a few of my favorite things...

tea rainbow, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

I keep a flickr photo set I call "pretty," that's filled with some of my pictures that I've chosen simply because they make me happy when I look at them. Most have vibrant colors or they commemorate a special moment. If I'm having a hard day I'll click over to that file and browse for a few minutes. It rarely fails to cheer me.

Do you have any similar photo folders or things you do to cheer yourself?

Mary Monday: lessons, shells, and solitude

Cape Cod-tide on its way out, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

My visit to Cape Cod was two months ago, but I feel like I'm just now actually processing the lessons that I learned while I was there. I was so raw, still, from John's excommunication. For a very long time I'd been feeling this urgency to have some time just for me, and I had those few days to sort out some of the concerns that weighed rather heavily. I needed the time to be on my own, to wander, and to face the sea wind.

It's not often that we get a chance to be apart from the world for awhile, in such a beautiful place. Cape Cod will always be dear to me now, as the landscape that held me when I was aching, that taught me to feel strong in the midst of fear and change.

Today's passage isn't from Mary Oliver, but from another woman who knew the gifts from the sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Her insights gained during her time on the "island" are resonating with me today as I think back to my time on Cape Cod.

She writes:

"Moon shell, who named you? Some intuitive woman I like to think. I shall give you another name--Island shell. I cannot live forever on my island. But I can take you back to my desk in Connecticut [or in Irvine]. You will sit there and fasten your single eye upon me. You will make me think, with your smooth circles winding inward to the tiny core, of the island I lived on for a few weeks. You will say to me "solitude." You will remind me that I must try to be alone for part of each year, even a week or a few days, and for part of each day, even for an hour or a few minutes in order to keep my core, my center, my island-quality. You will remind me that unless I keep the island-quality intact somewhere within me, I will have little to give my husband, my children, my friends, or the world at large. You will remind me that woman must be still as the axis of a wheel in the midst of her activities, that she must be the pioneer in achieving this stillness, not only for her own salvation, but for the salvation of family life, of society, perhaps even of our civilization."

The need for solitude and stillness is not just essential for women and mothers, but for everyone so they can find center. Where do you go when you need to be alone for awhile?

pilgrim classic: What love?

Originally published on 11/24/08:

cluster of heliotrope, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

Where there is greed,
What love can there be?
~Sikh wisdom

orange

persimmon, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

Lately, I've been eating orange: persimmons, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin. Yum!

What colors are you enjoying today?

Mary Monday: what should I fear?

a simple cabin, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

I love small cozy spaces like this cabin in Temescal Canyon, where our family stayed last weekend. My fantasy would be to live in a small bungalow cottage near the beach someday. With one big room for entertaining and a small sleeping loft with a step ladder. And a front porch, of course!

This weekend I found myself immersed in something of the fantasy life that I dream of: staying in an oceanfront room, spending the long hours of the evening chatting with old & new friends over a multi-course meal, wandering up and down the wet sand in the dark as I mulled over the concerns of the world, falling asleep to the insistent rhythm of the waves. And not to mention a victorious morning paddle out on the open ocean in a tandem outrigger canoe (it was a race, our first in a 2-man boat!).

And of course, I have a wee morsel of Mary Oliver poetry for you today, this is an excerpt from "Little Summer Poem Touching the Subject of Faith." These lines reminded me of the fear I had to face down on Saturday morning as my paddling partner and I realized that we'd have to do a surf entry for the boat in some rather rough waves. We came ever-so-close to not going through with it...

And therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine,
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.

pilgrim classic: for the love of you...

Originally posted on 11/14/2008
(looking a back to a year ago)



I really needed this poem today. So for the love of you, I share it here, along with a few recent garden pictures. :)

For the love of a tree, she went out on a limb.
For the love of the sea, she rocked the boat
For the love of the earth, she dug deeper.
For the love of community, she mended fences.
For the love of the stars, she let her light shine.
For the love of spirit, she nurtured her soul.
For the love of a good time, she sowed seeds of happiness.
For the love of the Goddess, she drew down the moon.
For the love of a good meal, she gave thanks.
For the love of family, she reconciled differences.
For the love of creativity, she entertained new possibilities.
For the love of her enemies, she suspended judgment.
For the love of herself, she acknowledged her worth.
And the world was richer for her…..

~ Charlotte Tall Mountain



Photos: Top photo is a close-up pic of a deep pink and red rose. Bottom pic is a closeup of an orange and black butterfly with wings spread, sitting on a helitrope bush with bright green leaves and purple flowers.

the deeper the sense of mystery...

