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Indigo Vales

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Indigo Vales

Tag Archives: season

10 Saturday Aug 2019

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

hyena, lion, Persephone, poem, poem?, prompt, season, seeds, sorting, the long night

She Lay Curled In An Animal’s Trench

She lay curled in an animal’s trench
Soft shed hair helped keep her warm.
She patted the ground hoping for lion
but most likely flighty hyena lay here.
She pulled in handfuls of dust and chaff,
plucked shallow weeds.
They smelled of old blood and broken loyalty.

Obsidian sky dripped malachite meteors,
low slow and long.
Chandeliers of stars once reflected in the pond
that lay east of her chin
But the water was gone
consumed by tongue and air.

Rested, she rose and twisted tufts of weed and hyena
into her hair.
She spat into the sandy earth and ground it in her palms,
painting the four points on her face.
She continued her long walk west back to the sorting place
determined to be a mirthless, disobedient beast
until the sun came back to retrieve her.

(Persephone’s Staircase)

(Turn, Turn, Turn)

29 Wednesday Aug 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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birds, cicada, family, glass already broken, loss, mistakes, moon, pain, philosophy, season, Serenity prayer, the Byrds, Wheel, writing

I begin this morning that could feel like I’m sifting through a house fire, blackened, burned, sopping wet, heartbroken, but I am determined to hold my head up and say this is a new day, one I begin with raw skin and foal’s legs, and I will make something good of it.

I begin this morning clinging to a philosophy, one that says my favorite glass that sits on the shelf is already broken.

I begin this morning clinging to the serenity prayer that tells me to accept the things I cannot change.

I begin this morning better than I left yesterday. I was overwhelmed. I tore my house apart looking for something I’d lost. I cried. I still cry.  I slept, unable to face the everything that came down on me because it’s clearly gone.  One small loss drew in a lifetime of loss, like some magnet that attracts black matter, black star, black planet, a life implodes, and yet I still get to choose how to face this minute, and the next and the next.  I saw all your faces, I relived all your hearts and every mistake I ever made that hurt you and hurt me. I slept and I survived.

Things happen all around me and I didn’t always notice.  I’ve been trying to get better at observing and writing to understand.  When I was a kid we would visit our grandparents in the Garden State of New Jersey, land of the farms and high tension lines.  I used to collect cicada shells in those late summer days, carefully plucking their delicate bodies clamped to a tree and putting their husks in a coffee can. Quite a pile. They had a unique smell almost akin to ancient books in a back room library but with a whiff of life that is begone. Until recently, cicada always meant “summer sound, dormant, collect husks for fun.”  Once we brought a cicada home, kept it in an aquarium and watched as it broke through its old body and became wetly new, expanding, growing, alive, astonishing colors!   We put it on a pine outside when we knew it was time.  It never made a sound, and I never saw it fly away, yet what a gift we received that day.  Here, there are cicada who made their home in the pine tree across from my door.  They react to birds invading their branches, the cicada fly away (actually flying! away!) and come back when the bird is gone. The needles even shake when their heavy, black bodies depart!  And when they are comfortable, they sound like my dad’s radial arm saw, calling calling calling all summer day until dark.

I never knew cicada could be so proactive. Their large, black bodies are busy in ways I never saw before.  Meanwhile, I have to decide what is more important this morning: Life ever changing, words and images I lost yet I have the time and the place and the ability to write about everything, with everything I’ve got right now.  Cicada know it’s all on the table and it’s now or never. They give it their all.  And I don’t want to be a dried husk stuck to a pine tree with no story to tell.

Do cicada grieve? Do slow-motion butterflies who pass by the pines care?  I don’t know. All I know is that the finches will be back next year to make several noisy baby broods, gulls will patrol the shore for unfortunate fry, and the moon will be bright in my winter window.

Blessed Commotion

29 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

Aztec art, birds, blessings, commotion, life, Michael Shannon, music, season, the Doors

gray morning 5:30
take it slow
purple ink on my writing finger
scribbled notes on junk mail
some important message needs decoding
something about Friday melanoma (again)

Michael Shannon sings with a band
I think he wants to be Jim Morrison
an Aztec frieze of fearsome teeth and feathers
neck bent, back bent, knees bent
hearing the secret, being the ceremony
sweat
becoming
apart
receiving
transmutation connection
high-five.

what feathers can I be on this soupy morning?
mmm. I shall wear a blanket of all of you,
an Aztec frieze of fearsome teeth and feathers
that I plucked when you invaded the sparrows nest
brown brood barely able to fly hiding on the shed nearby
neath the tree some might call a weed but full of green
shade and safe from blue jay, osprey
cardinal witnesses the catbird wanting to infiltrate
and the raven–I heard the raven’s feet touch the lamp
when it landed and croaked, wanting fledgling meat
vulnerable, but he was late to the show.

