Listening In

This is a making-an-exception post from my retired mode because these are exceptional times and I've been hearing good things.

Eavesdropping is a skill according to my mother who liked to point out the spies at various tables. I was impressed by her ability as she didn't understand any of the languages spoken in any of the countries to which my father was assigned. She had an explanation for this lack: "Portuguese is just Spanish with a French accent." Diplomacy is also a skill so I didn't point out to her that she didn't know any Spanish she could joi de vivre. Today, I misheard someone say, "She's a full time psycho." My immediate reaction was, "Whew. It's good she is full time! Gets all the benefits!" Reading tees is also a form of eavesdropping. A woman who had trekked to Tibet showed off what the trip was all about, "Yak Yak Yak."

What could be more satisfying than tuning in to someone's deep down heartfelt, what some call Soul? So in this post I am sharing the result of my Soul Restoration online art class journal. The premise of many quotes for restoring is that I should get back to the person I was. I find this amusing since the assumption is that my former person was hot stuff on a platter. My preference would be the phrase, "You are never to old to be the person you were meant to be." I am partial to Mary Engelbreit's painting called, "Late Bloomer." I think Late Bloomer is who I was meant to be. I enjoyed the videos accompanying the class, the journal prompts, and the air of festivity. I don't know if I'll continue with a Homework Time no longer required but it has changed the nature of my eavesdropping. Now when I hear a snippet I can't resist jotting down , I put it in my notebook with pressed flowers, glitter glue, stampings, and doodles. A quote must also be the quote it was meant to be.

Hearing Things

The hypnotherapist is in England.

He has no idea where I am

but he knows my procrastinations

as they are everybody's.

He is trying to motivate me

with his soothing North Country accent

by giving me images of myself

doing what I'd rather be doing

than facing this Other I

really, really, really

don't want to do.

As he distracts me with his suggestion 

to sit in an imaginary chair,

(chintz? overstuffed? pockets for books?)

I wonder what could possibly be better

than this luxury.

But he has my archetype firmly in hand,

The Sulky Child,

and consequently bribes me--

if I will carry my chair in my mind all day,

momentousness with happen.

I hear you, Dr. Hypno.

I plump up the pillows of my pretend chair. 

Oh, look! I've hidden some chocolate 

between the silk ties!

and here I go

to my desk. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

ON DOGWOOD ACRES ROAD

Strolling along Dogwood Acres Road on my return from shopping at the co-op (Seventh Generation dryer sheets, potato/Roquefort salad, Blood Orange Pellegrino, souvenir tee) in Southern Village, a Chapel Hill neighborhood, I saw a pretty sight--a young woman with a row of butterfly tattoos across her upper back. She was standing with her dog who had her eye on the ducks in a pond. I caught up with them and said, "I like your butterflies!"  Then I added, "Oh, I like your necklace, too. And how about those socks!" The dog turned to find out who I was so I couldn't resist one last compliment, "Your dog is not half bad, either." The young woman smiled. I told her I was visiting and would she mind if I took a picture for my blob. I really like putting a kind of spiritual beauty out into the world. I felt these two had some. She said her name was Julie and the dog was Ellie. 

They posed nicely and appeared to be quite comfortable with this unusual encounter, although I had not seen another person on my hour walk. After a friendly goodbye, I started looking at the rural mailboxes to find one I thought would suit Julie and Ellie. Sure enough, there was one--peace symbol amidst the azaleas.

Speaking of beauty, I recently had an interesting dream. For the first time, a poem came to me whole. I could see the lines written out on a page of old Victorian stationery. I thought I would revise it but I decided it was very like Yeats' "automatic writing" during which time he apparently went into a trance and let some otherwordly entity take over. So here is my dream poem in all its simplicity. It came as a result, I believe, of having feasted with Arlette. She had been depressed when I arrived but perked up immensely by the time I left. You may revise it to suit your point of view.

THE ENEMIES  OF SADNESS

Shared solitude

Fish stew

Bus schedule

Bird song

"And how are you?"
 

Entre a Cruz e a Espada - Tião do Carro e Mulatinho

ORIGINS & DESTINIES

On 1st

 

Strolling down the avenue,

I pass Opera Costume Jewelry.