I don't subscribe to many magazines. I mean, they are certainly fun to read (and who doesn't love thumbing through National Geographic or Yoga Journal), but it's hard to find time for them and I dislike the paper waste that they generate. But one magazine that has continued to hold my attention for the past few years is Seed (tagline: "Science is Culture"). I find myself gasping over the artwork and riveted by the articles. The writing is almost-always top-notch, too.

I just wanted to share a few paragraphs from a recent article, "The Future of Science" (Nov/Dec 2007) because I find them so thought-provoking. [ok, confession #1: 2007 seems recent to me--I read and re-read these mags and just can't get enough of them. And confession #2: I think molecular models are hot, don't you? And, yes, I am a complete and total dork]:

In the early 1920s, Niels Bohr was struggling to reimagine the structure of matter [note: I do this all the time, don't you???]. Previous generations of physicists had thought the inner space of an atom looked like a miniature solar system with the atomic nuclues as the sun and the whirrig electrons as planets in orbit. This was the classical model.

But Bohr had spent time analyzing the radiation emitted by electrons, and he realized that science needed a new metaphor. The behavior of electrons seemed to defy every conventional explanation. As Bohr said, "When it comes to atoms, language can be used only as in poetry." Ordinary words couldn't capture the data [gee, do you think my dissertation adviser would accept this as an excuse??]

Bohr had long been fascinated by cubist paintings. As the intellectual historian Arthur Miller notes, he later filled his study with abstract still lifes and enjoyed explaining his interpretation of the art to visitors. For Bohr, the allure of cubism was that it shattered the certainty of the object. The art revealed the fissures in everything, turning the solidity of matter into a surreal blur.

Bohr's discerning conviction was that the invisible world of the electron was essentially a cubist world. By 1923, de Broglie had already determined that electrons could exist as either particles or waves. What Bohr maintained was that the form they took depended on how you looked at them. Their very nature was a consequence of our observation. This meant that electrons weren't like little planets at all. Instead, they were like one of Picasso's deconstructed guitars, a blur of brushstrokes that only made sense once you stared at it. The art that looked so strange was actually telling the truth.

It's hard to believe that a work of abstract art might have actually affected the history of science. Cubism seems to have nothing in common with modern physics. When we think about the scientific process, a specific vocabulary comes to mind: objectivity, experiement, facts. In the passive tense of the scientific paper, we imagine a perect reflection of the real world. Paintings can be profound, but they are always pretend...

But the trajectory of science has proven to be a little more complicated. The more we know about reality--about its quantum mechanics and neural origins--the more palpable its paradoxes become. As Vladimir Nabokov, the novelist and lepidopterist, once put it, "The greater one's science, the deeper the sense of mystery." [yes, indeed...]

bouncing round for years and years...

poppy love.... #4 -- squaRED, originally uploaded by onkel_wart.

The Box, by John Denver

Once upon a time in the land of Hushabye
Around about the wondrous days of yore
They came across a sort of box
Bound up with chains and locked with locks
And labeled "Kindly Do Not Touch, it's war"

A decree was issued round about
And all with a flourish and a shout
And a gaily colored mascot tripping lightly on before
"don"t fiddle with this deadly box
"or break the chains or pick the locks
"And please, don't ever play about with war"

Well the children understood
children happen to be good
they were just as good around the time of yore
they didn't try to pick the locks
or break in to that deadly box
they never tried to play about with war

Mommies didn't either
sisters, aunts, grannies neither, cuz
They were quiet, sweet and pretty in those wondrous days of yore
Well..very much the same as now
Not the ones to blame somehow
for opening up that deadly box of war.

But someone did,
Someone battered in the lid
and spilled the insides out across the floor
A sort of bouncy bumpy ball, made up of guns and flags and all the tears and horror and the death, that goes with war.

It bounced right out and went bashing all about
And bumping into everything in store
and what was sad and most unfair
Is that it didn't really seem to care much who it bumped
Or why, or what, or for.

It bumped the children mainly
And I'll tell you this quite plainly
It bumps them every day and more, and more
And leaves them dead and burned and dying
Thousands of them sick and crying
'Cuz when it bumps
it's really very sore

Now there's a way to stop the ball
it isn't difficult at all
all it takes is wisdom
I'm absolutely sure that
We can get the ball back in the box
And bind the chains
And lock the locks
no one seems to want to save the children any more

Well that's the way it all appears
'Cuz it's been bouncing round for years and years
in spite of all the wisdom whiz since those wondrous days of yore
in the time they came across the box
bound up with chains and locked with locks
and labeled "Kindly do not touch, "It's War"

flash poetry: flower haiku

farmers market flower seller, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

