Bird feeder Feb. 2011

Healing

When does the broken heart heal? It seems that it never completely does, even with bursts of energy goodness and love, there is a current of grief that once we know it, never complete releases us. I know that when I get accupressure treatments to my body that recognition of the ache that prevails there in the center of my heartspace speaks to me once again. wanting recognition. Wanting more than anything a voice. And it is a voice that takes courage. Not that I am not experienced in courage. It is just that with the onsought of life my pursuits have been material and not creative. It has been a long road to my middle class vision of comfort. A home with a backyard for the dogs, a hardwood floor for the relief of severe allergies, and a heating bill that will not put me in debt for months to come.
So the late middle part of my life has come, next Spring I will be sixty.
It is a time, I have in some ways prepared for. My home is comfortable, there is furniture, real furniture. No more futons, and card tables on loan. There are books in builtin bookcases, more than I will ever have time to actually read.
I have acquired all that I earlier lacked in life, and this has been a dogged pursuit, the books, the furniture, the pets, the completeness of this astounds me and why in all this gratitude is there the fine crack still in the heart?
My mother died suddenly when I was still in crisis over a sudden divorce.
I learned how life can turn on a dime, and all that held you up,disappears.
and still you walk, even though now that walk is shrouded in grayness and tears. And I know also that the tears do stop. They tire, they dry out, they stop.
Energy increases, and life goes on. Laughter hits with its surprising force, and you know that you will live. The brightness of the sun is part of your day again and walks in the woods with the dog are no longer long meditations on loss, love, God and confusion. The winter trees that once caught my confusion in their intricate dark branches are now quieter. But still the vision opens up a part of me, and that part of me almost dares to know thyself. And question the pain that remains.

January 22 2011

The time of winter always plays With my memories of Katy. The last days of January and she died and the Funeral was the first days of February... or so memory tells me. It snowed every day for months after she died. The snow on the evergreen trees always says Katy to me. The dark crispness of the Evergreens and the soft mounds of snow so beautiful and undecribeable in my own way of wanting to describe. the darkness and the white, the rich green in winter and the frost ice feel on the tips of my fingers. all that snow everyday falling everwhere on everything, the long long winters of Northern Vermont as if the snow were my own frozen tears...

Blogging on a rainy night. Parker spend the day in the midst of his admiration society on Church Street. He soaks up admiration as his due. He is a fond of strangers stroking his golden fur and
he shines even brighter when they remark on his special ness being the most handsome of golden retrievers. When I was gone to NYC Parker stayed with his dog family Crangold Kennel and played with the show bitches. He had a grand time, I could tell, as he hardly missed me.But two days later we are a team again. And he is chewing his nylabone at my feet.

The Brooklyn Botanical Gardens

I thought a walk in Brooklyn at the botanical gardens would be boring for a Vermonter. But I was enchanted at the sight of the roses lined up lush and in multitudes like armies of petals pushing color to the frontal lobes of our brain. The senses after the overload of darkness of nyc subways and then roses like royalty in formation of delicacy and color that is rich because of the sheer number of them.
Then the Japanese gardens looking mysterious and peaceful. The Koi fish huge and responding to the human voices above them by swarming about each other and slapping lacy tails. The turtles on stone islands with their small heads reaching out.