tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361024552024-03-05T17:51:18.515-09:00flameinthesnowHiraeth
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger564125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-78063723124314868212024-02-19T21:54:00.001-09:002024-02-19T23:38:35.307-09:00a southeaster <p> </p><p><br /></p><p>Wind,<br />Warm wind,<br />Roar and creak.<br />Bend the birches,<br />rattle the spruces<br />until they speak.</p><p>Oh you gulp of tropics<br />with snowy breath,<br />dance over the passes<br />into my tired bones.</p><p>The East wind moans<br />and winter loosens<br />its icy belt.<br /><br />Electric currents dance<br />through the clouds<br />and a cold sweat<br />drips off the eaves.</p><p>If I were still thirteen,<br />I would climb my favorite birch,<br />and cling to her trunk <br />and lean out laughing<br />over the branches <br />brought to life --</p><p>Rising and falling,<br />tossing and pulsing,<br />Beatrice and I together<br />in the quickening<br />of an ocean. </p><p>An ocean of trees.<br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7mEmeqCbDCAApK03vuYhk4fvLw1Nd2m1eyQlqCEumRi2k86f7ztRZtBlcWi-Rx6SU9LxwHTe4NVG8yacLTf0xYOXdauIX9_gu9Hbe1pWfC0cNk_yjbqRPZ5_02J8Q-3Vm360h46XYpomhLHJZIrWbuXKC9KSNXMD3D57-86QgEts5Qhdu7zkrw/s736/Image%202-19-24%20at%209.52%E2%80%AFPM.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="562" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh7mEmeqCbDCAApK03vuYhk4fvLw1Nd2m1eyQlqCEumRi2k86f7ztRZtBlcWi-Rx6SU9LxwHTe4NVG8yacLTf0xYOXdauIX9_gu9Hbe1pWfC0cNk_yjbqRPZ5_02J8Q-3Vm360h46XYpomhLHJZIrWbuXKC9KSNXMD3D57-86QgEts5Qhdu7zkrw/s320/Image%202-19-24%20at%209.52%E2%80%AFPM.jpeg" width="244" /></a><br />Birch Trees (Olga Sternyk, Watercolor, 2021)</div><h1 class="font-semibold text-neutral-content-strong m-0 text-18 xs:text-24 mb-xs px-md xs:px-0 xs:mb-md" id="post-title-t3_1aobvvm" slot="title" style="color: var(--color-neutral-content-strong); font-family: -apple-system, "system-ui", "Segoe UI", Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", sans-serif; font-size: 1.5rem; line-height: 1.75rem; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px;"><br /></h1><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /></p><p><br /><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-18363746369023092692024-02-11T08:38:00.003-09:002024-02-11T18:58:00.942-09:00I will find you<p>I see you, long-sleeved, serene and silver,<br />with a white hawk on your shoulder.<br />You stride with purpose through the forest.<br />You stop to admire the first snow-drop.<br /><br />You find poems in the sycamores.<br />You see eulogies in willow-the-wisps.<br />When you speak, the stones are listening<br />and the water in the ocean shifts.<br /></p><p>Your words hide behind the vellum<br />of certain scrolls in the Athenaeum.<br />You could wrap your cape 'round a continent<br />but you are content to remain at home.</p><p>I know this because your poems shook me<br />from a sleep deeper than the abyss,<br />as if I were in Cotahuasi Canyon,<br />and I had forgotten who I was.<br /><br />It was like being struck by lightning,<br />to rise up through all I thought I knew.<br />But it was also a lot like dying.<br />I wept. I raged. I remembered you.<br /><br />I saw your hand in history's pages.<br />I felt your victories and your pain.<br />I tried to gather all the pieces,<br />and then, I started dancing again.</p><p>I thank you now wherever I go,<br />for your quiet sensibility,<br />for picking the lock of my sorrows<br />and helping me know that I am free.</p><p>Wherever you are, there are stars<br />that shine and blink in the evening blue:<br />please know that you are not forgotten.<br />I will never stop dancing for you.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1112" data-original-width="798" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig3yPPEr8cpBhuZlVkqlrW5DLMrWJOsmCMMUcwegGu1X0hUxoxo3xdJ9_yIbC8g6xfsObd0AFsjxiPRdcAvgPJCw7ydNpyVtlrGpVj_I-4lbAaK_Vpl5MQ60Ei8f9dqQMqox2GgoP07Ew525siEDocMUOIjYbNaX-tktTYJBGKwb6oqKS450RJqw/s320/Image%202-11-24%20at%208.29%E2%80%AFAM.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="230" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue Dancers by Edgar Degas</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /><strike></strike></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-1764939271773913992024-02-11T00:20:00.007-09:002024-02-11T14:12:49.553-09:00our anthem<div style="text-align: left;">I slipped a tip to the band<br /> so they would play "Stand by Me"<br />and Joyce and I raised our hands<br />and let the notes lead our feet.</div><p style="text-align: left;">Only those in the know, know<br />this is our club's favorite song.<br />The old-timers formed a line<br />and swayed to the Cha Cha Cruise.<br /><br />"When the night has come<br />and the land is dark<br />and the moon is the only light we'll see<br /><span class="style-scope yt-formatted-string" dir="auto" face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">No, I won't be afraid
</span><span class="style-scope yt-formatted-string" dir="auto" face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Oh, I won't be afraid
</span><span class="style-scope yt-formatted-string" dir="auto" face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Just as long as you stand
</span><span class="style-scope yt-formatted-string" dir="auto" face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Stand by me</span><span class="style-scope yt-formatted-string" dir="auto" face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">..."
</span><br />Kay and Tip and KG joined,<br />and Carl and Bob and Donna.<br />The room filled up behind us<br />with dozens of dancing pairs.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;">"If</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> the sky that we look upon
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Should tumble and fall
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Or the mountain should crumble to the sea
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I won't cry, I won't cry
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">No, I won't shed a tear
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Just as long as you stand
</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Stand by me...."</span></p><p style="text-align: left;">For 50 years, we have danced<br />on the tiles of this old hall.<br />Soon, we'll seek some new romance<br />in an unknown future home.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Tonight, we polished the floor
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">with our suede shoes, "stand by me,
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">won't you stand by me, oh stand by me...."
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">and then Joyce gave me a high five.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #0f0f0f;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">
</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hwZNL7QVJjE" width="320" youtube-src-id="hwZNL7QVJjE"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ6iR-U5IN3MBE1fvmtXJOUZPQw-bjFyZfrLUjWQMEcLyfX9PUE5nC1axsGuX_rPPNlhK6UWFofadFHE2eHJbxsBbgcUxaHq8T4zsuVopflTfTVzYH0zHXz4gKxmfUmVSdQlBAwxzj_5uHwQQ9o581fZHYwCJiBc0qQtqK2ouJuXse2hJgESWEFw/s4032/IMG_4168.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ6iR-U5IN3MBE1fvmtXJOUZPQw-bjFyZfrLUjWQMEcLyfX9PUE5nC1axsGuX_rPPNlhK6UWFofadFHE2eHJbxsBbgcUxaHq8T4zsuVopflTfTVzYH0zHXz4gKxmfUmVSdQlBAwxzj_5uHwQQ9o581fZHYwCJiBc0qQtqK2ouJuXse2hJgESWEFw/s320/IMG_4168.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-22658983061136776062024-01-21T23:00:00.000-09:002024-01-21T23:00:07.551-09:00To the Sultans of Swing<p><i>For John Jensen, who taught me to keep on steppin'.</i></p><p><i><br /></i><br />I am not the Dalai Lama. It is unlikely that the Dalai Lama imagines or choreographs waltz, tango, nightclub, or swing steps when he hears music in the grocery store. Slow...quick, quick, slow....pivot, slow.....</p><p>Now, the Dalai Lama and I are both in agreement that kindness is paramount. And we both engage in meditations that cause the outer world to disappear. But while the Dalai Lama is considered the embodiment of spiritual awakening and compassion and wears his orange mantle with aplomb, I take a sharp right past the temple and my feet move faster, the closer I get to the dance hall, where I change into my dance heels, and am ready to play while I pray.</p><p>During weekdays, I work as a supervisor. However, on the dance floor, I am more than happy to be led. All you gents have to do is curve your finger or apply a slight amount of pressure to my palm or shoulder blades, and you will send me in ecstasies careening across the floor. Cha-cha-cha!