feathers for my blanket made of attempted murder
a witness, an empty nest,
red, blue, black, brown, white
Coffee on the way to the job, I’m late (again)

Writing through seasonal change

15 Friday Dec 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

amwriting, change, Christmas, hope, joy, neighbor, peace, season, Solstice

If I were in New York on my drive in to work and on my way home I’d see lots of cars with christmas trees tied to the roof, headed for a warm house soon to be seated in a bowl of cool water the cat will surely drink from.  Folks will add evergreen nutrients and water their needley tree so its boughs will stay risen and green as they add tinsel, orbs of glass, or baby’s first ornament from sixteen years ago.

I haven’t seen many cars go by with trees on their roofs here in Virginia. Maybe that’s because they’re all on the interstate while my business usually keeps me on the “back roads,” or maybe it’s because folks lean towards artificial trees, who knows. Either way, there will be evening road trips where we pile into cars and head for neighborhoods where streetlights still look like gaslights decked in climbing pine needles, festive ribbons, homes adorned with candles and others filled with inflatable icons, christmas music blaring, preparations begun in September.

All I know is that I watched him take the fairy lights down. The backyard is his purview and he’s in charge or almost in charge of everything in it. There will be no christmas tree in his house this year because they are leaving, headed for the lands of three-foot-snow. The fairy lights will be gone. His yard will be empty. His puppy will dig holes far away and learn the joys of snowplowing headfirst at five in the morning.  All life is tucked into boxes marked this room and that room and his kayak will be stuffed last into the moving truck.  A new neighbor will come, and I doubt they will finish the mural his wife began on the property wall.  I will miss the tiny blue fairy lights that lined his fence, that gave me comfort all those nights I paced and watched the trees sway or thrash depending on the mood of the wind.

I think about the saying “still waters run deep” as I spritz my windows in preparation of sticking holiday clings to them.  That will be the extent of my decorating. No lights, no noise. Just a quiet acknowledgement that I still believe in peace and joy and love. Every card I sign carries hope and goodwill, and I wish it all for my neighbor as he moves into his winter wonderland.

Today I Am Grateful For

08 Wednesday Feb 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

grammar, grateful, season, water

lemon water

Prince Ea

otter videos from Mike

my son who is moving forward

social media because I don’t have cable

leftover pizza for lunch

70 degrees the last two days

Andrew correcting my grammah

helicopters patrolling the bay

birds leaving a polka dot mess all over my car that tells me spring is coming

almond butter and the friend that introduced me to it

jellyfish, seaweed, and pebbles that tell me everything is on its way, in its time.

Celebrate Life

01 Wednesday Feb 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

birds, Imbolc, season

Two days days ago I heard, from the eastern-facing window, a sound I wasn’t sure I’d hear again.  A  mourning dove:  oo WHO who who who…. It was the same morning I watched a great cloud of crows heading northwest and wondered why.  I am fairly fixed in this place where I write. The table and the laptop are on the western side of things, and I watched the sun go down sooner and sooner, the air chilling once the sun is out of sight.  I’ve watched the hours lengthen, the sun stays just a tad longer each day though it is still cold outside.

I don’t know what my plants are thinking as this is all going on.  I have one sturdy fellow who sits in a plain, gray ceramic bowl but he’s been growing all year without heraldry.  My wax plant, after I repotted him, went dormant after a while and I regretted messing with his place on the sill, afraid I hurt his progress, but how could I leave him in a small pot when he grew inches by inches, twisting and exploring my bedroom hourly? His energy and exploration scared me a little.

I brought home a prayer plant from a big box store because I needed a plant to put in an empty pot. Since I brought her home, there have been weird sounds in the west room that really had me wondering, was it the pot that was making that loud “snap”or the plant?  I moved the pot to my bedroom sill and the “snap” sound is there instead of the western-facing sill.  The snap sounds tapered off, but I still hear it now and then. The plant is thriving and to my amazement, sent off a shoot that produced a flower.  In February! I am not known for my green thumb. Anyone you ask will tell you if you have an adored plant, don’t let me take care of it, I just don’t seem to have the knack.  But three out of the four are kicking ass.

My wax plant was still during the winter, but two days ago I have seen signs of life:  a new leaf is growing, and one of the tendrils is lengthening.  They are responding to the sunlight whose hours are growing.  I walked around worrying about my green things, asking, “Hey you okay?” I did all that I could but worried it wasn’t good enough, afraid that my ignorance might somehow kill their wonderful presence.

