nurturing herbs and solitude

"Loneliness is black coffee and late-night television; 

solitude is herb tea and soft music. 

Solitude, quality solitude, is an assertion of self-worth, 

because only in the stillness can we hear the truth of our own unique voices."
— Pearl Cleage

 I have started an herb garden. 

Not quite the garden I imagine for my future- 

where the roots of the plants will actually dig in to the ground beneath my feet-

but its a start. A potted and well-lit start.

And when last night's vegetable baked ziti called for basil, it felt so good to reach over 

to my very own fresh basil plant and pick the exact amount needed.

I really love this excerpt from the quote above,

"Solitude, quality solitude, is an assertion of self-worth, 

because only in the stillness can we hear the truth of our own unique voices."

Tonight, I am reading and writing and letting myself be fully immersed

in quality solitude...

[something that comes pretty easily for an only child, 

but can be so easily drowned out if not nurtured ever so often]

photograph from weheartit.com

we, three.

"Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold."
— Zelda Fitzgerald

 It is an adventurous thing, really

to think about all that the future holds. 

But as the pages of my journal turn and as ink touches the lines in my mind

I feel a weightless and euphoric joy

knowing that whatever the journey ahead may be

and no matter where it leads,

I will spend it with our family of three.

----

Lucy girl is getting her lady-parts removed tomorrow,

cant wait for her to be back to her normal self at home.

photograph by amber.

conference halls and flying words

"She is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain." 

— Louisa May Alcott 

I'm in Baltimore working on site,

but mostly I'm throwing words around in my head all day long.

Lining them up, rearranging them and attempting to make sense of them.

my inspiration; or Love Like a Sunset, Pt. II

"After silence, that which comes nearest 

to expressing the inexpressible is music."
— Aldous Huxley (Music at Night and Other Essays) 

 This morning I got ready with Phoenix [and Wolfgang Amadeus, for that matter]

jamming out right in our kitchen, bouncing off our turquoise wall and

and around the poster of Harold and Maude.

And this is one of the many things I love about my roommate. 

I have an in-house photographer and DJ encouraging me every day.

I have never felt more inspired or energetic about life 

than I do now

and that is in large part due to Mr.D.

He has me writing non-stop and singing in the shower,

seeing things at different angles

and not covering my face in front of the lens.

He is the only person who has the ability to make me feel 

simultaneously safe and grounded while my arms are outstretched,

soaring above tree-lines and through clouds.

[I love him so much and would not change a thing.]

found rhythm and light.

"it is (often) the quiet gesture which carries the most significance - 

the one which suddenly directs the symphony."
— Mary Anne Radmacher

 First it begins inside your heart.

Something moves.

Then opens.

Then frees itself.

And now you feel a rhythm breaking its long silence.

This is going to be good.

Those are the words on my journal. They evoke in me not only an inspiration for writing, 

but a steady explanation for all the joy I feel in life right now.

Writing is never just a release, but a rhythm.

A perseverance for the adventure we are all on.

It opens my mind to a million different possibilites

and simultaneously forges a clear and simple path a foot in front of me.

It makes my heart beat faster and softens my breathing.

I was having an off day yesterday.

And just as writing clarifies and sets my mind alight, 

Mr. D stirs within me a happiness I can't quite describe -

a peace and a simple joy that makes me want to take flight.

photograph from here.

to pursue beauty to its lair

"To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget."

— Arundhati Roy   

      I had a hard day at work yesterday, 

but the sunrise this morning truly brought forth joy and light. 

It is so easy for me to let my own shortcomings and areas of weakness 

cast gray clouds over hope. 

 I love writing, but I am not a very good communicator when it doesn't involve pen and paper.

I dont easily let my guard down and I'm often quiet around people I'm not very familiar with.

These are not strengths. Especially when I truly do have a great love and admiration for people.

The art of forgetting oneself. 

No matter your surroundings. 

Because in order to truly pursue beauty and care for others

I have to get out of the way.

photo from flickr.

snow days; or the cure for writers block

"It is good to love many things, for therein lies strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done with love is well done."

— Vincent van Gogh

"You must write every single day of your life... You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads... may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world."

— Ray Bradbury

 I had a really hard time writing yesterday.

Words bounced off walls only to give up and fly in a whole other direction

instead of finding a way around, or through - and the walls were everywhere.

 

Its a snow day for a lot of schools in the area.