It's been awhile since I attempted some flash poetry. Because I need to get my creative juices flowing today, I decided to try my hand at a 10 minute haiku. (For those new to flash poetry, the point isn't to be good, it's just to have some fun by setting a timer for 5 or 10minutes and seeing what flows...):

Indecisive, I
take pictures, without buying
from the flower stand.

in preparation

A friend took this picture of Catgirl a few years ago, when her artwork was featured at City Hall. She not only got to "cut the ribbon" for the exhibition, but she also spoke at the City Council Meeting and was interviewed for regional TV and newspapers. This picture is her standing in an open stairwell above the exhibit as the news reporter was preparing for her interview. I love how this silhouette captures her little-girl innocence at the same time as it shows a young woman prepared to meet the world.

I'm so thrilled that it's my not-so-little girl's birthday tomorrow. As I wrote earlier, she's celebrating this year by heading to Washington DC as part of a Quaker lobbying group (a group that includes her Dad). Right now she's doing last-minute prep for the trip--learning as much as she can about the relevant issues. And she's also finishing homework & packing. It's a lot to juggle. But she's more than ready!

Mary Monday: Daisies

mellow yellow, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

I'll bet that you're not at all surprised to know that I brought some poetry along on my weekend excursion with Friends. Fortunately, the weekend offered plenty of time for silent contemplation and poetry reading!

Mid-morning on Sunday I came across the words below. After digesting them for awhile I found some yellow daisies growing on a nearby bush and I picked one to wear behind my ear. I probably should have left it on the plant for others to enjoy, but I do have such a weakness for wearing flowers in my hair.

An excerpt from "Daisies" by Mary Oliver:

...What do I know.
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun
lights up willingly; for example--I think this
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch--
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the
daisies for the field.

Previous Mary Monday entries

early rising

steps to nowhere, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

This morning I awakened spontaneously, at about 6am. Perhaps it was the soft light filtering through the windows that woke me, perhaps it was the noises of Friends around me stretching and shifting in their bunks. In any case, I figured that as long as I was up so early, I would attend the early Meeting for Healing that was scheduled before breakfast.

We were staying in Temescal Canyon, just a few miles away from Malibu, with Quakers from all over southern California. It was our family's first regional Quaker gathering--so much of it was new to us.

For example, the night before I'd watched a group of Friends worshipfully dancing in rhythm around candles. That had been strange to me, but beautiful. I hadn't ever seen anyone participating sacred dance before. I'd sat and watched out of the corner of my eye while chatting with a few other women. Amazed at bodies young and old, in rapture. I'd been tempted to join in, but realized that I could enjoy it better from watching on the sidelines...

This morning as I stepped into the room where the Meeting for Healing was taking place, it seemed like any other Meeting for Worship. A small group of Friends sat in a simple circle of chairs. The one main difference was the empty chair in the center. Within a few moments a woman stepped forward and sat in the chair. All remained silent for quite some time. And then another woman walked over to her and placed her hands on the other woman's head. Then hovered her hands over the seated woman's shoulders, neck, and arms. Then she walked around and hovered her hands over the Friend's legs. Then she returned to standing behind her chair again and placed her hands on her head for several moments.

After some silent time, that woman left the center chair and another woman took her place. A Friend from the circle came up behind her and wrapped her in a warm embrace, holding her tightly for several minutes.

This process continued through several different people who chose to sit in the chair. Friends spontaneously rose and ministered to them in very physical and loving ways. Through embrace and touch.

I was moved by this so deeply that it was hard for me to process what I was seeing. Such generosity of spirit. Without rules. Without gender. Without words. Wrapped in love, hope and faith. It was as mystical and as strange to me as the dancing had been the night before. But it was also completely comfortable and familiar.

When I was in the hospital last summer, our Meeting gathered and prayed for my healing. Then, I had no idea then what exactly it meant for Friends to minister to each others' bodies and spirits in such an intimate manner.
But I'm beginning to understand now.
And I'm also slowly realizing that those times I am so insistent on carrying my own burdens...
even when they are weighty...
Perhaps sometimes
I can let a Friend reach out and help me along the way.

Picture of some stone steps along a pathway near the Lodge where we at our meals at Temescal Canyon. I loved the stonework all around the camp area and especially here, covered in red leaves.

on (not) wearing a costume

I had the perfect Halloween costume all figured out for this year. It's actually a running joke that I should dress up as the heroine from Planet Terror (because of the amputee-thing) and I finally decided that I would take the time to pull the costume together (oh, except that I wasn't going to wear a bikini-top, because that would be truly scary)...