I was born to wear costume jewelry;

it's easy to see why.

I entered the world

to the sound of the forro bands,

 the glitter of gypsy gems.

Before the war. 

And after?

Perhaps the later chapters

were all a recapturing

of that long ago time

carefree, cherished.

Little tokens in the window

catch my eye, symbols

now of days lost.

There are my mother's earrings,

my aunt's brooch,

riches cheap and well-suited

to a flower child,

traveler of foreign streets, 

her means modest. 

~~~~~~~~~~  

"WHAT WONDROUS LOVE IS THIS"

  I was in Eureka, California at a Motel 6 visiting my son who was in college. 1988.  I had never seen MTV before so while I was waiting for him to get off work, I watched the videos. I grew up on classical music and folk. I knew who Theodore Bikel was but not Axel Rose. Erik arrived and was highly amused at my comments as we saw a few of the songs. I'm famous for saying Morrison had no charisma. Well, sorry, but for charisma, one has to open his or her eyes and he didn't.  When a man came on singing, "Livin' on a Prayer" I jumped up and exclaimed, "He could be an opera star!" In his usual deadpan fashion Erik said, "I hadn't thought of him that way." I said, "That's going to be my theme song!" Erik was into alternative rock so I guessed he was being diplomatic to his mom because all he did

was nod and in a Philly accent said, "O.  K.  " But right there was probably the beginning of a big dream of mine which at the time I didn't realize would involve this same Bon Jovi. I had a passion for helping homeless people. As a child, I would find them sitting on the steps outside. Whole families of them. I felt so helpless. When Bon Jovi started his Soul Foundation, I cheered. If every celebrity could personally help the homeless hands-on, especially children of war, I thought the world could be such a lovely place. When I moved to New York city, I read that as part of his projects, Bon Jovi had an "All are welcome at the table" restaurant called Soul Kitchen. I dreamed someday of going there. A suggested donation of $10 for a three course meal with no alcohol and nice iced tea appealed to me. Volunteers can pay for their meals by jobs around the garden or in the restaurant. Strangers sit together and become part of the positive energy seen in any Bon Jovi concert. I have not been to one of his concerts but I TELL YOU and I kid you not, trekking down to Red Bank this past Sunday was as exciting and transforming as a Sunday + concert could be. At the table for four, Maria told us about another, similar, restaurant in Denver called the 180 because it changes lives 180 degrees. Her life had been changed 180. The details of her story I will let her write as I didn't ask permission but it is a winner! I was glad to read later that community places such as these are catching on. Fabulous.

 Whatever dreams you have, secret or shared, I hope they will come true. One of mine did in a place called Red Bank, New Jersey on a Sunday

          .http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDK9QqIzhwk

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SWEET AND SILLY APRIL

For April, I changed the layout of my bloggity (a borrowed term) to reflect the emphasis on art since my online soul restoration art class will be winding down midmonth; and I wrote a lighthearted observation:

AMIDST THE SHOWERS

There's an April poem

here somewhere

in a drawer like Emily's

or under a stack of chillers

(non-fiction thrillers).

Did a dragon gobble it?

Remember pocket poems?

I have plenty of those.

There's an April poem 

here somewhere

about Spring, rebirth,

the not too hot yet days,

the new beginnings,

the leavings, 

and, of course,

to merrily go with it,

an April fool.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

BECAUSE OF AMOUR

AT THE HOME

The last thing she remembered was Brahms.

She lay peacefully under the coverlet

she had saved since the boy's childhood

in hopes he would return someday

and note her faithfulness.

"Brahms," she said, "my favorite."

Then her eyes clouded

the way they had been doing lately

when she took to wandering.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked.

No recognition, pulling away slowly,

stripped of the agitation

that marked the previous week.

Not knowing that death is nigh may be amiable, after all.

Who knows where she is--in a summer garden 

with the bees reeling

or in the stillness of a winter walk

or in a time travel escapade

back to overladen wagon trains

with their prospects of gold?

Somewhere in the mush of the brain's circuitry,

in her confusion and my helplessness,

it comforts me to think

she does hear Brahms.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Photo Credit: Robert Janz