Lying quietly in my bed, night is spread across my blankets, cool, and airy. My window frames are frosted, and the huge pines laden with snow. I am trying to find within myself an image of peace to focus on. My mind wanders, and I am thinking of all the things I love, listing them, and stopping when I come to trees. In a tree I find a picture of "peace". I see a girl as a tree. Her feet become the roots, resting deep in the dark, damp soil. I think of how I love touching wetted soil, how it seems so fresh and dirty at once.
Her body is the bark of the tree, smooth and dark brown, like chocalate. The leaves, various shades of red and orange are her hair, strands and strands of leaves so long they almost touch the grassy landscape. Her eyes are knots in the bark, brown like the tree itself. She has no mouth, she is silent, forever watching, mute. I imagine her arms are the branches, reaching upward, to the sky. She stands, rooted in deep into the ground, happy to be feeling the earth, being part of the earth.
What are these images, why are they special, something we remember?
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Places
We drive by St. Mary's football field, and Hoskin Meyers floral shop. A little brown house sits on the opposite curb. My mom points to it, "That is one of the places I grew up." She says she remembers the breezeway and backyard. And the house behind theirs, the "castle," she calls it.
My grandma talks about her old house as if it were a castle. It stood tall on a hill, she says. And you could look outside through these huge windows and see al the city lights. And her brother and sisters and herself would roll and do cartwheels down the hill in their backyard. She loved that house.
And then there is me. I think it is the church bells, ringing every morning, and the train, roaring by every night that I love. And the trees, tall pines, looming beside the red fence, now turning a mossy green, with the sun shining through their branches in the early morning. They shelter us in the winter snow, and are an airy tunnel in the summer months. Beside the pines is an apple tree, blooming every spring, and giving us big red apples for homeade applebars come fall. Lastly is our weeping willow tree, solitary in our front yard. It is dying. But still their.
The arches in our basement and little "boxcar" room, hidden underneath the staircase, I like them. Our red-pink, lime green, purple, lavendar, light blue, and yellow-orange walls are crazy, but fun and beautiful, like life.
I know I love my house, and my mom and grandma, they loved theirs.
So us people, we can love places and colors and sounds. We live to explore, but call one place home. This place brings back memories, and those to come. And that is where I am. In my house, or hiding among our trees. That is where you will find me.
My grandma talks about her old house as if it were a castle. It stood tall on a hill, she says. And you could look outside through these huge windows and see al the city lights. And her brother and sisters and herself would roll and do cartwheels down the hill in their backyard. She loved that house.
And then there is me. I think it is the church bells, ringing every morning, and the train, roaring by every night that I love. And the trees, tall pines, looming beside the red fence, now turning a mossy green, with the sun shining through their branches in the early morning. They shelter us in the winter snow, and are an airy tunnel in the summer months. Beside the pines is an apple tree, blooming every spring, and giving us big red apples for homeade applebars come fall. Lastly is our weeping willow tree, solitary in our front yard. It is dying. But still their.
The arches in our basement and little "boxcar" room, hidden underneath the staircase, I like them. Our red-pink, lime green, purple, lavendar, light blue, and yellow-orange walls are crazy, but fun and beautiful, like life.
I know I love my house, and my mom and grandma, they loved theirs.
So us people, we can love places and colors and sounds. We live to explore, but call one place home. This place brings back memories, and those to come. And that is where I am. In my house, or hiding among our trees. That is where you will find me.
Land
Do we love this land?
Do we, really?
Not because of oil deposits and room for more houses, new and big. But do we look at it, and are we glad we landed here?
I never have. I've thought, "it's pretty," and enjoyed its sunsets, but I never really saw it. Then, an image made me realize its full potential beauty.
Pivture driving out in the countryside on a mild december night. The sky a slate gray color, and stars bright. Our winter sun had set. The tall grasses were laden with snow, and caressed by a light wind. Black plateaus and hills rolled across the land in an endless stretch, rythmically moving with the grasses. The only light cast from our own headlights.
Later, as we climbed a hill I looked down, and saw the twinkling light s of our city. A few shrubslined the black road. the land seemed to breath with me. Its heart beat with mine. It was alive. And I felt it too.
Do we, really?
Not because of oil deposits and room for more houses, new and big. But do we look at it, and are we glad we landed here?