</p><p>What transforms a man into a prince? An appreciation for melody, a sense of rhythm, the ability to connect with a partner, and lessons, lessons, lessons. An unassuming partner dressed in a royal blue polo T-shirt can stride into your space, and make you feel like you are both wearing invisible crowns and ermine robes. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFKTDsTtBFPrIRSlmzeB3p_dInLEObhIlVjxCQKbMcRqHJadYjgSCsdcisLm7FZ71t7oHWsLbd0sOoP_TqtSI5obaNoSxlqMrDcLJLbI7S83XQJMtv5pZGaPDAHiWUYE-but_UK-BK6Y_uJBU8JcGLpYyY4Usm8N9mfxrgNFTMufB_kkgJvSfeRA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1678" data-original-width="2083" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFKTDsTtBFPrIRSlmzeB3p_dInLEObhIlVjxCQKbMcRqHJadYjgSCsdcisLm7FZ71t7oHWsLbd0sOoP_TqtSI5obaNoSxlqMrDcLJLbI7S83XQJMtv5pZGaPDAHiWUYE-but_UK-BK6Y_uJBU8JcGLpYyY4Usm8N9mfxrgNFTMufB_kkgJvSfeRA" width="298" /></a></div><p><br /></p>There are many reasons to celebrate the Sultans of Swing: whether it's East Coast, West Coast, One Step, or Jive-- baby, you make it happen! <p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhXW6p8n68vli_jMDsRt4t62ZEeBldoxUZ2MNNAQ_pbAnfU0M6Ydvr9CrU-RBoAoD14EAQ3cTTg4RDdmvDzpvsavMMWWLbGWtIOuQt_t-PFr55OFgy3iuzF-qeNO6764aySNfpRPIMc5H24Ef8uGolhcpAXGKvA0l1Tww7-pmpbPg8SPHEb5XgoHg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2344" data-original-width="2605" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhXW6p8n68vli_jMDsRt4t62ZEeBldoxUZ2MNNAQ_pbAnfU0M6Ydvr9CrU-RBoAoD14EAQ3cTTg4RDdmvDzpvsavMMWWLbGWtIOuQt_t-PFr55OFgy3iuzF-qeNO6764aySNfpRPIMc5H24Ef8uGolhcpAXGKvA0l1Tww7-pmpbPg8SPHEb5XgoHg" width="267" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>When there are traffic jams, our leads become adept at Dance Tetris. They must be thinking at least one or two chess moves ahead, to avoid a collision of the shifting pairs of dancers.</p><p>A creative cross-step waltz can transmute an entire week of chilly weather, snow piles, and sundry stresses into seven well-spent days. If I am smiling at you, it's because you are my one and only at the moment, and there is only this moment, this step we are taking together now. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNtNEaoow-07jZIZJaM-o_n5adYVyznACFXY9PWY0zZta_mZ5G0bEAxlCOnkiiI_4XQCjV2IN6Q-AmKr17Ip1bX4vWzGVor6qCdLFzEKi946mycd5uNM57ZZor2PF7tBoi9ZR8WIA30boWl6aybZCCZFESlPMW76cB-ssMBdK3iWV-E9d3XolRPw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1695" data-original-width="2546" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNtNEaoow-07jZIZJaM-o_n5adYVyznACFXY9PWY0zZta_mZ5G0bEAxlCOnkiiI_4XQCjV2IN6Q-AmKr17Ip1bX4vWzGVor6qCdLFzEKi946mycd5uNM57ZZor2PF7tBoi9ZR8WIA30boWl6aybZCCZFESlPMW76cB-ssMBdK3iWV-E9d3XolRPw" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>You make me want to improve my form and learn new words in the language of dance, to add new vocabulary to my Rolodex of steps and gestures so that I can continue keep up with you, while you are keeping me on my toes. </p><p>And I hope I bring a smile or two to you.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/h0ffIJ7ZO4U" width="320" youtube-src-id="h0ffIJ7ZO4U"></iframe></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-67892220935296962722023-01-27T15:52:00.005-09:002023-01-28T10:30:43.912-09:00water's edge<p><br /></p><p>Honu called me to the water's edge. <br /><br />My senses were so jammed by jet-lag, wet jungle-weed, lilikoi, road-ramble and volcano-grumble, I nearly stepped on her. Our eyes met while she rested for a moment in the soft, warm sand between the lava rocks and the rhythmic slap of the waves. </p><p>Honu, show me the way, I prayed.<br /></p><p>O blessed beloved<br />Weaver of waters<br />Singer of stones<br />Dancer of dreams--</p><p>Show me the way.</p><p>She turned and swam away from me. And then she came back. She repeated the same graceful, meandering circuit in front of me: a counterclockwise circle, three times. And then she swam away. </p><p>Oh Ocean, my Ocean, I thought I heard her say, before she was swallowed by the waves--</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8HAjKVhqbXfMCsriCug6BQlUHwqeSAXxCK7ozBnU8rNAqoOceAQVoEqtlQGId1SRa-eowYO70vD_oDOlyDIAPEC9F-gXFotlgYmdpzC4TviLEXt8mdHMYEWW7NDlPJLDK810WQ-KfpMcHHvYqvQVzoY3bPTLC82Pb64qc7ZTEUzHSAtuYynY/s4032/4CA52338-812E-4B7A-AFD1-C6A65F51A86F.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8HAjKVhqbXfMCsriCug6BQlUHwqeSAXxCK7ozBnU8rNAqoOceAQVoEqtlQGId1SRa-eowYO70vD_oDOlyDIAPEC9F-gXFotlgYmdpzC4TviLEXt8mdHMYEWW7NDlPJLDK810WQ-KfpMcHHvYqvQVzoY3bPTLC82Pb64qc7ZTEUzHSAtuYynY/s320/4CA52338-812E-4B7A-AFD1-C6A65F51A86F.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaLXFuVaEv_FhI7ZiGarP59aZgJSeuUp_3dEGgaGW3qT00ais9ZHQuixDlkQlyU-RIe67AprKbhnl4kkiZ_p-zbZyZzI9lYWPGgU6Xgn1MO0JUcsTTY0G05G669dnjTbBAD-zt5AkbcxZEm5UGVObfgq_sTwyua7SCE-vB1UpUX9x2PEIYfdk/s4032/D865854F-1FFD-4CC5-AC05-E50904F445ED.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaLXFuVaEv_FhI7ZiGarP59aZgJSeuUp_3dEGgaGW3qT00ais9ZHQuixDlkQlyU-RIe67AprKbhnl4kkiZ_p-zbZyZzI9lYWPGgU6Xgn1MO0JUcsTTY0G05G669dnjTbBAD-zt5AkbcxZEm5UGVObfgq_sTwyua7SCE-vB1UpUX9x2PEIYfdk/s320/D865854F-1FFD-4CC5-AC05-E50904F445ED.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/cNNR2v1jYBI" width="320" youtube-src-id="cNNR2v1jYBI"></iframe></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-46762545948753178712022-09-29T22:44:00.007-08:002022-09-29T22:51:17.209-08:00freefall<p><br /></p><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSCB5bbEQ9a0T8brMRALJaCL-eONNfXkxYLmm4Q3nPFNUzmEbLdcSgKp4n9kAFvBNcDWQUlBLab9WGwFvtx2Fk2-j9AOwCwG74V7uo1-cLail5R6mmjoHedGydqcc_oVOWS2llbqO1lgBMwFWJJmvdCuyGESBlMuHryWkezz3IudVlUuOZ_Pk/s4032/6C09A028-C310-468F-B326-2EAC6EF4ECC5.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSCB5bbEQ9a0T8brMRALJaCL-eONNfXkxYLmm4Q3nPFNUzmEbLdcSgKp4n9kAFvBNcDWQUlBLab9WGwFvtx2Fk2-j9AOwCwG74V7uo1-cLail5R6mmjoHedGydqcc_oVOWS2llbqO1lgBMwFWJJmvdCuyGESBlMuHryWkezz3IudVlUuOZ_Pk/s320/6C09A028-C310-468F-B326-2EAC6EF4ECC5.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Through my office window,<br />I watch the dancing branches.<br />My eyes gather honey for winter:<br />many bushels of golden glances.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-gV2wiC-uUrYfDyHFCfiTJ1jP3jOm854s7fREDsYrHhz3eHE-ZKcG-WaeaXjk-4BnaYNxxgU4UxI_iYKYDlpJiYaX4DPGvL53TZ0RDYpWcfKo0vzZHltCH3pmrB_UmQHavr3dxugOECsD8i-ROJam7U9ofdmoHFZiC7mUtv1pJ5DOQi47VYE/s4032/04EE62DD-1EE0-42BD-845E-499FBDC2FC0D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-gV2wiC-uUrYfDyHFCfiTJ1jP3jOm854s7fREDsYrHhz3eHE-ZKcG-WaeaXjk-4BnaYNxxgU4UxI_iYKYDlpJiYaX4DPGvL53TZ0RDYpWcfKo0vzZHltCH3pmrB_UmQHavr3dxugOECsD8i-ROJam7U9ofdmoHFZiC7mUtv1pJ5DOQi47VYE/s320/04EE62DD-1EE0-42BD-845E-499FBDC2FC0D.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>I sit as still as a tree.<br />As quiet as a cauldron.<br /><br />From leaves to leave-taking,<br />the shimmer is interrupted<br />by the un-telling of stories,<br />by songs sung to silence--<br /><p></p><p>All is lost. Nothing can be mine<br />but the flow of shining sap<br />through the mindscape<br />where the treasure is untouchable.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcdhxGqaIYTYDN1v6M3ffKa2RbPny_3R7ehQjYF0AVX9XmsEfkWyxqAa14KmuIG7ZWBFtHMieqUwuD04DKZl1OJ5UEsyXSEeNVXO2iHZAohBDZXaotYnzTcdvXbFpAr4dBWHMGxQ3mEGpgPMPW16NblJSG2gqmgXdxFWY2AC1uIYSzUjCdqC0/s4032/DD083789-0E61-4E22-A6E0-FBCD97423440.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcdhxGqaIYTYDN1v6M3ffKa2RbPny_3R7ehQjYF0AVX9XmsEfkWyxqAa14KmuIG7ZWBFtHMieqUwuD04DKZl1OJ5UEsyXSEeNVXO2iHZAohBDZXaotYnzTcdvXbFpAr4dBWHMGxQ3mEGpgPMPW16NblJSG2gqmgXdxFWY2AC1uIYSzUjCdqC0/s320/DD083789-0E61-4E22-A6E0-FBCD97423440.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/b1Z4PAZX9Bs" width="320" youtube-src-id="b1Z4PAZX9Bs"></iframe></div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-15002708214148062382022-08-19T07:02:00.026-08:002022-08-19T13:42:38.307-08:00practice ugly, dance pretty <div>Clusters of greyish-black berries hang down from a trailing woody stem. The berries smudge darker when I grasp them and drop them into my bucket. I breathe in the musky, heady scent of ripe blackcurrant. A spiderweb has caught some fireweed seeds, which dangle playfully off an oak-shaped currant leaf. I inhale the scent and smile. I imagine twirling on the dance floor as delicately as those seeds on the silken threads, but in a man's arms. Ahh....</div><div><br /></div><div>I visualize a dance with Charles, a distinguished, graying gentleman, who always arrives at the club with a cane under one arm, and a quirky smile. Then he parks the cane by a table and sashays me suavely into a grand promenade of a Cha-cha. He pulls twists, turns and sensual gestures out of his box of tricks. He murmurs in my ear while I am tucked under his arm, "During these three minutes, I get to be what a woman has always wanted." And he is!