But I encountered one huge problem...when I went to buy the replica gun to use for my prosthetic leg, I realized that I just couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to actually purchase a weapon, even a 'fake' one. I know I'm a sissy...but I couldn't even let my kids own or use water guns because they represented something that was so violent and reprehensible to me. And there's something about guns that just repulses me, every deep part of me that cherishes life (even animal life). Even in fun, even as a costume, I couldn't violate that--I knew if I did I would be betraying myself.

So...no groovy heroine costume. Instead I rummaged through my drawers and came out with a permutation of my usual gypsy-boho-cabaret dancing girl. To a gathering the night before Halloween I wore my favorite corset, a black tutu, and some leggings. I felt completely comfortable and so me. On Halloween itself I wore something very similar, but with an a-line black skirt and a deep blue underblouse...

By way of full disclosure: I did shoot a gun at least once as a teen. It's a pretty vivid memory because the kick knocked me right over (granted, I was doing it while balanced on one leg, so it's not like I was the steadiest shooter in the West). I think it was my Dad's shotgun and it was loaded with birdshot.

PS: John was out of town on Halloween weekend, so these pics kind of suck because I was trying to take them of myself...
PPS: I was feeling a bit under the weather on the actual night of Halloween, so after dinner with friends I came home and worked on my dissertation for several hours. I am such a dork.

short shameful confession #10

As soon as I get my paddling gear together and start heading out the front door, I begin salivating like Pavlov's dogs. The reason why? As I drive down to the outrigger launch site in Newport Beach I munch on sport blocks, gels or goo. It's one of the only times I eat refined sugar and my body loves it (craves it, is addicted to it) so much.

See previous short shameful confessions

to loosen my heart...

"I will not die an unlived life. I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, to make me less afraid, more accessible, to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise. I choose to risk my significance; to live so that which comes to me as seed goes to the next as blossom and that which comes to me as blossom, goes on as fruit."

~Dawna Markova

I love this quote from the comments on a recent news article about a teammate's death. I've thought a lot about the risks of my daily activities: whether it be driving down the freeway, taking a cross-country flight, or paddling off into a foggy night. I know there are inherent risks in many things that I do and by simply living I choose to risk my significance. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Mary Monday: I want to write with quiet hands....

farmers market flower seller, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

Yesterday I started "NaNoWriMo," along with numerous other friends and every member of my family (yay!). I won't be writing a traditional novel--I'll mostly be writing on my dissertation with some essays and blogposts along the way. I already write hundreds of words per day, so this is an experiment in seeing if aiming for a particular word count is any more satisfying than my usual methods.

A few weeks ago when I was hanging out in the Tattered Cover bookstore and was overwhelmed by its vast selection, I got discouraged. Surely the world already has plenty of novels and poems and books of history...but I am moving forward with my writings anyways, all the while hoping that the universe won't begrudge me the opportunity to tell my stories.

So today's poem is about writing, as an inspiration to all of you poets and novelists out there.

An excerpt from "Everything" by Mary Oliver

I want to write with quiet hands. I
want to write while crossing fields that are
fresh with daisies and everlasting and the
ordinary grass...let them be

songs in which nothing is neglected,
not a hope, not a promise. I want to make poems
that look into the earth and the heavens
and see the unseeable. I want them to honor
both the heart of faith, and the light of the world;
the gladness that says, without any words, everything.

el dia

farmers market flower seller, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

I saw big bunches of marigolds at the Farmers' Market flower seller yesterday and remembered that El Dia de los Muertos is approaching. I wanted to buy an armful of them, but instead bought practical things like onions and apples and cucumbers.

I got up extra early this morning, wanting to spend my daylight savings hour doing something memorable. So I greeted the sun in a quiet house while reading poetry. The poem below reminded me of my friend Alana, who dressed as a spider deity for Halloween. She told us that she keeps a strand of spiders on her wall year-round--they remind her that one's daily work is to spin a web, even knowing that it will probably be destroyed, but to get up each morning and continue spinning anyways.

At our little Halloween gathering we did brief tarot readings of each attendee. Some of the cards were affirming, promising prosperity and success. Some were sobering reminders of one's priorities (dissertations, anyone?). I pulled the Three of Swords, which is not a happy card--signaling betrayal and pain like a stab in the heart. But as soon as I saw it I was delighted and knew it was mine. It felt right to have an open wound acknowledged, to speak of my hurting.

A Noiseless Patient Spider
by Walt Whitman

A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them--ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to
connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor
hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.

I think my soul is truly surrounded in measureless oceans of space. That phrase captures so much of what I feel and where I am. Thank you, Walt.