wood and memories

give this girl an old house.

a house made of wood and memories.

made by hands that are no longer on this earth.

give me the creak of the hardwood floors.

the breeze coming through the old, huge windows.

the walls, painted and then painted again.

the hallways where many people have walked before.

the rooms where life was created, given, flowed and left.

where lovers loved.

and love wilted.

spending their final night together,

knowing that it is for the best.

sometimes there are no answers.

but you cling onto each other tight,

knowing that this is will be the last time.

packed boxes sit in the corner

waiting for their new oasis.

and when the sun rises, the lovers part.

promising to remain friends.

but not quite naif enough to believe it true.

where families grew.

where children laid and giggled for hours

because the echo was just right.

and then, almost suddenly, they became adults.

walking the halls of their childhood home.

searching for what could be left.

finding that perfect spot.

laying.

speaking.

listening.

awaiting the echo.

and, just like before, it arrives.

where tea was brewed

and books were read.

laughter, tears, triumph, passion..

all wrapped up into one compact space.

i will stand there.

in this empty house.

breathe it all in,

grin,

and say

if walls could talk...

equinox

she asks us to speak.

one word

things you believe in

things you would fight for

without a second thought

words chime in from all around the circle

family

freedom

passion

love

hope

children

earth

spirit

creativity

expression

women

community

things you are grateful for

rain

love

community

compassion

mother earth

water

animals

family

wind

and when we parted our sacred space,

the wind was blowing feverishly.

it was alive.

someone had awoken it.

and we relished.

clippings

amongst the clinking of silverware

and broken french,

there is a connection.

a woman bruised.

battered.

not physically. but mentally.

mon mari

my husband

she calls him.

as if he is still there.

sitting on his chair, untouched in the corner.

as if he still greets her everyday.

as if he never got sick.

as if he never died.

i search her eyes for sorrow.

the kind of sorrow a widow might carry

even years after the early parting

but she is slow to make eye contact and

i cannot blame her.

eyes say too much.

it is best we stay on this grounded area

of silence

of quiches and talks of gardens.

we can both rest at night knowing we understand each other.

maybe not linguistically.

but there is something larger, deeper, and real

that pulls us in even if we refuse.

and when we part

we say

à bientôt

see you soon

neither of us likes permanents farewells.

*****

my super heroine

my hero wears rubber boots

and plaid

on sunny days, she wears a wide-brimmed hat.

she was never one for tanning

she has no weapons.

only garden tools

she is strong

yet kind

she is naive

and wants to believe in the good

yet is acutely aware of the bad

her moto

is simple

make soil, not war

she will save the world.

or maybe, she won't.

but she will feed one under-nourished soul at a time,

and that political act, will be enough.

******

it was 1986, she says.

we were thick into fighting for women's reproductive rights.

it is 2012, i say.

we are thick into fighting for women's reproductive rights.

to make sure women have access to contraception

to make sure these women are not called sluts

to make sure men take the onus for their role in heterosexual sex

to make sure that mother can birth at home

at a hospital

at a birthing centre

where ever her contractions take her.

it seems exhausting.

and it is.

but i refuse to stop.

truth

"We are not nouns, we are verbs. I am not a thing--an actor, a writer--I am a person who does things--I write, I act--and I never know what I am going to do next. I think you can be imprisoned if you think of yourself as a noun."

Stephen Fry

the feeling

it was a lovely early-spring day

sunny, clear.

the fields of wheat swayed in approval.

there was nothing but the highway and me.

well..

there was the anxiety, the panic and the inherit feeling that something was horribly wrong.

and, at last, there was the feeling.

when i was younger, i used to attempt sleepovers.

all the time.

and, suddenly, i would be stricken with homesickness.

i would be literally ill.

many nights my parents would have to throw on layers of protection against the harsh evening winter winds

just to come get me

and there i would be.

sulking.

panicked.

and in need to go home.

not much has changed.

i sit here in this strangers house.

observing my room.

it's perfectly lovely.

but i want nothing more than to be at home.

if i pause to consider how my bed would cradle me

or how i would rest against my headboard for that perfect reading angle,

i will cry.

so i think of other things..

like slam poetry.

it's getting me by..so be it.

my faults

here i shakily stand.

not knowing which direction to walk or, to be more truthful, fall.

as the world continues to spin

and people continue to search the dream

the weddings

the babies

the stuff that one day will belong to someone else

i stay stuck somewhere trying to figure it all out.

trying to decide what it is i want.

well, i know what i want.

i want

a milkshake

waffles

pizza

red lipstick

earrings

a new dress

to bask in sunlight

to speak french

to speak english

to laugh. hysterically.

but these are temporary.

they are my next high.

and once they are gone, i will again be lost.

looking for some sort of path that, evidently, i refuse to take.

so why search?

i may just have to accept that i am a somebody who lives for the day.

only for that day.

and that's as far as my plan can stretch.

today..

i lived for fried brussels sprouts with balsamic reduction.

and it was lovely.