</div><div> </div><div>Dancing, though, is not always a sweet and docile endeavor. I know a lady who practiced by herself, all through quarantine. Her main partners were elastic exercise bands and doorknobs. And she emerged on the other side with more confidence and grace than I knew she had previously possessed. Her motto, she says, is: practice ugly, dance pretty.</div><div><br /></div><div>Young shy fellas in cowboy boots perch on the edges of booths in a country bar, learning how to listen to the beat, but what they really want to do is dip the ladies. They watch the girls heads' rise and fall to the music like ladles in boiling chili. The pairs on the dance floor mix east coast, country two step, and west coast swing together, swirling back and forth, and sometimes barely avoiding collisions. I dance with young Sam I Am, and we laugh, because I say during one of the dips that it feels like he is baptizing me. </div><div><br /></div><div> When I was just beginning my dance journey, I remember participating in one of my best tangoes, while listening to Lady Gaga, and wearing socks. "I'm sorry," I had mumbled the excuse, "I don't know very many dance steps." "That's OK. That means you don't know how to be inside the box yet," replied Scott. I stepped towards him, and he led me into scissor-like leg movements I had no name for. And somehow, between us, an understanding ripened.</div><div><br /></div><div>On most Saturday nights, I look forward to a Cajun swing and a French lesson with Kim and Lady Marmalade. Kim brings a sprinkle of sweat and spice to his swing, and urges me to sing along: "<i>Voulez-vous coucher avec moi...ce soir?</i>" and then we commence our cleanup of the club: we grab the chairs and tables as partners, and dance them into the closets.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nightclub two step with Layne begins with a gentle sway and a twinkle in his eyes. He seduces me into gliding with him, and then winks when he completes a double-spin of his own, while I only pivot once. Jim prefers to throw tango moves into nightclub. Slow, quick-quick, <i>molinete</i>, quick-quick. <i>Sacada</i>, slow, quick, quick. And then there is Larry, whose nightclub movements are so subtle and gentle, I yearn to be able to follow even the smallest crook of his fingers. <br /><br />I have not yet decided whose waltz will be the last one I will want to think of before I die: will it be a cross step waltz with Jim sprinkled with tango steps, or a graceful, lyrical, traveling waltz with Larry? </div><div><br /></div><div>Or will it be some dance unknown, that I have not yet dreamed of, with you?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRh48KCWGuoxcZ6UZ5PElNxStiQVJtacNgZ-K_FJ0vVfokb2Rd5c2A6sYJveZ82T2iALyOBc3Rprs5whYJJQlJiG0Ju4rMMuqSBI4wmMRt1gr49VRXU7HWe1w3pgUYH56xTOAFru4j5Bpg9_Cms54jHqNs3ls1k4i5kgibFImgvRI-bZ1Th98/s900/blue-dancer-edgar-degas.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="687" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRh48KCWGuoxcZ6UZ5PElNxStiQVJtacNgZ-K_FJ0vVfokb2Rd5c2A6sYJveZ82T2iALyOBc3Rprs5whYJJQlJiG0Ju4rMMuqSBI4wmMRt1gr49VRXU7HWe1w3pgUYH56xTOAFru4j5Bpg9_Cms54jHqNs3ls1k4i5kgibFImgvRI-bZ1Th98/s320/blue-dancer-edgar-degas.jpg" width="244" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Degas: <i>Blue Dancer</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>'</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-62401912311874787492022-07-09T13:49:00.002-08:002022-07-09T13:49:41.927-08:00the dog days<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXJC73HDofLZ7GW5_hKXQCyLz7K5oMgs8N3sz08_MwC8nJmhui4VxC3cc7acC0SzjPU8aEv-TYGRUk4FvN6YhhqVT7o0zMk4wZENCjHGYgh8D9RTlLwd9Bd_KqzeGiX0DEYIzhl4ziykYTKnh-I4NYRTJ9HOttgVKrxkUOMJm6hCy0SnRlgjE/s2048/sphinx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXJC73HDofLZ7GW5_hKXQCyLz7K5oMgs8N3sz08_MwC8nJmhui4VxC3cc7acC0SzjPU8aEv-TYGRUk4FvN6YhhqVT7o0zMk4wZENCjHGYgh8D9RTlLwd9Bd_KqzeGiX0DEYIzhl4ziykYTKnh-I4NYRTJ9HOttgVKrxkUOMJm6hCy0SnRlgjE/s320/sphinx.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p>Life's never what you think it is.<br />The clouds are full of riddles,<br />and we are not actually ourselves--<br />we are a sphinx's exhales.<p></p><p>My fingers on the ivories<br />stumble into a Chopin waltz.<br />When I'm dancing, it's not just me--<br />I'm a blue flame of the true Name<br /><br />breathed by the sighing seas<br />in thundering symphony.<br />I twirl for the sake of the singing trees<br />and for our laughter, ever after.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRCt7fAtV9jklWTvp7zxSHNmOcUWpR8tdvEXlv-Z8OFl_5UMKKL6o_5KuGwDo_vDPN0a5FHqcN0jttiMs4Xbrd0ZV7MYuf0AaTYlqB8M8fWjbBbVYzXuGpvqjmLO7NmcSqJ8z7KgD76SpHuCrnB84Zeyf63ein40IOiQEcnTPSCWwmFz8Uvjg/s2048/table%20rock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRCt7fAtV9jklWTvp7zxSHNmOcUWpR8tdvEXlv-Z8OFl_5UMKKL6o_5KuGwDo_vDPN0a5FHqcN0jttiMs4Xbrd0ZV7MYuf0AaTYlqB8M8fWjbBbVYzXuGpvqjmLO7NmcSqJ8z7KgD76SpHuCrnB84Zeyf63ein40IOiQEcnTPSCWwmFz8Uvjg/s320/table%20rock.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /><br /></p><p><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-43247817525707054932022-06-03T15:41:00.003-08:002022-07-09T13:49:59.920-08:00like heaven<p>In 1987, I bought an LP single by the group, "The Cure." </p><p>When no one was around, I put it on the record player and listened to it. Loudly. It was forbidden fruit: popular music, which was not allowed in the house.</p><p>Listening to it was exciting, but it also felt painful. It ached as if I were sneaking the ice age of my frost-bitten heart up to a warm campfire. It was everything I could not do, and thought I would never have, dressed in black, and painted with prohibited, edgy red lipstick. Way too much for me to handle. </p><p>So I took it outside, tossed it on the ground, and stomped on it. Shattered it into dozens of tiny pieces. And threw it away where no one could ever find it. </p><p>Maybe the pieces of this memory have turned into seeds. That lay dormant inside of me for years, the notes and verses sleeping until I heard the song again yesterday in the park.</p><p>And then, my arms and my legs kicking akimbo and my ruffled skirt spinning, I jumped and spun and chanted each word as a love offering to the open air. I was dancing so energetically, a little girl came up to me and said someone wanted to know if I would like a hot dog. No thanks, I said.</p><p>Whoever I am now sends sparks of affection to my younger self. She feels lighter now. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1ASpBpT8bRQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="1ASpBpT8bRQ"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-29336217863688099202022-04-19T16:28:00.008-08:002022-04-20T07:34:20.263-08:00graywacke Viewed from the city below, Wolverine Peak could be a great animal, coiled and ready to pounce. From a certain angle, the spiny rocks on its ridge do resemble the raised, twitching bristles of fur. But the approach to Wolverine is not so ominous: it involves a long and gradual march through several microclimates. It begins near a ravine carved by a creek and sneaks through the boreal forest, where bluebells and buttercups nod on the edge of trickling brooks. An dark and earthy trail creeps steadily up the Wolverine Bowl until it shifts underfoot to grainy, jagged pebbles. The spruces and birches give way to alders, and then to miniature birches, Labrador tea, and crowberry bushes. The presence of lichens and tundra tells you that you are climbing into the clouds, and that you should keep going.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpPgyPGOPv-8hwTH6U7fswSduzTvtQFeTiNyXgN7uXR86ddu5E46jlpgBnRQpue1a-0vN6t0Mr00pueB9SEUJxaPdet99cSQZ4S4J_R2eS7oohV282ZKgHPsGz2z9QzVR47gxmGgoEXAHAz7582EiLRUb30sBZui6phzoSNNdXx4F3vxHrsNg/s1125/278401224_3130282153955222_2269168280008216918_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1125" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpPgyPGOPv-8hwTH6U7fswSduzTvtQFeTiNyXgN7uXR86ddu5E46jlpgBnRQpue1a-0vN6t0Mr00pueB9SEUJxaPdet99cSQZ4S4J_R2eS7oohV282ZKgHPsGz2z9QzVR47gxmGgoEXAHAz7582EiLRUb30sBZui6phzoSNNdXx4F3vxHrsNg/s320/278401224_3130282153955222_2269168280008216918_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />not-Wolverine, but nearby</div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Picnic Rock, a large granitic boulder bulldozed over from the Talkeetna Mountains by some unnamed glacier and deposited in the middle of the slope, is a good place to stop, drink a water bottle, and assess your progress. Across the inlet, Sleeping Lady watches over the downtown highrises. Behind her back, the ghostlike peaks of the Alaska Range sparkle and wink. Farther on, a large cairn of rocks marks the decision to turn left towards Wolverine, or to venture up Rusty Point. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezN6tZ9lcjGJJQpl8Zfuy2PhJWWEVJQKG-eUp8AjH2b3skl_uYUePCtXtDVHmD47Y8wogJWTu9SOoivkQ5Ngg6ydmtfR8ksDE6cUysKHnmxbzwmEmRShIkI_VS9BRJzbtaz0Y_jTXarnqDXy3UVNy6Yi0WU8Szp2eHZusL2G7q8_uhRpxSHQ/s1125/278360504_727644895313593_7501089912494126569_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezN6tZ9lcjGJJQpl8Zfuy2PhJWWEVJQKG-eUp8AjH2b3skl_uYUePCtXtDVHmD47Y8wogJWTu9SOoivkQ5Ngg6ydmtfR8ksDE6cUysKHnmxbzwmEmRShIkI_VS9BRJzbtaz0Y_jTXarnqDXy3UVNy6Yi0WU8Szp2eHZusL2G7q8_uhRpxSHQ/s320/278360504_727644895313593_7501089912494126569_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />A summer storm, seen from Wolverine</div><div><br /></div><div>The path then becomes very crunchy and scrabbly. Thankfully, someone decided to create switchbacks in a long section of what a local geologist has affectionately nicknamed "the Chugach crud," which is a moniker for the crumbles of a type of sandstone known as graywacke. Some of my favorite alpine flowers prefer fragmented graywacke: blue harebells and Jacob's ladders, the pink-cushioned moss campion and alpine azaleas, and white mountain avens thrive on a stringent diet of crushed graywacke, fog, and wind.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRB0qR2yqn2CWk-WIykC68vwvJ_VeEHTifFaumXtd7L5e-VHHDvUHgxaqiOYyWjvebDK-nXQx5HgO2vz-_HfvLEkWZwUbgPup9lyyqOKpzoC2gozFy0OlbD7quGSOhQFZuAQKhc-ZZuZzmrXlQ4uoMYKodnx_WtNosd-m8l3CSA1Gl8azqHcs/s1500/278593649_519490253143019_272079332162850429_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRB0qR2yqn2CWk-WIykC68vwvJ_VeEHTifFaumXtd7L5e-VHHDvUHgxaqiOYyWjvebDK-nXQx5HgO2vz-_HfvLEkWZwUbgPup9lyyqOKpzoC2gozFy0OlbD7quGSOhQFZuAQKhc-ZZuZzmrXlQ4uoMYKodnx_WtNosd-m8l3CSA1Gl8azqHcs/s320/278593649_519490253143019_272079332162850429_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>In prehistoric times, a very large and talented artisan baker began kneading and folding an ancient seafloor trench where the sediments of the microcontinent Wrangellia had been collecting. When Wrangellia collided with Alaska 50 million years ago, the trench was uplifted and the Chugach mountains were formed. When I look at some of the sharp-angled hills, such as Pepper Peak, Blacktail, and Wolverine, I see the results of the baker's handiwork: the spiky layers resemble a Danish pastry that has been baked and then thrust sideways into the air, so that all the nuts have begun to fall out. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span face="-apple-system, .AppleColorEmojiUI">The dragon-spined mountains remind me of the meaning of the word, Alaska, which is derived from a corruption of an Aleut word that means, “the shore where the sea breaks its back.” Nearly the whole southern coast of Alaska contains the remnants of a dramatic accident: a former microcontinent sandwiched with the eroding layers of an ancient undersea trench that wants to fall apart underfoot like fossilized baklava. As the fishermen in the Gulf of Alaska would tell you, the sea never gets tired of trying to break its back. </span></div><div><span face="-apple-system, .AppleColorEmojiUI"><br /></span></div><div>If there is an opening in the clouds at the summit of Wolverine, you will be rewarded by a hawk's eye view of Williwaw Lakes to the right, and Near Point and other small lakes, to the left. And then more rows of snow-capped, broken-pastry mountains. </div><div><br /></div><div><span face="-apple-system, .AppleColorEmojiUI"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4GwuB3DgtCf8dhE3fHYtIY9TjdBOgsccpjx2Bv9BtwjLv_gje3YyAyIsgD2YQo8P7QNNaJ0BbNBAlxHtpRqFPsCxz8nS89cu0wdTj2xhY1omNI3dty2UhE7LSR9LyE77AKTbxPFnNV0JjlY73wjuQ3l_5FrYWxXqvv1KR0DcgKexaSg_1pY/s1500/278590684_1224430181429130_6108708225402992966_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4GwuB3DgtCf8dhE3fHYtIY9TjdBOgsccpjx2Bv9BtwjLv_gje3YyAyIsgD2YQo8P7QNNaJ0BbNBAlxHtpRqFPsCxz8nS89cu0wdTj2xhY1omNI3dty2UhE7LSR9LyE77AKTbxPFnNV0JjlY73wjuQ3l_5FrYWxXqvv1KR0DcgKexaSg_1pY/s320/278590684_1224430181429130_6108708225402992966_n.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />On Wolverine</div></div><div><span face="-apple-system, .AppleColorEmojiUI"><br /></span></div><div><span face="-apple-system, ".AppleColorEmojiUI"" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: white; font-size: var(--font-size);"> pieces of other rocks inside them, called “graywacke.”</span></div><div><messagebody aria-label="It comes from a corruption of an Aleut word that means, “the shore where the sea breaks its back.” And, applied to the Church Mountains (and probably much of the coast), this becomes even more interesting, because the mountains here were formed after an ancient undersea trench collided with the rest of Alaska and was up-ended and metamorphosed into mountains full of crumbly, weird rocks with bits and pieces of other rocks inside them, called “graywacke.”" role="text" style="-webkit-mask-box-image-outset: initial; -webkit-mask-box-image-repeat: initial; -webkit-mask-box-image-slice: 11 17 12 15 fill; -webkit-mask-box-image-source: url("transcript-resource://coreui/bubble-local-notail"); -webkit-mask-box-image-width: initial; background-attachment: fixed; background-image: var(--imessage-gradient); background-position: var(--gradient-position); background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: var(--gradient-size); caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); flex: 0 1 auto; font-family: -apple-system, ".AppleColorEmojiUI"; padding: 5px 15px 5px 10px; text-size-adjust: auto;" title="Yesterday, 1:25:32 PM"><messagetextcontainer style="direction: ltr;" text-direction="ltr"><span style="--font-size: 13px !important; color: white; font-size: var(--font-size); text-shadow: none;"><br /></span></messagetextcontainer></messagebody></div><div><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-8626543711660521472022-04-18T06:11:00.009-08:002022-04-19T16:29:08.837-08:00hills of home<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-awKePR4A5hAQ4xEmb7PUuurYyKoBTW3dVvOX9BNhtwzIGMQZ9BbsBceFat46jBpMwJzhtiQ9FRnZVVGFF3JK3VRgX7LPWZa4MZpwo8XyqQbwoRzrXYh2OXLfdBMUzrDK_3VEdvamOyNBXbcBompeO41UUjjodSa8a4467qfjeeLXZB6yswU/s1125/278362651_742267320103043_8578187025062295582_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1125" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-awKePR4A5hAQ4xEmb7PUuurYyKoBTW3dVvOX9BNhtwzIGMQZ9BbsBceFat46jBpMwJzhtiQ9FRnZVVGFF3JK3VRgX7LPWZa4MZpwo8XyqQbwoRzrXYh2OXLfdBMUzrDK_3VEdvamOyNBXbcBompeO41UUjjodSa8a4467qfjeeLXZB6yswU/s320/278362651_742267320103043_8578187025062295582_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">During April evenings, the sun lingers in the sky, melting a brown swathe of trees and earth that creeps up onto the foothills. The higher peaks are still loaded with snow. They gleam white, with craggy points and wind-blown cornices, until alpenglow commences. While the sun sinks into the waters of Cook Inlet to the west, a soft rose blush settles over the Chugach, which settles into an intense pink, then a beige-burgundy, until the sun is extinguished in a blaze of glory and the powder-blue sky is slowly stepped in teal and shades of indigo, awaiting moonrise. When I lie down to sleep, I feel myself curling up like a cat, leaning into the nearest slope.</div></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Coming home always means drawing nearer to a mountain. I've glanced up at the hills that surround my house thousands of times, but I am not sure that I see them yet. Each time, they display a different character trait. Driving toward Eagle River, I imagine an alert pair of wolf ears, formed by Blacktail on the left, and Vista on the right. Sometimes, guardian giants seem to peer down at me quizzically from the heights. </div><p></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQhjOV-dZxBVTbODx-LWQQi6YFhBuYuEtWf-VL2x5EhpuYJGIOlt2EsV42IePV0-rE8cYiYZwYZR1xg7g-teDL9IErPyEEgAwedqac1oVAFf_r-jtgXgT0Brw2KWw54_63xGhNRyahWhwDYmzl-2Fbg_B6Gb88zvWcvPy1vvrHpOwIzrGct0/s1125/278396590_1157604081666255_3765797304829349772_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="1125" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQhjOV-dZxBVTbODx-LWQQi6YFhBuYuEtWf-VL2x5EhpuYJGIOlt2EsV42IePV0-rE8cYiYZwYZR1xg7g-teDL9IErPyEEgAwedqac1oVAFf_r-jtgXgT0Brw2KWw54_63xGhNRyahWhwDYmzl-2Fbg_B6Gb88zvWcvPy1vvrHpOwIzrGct0/s320/278396590_1157604081666255_3765797304829349772_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I lived in the shadow of Mt. Magnificent for over a decade before I found the path to its summit. </div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-1866221446594052422022-04-16T18:14:00.000-08:002022-04-16T18:14:18.282-08:00early spring rain<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVB1zB97hCq0UUTO9odocWzawl3r7gErcEcyLJWyGKde_mhaHtEMCgUyTn1sp9j-2o_Qj1T9FL1v4e31nj8mbTaE6Gyg5IZOyYW1uRQzpPXIWMdFA5tPku4jloR3OE1XEMP-jnxjUpCWlAWQwJBE4pFpeUm4oclx97Ib3Q2DvOLagSavlHzQ/s275/Breakup.