This morning a finch came and sat on the wood scrollwork outside my window. He peeped and I remembered the sound. I also remembered my annoyance at the incessant peeping of three dozen finches that seemed to drown out a decent thought, something I regret and will never allow myself to feel again.  I slowly, quietly stepped outside and saw Mister finch with his Missus on the banister down the way.  They are looking for a place to make a home.  Well come on in, you guys, and tell me what time Spring is coming. We’ll need to celebrate.

My Change Wolves Are Roaming

21 Monday Nov 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

evolving, season, wolves, woman

Last night as I lay on my side looking at the silhouette of my windowsill plants, a voice told me I need moon plants.  Gotcha.  Nearly a week ago, through silent pictures of my dreaming mind, a voice said I am working on transition, there is change coming and there is yet more change needed.  Will do.  Last night I held a a six month old who’d been stuck in a car seat for 12 hours, his parents unpacking and taking a few much-needed breaths of silent, babyless, cold air, and I had hoped to hang on to the little guy for a long while.  But he is teething, and his moaning shifted to tragedy quickly, his baby pain full bore.  I didn’t want to drag his mom back here, knowing her own nerves were raw and exhausted, but a woman knows when a baby needs mom more than auntie crazy lady down the hall.  (Must say he did pause at the little brass bells that tinkled on my   )0(  symbol hanging from the ceiling fan.)  I surrendered him and paced my suddenly-silent apartment for awhile.  No longer cat sitting or holding a suffering little one, I could hear the condensation dripping down metal-framed windows. The wheel turns.

I’d been having a competition with myself to see how long I could keep the thermostat off.  I don’t recall freezing in the apartments as a city kid, but I do recall ice caking on the inside of the windows of that other house where I lived as a teen.  I discovered the short-lived joys of the thermostat, able to run around the house in shorts all winter long, that is until my dad took out the thermostats, leaaving little round holes in the wall where the wires stuck out. I guess he’d had enough of telling us not to turn up the heat.  God damn it got cold in my bedroom.  The house I lived while raising our family had warm hearts, like the living room, but really cold edges. Only way to keep the kitchen warm was to cook in it!  ‘Magine that. And now the father’s “doom,” that one day I’d have my own place and have to pay for heat, see how I like it THEN!  Well wunt he just too right?  Almost made it to Thanksgiving, which was my goal. Maybe next year. The wheel turns.

All this leads to transition, change, and the need for more change.  Time to return all my precious shells, rocks, and candles back to their ledges now that the cat is gone. Time to remember how it felt to hold my son when he was a happy little guy, vibrating with words and curiousity. I want to clean the house top to bottom and be ready for solstice, but that’s getting ahead of things.  First I want to finish an essay, and prepare for a bus trip to DC to stand up for women on inauguration day. God damn I hate being cold, but you know?  Every Body counts.  Keep the wheels turning.

In Two Worlds

08 Tuesday Nov 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

broken circle, life, season, son, woman

I wore sandals and a tank top on the drive to New York.  My clothes were packed in a gorgeous piece of luggage that once belonged to my dad, as opposed to last time I drove here with everything in a gorgeous backpack.  Towards the end of the marathon drive I draped an ivory shawl around my shoulders while filling up the tank, body shaking in the cold. I felt no warmer when I walked into the house.

One dark morning I lay in bed restless in mind but body-tired.  I allowed the spirit to swing my legs over the brink and pull myself into layers, ungloved hands carrying coffee out into the yard, twenty nine degrees.  I walked the neighborhood next door to wait for sunrise.  Frost everywhere.  Someone’s Corvette is warming up in the cul de sac. I stood by the side of the road and watched squadrons of mallards in groups of four make their way due west, flapping furiously.  They never fly casually in any season.  Sunrise colors are muted here, dusty rose patchy and barely visible.  Later as I stood chatting with my brother we watched a small flock of starlings heading northwest-ish.  The sky will be black with them soon, the lawn a hopping black cacophony, but I won’t be here to see it.

This morning my Virginia neighbors tell me it’s raining, and I wish I could see it.  The first night I slept in New York the room smelled dry with a dash of dust. In Virginia my plants are turning to find the sun on the sill, the tides manage themselves every six hours and I miss the moisture today. This morning I contemplate all things wild, feathers, roots, whitecaps, hungry cats, a manchild, and myself.  Everything does what it needs to do, even that manchild of mine who is still figuring it all out. I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut and palms open.  There are better ways to handle growing pains.

Spouse brought me the boxes I asked for so I can dispose of these few things where they belong: donate, discard, or bring home.  Are my actions instinctive like mallard or like the probing tendril of a plant?  I.don’t.know.  We are hurting in different ways, but everything does what it needs to do.  Today is today, many things need doing, and I will do the best I can with these tender, beautiful hearts.

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