REDONDOWRITER'S SACRED ORDINARY

Art Journal: Honoring Pied Beauty and Gerard Manley Hopkins

It has been many weeks since I've created an art journal page, but I literally compelled myself to go to the "creation table" today and work. A little bit here, a little bit there, and voila: my tribute to Gerard Manley Hopkins and my very favorite of all his poems, "Pied Beauty." Each time I read Hopkins, I feel utterly elated.

Because my handwriting may be hard to read, here is Pied Beauty typed out. 

Pied Beauty

GLORY be to God for dappled things—         

  For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;    

    For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;  

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings; 

  Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;           

And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.           

 

All things counter, original, spare, strange;           

  Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) 

    With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;    

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:                   

                  Praise him.

 

 

Haiku My Heart Friday: Dog Days

Preparing for rain

One cold last walk with  Mollie

Before settling in.

 

Dog’s indignity,

From a flea infestation,

Mollie plans revenge.  

 To see more haiku, visit Rebecca's Recuerda mi Corazon. 

Bukowski: What Matters Most

Ever since my family and I visited the Charles Bukowski retrospective last February at the Huntington Museum, I've had this postcard propped against my iMac at home. I wrote about what Bukowski means to me in a 2007 post called Memories of Poet Charles Bukowski.

At this point in my life, these words mean so much to me. When you start out in life you have no idea what lies ahead--and that is a good thing. I'm not sure I would have had the courage to move ahead had I known--and I know my final set of years will undoubtedly bring even more challenges than life has presented so far. Now I'm up for it 'cause I have indeed walked well through fire on more than one occasion. Haven't we all? I always used to say, "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden," but Bukowski's words resonate even more deeply.  

Haiku My Heart: The Old Dreamer

From Gourdonstun School's archives of a Shakespeare play. 

Times gone by, she dreams

An old woman now, young still

Behind closed eyes. 

Thanks to Rebecca at Recuerda mi Corazon and her Haiku My Heart Friday challenge. Join us, won't you?

Haiku My Heart: Handful of Rainbows

Colors of a boy

Joy, a handful of rainbows

Afterwards, nip a nap.

 

Visit Rebecca's Recuerda mi Corazon, our host, for Haiku My Heart.  

Thinking About Aging: Rumi's "The Guest House"

Many of my family and friends are suffering from the effects of aging and sometimes I can't help but think about my aging process and what is yet to come. I don't allow myself to dwell on this too much because I actually, in spite of some problems, have been largely healthy and energetic the past months. I am very blessed. My own mom didn't live to my age. Part of why I'm relatively content is because I keep busy. At one point in time I used to put myself down for being a human doing. These days I'm glad I am busy; I'm just extremely selective at my age about what I do to stay busy.

The following poem is from Aging Today in an article written by Harry Moody. At this link there are two other aging poems I'll write on another time. All of them have such meaning for me. Living alone at this point in my life is sometimes a little scary, I'll admit, but if something really bad happens, I do have family and friends nearby. That brings me comfort when I allow myself to think about what might be coming next. Today and yesterday and the day before were all fabulous days. I'm grateful.

The Guest House

by Rumi

This being human is a guesthouse.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight . . .

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

A Three Old Recites Billy Collins Poem

My friend Loretta at Paper and Pomegranates posted the following YouTube video of a three year old reciting one of Billy Collins' poems and I just had to pass it on. There is a part of me that is utterly enchanted because Billy is a favorite poet--and this little guy is adorable. But there is another part that hopes his mommy has him also playing legos, going on playdates, and swinging so high he feels exhilarated in between memorizing poetry. Is he ready for American Idol, do you think? 

 

When a Precious Journal is Lost

Since I was 14 I have kept diaries and journals and I've taught different methods of journal keeping for many years. I always say that if I have a journal and pens, and a book, I can stay occupied for many hours. But there is a twist. When I flew to Las Vegas to see my sister a few days ago I left my current journal on the plane along with the book I was reading, Steve Berry's "The Amber Room." I've got the airline alerted about the journal, but it would be nothing short of miraculous to get it back.