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="275" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVB1zB97hCq0UUTO9odocWzawl3r7gErcEcyLJWyGKde_mhaHtEMCgUyTn1sp9j-2o_Qj1T9FL1v4e31nj8mbTaE6Gyg5IZOyYW1uRQzpPXIWMdFA5tPku4jloR3OE1XEMP-jnxjUpCWlAWQwJBE4pFpeUm4oclx97Ib3Q2DvOLagSavlHzQ/s1600/Breakup.jpeg" width="275" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Sometimes tears come. They drip down my nose and run down my cheeks, when I think of what might have been. These thoughts occupy a planet so lonely, it is encircled by a silken tent of ennui that keeps the sun from shining too brightly there. On the walls of the tent, shadow puppets enact scenes from my dreams, accompanied by melancholic music. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">At the river, a piece of ice breaks off of a larger frozen shelf, and is carried away downstream. <br /><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-10724971509309601972022-04-12T23:32:00.005-08:002022-04-13T06:28:53.996-08:00a wandering hymn<p>Which words are forming, coalescing around unseen concatenations?<br /><br />What if I am so full of the New, that I want almost nothing but to listen?</p><p><br /></p><p>Does water want to see through my eyes:<br />do droplets from the river<br />watch the tree-trunks turn to gold?</p><p>Will the same wind that wags the birch branches<br />later wander into my breath?</p><p>Do we pause to watch the forest stretch patiently,<br />while it waits for us to discover our own stature?<br /><br />See: the sun caresses the snowy hills until they blush pink.<br />The sunset plunges into the water like a drenched torch.<br /><br />I wish my phrases could could glide like the pinions of geese and gulls. <br /><br /><br />--What is this kiss? Is it the soul, or am I now the sea?</p><p><br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPjdCj7qciUo6tyHJhYkZbDxfDFJlbqUEu47skmkdrMGaCr0HPyXMmRESpcK-Lx7svgZQhQFFBoWxQnsNsSncKhQLBrCmoe7gAe15b48rN_c-TUtO4b_iqcpyF-ciGyP0KucK-cOR7NW6s3XlgHD-EKXi7G9GwxYtGv84y0RsBAJx938SkgSc/s640/IMG_6987.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPjdCj7qciUo6tyHJhYkZbDxfDFJlbqUEu47skmkdrMGaCr0HPyXMmRESpcK-Lx7svgZQhQFFBoWxQnsNsSncKhQLBrCmoe7gAe15b48rN_c-TUtO4b_iqcpyF-ciGyP0KucK-cOR7NW6s3XlgHD-EKXi7G9GwxYtGv84y0RsBAJx938SkgSc/s320/IMG_6987.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-7519033854268838642022-04-01T15:39:00.007-08:002022-04-01T15:50:26.876-08:00I hope against hope (a poem by Lesya Ukrainka)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnyVFOARgTXa3h_PnxEpGxVvB1NRqIZgEUzxlFtREx8_183cNMrVHJEsiM6Lk0JLNBHKENMmEdd2ed9UrUJsSQJ5XGkYAk0cl4THldcSTSSW1YE235zilarRQ5ANgGhps4kFmqfiKsnz4-jDT6djoOYo-yIYuzX2xbEL4z56UeIsWrL8RUUw/s800/Ukraine%20madonna.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnyVFOARgTXa3h_PnxEpGxVvB1NRqIZgEUzxlFtREx8_183cNMrVHJEsiM6Lk0JLNBHKENMmEdd2ed9UrUJsSQJ5XGkYAk0cl4THldcSTSSW1YE235zilarRQ5ANgGhps4kFmqfiKsnz4-jDT6djoOYo-yIYuzX2xbEL4z56UeIsWrL8RUUw/s320/Ukraine%20madonna.png" width="320" /></a><br />A painting by Maria Harasowska-Daczyszyn (1922-2000)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Work Sans", sans-serif" style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Work Sans", sans-serif" style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div>Contra Spem Spero! (I Hope Against Hope)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Away, dark thoughts, you autumn clouds!</div><div>A golden spring is here!</div><div>Shall it be thus in sorrow and in lamentation</div><div>That my youthful years pass away?</div><div><br /></div><div>No, through all my tears I still shall laugh,</div><div>Sing songs despite my troubles;</div><div>Have hope despite all odds,</div><div>I want to live! Away, you sorrowful thoughts!</div><div><br /></div><div>On this poor, indigent ground</div><div>I shall sow flowers of flowing colors;</div><div>I shall sow flowers even amidst the frost,</div><div>And water them with my bitter tears.</div><div><br /></div><div>And from those burning tears will melt</div><div>The frozen crust, so hard and strong,</div><div>Perhaps the flowers will bloom and</div><div>Bring about for me a joyous spring.</div><div><br /></div><div>Unto a winding, flinty mountain</div><div>Shall I bear my weighty stone,</div><div>Yet, even bearing such a crushing weight,</div><div>Will I sing a joyful song.</div><div><br /></div><div>Throughout a lasting night of darkness</div><div>Ne’er shall I rest my own eyes,</div><div>Always searching for the guiding star,</div><div>The bright empress of the dark night skies.</div><div><br /></div><div>I shall not allow my heart to fall asleep,</div><div>Though gloom and misery envelope me,</div><div>Despite my certain feelings</div><div>That death is beating at my breast.</div><div><br /></div><div>Death will settle heavily on that breast,</div><div>The snow covered by a cruel haze,</div><div>But fierce shall beat my little heart,</div><div>And maybe, with its ferocity, overcome death.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, I will laugh despite my tears,</div><div>I’ll sing out songs amidst my misfortunes;</div><div>I’ll have hope despite all odds,</div><div>I will live! Away, you sorrowful thoughts!</div><div><br /></div><div>--Lesya Ukrainka (Леся Українка, translator unknown)</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdri_nq7x8bexh71dvakUZ7n_XuNWMLnoiclxYj58IvMaP2LsB_sShBmqTNw27VTaI2xwClXmSy3ONAGNIGlj0Lve6ZwzViswn8Gqv1wztXdeloHDlJtwd78q-3IjD9kAyv4PvIXeckQapV2GUWGa9TOT5EuKdlC5WPpQ_2SVMtrDejAxDkXE/s582/Screen%20Shot%202022-04-01%20at%203.27.09%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="582" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdri_nq7x8bexh71dvakUZ7n_XuNWMLnoiclxYj58IvMaP2LsB_sShBmqTNw27VTaI2xwClXmSy3ONAGNIGlj0Lve6ZwzViswn8Gqv1wztXdeloHDlJtwd78q-3IjD9kAyv4PvIXeckQapV2GUWGa9TOT5EuKdlC5WPpQ_2SVMtrDejAxDkXE/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-04-01%20at%203.27.09%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://mypoeticside.com/poets/lesya-ukrainka-poems" target="_blank">Lesya Ukrainka (1871-1913)</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3Kt9HgGUU48" width="320" youtube-src-id="3Kt9HgGUU48"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I stood and listened to the Spring,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She told me many a thing</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She sang me vibrant songs,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Then whispered secrets long--</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">She lulled me with her love verse</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">A hymn to youth, and hope, and mirth,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Another time She sang to me</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">What in my dreams I had already seen.<br /><br />-Lesya Ukrainka<br /><br /><i>(Translation by Viktoriya Tudoran and Dorota Ucieklak)</i></div></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-56648132077906004652022-03-19T11:09:00.012-08:002022-04-01T10:22:23.872-08:00strawberry wine<p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEix_G02lBJvDt_BTutBw_6ZPs9ThGGr4RUDJu5uCFvZ4Jp6SqjKKR83Qcs_aT2eKM66DZI4J6kti7-gl_HtJ9LJAP7vJ2UPH38yx6_NlVn218jEqwHARAXiLvR5ryFMNt8ns9tNBmB1cp7qZEoC0dM-1PGQuAfux_dbIpvv84AgVycJQu4nGqM=s543" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="543" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEix_G02lBJvDt_BTutBw_6ZPs9ThGGr4RUDJu5uCFvZ4Jp6SqjKKR83Qcs_aT2eKM66DZI4J6kti7-gl_HtJ9LJAP7vJ2UPH38yx6_NlVn218jEqwHARAXiLvR5ryFMNt8ns9tNBmB1cp7qZEoC0dM-1PGQuAfux_dbIpvv84AgVycJQu4nGqM=w416-h268" width="416" /></a><br /><br />King Island, Alaska, painted by Nancy Taylor Stonington</div><p><br /></p>For G.<div><br /><br />I'd already put on my boots.<br />But when I heard the down-beat,<br />I looked up at him and smiled,<br />And he held out a callused hand. <p></p><p>A ghost wind blew in from King Island.<br />We danced into the Bering sea,<br />Where cliffs rise and stilt houses crumble,<br />And the seals are chasing salmon.</p><p>His mother, in her seal-skin parka,<br />Rose between the waves.<br />One-two-three, one-two-three,<br />She wiped away his bitter tears.<br /><br />I knew he could do some fancy moves,<br />But that night we marched in heart-time.<br />Under a disco ball in a dimly lit hall,<br />We waltzed through fog into the horizon.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3bpxdw4dG2QR_niHuw8UWqSNTXif_22f8YKh23HSI-Alyvt0SEl-y2fem_o6QC-UcsBgpbzhUd5XPg9qnnkGpnX9TjZY6-PbHJYGKlIocgv7wMZ7SPn-iz1FEbWzzCYRH344ytxbNXKb-qPEgxxxU117jPJ6GtG7PD7K-kX5C_PZZECSiYS8=s509" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="509" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3bpxdw4dG2QR_niHuw8UWqSNTXif_22f8YKh23HSI-Alyvt0SEl-y2fem_o6QC-UcsBgpbzhUd5XPg9qnnkGpnX9TjZY6-PbHJYGKlIocgv7wMZ7SPn-iz1FEbWzzCYRH344ytxbNXKb-qPEgxxxU117jPJ6GtG7PD7K-kX5C_PZZECSiYS8=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Bernard Katexac, King Island (1922-1997) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/iraHxWPVZu4" width="320" youtube-src-id="iraHxWPVZu4"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />Such a great song for waltzing.