The sound of children laughing is echoing through the walls at work

and ever so often small exasperated feet come racing down the hall 

followed by shrieks of delight.

 I cant help but feel their carefree joy run through me.

photo found here.

the colors in my mind.

"I have dreamed in my life, 

dreams that have stayed with me ever after, 

and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me,

like wine through water, 

and altered the color of my mind."
— Emily Brontë

I used to mainly wear achromatic colors -

blacks, browns and grays.

I thought it was classier, but in reality it was a survival method -

a way to slip away. To observe and easily integrate.

But somewhere I developed a love for color.

Just as I've learned to creatively write when

my spirit is happy and full of joy - 

the art of creating vibrancy in an already brilliant world. 

For a long time I was afraid that only somberness could draw 

words easily through my mind. 

handwritten words

"This place where you are right now,
God circled on a map for you." 

-hafiz

words have always meant so much to me

they simultaneously steady my heart and send it racing

they clear my head of clutter, organizing my thoughts

in shapes made of sweeping ink on lines of paper

i wrote my first letter to 'my husband'

and received a letter in return moments before 

I held his hand in a room garnished with 

cherry blossom branches [a nod to the District we love]

and a candle lit glow

morrow

"Perhaps I write for no one. 

Perhaps for the same person children are writing for 

when they scrawl their names in the snow." 

— Margaret Atwood

I stood with my toes barely over the edge of the curb

an invisible wall between me and the cars whizzing by

and suddenly everything became necessary

the drab mix of amber and toast color leaves fallen in a heap on the concrete

the draft of cool air brushing against my feet

the older woman who walked quickly trying to run only to walk again

and that moment in the middle of the morning rush hour

when suddenly the somber slate street was completely empty both ways

and I crossed in the glow of emerald lights

bobbing up and down in the wind

 Thankful for dinner last night with a childhood friend

and the absence of work ...it felt like the weekend.

 pic.one.here.

bound.

For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with great luck, he will succeed. 

- Ernest Hemingway

 

I have an addiction to writing. A constant battle raging in my head. 

Blurred characters mucking about who I frantically want to see and attempt to adequately describe

I had always assumed they would present themselves to me, with little effort on my part

but the more I write, the more I want to write and the more I want to elucidate

The task is daunting...

so unapproachable that I thought I would resolve to write about the existing and already breathing instead

but I would be forced to exaggerate, to blur the edge of reality - 

a risk that is far too great - I dread I would hurt or offend those involved

So, I am facing my greatest fear - out of necessity and for my own sanity...

To create life that I believe in.

 

photograph by Annette Pehrsson

Annette.

Annette Pehrsson has completely captured my mood today. 

Her amazing photography has me no longer searching for words, 

but content simply feeling.

originally spotted on SallyJaneVintage

to write.

"We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect." — Anaïs Nin

"I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions." — James A. Michener

"My task, which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel--it is, before all, to make you see." — Joseph Conrad (Lord Jim) 

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." — Ernest Hemingway

Sometimes I feel insatiably lost. But all I need to do to recover is stop my mind from describing how I feel and focus on what I see, hear and smell around me. And I'm no longer lost, but found in a whole other world altogether. 

photo here.

moleskine.

One of those days where

I'm not sure I would survive without

my moleskine notebook.

photo from the wonderful lepetitpetit.

What inspires you?

is it the vast expanse of the ocean's rippling tide
where the sky meets the salt in a perfect line
is it an image captured in perfect time
frozen memories and secrets collide
is it the smell of summer rain on the hot pavement
or laughter filling the air full of cheerful merriment
is it ink soaked into paper snail mail sent
or the sound of an orchestra that makes you content
is it a blank canvas and a paint drenched brush
or whispered sincerity that makes you blush
if we are meant to follow dreams
commitment is often harder than it seems
but somehow I've found the place
where passion and inspiration collide in the same place

When I was little I never wanted to be president or wear a white coat. I never wanted to be partner at a firm or don a space suit. I never wanted to be a judge or the highest scoring athlete. I never wanted to race or dance in a ballet. I never wanted to sit in a box for years or see the world through numbers. And while the things I've always wanted to do/be are far from record breaking, I now have a goal and a dream in black and white before me.

Maybe one day I'll be able to share this dream turned reality here...but for now, I do believe, after being asked since I was a child what I wanted to do when I grow up, I finally have found my answer.

image via FFFFound

week one.

I am not a runner.

