there are memory fragments

Cracks

and there are rifts and crevices
in the ole’ memory bank.

Stonecomplete

yet through it all,
writing your life
recording your stories
capturing your memories
is a rich and colorful experience,
just like your life.
and in the end,
you have something that will be treasured
treasured, i tell you
for generations to come.

[ :: ]

Maybe you’re ready to write your autobiography?
As a lifelong personal historian, Jeanne Hewell-Chambers
knows how to navigate through the treasure map
that is your life.
And hey,
even if you don’t become a Keepsake Writer,
(but I sure do hope you will)
promise you’ll carve out some time to capture and preserve
stories from yourself and your family.
You’re the only one who can, you know.

Whatever

04Apr13

Whatever
the occupation
the age
the gender

Whatever
the sexual preference
the religion
the hair color

Whatever the size of
the bank book
the house
the appetite

Whether one likes
numbers
beakers
paint
words
proof
or
faith
best

Whatever
the handicap
the illness
the eye color

Whatever
the height
the dental records
the shoe size

Whatever
the favorite color
the preferred mode of transportation
or dress
or leisure activity

Whatever the differences . . .
We’re all Somebodies
Somewhere
in Some Way.

Lives Touching Lives, A Thread

DSC08533

“I’d like to do something meaningful with what’s left of my life,” Mother says after telling me about the book she’s just finished reading about the work author Danielle Steele does with homeless people.

“What would you like to do?” I ask her.

“Well, I know a lot of women who are lonely,” she says, “and I was thinking that if I could take them to lunch that might be something.”

[ ::: ] [ ::: ] [ ::: ]

DSC08502

For twelve and a half hours beginning at 3:30 a.m. today, Thursday 11/29/12, we are either sitting still in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean or cutting doughnuts, going around and around the area where a passenger is believed to have gone overboard.

DSC08510

The U.S. Coast Guard joins in the search with two cutters, a helicopter, and a fixed-wing plane, and passengers watching from aboard the ship do what people do: they make up stories about the man gone overboard. Some say he was traveling with his wife and a child, others say he was traveling only with his wife. Some say he and his wife were in marriage counseling. Some say he was extremely drunk, others say they were with him and he was upbeat. Some wonder how long he could survive, factoring in such factors as water temperature, where he entered the water in relation to the ship’s engines, and the proximity of sea life. Some are frustrated at missing the beach stop – the last chance to get their toes in the sand – originally scheduled for tomorrow; some pray for his family. A sketch of his face remains on our tv screens throughout the day while he captain comes on the intercom periodically, pleading for anybody with any information to come forward, especially the person who first reported the incident in the dark thirty hours of the morning. People spend the day glued to one side of the ship or another – some with binoculars – hoping to be the one to call out “There he is! I see him!” It’s a call nobody gets to make.

My daughter and I go see a movie late tonight – we’ve seen this movie several times, but we need the quiet and distraction. My husband fetches us cookies while we are gone.

[ ::: ] [ ::: ] [ ::: ]

DSC08512

He asks to join a trivia game team, and she asks me about my stitching, where did my ideas come from, how long will it take me to finish – that kind of thing. He walks more slowly now, his back rather bent, and she gets around via a motorized scooter. Stanley Gray had just come out of the service in 1945, and when he went to a resort in New York to celebrate July 4, he asked the pretty young woman named Judith to dance.

DSC08515

The following year, he asked her to marry him, and she said “Yes” – just what he was hoping she’d say. “Yesterday was our 66th wedding anniversary,” he said, standing a little bit straighter in the telling. “We’ve still got each other, and we still have fun. You can’t ask for more than that.”

DSC08528

(Today I’m posting this here and over at Gone With The Thread. I don’t ever double-post, but today, well today I just had to.)

Everything I Need to Know About Life, I Learned from My Boat

Boat2

You have to pick up speed so the boat will plane,
allowing you to see where you’re going.

Boatphoebe

When you need to pass
– and you will –
always pass on the Right.

Boatwake

The faster you go, the less wake you leave.

Boat3

You have to be in gear to steer.
Neutral just won’t get you anywhere.

Boatview

Sometimes one battery is enough.
Other times you have to turn the button to the “all” position
and give it all the juice you’ve got.

in stone

PetrifiedPinecone

a petrified pinecone.

yes, really.

to see this pinecone
is to see an altar.
a special space
that’s nestled inside layers
of fierce protection
from the outside world.
a space filled
with layers
and lightning
and shifts
and color
and sparkle
and spaciousness
and i think yes,
that’s what an altar is.
a place –
even a place
in the center
of the usual daily hubub –
where we can go
to mark a space for ourselves,
where we can define
(perhaps to ourselves)
what’s most important
right here, right now,
where we can lay claim to
our most sumptuous selves.

:: /// ::

More about 365 Altars

today rocked – from start to finish, it rocked

It was a sunny spring day atop the mountain,
the sky too blue,
the breeze too gentle,
the temperature too temperate
to stay inside doing paperwork.

So we didn’t.

With no particular plan,
we hit the road,
and before long,
we found ourselves
submersed in history
all kinds of history,
some older than ancient . . .

If walls could talk,
imagine the stories
the graffiti-laden walls of the old jail
located in downtown Franklin, NC could tell.

Jail2

Jail1

Jail8

Jail9

Geologists say that rocks remember.
Of course they can,
so just imagine the stories these rocks,
part of The Gem & Mineral Society of Franklin, NC amazing collection
(located in the aforementioned old jail)
could tell:

Rock1

Rock2

Rock4

Crystals grew inside rock like arithmetic flowers.
They lengthened and spread,
added plane to plane in an awed
and perfect obedience
to an absolute geometry
that even stones –
maybe only the stones –
understood.
~ Annie Dillard

Rock5

Rock6

Rock10

Eggs have no business dancing with stones. ~ Italian proverb

Fluorescent3

Fluorescent2

Then we came home and went to walk where we spied these rocks:

Longfalls

Oldwall

Mossyrock

If it weren’t for the rocks in its bed, the stream would have no song. ~ Carl Perkins

Falls1

Study how water flows in a valley stream,
smoothly and freely between the rocks.
Also learn from holy books and wise people.
Everything –
even mountains, rivers, plants and trees –
should be your teacher.
~ Morihei Ueshiba

I tell you what, Sugar:
at this end of a day like this,
there is only one thing to say:
Amen.