</div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-75293061942972527762022-03-06T23:12:00.000-09:002022-03-06T23:12:07.493-09:00renegade angel - a repost and a prayer<p><i>I wrote this a while back during a "dark night of the soul." May peace, well-being, abundance, freedom, dignity, and harmony prevail. </i></p><p><br /></p><p>renegade angel</p><p><br /><br />If only there were a renegade angel<br />whose task it were to gather lists<br />of love letters un-sent, kisses un-spent,<br />wisps of longing tightly spooled,<br /><br />who'd transcribe onto his sleeve<br />in fluorescent calligraphy<br />a calculation of human heart-ache,<br />until his consciousness would be compelled<br /><br />to reconcile these heavy accounts,<br /><br />to swoop unseen over a people provoked,<br />and sprinkle snowflakes of quiet comfort,<br />to transform armaments into bread,<br />and turn rows of ready-made coffins into beds,<br /><br />undoing the deeds of one with another's intent,<br />I'd hold vigil at my window until he passed by,<br />and beg him to relieve me of my burdens,<br />letting his celestial caprice be my sole delight.<br /><br />In absence of angel, I turn to this page.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1nRuxxMNLwEGtFtNSP9Amyw2FdNbXasoSKPW4VtHmzxnOPoElkly7anVcIH8piCsGPob0499kRBuBrCUQgabmZEZRM2D2vEtZI23eaDoF8Hsq0nydPn-TOC3-6EhHKv1vJgNIPw/s1600/fullsizeoutput_ad7.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="295" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1nRuxxMNLwEGtFtNSP9Amyw2FdNbXasoSKPW4VtHmzxnOPoElkly7anVcIH8piCsGPob0499kRBuBrCUQgabmZEZRM2D2vEtZI23eaDoF8Hsq0nydPn-TOC3-6EhHKv1vJgNIPw/s640/fullsizeoutput_ad7.jpeg" width="508" /></a></div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-82439722930797389862022-02-26T16:25:00.002-09:002022-02-26T16:26:11.500-09:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEir8AmXbrYmijUIBuwRHXzn8xKplsv9tFI9DazKi0sMAhL9vtyZ6cAASYhvEQiABD7CClfXMeVm6CK9th7TPcR2EPmAzcjll5xCJv9rZwsnQevm5ZenqkqsQUB7auOrIheTUQMzJPu1NV2O5loAgEC-aL-EEhHKYUdOQH2GFm9fuZ4XaHjxMyI=s592" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="455" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEir8AmXbrYmijUIBuwRHXzn8xKplsv9tFI9DazKi0sMAhL9vtyZ6cAASYhvEQiABD7CClfXMeVm6CK9th7TPcR2EPmAzcjll5xCJv9rZwsnQevm5ZenqkqsQUB7auOrIheTUQMzJPu1NV2O5loAgEC-aL-EEhHKYUdOQH2GFm9fuZ4XaHjxMyI=s320" width="246" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">My work is loving the world.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird - </span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">equal seekers of sweetness.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Am I no longer young and still not half-perfect? Let me</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">keep my mind on what matters,</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">which is my work,</span></div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">The phoebe, the delphinium.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,</span></div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">and these body-clothes,</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">a mouth with which to give shouts of joy</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">telling them all, over and over, how it is</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">that we live forever</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">..</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Mary Oliver</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div></div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wo1g9n8yHyU" width="320" youtube-src-id="wo1g9n8yHyU"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Leaving the last word to Viktor Tsoi, the philosopher.</div><br /> <p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-47886241894777885832022-01-25T21:01:00.001-09:002022-01-25T21:01:15.990-09:00Questions<p><i>In the word question, there is a beautiful word - quest. I love that word. We are all partners in a quest. The essential questions have no answers. You are my question, and I am yours - and then there is dialogue. The moment we have answers, there is no dialogue. Questions unite people.</i></p><p>Elie Wiesel</p><p><br /></p><p>This.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUnWxeW_YBhlLcDjrC0iwM0cqhlkdTFIv0tRIeSZVFMKy7R3PtmVf-s1V5F1CbeWEaspNuHPUptKIz8cJT8Z14tfxDll-xKJj9mikQJdc8MOzpjoIv0w7P-XwsDcPLjOLNc1Oshpw5UhLXKbJzFoh2yMw8oQbxb-R_JDpjycdnIXjjlmpAwYE=s450" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="450" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUnWxeW_YBhlLcDjrC0iwM0cqhlkdTFIv0tRIeSZVFMKy7R3PtmVf-s1V5F1CbeWEaspNuHPUptKIz8cJT8Z14tfxDll-xKJj9mikQJdc8MOzpjoIv0w7P-XwsDcPLjOLNc1Oshpw5UhLXKbJzFoh2yMw8oQbxb-R_JDpjycdnIXjjlmpAwYE=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Is what it is like, when a stranger walks up to you, holds out his hand, and asks you to dance. </p><p>The dance creates questions that keep rebounding back at you. Is it this? Is it that? Am I here, or am I there, now on the other side? When he steps forward, or sideways, how do I become his mirror? How do I connect to him, follow the shifting of his weight from right foot to left foot, while staring at his collarbone, and move together with him, in harmony with the music? What trick will he think of next?</p><p>What if our steps are stirring up such revel-ments that even the sunset wants to blush?</p><p>What if our dance could be the reason a white crowned sparrow sings with the morning star at dawn?</p><p>What if, best of all, the spaces between the dancers partake so deeply of the sweetness of silence, that they cause you to lose track of space and time? </p><p>-- Until the next invitation arrives. </p><div><messagebody aria-label="What if our steps stir up such reveling that could cause even the sunset to blush?" role="text" style="-webkit-mask-box-image-outset: initial; -webkit-mask-box-image-repeat: initial; -webkit-mask-box-image-slice: 11 17 12 15 fill; -webkit-mask-box-image-source: url("transcript-resource://coreui/bubble-local"); -webkit-mask-box-image-width: initial; background-attachment: fixed; background-image: var(--imessage-gradient); background-position: var(--gradient-position); background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: var(--gradient-size); caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); flex: 0 1 auto; font-family: -apple-system, ".AppleColorEmojiUI"; padding: 5px 15px 5px 10px; text-size-adjust: auto;" title="Today, 12:00:36 AM"><messagetextcontainer style="direction: ltr !important;" text-direction="ltr"><span style="--font-size: 13px !important; color: white; font-size: var(--font-size); text-shadow: none !important;">What if our steps stir up such reveling that could cause even the sunset to blush?</span></messagetextcontainer></messagebody></div><div><messagebody aria-label="What if our steps stir up such reveling that could cause even the sunset to blush?" role="text" style="-webkit-mask-box-image-outset: initial; -webkit-mask-box-image-repeat: initial; -webkit-mask-box-image-slice: 11 17 12 15 fill; -webkit-mask-box-image-source: url("transcript-resource://coreui/bubble-local"); -webkit-mask-box-image-width: initial; background-attachment: fixed; background-image: var(--imessage-gradient); background-position: var(--gradient-position); background-repeat: repeat-x; background-size: var(--gradient-size); caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); flex: 0 1 auto; font-family: -apple-system, ".AppleColorEmojiUI"; padding: 5px 15px 5px 10px; text-size-adjust: auto;" title="Today, 12:00:36 AM"><messagetextcontainer style="direction: ltr !important;" text-direction="ltr"><span style="--font-size: 13px !important; color: white; font-size: var(--font-size); text-shadow: none !important;"><br /></span></messagetextcontainer></messagebody></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-79694110504918759482022-01-13T22:54:00.007-09:002022-01-13T22:54:31.984-09:00a recipe for blueberry jam<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /> <p></p><p>1 freezer door ajar<br />14 cups alpine blueberries<br />two lemons<br />organic sugar</p><p><br /></p><p>First, bow to the ancestors, remembering how they picked berries and stored them for the winter, mixed with oil, in hollowed-out birch logs.