I am tracking some travel-related adventures and items in a separate place...this space shall be reserved for strictly the weirder and wilder musings that don't necessarily fall within the realm of a "travel blog" and stray more toward the imagination and the pursuit of writing down something that needs to be creatively expressed.
So...the new blog is here: http://lucybee-solviturambulando.blogspot.com/
But...the old blog is here, as in actually right here. You know.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Monday, April 6, 2015
the trouble with blue eyes
from Good Friday
The trouble is, I can see the future.
No, not the what will be but
the what could be
I think it’s the worser ability of the two
A moment of eye contact in a subway train
Smelling of farts and a young man softly rapping along
To the lil wayne song his girlfriend’s playing with him
On a singular intelligent device, connected by wires,
Closed off with communication pumping directly into their ears
I glance over and look
Blue eyes
Look away
Blue true dream of sky forget
it
Next stop’s mine, what a day.
What a week.
Blue comes in and out of recollection
Brain searching for the landing spot
Circling and circling
Dein blaues Auge hielt so still
ich blicke bis zum Grund
Du fragst mich, was ich sehen
will?
Ich sehe mich gesund.
Aren’t we all, every one of us small scurrying creatures, hoping to
find
One who sees us
In the midst of our life
And simply scoops us up for a moment
Perhaps, forever.
Friday, April 3, 2015
one
A week from today I'll be thirty-two minutes away from my last Friday workday in Symphony Hall.
It's been coming in in waves... bits and pieces of the massive realization of the step I'm readying to take out in a big blue and green unknown. The messages from beyond are washed up on the shore I've called home and comfort, known daily routines and cups of steaming coffee; the small words and messages from beyond appeared by my toes and some days I've been too busy walking back and forth along the bank holding myself together to notice them. Other days it was all I could to take one step, I was so preoccupied in scanning the sand for traces of a vessel of meaning from the other places, for they appear as shells, rocks, creatures, broken edges of massive sand dollars. I treasure each discovery, I shriek aloud in wonder and delight at the mystery that brought us together. I hold each tiny shell in my cupped palm and study its inner-workings; if only I were an ant, and could make my home in one such beautifully constructed immaculate edifice.
***
A few weeks ago I spent a few days with my oldest friends on beaches never before visited by my ten small toes. Water makes me feel at home, fifteen years old, growing up by a small lake for the school year, and a larger lake for my summer. I was so very lucky -- we all were --- these dear, old friends of mine, the ones who were my friend when I wasn't pretty and when I couldn't navigate social scenes. They all had boyfriends at summer camp except me. My head and heart were in the trees and the clouds, waking up early to read my Bible, and later, an e.e. cummings volume of poetry that would become ragged with the cover torn off from a smothering of love and attention. The volume accompanied me to the Alps where I had my first French romance; to Haiti where my heart was broken for my beautiful, joyful Haitian friends dealing with poverty, harsh conditions, and later, the aftermath of a devastating earthquake; and the simple words of the poet came with me to both my first and second apartments. They comforted me the first year decorating a Christmas tree alone late one night, my roommate asleep already, but I was too sad to sleep. The white lights and green branches waved and winked at me, knowing things I would patiently wait to learn.
***
Packing up my books a few nights ago, in the place I have called home for two years now, I hesitated when I reached the purple torn-off cover of the selected poetry by my favorite whimsically serious writer. It's not that I don't need the words anymore -- i do -- it's that, instead of bringing volumes of already-written poetry on my journey, I've decided to bring blank journals to fill, with my own words.
There are a lot of them, I think; I've shared some of them here in this public space, but there are so many more that I am struggling with, allowing to pool in the elixir of memory and time, stirred up with song, dance, and early mornings. They shiver and shimmer along the bridge of my nose and back, sinking deeper into lungs and heart. They're heavy; they demand attention. They're part of the reason I'm doing everything that I'm doing. There's a new sense of peace that follows when I've been able to write something that has been spinning around for days and weeks, slowly forming into silvery stream and a final note of punctuation.
While I'm away , I will write, pray, meditate, and sing. I'll cook for the friends I stay with, and show them my little collection of messages from the deep blue. It's already helped so much to allow others in to my story and thoughts.
I thank you all, dearly. It hurts to go away, but here is what a certain Cambridge native by the initials "e.e." would say, and what I do very much so believe :
i fear
My heart is very full right now. It's keeping me going -- strengthening each word and straightening each footfall.
It's been coming in in waves... bits and pieces of the massive realization of the step I'm readying to take out in a big blue and green unknown. The messages from beyond are washed up on the shore I've called home and comfort, known daily routines and cups of steaming coffee; the small words and messages from beyond appeared by my toes and some days I've been too busy walking back and forth along the bank holding myself together to notice them. Other days it was all I could to take one step, I was so preoccupied in scanning the sand for traces of a vessel of meaning from the other places, for they appear as shells, rocks, creatures, broken edges of massive sand dollars. I treasure each discovery, I shriek aloud in wonder and delight at the mystery that brought us together. I hold each tiny shell in my cupped palm and study its inner-workings; if only I were an ant, and could make my home in one such beautifully constructed immaculate edifice.