Today was [finally] noticeably easier than the last four runs. But I still am waiting for it to feel refreshing more than tortuous.

But today was the first day I started noticing a routine. First, the older man in some version of a gray suit waiting on the corner for the metro bus. Next, the man in his pajamas standing in the grass by the sidewalk with his huge fluffy black dog. On the next block is the mid-40's lady crossing the street with her two identical huge white dogs - their leashes inevitably tangled as she halfheartedly and unsuccessfully tries to straighten them out. Followed on the next block by the Obama's look-alike dog walking an older woman up the hill. 

It wasn't until I was on my way back- coincidentally going downhill- that I realized I had been writing for the entirety of the run. Putting words to my surroundings. Somewhat lost running through a storybook of colliding characters, their dogs and their houses.

Maybe this is why it was easier this morning - instead of pondering my imminent collapse and the shear pain running through my legs and chest, I was lost in copper drain pipes, the red brick sidewalks interrupted by the roots of ancient trees, the curious people I am beginning to recognize and the beautiful, old and unique homes slowly awakening to the new day.

Still... I am not a runner. Not yet.



---------------
photo found on WeHeartIt

morning.

The great artists never lose this quality which the world 
would limit to children.
- Madeline L'Engle "Walking on Water"

Last night I could not sleep. 

And when I can't sleep I lay there writing in my head which leads to 

even more sleeplessness. So, while I tossed and turned

[and wrote and wrote]

I dreaded the time when I would have to get up...

But to my surprise, today isn't nearly as bad as I had thought it

would be. All the things I mulled over in my restlessness

now seem pretty unimportant.

What is it about the sunrise that makes things new?

Time is an ongoing continuation of minutes piled atop each other

and the earth is  forever in movement

 - days do not actually end - 

they all run together just in different light

But somehow today is new.

"Weeping may endure for a night, 

but joy comes in the morning"

-------------------------------

Check out Pictures by Davina and Daniel - such beautiful and unique photography

a poet's advice.

I know today is Tuesday, but it feels like Monday. Or maybe Friday. Not Tuesday.
So on this day
that doesn't feel like today
but is
I have been reading and rereading these words by e.e. cummings.
They bring so much clarity to me in a way that I can't fully describe
but feel

A Poet's Advice

A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.

This may sound easy. It isn't.

A lot of people think or believe or know they feel—but that's thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling—not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself—in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else—means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.

As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn't a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time—and whenever we do it, we are not poets.

If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world—unless you're not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal? It isn't.

It's the most wonderful life on earth.

Or so I feel.

sleep.less.ness

i woke up in a bad mood this morning.

a very blah mood. there was no hot water and i didn't sleep well last night. you know...the kind of sleep where you are somehow aware of the clock ticking all night long.

a race between you and the clock - knowing all along that you will inevitably lose no matter how many times you rearrange your pillow or what side of the bed you are sleeping on.

the clock hovers over you in utter defiance of the battle you think you are waging.

but it was a simple fact all along.

its not time that you are fighting but your mind.

so instead of counting sheep, i was making lists of things i need to do. want to do. first painting a picture of a man sitting alone on the train, the scenery flashing by him and the unopened book sitting precisely in his lap. the lines of the paint swirling along the canvas surface....

then painting him with words. his gray tired face like a tarnished sterling sliver spoon. years of worry and loneliness taking its toll. his eyes the only remaining sign of life. looking closely you see his eyelids moving ever so slightly - opening wider and then falling back down in rhythm with the telephone wires passing by like waves against the cold gray landscape. like a child's hand being driven up and down by the force of the wind out the passenger side window. his mind is lost in the past as the sound of the tracks meet the rhythm of his body rocking silently with the train.

 ------------------------------------

photo found here.

Yes, I know its only Thursday....

"Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers."  - Charles W. Eliot

I am so glad that the weekend is just steps away, hours even.

I am in the process of reading a handful of wonderful books...

including The Help by Kathryn Stockett which has received rave

reviews from everyone I know who has turned its pages. 

There is something about reading that is so much more 

than a movie or tv show. It forces you to imagine. To picture

the characters in your mind, to become a part of the

white paper in front of you. And it inspires me to write, 

to dance along similarly white pages and create my 

own steps and way around the dance floor. It fills me

up in a way some movies leave me still searching.

I hope your weekend is full of things that fill you up,

whether its a good book, a long bike ride or just 

spending time in the midst of good company.
Happy [almost] weekend!