</p><p>Feel the weight of the bags of berries in your hands. Recall how it felt to be crouched in the caribou moss half-way up Mt. Gordon Lyons, smelling the delicately sweet, musky scents of the berry bushes and the lichens while you gathered them.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnpW_585vuf2Hng4wTDW_CDwMhJXfeP2cMkcGlW607IjZsL-qEgjMD7KwNedNssj6YqvlZUKv3pkU-xO5O9g1xsQB_PyXBtgsuYfZSsYzizegAnuz_vrDGiqqdd2R3mEP3CZEU2Glo6DGlf1AQ72hntgTC3lztrViCsECy60sVG-8mNZKOOBE=s1125" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1125" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnpW_585vuf2Hng4wTDW_CDwMhJXfeP2cMkcGlW607IjZsL-qEgjMD7KwNedNssj6YqvlZUKv3pkU-xO5O9g1xsQB_PyXBtgsuYfZSsYzizegAnuz_vrDGiqqdd2R3mEP3CZEU2Glo6DGlf1AQ72hntgTC3lztrViCsECy60sVG-8mNZKOOBE=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>Pick out a few stray leaves and twigs. Mix the berries with the sugar in a large pot. Squeeze the lemons. It will take a while for the frozen berries to melt into a single seething mass over medium heat. In the meantime, gather your jars and lids. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIJShk3eaoHFMgq6aPjPdxeIUOKvm5NnwPXXse9vDKV9mrbHC1yc-qtHb6DgM0ddLg_L_2GBL-TgyaqWOSrTxj_-5sw_md6jwPuFcqr2p0VV4d5BdwxBGYmjJ7JJ13ix5owi-oavLZXFSx2u8r-h8wAhXoc65xhPpvimqg-0tr9Z259jveopo=s1500" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1125" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIJShk3eaoHFMgq6aPjPdxeIUOKvm5NnwPXXse9vDKV9mrbHC1yc-qtHb6DgM0ddLg_L_2GBL-TgyaqWOSrTxj_-5sw_md6jwPuFcqr2p0VV4d5BdwxBGYmjJ7JJ13ix5owi-oavLZXFSx2u8r-h8wAhXoc65xhPpvimqg-0tr9Z259jveopo=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>Slowly stir gratitude and awe at the memories of ridge-top vistas into the batch of jam. Take time to wonder whether its recipients will sense a hint of the Autumn sunshine, soft rain, and the nip of the wind from over the ice-fields. Will they savor the intensity of the flavor, and the depth of color that are peculiar to the fruits of the tundra? </p><p>Ladle the dark, dripping liquid into jars, screw on the lids, and give the jars a polka party in a stockpot full of boiling water for at least 20 minutes. </p><p><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8dFiDyjeeoKjG_VWjz4dRUMAeef_OyTz70aa-CCsu5QjgclSKIKcXcEAjr8MsNCDSMKQCyTKJRFa0K00cCULKK-RXU6VufQy8X3SQ7YRV9KGBXPgYkVlYv58Qh1NIQN1u4npZYvuFfujvl1Dy6OCneQNqvj2Wv9PwjTNVwsQV_Q8ukGm-OD8=s1125" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1125" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8dFiDyjeeoKjG_VWjz4dRUMAeef_OyTz70aa-CCsu5QjgclSKIKcXcEAjr8MsNCDSMKQCyTKJRFa0K00cCULKK-RXU6VufQy8X3SQ7YRV9KGBXPgYkVlYv58Qh1NIQN1u4npZYvuFfujvl1Dy6OCneQNqvj2Wv9PwjTNVwsQV_Q8ukGm-OD8=s320" width="320" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p>And then allow yourself to sample the jam with freshly-baked bread: a late-night sacrament. </p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7qUlP_RxnlCPkOzGvWg6TgyMmXJBWXCYqrXaWOd5I8_p8mSo6l3MLZajWAWC4LCqSy78uq-Lgw8vZscx4J2jW3J9BRhzFcIz5OiLm9gb3mUPEoiWA_Mfue3b-ZWHpuk18tgty35gfpRhcVW-UMTU7_44WEYe3F_zQj5l8D-ZUJMX-9utNex0=s1125" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1125" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7qUlP_RxnlCPkOzGvWg6TgyMmXJBWXCYqrXaWOd5I8_p8mSo6l3MLZajWAWC4LCqSy78uq-Lgw8vZscx4J2jW3J9BRhzFcIz5OiLm9gb3mUPEoiWA_Mfue3b-ZWHpuk18tgty35gfpRhcVW-UMTU7_44WEYe3F_zQj5l8D-ZUJMX-9utNex0=s320" width="320" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-79544266213985019462022-01-06T23:08:00.001-09:002022-01-06T23:08:54.290-09:00code breakers<p><br /></p><p>Write your song, she said.</p><p>Is this the same song I heard when<br />the triple star called out to me,<br />essence of myrrh, murmur of the sea,<br />leaving tears of amber along the shore?<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3wAIbeYzQI8UiFNmWYMfM-d7QdetE5qp_fWLKiXM0Ez9HqEChEKKHi5A2NPiSXxH1juhI37Mfa925gvV9URWxOzPO-_ZBUB0t94C1cHdMDrcBLx25y6mMNO46eyrddl0ntBTdKoRm6VNl3lHXGhA9-Z7UFwG5wddEqhVA5dy3It0TA-ar0bQ=s800" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3wAIbeYzQI8UiFNmWYMfM-d7QdetE5qp_fWLKiXM0Ez9HqEChEKKHi5A2NPiSXxH1juhI37Mfa925gvV9URWxOzPO-_ZBUB0t94C1cHdMDrcBLx25y6mMNO46eyrddl0ntBTdKoRm6VNl3lHXGhA9-Z7UFwG5wddEqhVA5dy3It0TA-ar0bQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Thank you, mystery, for this moment.<br />For my hands and fingers.<br />For this warm body in a heated home.<br />For your secret embrace -- </p><p>For the code breakers:</p><p>beneath the hood of solitude<br />lurks the glance of Multitude<br />addressing love notes to the<br />snow flavored wind.</p><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-42539613301787943862021-12-07T01:53:00.009-09:002021-12-13T15:04:27.724-09:00riverence<p>Step away from the road. Find a path. </p><p>Cross the whispering brook.<br />Hear the hollow crunch underfoot.</p><p>Pause for breath beneath <br />the pointed arches of a birch chapel. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjD1lMnggGU5qKKPY1nbGAmRdROwm7C_L8ppTm5K8k7NpyLqPUz7aTyfp-5NHtp8t_OhBioSvDWXvZL1dpFcb84BcwPFSbjOXyim64dpdyI5W18i7EoL_sYGRcfhJ1jdbHYoEoJjPjbBLprtUM-eYwgR-2kdu0x6Zoq01-ShCDwvs5TcFfDBHM=s480" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjD1lMnggGU5qKKPY1nbGAmRdROwm7C_L8ppTm5K8k7NpyLqPUz7aTyfp-5NHtp8t_OhBioSvDWXvZL1dpFcb84BcwPFSbjOXyim64dpdyI5W18i7EoL_sYGRcfhJ1jdbHYoEoJjPjbBLprtUM-eYwgR-2kdu0x6Zoq01-ShCDwvs5TcFfDBHM=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Snow shimmers the scene. Softens its angles. Rewrites history.</div><div style="text-align: left;">The waves of a diamond ocean have washed the world <br />and left white froth behind.<br /></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAmalqGdWRUOuVspH-Mzd3HlScJYWKOgGDlcyc2379GCkAfO7GYex4AXqyJiREEmzAObn6jgzHjGr1AwfBtG9QHSQU2PS7e1O6BvJvUrZUxsejn1QgTCoTIInlgzQMnxSPqxjWIvJ65TIcdrZL9UOOJnMmaSPHo3Pfd5YUwoUf4LZpASddde0=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAmalqGdWRUOuVspH-Mzd3HlScJYWKOgGDlcyc2379GCkAfO7GYex4AXqyJiREEmzAObn6jgzHjGr1AwfBtG9QHSQU2PS7e1O6BvJvUrZUxsejn1QgTCoTIInlgzQMnxSPqxjWIvJ65TIcdrZL9UOOJnMmaSPHo3Pfd5YUwoUf4LZpASddde0=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Where the path ends, the river begins. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Silence, what are you? The sigh of the sea in ear-shells?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Birch-trees gather round the water and lean in prayer for<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />the tears that I shed for you,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">the blood that you bled for me.<br /><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmfLz1uta3izANZaPVOssK2EsJLuNMuVR-3VJZv5RuG4dcr-BJu_3kPGg5lq6vwuiHzH9Qn7Qjfvnj0sZLHBhuq2Bx2sxYZHggeOMV3mNsvKiLj3hEy0r882t47fHBM1KkBBf2ldfTQ1K5ybAAQlatHPx-_8ECb6fSLjRRfWQYlRliM3VMwUE=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmfLz1uta3izANZaPVOssK2EsJLuNMuVR-3VJZv5RuG4dcr-BJu_3kPGg5lq6vwuiHzH9Qn7Qjfvnj0sZLHBhuq2Bx2sxYZHggeOMV3mNsvKiLj3hEy0r882t47fHBM1KkBBf2ldfTQ1K5ybAAQlatHPx-_8ECb6fSLjRRfWQYlRliM3VMwUE=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The summer's rushing rapids have condensed <br />into winter's ice and a quiet, pulsing flow. <br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />(Like a slow waltz, you said.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjk8I-K6hw6wB9EvpVeN5yMWOzUDTdzO_OqZpL_kYxhTwPPNNfs4-1jO0YJbQhQfl4Ysny1bEfO_V7jPf-5UCRVr3vECQlMWkIIcjI2SO28apbV9Wq8Uz4JqH36T72MTqO8lmtpEaY7KncuSGxstsUzIpo0obvPfQ90qOnVUcXrQ6z-W89ICis=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjk8I-K6hw6wB9EvpVeN5yMWOzUDTdzO_OqZpL_kYxhTwPPNNfs4-1jO0YJbQhQfl4Ysny1bEfO_V7jPf-5UCRVr3vECQlMWkIIcjI2SO28apbV9Wq8Uz4JqH36T72MTqO8lmtpEaY7KncuSGxstsUzIpo0obvPfQ90qOnVUcXrQ6z-W89ICis=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />The water percolates through the Chugach rocks and is purified:<br />renewing, replenishing, regenerating, and restoring<br />all possibilities<br /><br /> for the way ahead<br /><br />and it always leads</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">to the sea.