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(no subject) [Oct. 2nd, 2010|12:19 pm]
Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
To-morrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know;
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes' sake along the wall.

I miss blogging and am now working to get back into it, but I'm finding it hard to write recently. Life is such a mix of joy and elation and wonderful and hard and it makes me cry more the older I grow. I am turning a new year over on Thursday. What a year this has been.

My students are learning and excited and they held my hands through the Omni theater film on Australia, leaning over excitedly to whisper the names of places shown in the film which we have discussed and researched. They picked out the sound of the digeridoo from the ensemble playing the soundtrack.

My love with Jon is so new every day like the autumn mist that lies over the world as I drive to work in the early mornings. We are so comfortable, we are so blessed. We picked cranberries on our hands and knees and made them into sauce, we laughed last night so hard Jon accidentally lost the water in his mouth and then threw the rest in the glass all over me. We hold each other. He wipes my tears and we drive with all the windows down.

I miss my family with such a fierceness. My sisters truly are my best and closest friends and I am not good at getting to know girls my age, even the lovely ones at my new wonderful church. I choke up when I think of my parents. My heart feels like it has holes in it when I think of my sisters. Often I want to go over to my sisters' places in the evenings and stay up late laughing drinking tea sitting on floors and singing harmonies. Oh this distance is hard.

It is the fall. I am listening to Ani DiFranco and the Weepies and Gillian Welsh and reading poetry and knitting my slowly developing projects.

At my cousin's wedding this August my sisters and I danced with my Dad. He will never stop dancing as long as we can help it.

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(no subject) [Aug. 6th, 2010|03:11 pm]
We are seeking out to buy a home with beautiful sunlight and wood floors and a bustling urban neighbourhood we just need the right loan...

My heart ached and my throat clogged when I saw the first photo of my father in his wheel chair, his back hunched like my grandfathers did. The tears choked me again when two nights ago, over coffee in my living room, my pastor asked how I was doing with this all and my husband reached his arm behind me to hold my curled up knee.

The sunrises have been waking me recently with the sound of morning traffic outside one window beginning on Route 16 and the birds waking each other in the black walnut outside the other window.

This morning my 7 campers woke well before 6am and began to talk and call back and forth between tents. Two boys in low growly tones, "you put a rope around his neck, tie it to the top of the shaft and glue his hands...." to be interrupted by a gasp, and they switch to, "look at the sun through the trees! it's so beautiful!" And I laugh to myself about these tough ten years olds who tear up and hide it in a tshirt when they lose a round of a game.

I dream of working in a charter school in Roslindale with middle school students as I finish the second round of the application. I've been waking in the night praying about this job and the house with windows and a red dining room and a back yard only a mile from the charter school.

God, is this what's in store for us?
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Home of my grandfathers [Oct. 22nd, 2009|07:26 pm]
There is no village
just fields melding into fields
gray sky, exposed rock,
and the border is marked by white stakes
so easily moved, serupticiously,
encroaching on this land of lost people.

The language was burried along with my grandfather
under the soil of some foreign land
and so there is no name we can call this village
which has gone without a grave
only marked by the faint smell of zatar spices
lingering in the wind.
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changing seasons [Sep. 23rd, 2009|11:06 am]
Reading Walden is making me anticipate autumn and winter, the changing of the seasons.

I'm getting out in the woods this weekend.

so now it's crunch time :)
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(no subject) [Sep. 18th, 2009|09:09 am]
I brought a handful of earth to your garden
And placed it on the compost heap.
The raccoons watched me, unabashedly, silently cajoling.
I laid it by your coffee grounds,
Reaching over dried bread crusts and zucchini peels.

I did not stay to see if, perhaps, you came with the sun,
Laid your mug on the split-rail fence
And shoveled the tempered, acidic soil onto your tomato plants
Packing it lovingly with your competent hands.

I waited until the summer was crackling dry-
Until the morning when I found half a tomato, oozing seeds,
Laid gently on mmy doorstep by the footprints of the raccoons.
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Washington Street on a Tuesday Morning [Sep. 18th, 2009|09:06 am]
One hand on her hip-
chin forward so as to yell
so he can't say he didn't hear her-
she screams halfway down the block.
The old man in the tan hat waits to pass
waving his fingers at the toddler
who is wrapping one foot around a bar of his stroller
while twisting backwards to gin at his mamma
who is shaking her head apologetically at the man
seated in the drug store doorway
who says, "at least a smile!"
and pulls his jacket back onto his shoulder, stands to scrath,
and ducks smoothly in order to miss the words thrown back loudly
from halfway down the block
so she can't say he never listens.
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(no subject) [Jul. 30th, 2009|07:10 am]
Summer has come to Boston at the end of July with thick, wet, air and ominously cloudy mornings. The kitchen is muggy enough in the morning that I hose off in a cold shower before dressing.
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summer joy [Jun. 4th, 2009|03:18 pm]
Life happens quickly when you're not waiting. The days tumble into each other and I find myself suddenly wearing summer dresses again, drinking wine barefoot on the back porch among the wild tomato vines, and talking about marriage. This little room can't hold all the joy that's reverberating against its walls, so the windows are left open and the outside and inside worlds meet in the sound of lawn mowers, new neighbours moving in, and music playing from living room stereos.
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Life at Ripley Street [May. 21st, 2009|01:07 pm]
This little home is in need to a fairy godmother, but I'm not in fairy godmother mode today so it's going to wait. The livingroom is draped with two loads of laundry, drying, the hall needs to be swept, and I didn't do last night's dishes.

However, what we do have is a potted porch garden! The tomatoes, basil, and peppers that we've been growing from seeds are well overdue to be potted in their big pots out on the porch. This morning, after some coffee and toast, I put on Ani DiFranco and lugged dirt around, getting it on my arms and hands, my face, my feet, and even down my shirt.

We now have six happy tomato plants (three different varieties), two happy peppers, and a big ol' pot of basil plants. The herbs are also still in existence, I just didn't have to re-pot them.

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apreciation [May. 12th, 2009|03:23 pm]
Life is so beautiful these days.
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