I never have. I've thought, "it's pretty," and enjoyed its sunsets, but I never really saw it. Then, an image made me realize its full potential beauty.
Pivture driving out in the countryside on a mild december night. The sky a slate gray color, and stars bright. Our winter sun had set. The tall grasses were laden with snow, and caressed by a light wind. Black plateaus and hills rolled across the land in an endless stretch, rythmically moving with the grasses. The only light cast from our own headlights.
Later, as we climbed a hill I looked down, and saw the twinkling light s of our city. A few shrubslined the black road. the land seemed to breath with me. Its heart beat with mine. It was alive. And I felt it too.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Run and See
The sun is bright, and the snow is melting. The sounds are of cars, driving, to and from unknown places. Icy patches are scattered across the sidewalk, and my feet thump, thump, thump, on the concrete. The air is cool, but my body is warm. I am running with my friend, and we are just steadily jogging. At the moment, I am not able to go fast, but take it one step at a time.
I hear my breaths and my shoes and sense the spring-like air, even though it is January. I notice everything around me. How the pine tree's branches lean across the sidewalk, making a shady underpass. The empty streets. The few cars, heading to different destinations. And an old woman, sitting alone in a sun hat and unzipped jacket, revealing a blue sweater. On her lap a little dog rests. She waves. My friend waves back. They both smile. The woman goes back to watching.
And I wonder, what is it she watches so contently? Is it people? Or, is it just the air, so crisp, and white, and the way it feels on warm skin? I like to think she watches winter turn to summer, as though we could all sit outside our houses and experience such an event.
What would our days become if we all sat upon our porch steps and watched the sun set and rise? If we let out bodies free, and ran off everything we thought, our skin pink, and heart pumping? I feel unleashed when I run. And the things I see and hear and smell...I know I am a writer when I see these things and wish I had paper. And I know I am a runner when I love cold air and my swinging legs.
And tomorrow I might sit on our hard concrete steps and watch the things around me for no particular reason. Maybe, my feet will take off and down the block I'll fly, hearing words skitter around in my mind, and begin another story.
I hear my breaths and my shoes and sense the spring-like air, even though it is January. I notice everything around me. How the pine tree's branches lean across the sidewalk, making a shady underpass. The empty streets. The few cars, heading to different destinations. And an old woman, sitting alone in a sun hat and unzipped jacket, revealing a blue sweater. On her lap a little dog rests. She waves. My friend waves back. They both smile. The woman goes back to watching.
And I wonder, what is it she watches so contently? Is it people? Or, is it just the air, so crisp, and white, and the way it feels on warm skin? I like to think she watches winter turn to summer, as though we could all sit outside our houses and experience such an event.
What would our days become if we all sat upon our porch steps and watched the sun set and rise? If we let out bodies free, and ran off everything we thought, our skin pink, and heart pumping? I feel unleashed when I run. And the things I see and hear and smell...I know I am a writer when I see these things and wish I had paper. And I know I am a runner when I love cold air and my swinging legs.
And tomorrow I might sit on our hard concrete steps and watch the things around me for no particular reason. Maybe, my feet will take off and down the block I'll fly, hearing words skitter around in my mind, and begin another story.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Summers on the Missouri River
The trees and the eerie dim light called to me. Sweet sounds came from the winds blowing the grasses. Rustling leaves, in various shades of greens and oranges and yellows blended together. Yet the sight that drew me to the very spot was the water. Like a sheet of glass, reflecting the darkening sky, clear and pure. An image unshattered by boats and people, who normally fill the air with lauging and yelling and boat motors.
That was the difference. It was quiet, except for the nature. This was the river uninhabited by children cooling off in it's shallow waters, and adults lounging on the sandbars.
I loved the river. I loved it with people, when it was full of vibrant life, throwing frisbees and building sand castles with neon shovels and buckets. I also loved it as the day drew to an end. While the summer night air warmed me, and I sat alone on a red bench along the riverbank, staring at the water's glossy surface.
The houses on the other bank of the river seemed so far away, yet I could faintly see lights glowing inside windows. A lone boat glided through the water, cutting it, yet it's motor droned quietly. A sound so small it was like a gentle hum.
This place meant so much to me. It was my summer. It was next summer. And it was always there, waiting for the time when the days would grow longer, and the sun would shine. It would wait for fall to turn to winter, winter to spring, and finally, spring to summer.