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQOIosit6S-wA8oTgWN3XCdtJANyqUb5IQdD8lGzFdWNAKgX9DIyhqtEKEAEt4RvWH9ynT_-lIn6C4CIq_OgilDmJFpNVaPoRHS-s-xNJmgjEMHnjbbI8H1nDvKQdkvpBuKAf7uoAtvfReFRt_VgrCJWb4Oy7UMnqfPBNfRr5EPTCvhhCA5Sw=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQOIosit6S-wA8oTgWN3XCdtJANyqUb5IQdD8lGzFdWNAKgX9DIyhqtEKEAEt4RvWH9ynT_-lIn6C4CIq_OgilDmJFpNVaPoRHS-s-xNJmgjEMHnjbbI8H1nDvKQdkvpBuKAf7uoAtvfReFRt_VgrCJWb4Oy7UMnqfPBNfRr5EPTCvhhCA5Sw=s320" width="320" /></a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-39536856874303537802021-11-25T10:11:00.002-09:002021-11-25T10:49:57.125-09:00seafoam<p><span face="-apple-system, ".AppleColorEmojiUI"" style="caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 13px; text-size-adjust: auto;">Last night, you may have thought you were speaking to me, moon-child, but really you were speaking to an entire ocean, which has been waitin</span><span face="-apple-system, ".AppleColorEmojiUI"" style="caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 13px; text-size-adjust: auto;">g thousands of years to hear your voice. <br /><br />I remember how you caressed my hand. During each minute that you held it, you melted the locks off caskets of treasures hidden within my inner vaults. Until I discovered that I had been deceived. After my discovery, I did not bother to look and see whether they were full of pearls or rubies, sapphires or spices. I just threw hand grenades at them all, and did not look back. <br /><br />I learned how to ride the waves of the open ocean in a storm, how to fill a boat's tank with diesel, how to cook for sailors, how to do a ship's laundry and how to clean and close it down for the season. I learned what it is like to be one of the guys who enjoy saying everything they don't like about women and then hanging it out over the side of the boat to pee. </span></p><p><span face="-apple-system, ".AppleColorEmojiUI"" style="caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 13px; text-size-adjust: auto;">But no one has ever touched me quite like you did. </span></p><p><span face="-apple-system, ".AppleColorEmojiUI"" style="caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 13px; text-size-adjust: auto;">New pearls are always forming inside the oyster beds. I met a retired pearl diver who called the captain, "old barnacle" and was grateful to me for helping him move a flotilla of barrels through the Wrangell Narrows. </span></p><p><span style="caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 13px;">Am I a droplet or a wave or am I the whole ocean? I don't know. What else could I be, but seafoam?<br /><br />What I do knows is that in the Ocean of Light where I'm swimming, the dolphins are always diving, and the giant pearls gleam with an undimmed luster.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jgnQvLyczEYugO-FsuvXbYldtNNuqVysmnxPJcdrUZRNW4vvBUD9oPMKhtZbhbcDXo0xTRo311rz_-fvJG-Cl_r7zeXRgrroHvE97UF4kTkrXb6nABrhrTUjXY8PwPj9Z30CBg/s1125/southeast.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="657" data-original-width="1125" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jgnQvLyczEYugO-FsuvXbYldtNNuqVysmnxPJcdrUZRNW4vvBUD9oPMKhtZbhbcDXo0xTRo311rz_-fvJG-Cl_r7zeXRgrroHvE97UF4kTkrXb6nABrhrTUjXY8PwPj9Z30CBg/s320/southeast.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="caret-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-78208487495713442902021-11-25T09:33:00.005-09:002021-11-26T10:38:19.284-09:00Away from Little Totem Bay<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUsvoB9QYRElWBsYJYEMiETc8GtdC_tK0FqDzE9YPzKZY5zntHqcFKjMI8nyzFpyRrGRuahFZYNh2xqyhAJxcEH6KMFGx7KFpu8OnoeI1oEzJKrD64jXynf5STjgNhsh3qc2EnQ/s1125/Two+Tree+Island.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1125" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUsvoB9QYRElWBsYJYEMiETc8GtdC_tK0FqDzE9YPzKZY5zntHqcFKjMI8nyzFpyRrGRuahFZYNh2xqyhAJxcEH6KMFGx7KFpu8OnoeI1oEzJKrD64jXynf5STjgNhsh3qc2EnQ/s320/Two+Tree+Island.jpeg" width="320" /></a><br />Two Tree Island (on a calmer day)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />The nagging moans of the wind in the rigging <br />prodded me awake from a turbulent dream.<br />In my reverie, we were running between high green waves<br />where we dodged gleaming ghost galleons and whales.<br /><br />I rose from my bunk and made pancakes,<br />wondering about the snapping of the lines.<br />We steered free of the cove into white-capped rollers.<br />For a while, I fetched the thermoses that fell.<br /><br />But then we were out in the open seaway,<br />facing furious thirteen-foot waves.<br />The captain told me to stop picking up flotsam.<br />He kept his hand on the wheel and his eyes on the horizon.<br /><br />My jobs were to hang onto a brass rail, <br />to not get sick, and to squeegee the windshield.<br />The waves tossed us fore and aft and came in threes.<br />The captain plotted a course to ride them at ninety degrees --<p></p><p>Except when the rogue rollers came at us from the side,<br />and then we pitched back and forth like a giant steel canoe.<br />In the lee of Zarembo, he asked me if I recognized Two Tree Island.<br />His cheeks were taut, his lips were pinched, his grip was firm.<br /><br />When we finally reached the safety of Heritage Harbor,<br />I went below to reassemble the galley.<br />The captain boasted later to his friends: "She handled it like a lady."<br />Meaning his boat, of course. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-66940716438305859822021-09-08T22:56:00.009-08:002021-09-09T07:22:46.248-08:00Breaking News<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpgiDA7RAGPFgyOYRNr_1q5OiNRS6W3kBpOzO_d5JuSNkVeeCmjxYDh8XOCqKpoi1wXems1J1RD9OFW91HM2n47jEysDoM-4I3hrY_YO1fHp78eEaVjOqpLhkbBhatrYQbfi5voQ/s1125/241442899_986150718785971_464069871633960420_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1125" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpgiDA7RAGPFgyOYRNr_1q5OiNRS6W3kBpOzO_d5JuSNkVeeCmjxYDh8XOCqKpoi1wXems1J1RD9OFW91HM2n47jEysDoM-4I3hrY_YO1fHp78eEaVjOqpLhkbBhatrYQbfi5voQ/s320/241442899_986150718785971_464069871633960420_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>The river is full of stories, do you hear?<br />She says it has been a good blueberry year.</p><p>The river points out, "Those claw marks<br />in the sand are from a young black bear.<br />You'd better keep your pepper spray handy,<br />and think of a song to sing to the alders."</p><p>On top of the bluff, there is a mailbox.<br />Inside it, someone wrote in black Sharpie,<br />"She was the moon." Of course she was.<br />I scribble a note in wet pencil for the next guy.</p><p> -- Darling, I just have to bring you here,<br />to sit in this swing, and share the views. -- </p><p>"You humans," says the river, "are in such a hurry.<br />You cross my bridges almost every day,<br />But did you ever wonder how water enjoys<br />deciding which form to take in play?"</p><p>"Whether to rise as mist and let you breathe it in?<br />Whether to rush as quickly as possible to the sea?<br />Whether to let you drink and then - cry me a -<br />trickle into the hollows of your eyes?"</p><p>The river is full of stories, do you hear?<br />It really will be a lingonberry year.<br />But before we return with our buckets,<br />she wants to let us in on a secret.</p><p>When the sandhill cranes cry out, "Ah! Kah! Ah!"<br />And lift off over over the Chugach Mountains<br />sounding out a lonesome note of farewell,<br />they are trying to tell us -- we are the brave ones:</p><p>We have the stomach. We have the heart.<br />To face winter, with her rivers of snow.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUgdr6Wnh2eBAZlaHjn-L5CKagHIhzLJxKkSOtVCFU9HzVQq2l9DTh3PNsJZFObDfZPq_K0LF1x0q6rXfbSrOkHbhsIz6ITz-ODaMSf_tNDjHOErwGCyCtT_r-cl5ACtuI1gg-g/s960/lingonberries.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUgdr6Wnh2eBAZlaHjn-L5CKagHIhzLJxKkSOtVCFU9HzVQq2l9DTh3PNsJZFObDfZPq_K0LF1x0q6rXfbSrOkHbhsIz6ITz-ODaMSf_tNDjHOErwGCyCtT_r-cl5ACtuI1gg-g/s320/lingonberries.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">just a few of the lingonberries</div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/p5f90Qh7RMQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="p5f90Qh7RMQ"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />Spivakov leads the Moscow Virtuosi in Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36102455.post-79223454466043962272021-09-06T07:48:00.004-08:002021-09-06T11:50:34.639-08:00Autumn rose<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKkkoAYj5mfbn6uuPAtf86kZ6j6EeJD-Mn_8A_6SSfT3ze_c7Wap-GPL8OBTYdnlHTPTDzjlmV3IojNwdrkmuixN92QvUKp-C0D6AOOqx8zlftYmsJlXUc9wFsPpXCd8oNHZrtMg/s2048/IMG_3591.JPG.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKkkoAYj5mfbn6uuPAtf86kZ6j6EeJD-Mn_8A_6SSfT3ze_c7Wap-GPL8OBTYdnlHTPTDzjlmV3IojNwdrkmuixN92QvUKp-C0D6AOOqx8zlftYmsJlXUc9wFsPpXCd8oNHZrtMg/s320/IMG_3591.JPG.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Drenched by the rain,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">late Autumn rose,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">breathe your glory<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">now into my bones.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My mornings will unfold</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">as bright petals,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">and subtle scent<br />will follow me all day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">in the evenings,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I will surrender</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">to the pillow-softness<br />of velvet essence.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0