The Grandmother and Grandson, Mattea
The Bride and Groom
There’s no freedom like the abandonment of the familiar,
As an attunement to each breath in ourselves and the planet.
Nuances found in foreign waters, and on new lands,
Sweep us from our daily allêe,
Invite us through barriers in perception,
Stretching ways of seeing what we look at every day:
The miraculous layers of life,
From forever ’til tomorrow, and the tomorrows from tomorrow on.
After struggling like a butterfly in a blizzard for the past few months, humanity has fluttered back in my heart. Thank you, Greece. Thanks to Ruthanne Shobe, for glorious blue space to hear the imagination’s song.
I haven’t been blogging much lately, one reason being eight weeks of an arm cast complete with pins, which were all recently and successfully removed. And then I got on a plane for Cabo with one goal: enough daily physical therapy to remind my immobilized arm and fingers how to work and play with friends once more.
So far, so good.
So blue and beautiful.
All the news of home we read is extreme: the Polar Vortex, according to the weatherman. and ‘life threatening temperatures.’ One more day of warmth… Another reason I haven’t been posting much is that I want to do longer, deeper pieces, but in this environment, there’s nothing more exciting than the temperature, whale sightings, fresh fish, healing, water ten times a day, a little shopping in the charming village of San Jose del Cabo. Not very eventful, except perched up on this mountaintop in an infinity pool, literally hanging off the edge of Mother Earth’s nether regions in southern Baja, I sometimes imagine the possibility of an earthquake, even a little quiver set off by an innocent sneeze. I don’t stay there long in my mind because it’s a little too relaxing here, but as you read these words, you must know the fragility of life is never forgotten by me.
With eyes lined,
And mighty haunches fed, bred for dragging ten thousand pounds,
In regal repose, the beast of burden between appointments with the public and the pull.
Steve and I strolled the garish fairway of sugar and screams,
And abdominal organ rearrangements, two for the price of one.
We ambled to the stage for a pretty good Johnny Cash impersonation.
And to another to sing the national anthem in the dark.
We witnessed drivers loading into their reinforced weapons, soldiers going to war for the Demolition Derby.
The deafening derby’s aftermath in silent wreckage. All in the name of destruction.
Some things never change.
It’s a comfort to know that there will always be the best bouquet, the perfect green bean , the finest pair of knitted gloves, the strongest oxen team, the most fortified jalopy, singers who imitate the great, and Steve and I, like other spectators, gathering for an evening where screaming your head off is not only the norm, but the expectation. It’s like being young.
First photo by Steve Kramer, the rest by yours truly.
Traveling by car toward Indianapolis today at 75 miles an hour, I rolled down the window in an attempt to capture the softness of the hues. Indiana’s soil and even the trees, maybe because of mineral content, maybe because of the mist and cloud cover, but most likely a combination of all the elements, were mauve.
Color has never had such a profound effect on me as this Spring.
From the plane, above the very clouds that rained down on us on the ground, another type of landscape, luminosity that woke me from a snooze. Today involved high speeds and soft lands.