I would wait too. Not always so patiently, but I would. I couldn't wait to play catch in shallow waters, swim, grill on sandbars, fly vivdly colored kites, and be bathed in sunlight. I am aching for summer.
That was the difference. It was quiet, except for the nature. This was the river uninhabited by children cooling off in it's shallow waters, and adults lounging on the sandbars.
I loved the river. I loved it with people, when it was full of vibrant life, throwing frisbees and building sand castles with neon shovels and buckets. I also loved it as the day drew to an end. While the summer night air warmed me, and I sat alone on a red bench along the riverbank, staring at the water's glossy surface.The houses on the other bank of the river seemed so far away, yet I could faintly see lights glowing inside windows. A lone boat glided through the water, cutting it, yet it's motor droned quietly. A sound so small it was like a gentle hum.
This place meant so much to me. It was my summer. It was next summer. And it was always there, waiting for the time when the days would grow longer, and the sun would shine. It would wait for fall to turn to winter, winter to spring, and finally, spring to summer.
I would wait too. Not always so patiently, but I would. I couldn't wait to play catch in shallow waters, swim, grill on sandbars, fly vivdly colored kites, and be bathed in sunlight. I am aching for summer.
The Dancing Poem
The air rush of words that came out of my mouth floated dreamily in the air, like a falling feather, landing on black paper. In a thin, curved print, it appeared apon the page. And the story of her became my story too. Ours collided together without making a noise.
There she was, dancing in the dark hall, a dim light making her glow. And there I was, sitting on cold granite steps, only watching. The ache in me whispering, "Dance, dance..."
There she was, dancing in the dark hall, a dim light making her glow. And there I was, sitting on cold granite steps, only watching. The ache in me whispering, "Dance, dance..."
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Beautiful People
My feet are numb, my cheeks flushed, and I am flying. My brown curls are frosted with ice, and my heart drums to the rhythm of my skates, cut, cut, cutting into the smooth ice rink. The sky is black like leather. Stars are scattered throughout the sky, like God took a handful and tossed the sparkling light into the darkness. I see the moon, full, with a peacefully eerie orange and green-yellow glow in a ring around it. 
I move quickly across the ice. I like going fast. I feel like I'm getting somewhere. I feel so free, it's like flying with your feet on the ground. I can't really do any fancy tricks, but can swivel backwards and lift my feet off the ground-- stomp, slit, cut.
I am told my cheeks are pink like my sweatshirt, and my hair is iced, and I like myself like this, in the winter. There are times when we must think of oursleves as beautiful people. For me, this is one of those times. When I picture beautiful people, I see my mom and dad, their arms around each other's shoulders; my aunt, massaging someone's neck, her hands smooth and scented with a creamy lotion; my uncle, wearing a purple velvet suit jacket and hat tilted to the side, waltzing through the airport doors; and my grandparents smiling at us. There are many times when I take a mental picture, and label it, "Beautiful people." We need to see ourselves this way. And at this moment I do.
My mom turns on music and rolls down the window in our car, so that the jazz and piano echo in the night, and I swing my arms, gracefully, and tilt my head back, staring at the sky. I love that sky. It fills up the world, just like the music fills up the ice rink and the deserted neighborhood.
I move quickly across the ice. I like going fast. I feel like I'm getting somewhere. I feel so free, it's like flying with your feet on the ground. I can't really do any fancy tricks, but can swivel backwards and lift my feet off the ground-- stomp, slit, cut.
I am told my cheeks are pink like my sweatshirt, and my hair is iced, and I like myself like this, in the winter. There are times when we must think of oursleves as beautiful people. For me, this is one of those times. When I picture beautiful people, I see my mom and dad, their arms around each other's shoulders; my aunt, massaging someone's neck, her hands smooth and scented with a creamy lotion; my uncle, wearing a purple velvet suit jacket and hat tilted to the side, waltzing through the airport doors; and my grandparents smiling at us. There are many times when I take a mental picture, and label it, "Beautiful people." We need to see ourselves this way. And at this moment I do.
My mom turns on music and rolls down the window in our car, so that the jazz and piano echo in the night, and I swing my arms, gracefully, and tilt my head back, staring at the sky. I love that sky. It fills up the world, just like the music fills up the ice rink and the deserted neighborhood.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