I got home from the airport last night about 10:15 p.m. after my two day visit with my sister Virginia and while I was there I found myself writing on plain paper for inclusion in a later journal. I began making the covers of the new journal today and have continued processing my memories of the visit and my see-sawing feelings. 

While downloading some photos tonight this photo I took in Portland 2 1/2 years ago begged to be shared. It's such a beautiful now moment photo. What could go with this? Mary Oliver's "The Journey" seemed perfect for she says things that I am not only unaware that I'm feeling, but she brings peace to the place I'm in right now. 

The Journey

by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

 

Mollie and Me, and Grandsons Make Four: A Haiku

So, what’s going on with woman’s best friend these days, some of you might have been thinking? Well, here's an update on my current best friend, my dog Mollie, the Corgi mix rescue that came into my life on Dec. 18 last year. My 14-year-old cattle dog mix, Cookie, had died in October and it was very, very hard those last weeks of her life. It had been my intent to be foot loose and dog free while I mourned Cookie.

By early December I realized how much I missed having a dog. I wasn’t taking my twice daily walks, there wasn’t dog hair everywhere, and not only wasn’t I sleeping with a man in my bed anymore, I didn’t even have a dog for company. I began to cyber search the local rescue organizations thinking maybe I could foster an older dog who wouldn’t require much care.

On Dec. 18, Kathy and James from Rover Rescue, pointed me to a dog named Miranda thought to be about age two—house trained, etc., and currently in the Carson pound. I agreed to foster her based only the website's photo and when I picked her up from the vet, she immediately threw up. It seems she had just been spayed a few hours before. She was very thin and lethargic and it was obvious she had been pregnant. When James brought her into my house, she immediately peed on the carpet.

I officially adopted Mollie on Dec. 28, 2010 and brought her to my own vet. She was actually only about a year old, as it turned out. I had my work cut out for me.

I keep thinking she is housetrained and it was really hard to accomplish, but with my two and four year old grandsons visiting this week, Mollie has turned into a six month old whirlwind. If she gets too wound up, she pees on the carpet. She chases the boys endlessly and goes absolutely everywhere they go, including licking food off their faces, snot out of their noses, vacuuming under the table, chewing toys--and alerting us to poo-poo diapers. But, when the lights are finally turned off at night and the whole house snoozes, she lays hypervigilant on her dog bed, or on mine, dozes, but perks up her ears at the slightest sound. She is obviously guarding us. 

Unleashed: Poems by Writer’s Dogs is a favorite book given to me ages ago by my eldest son, who loves dogs even more than I do. Cookie actually chewed off part of the back page.

The muse hit Mollie. This is what she wrote. 

Fran kept crazy hours

Until two boys came with toys.

Can they stay forever?

 

 

What To Do When Darkness Comes

I have two sisters who are seriously ill, as well as several friends, and sometimes I want to "do something" to help. But, there really isn't much any of us can do except be present. For many years I have written on a listserv called Collective Journey. Our 30 members have been far more than journal keepers, what is what our common interest was way back when. (1996 is when we started, I think.) Recently one of our members was diagnosed with cancer in the pancreas and liver and another woman on the list sent this poem to comfort her--and to comfort all of us. Life is a series of peaks and valleys. As another member reflected, "This is an awesome poem and I am so very glad you shared it with all us all. The truth is that none of us know the length of our days or the trouble we will see in them, so it is always good to be reminded to live each day as fully as possible." 

When the Darkness Comes

by Karen Jurgens

When the darkness comes

When the breath becomes shallow for the fear to live
When life becomes narrow with no room for joy
Storm the heavens 
Shake the tree of life
Breathe deeply
Refuse delivery of packages of despair
See them
Know them
They are not you
Taste the natural sweetness of dawn breezes
The sparkle of dew on the grass
Hear the heart song of morning birds
Sip the precious tea of the moment
Feel the sacred pulse streaming through you
Carry the lamp of life in your heart
Let tears stream down your face
For all the suffering
Stand tall
Know who you are
Life living itself in beauty and truth

 

Bio: Karen Jurgens is a wife, mother of two wonderful children, and grandmother of two delightful girls. She is a retired Psychologist and worked with cancer patients before and after her diagnosis of Multiple Myeloma in 2002.