***
A few weeks ago I spent a few days with my oldest friends on beaches never before visited by my ten small toes. Water makes me feel at home, fifteen years old, growing up by a small lake for the school year, and a larger lake for my summer. I was so very lucky -- we all were --- these dear, old friends of mine, the ones who were my friend when I wasn't pretty and when I couldn't navigate social scenes. They all had boyfriends at summer camp except me. My head and heart were in the trees and the clouds, waking up early to read my Bible, and later, an e.e. cummings volume of poetry that would become ragged with the cover torn off from a smothering of love and attention. The volume accompanied me to the Alps where I had my first French romance; to Haiti where my heart was broken for my beautiful, joyful Haitian friends dealing with poverty, harsh conditions, and later, the aftermath of a devastating earthquake; and the simple words of the poet came with me to both my first and second apartments. They comforted me the first year decorating a Christmas tree alone late one night, my roommate asleep already, but I was too sad to sleep. The white lights and green branches waved and winked at me, knowing things I would patiently wait to learn.
***
Packing up my books a few nights ago, in the place I have called home for two years now, I hesitated when I reached the purple torn-off cover of the selected poetry by my favorite whimsically serious writer. It's not that I don't need the words anymore -- i do -- it's that, instead of bringing volumes of already-written poetry on my journey, I've decided to bring blank journals to fill, with my own words.
There are a lot of them, I think; I've shared some of them here in this public space, but there are so many more that I am struggling with, allowing to pool in the elixir of memory and time, stirred up with song, dance, and early mornings. They shiver and shimmer along the bridge of my nose and back, sinking deeper into lungs and heart. They're heavy; they demand attention. They're part of the reason I'm doing everything that I'm doing. There's a new sense of peace that follows when I've been able to write something that has been spinning around for days and weeks, slowly forming into silvery stream and a final note of punctuation.
While I'm away , I will write, pray, meditate, and sing. I'll cook for the friends I stay with, and show them my little collection of messages from the deep blue. It's already helped so much to allow others in to my story and thoughts.
I thank you all, dearly. It hurts to go away, but here is what a certain Cambridge native by the initials "e.e." would say, and what I do very much so believe :
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
My heart is very full right now. It's keeping me going -- strengthening each word and straightening each footfall.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
farewells
oh all the money, that e'er I had
I spent it in good company
and all the harm that e'er I done
alas it was to none but me
and all I've done for want of it
to memory now I can't recall
so fill to me the parting glass
goodnight, and joy be with you all
oh all the comrades that e'er I had
are sorry for my going away
and all the sweethearts that e'er I had
they'd wish me one more day to stay
but since it falls unto my lot
that I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call
goodnight and joy be with you all
These two weeks in Boston are late winter and early spring enmeshed in a harmonious overlay of opposites. There are great sorrows sketched with fine outlines of joy; I'm staying very still and waiting, watching for these lines to appear, just a moment. Less present than the shooting star -- it's the trail burned softly into the sky that I'm after. I've trained my whole life to have eyes that could see that moment.
Today we say farewell, together with sisters and lovers and friends, to a dear person. We all knew her in different ways and in beautiful settings. She graced each one of us with her infectious smile and boundless courage. We hold her in our hearts, as we were held and are still held in hers.
Last night I returned to campus to rehearse music for today's service. It was a homecoming for me; accompanied by laughter and hugging. Girls gathered around the piano, listening and focusing. We practiced the song, whose lyrics I typed above, and I told them about the touching way my Russian friends say goodbye. It's saved for when someone is going far away, or on a long journey, perhaps with uncertainty about when you'll see them again. You pack up your things, load up the car, and then return back inside the house and sit down at the table. You take a moment together, sitting in silence. Then someone looks up or clears their throat; the moment has passed. You get up, hug once more perhaps, and go on your way.
This little song, "The Parting Glass", for me, creates this kind of moment. We'll sing it to close the memorial service today, to wish all those in attendance to leave with peace, and a hope for joy. It's a moment for them to sit in silence, not necessarily thinking about anything, but allowing the moment to be filled with loving memories naturally, on its own. And then, we can all take our farewell.
peace & love
I spent it in good company
and all the harm that e'er I done
alas it was to none but me
and all I've done for want of it
to memory now I can't recall
so fill to me the parting glass
goodnight, and joy be with you all
oh all the comrades that e'er I had
are sorry for my going away
and all the sweethearts that e'er I had
they'd wish me one more day to stay
but since it falls unto my lot
that I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call
goodnight and joy be with you all
These two weeks in Boston are late winter and early spring enmeshed in a harmonious overlay of opposites. There are great sorrows sketched with fine outlines of joy; I'm staying very still and waiting, watching for these lines to appear, just a moment. Less present than the shooting star -- it's the trail burned softly into the sky that I'm after. I've trained my whole life to have eyes that could see that moment.
Today we say farewell, together with sisters and lovers and friends, to a dear person. We all knew her in different ways and in beautiful settings. She graced each one of us with her infectious smile and boundless courage. We hold her in our hearts, as we were held and are still held in hers.
Last night I returned to campus to rehearse music for today's service. It was a homecoming for me; accompanied by laughter and hugging. Girls gathered around the piano, listening and focusing. We practiced the song, whose lyrics I typed above, and I told them about the touching way my Russian friends say goodbye. It's saved for when someone is going far away, or on a long journey, perhaps with uncertainty about when you'll see them again. You pack up your things, load up the car, and then return back inside the house and sit down at the table. You take a moment together, sitting in silence. Then someone looks up or clears their throat; the moment has passed. You get up, hug once more perhaps, and go on your way.
This little song, "The Parting Glass", for me, creates this kind of moment. We'll sing it to close the memorial service today, to wish all those in attendance to leave with peace, and a hope for joy. It's a moment for them to sit in silence, not necessarily thinking about anything, but allowing the moment to be filled with loving memories naturally, on its own. And then, we can all take our farewell.
peace & love
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