March 27, 2013 § 11 Comments
My husband and I are steps away, God willing, from owning our own plot of land to do the things we’ve dreamed of doing for the past several years. Eighteen acres featuring a cleared area for a future home surrounded by panoramic views of rolling hills lightly speckled with neighboring homes, a creek, a pond, a barn and some wooded places and finally an old cemetery smack dab in the center, already fenced and tended by the local church.
Personally, I find the cemetery an intriguing feature and I don’t mind spending our days with a little history in our back yard, nor am I superstitious.
I’ll be searching wordpress for blogs on first time farmers/land owners for information on what we might expect.
As a means of earning extra income, we hope to have chickens, goats and a garden yielding produce for the local farmer’s markets. I would be responsible for those things and am pretty excited about it. I see it as an adventure I never would have imagined myself taking 10 years ago.
I would love to hear from folks about their own land owning, crop producing, animal tending, tractor driving adventures, especially those of you who went from urban to rural settings.
So far, I know to expect the following:
– 30 minute drives to the grocery store and everywhere else for that matter
– Fire ants (which seems weird for that area and in the colder weather)
– An entirely new and tangible understanding of the character of God in the process of gardening
– An improvement in my own character and ability through the process of tending all things on the home-front
– And finally, everything else I never expected
March 12, 2013 § Leave a comment
Wall paper clings to the room like skin
The ceiling is like the face of an owl
Gold swirls methodical, militant lines and
Rows like faces
Silent, pendant, on the light –
The legs of tables end in carved paws, sharp tendons. The air smells musty and all the furniture is oversized – the heavy velvet drapes don’t sway, they hang like an
Innocent figure in death, all the faces in the walls look on their glory.
Vessel cracked, sleek panes
At the edge of the earth,
Hot breathy sigh
The room shivers, seizing, torn in two the space that divides
My eyes are scales, flakey and dim –
I am cared for by those suspicious of me
I was charging, murderous, seething
I pursue those belonging to the Way
I haul their bodies through the streets
Because I believed
In figures clad like jewels – villains.
Each time I drive over a pot hole, my brain knocks around in my skull
Side to side – resounding
The anatomy of bell parts
Like a bell
With ears and eyes
Head of tongue and staple
A strike point
Body – Skirt
Reverberating knowledge I have been told – the way I am struck – how I absorb
My axis sways
Between spirit and flesh
A stubborn defeat
I am being conformed to Him.
An Image of whom, there is always someone
Standing by who’ll tell you
New and improved theologies for a new and improved Jesus
Who shook the world.
March 9, 2013 § 2 Comments
There is a pumpkin scented candle
On the dining room table
A green satin string
Stretched from my book
Across the grain of wood where
The stain has worn away
On three points and
Sniffs the air –
The window is open
Its layers are lines in a poem
The outside, then the screen, then the glass
Good morning to the chirping bug
Caught inside the world of neither in nor out
Then the inside, a room
And there are webs and
The crispy corpses of insects, dust, paint chips
Layers of sound
Birdsongs tuned to 10am
The jingle of dog chains followed by
The crunch of shoes against the sidewalk
A train – an airplane – a crow
On the table
That same adapter is coiled
Like those random things
In a house
Without a closet or drawer to place
Without a basket or box or bag
March 2, 2013 § 7 Comments
Blogging is writing, but attached to blogging is a different why. Although I write everyday, I’m new to blogging. I get so excited when I check the stats on my blog and find that so and so “liked” a post or that I have a new follower.
I blog because I want to know what a reader thinks – how they are moved by what they’ve read, otherwise, I’d be content to close the cover of my journals.
I write because I love to write – from grammar to form to context – every aspect excites me – the initial idea, the drafts, the process, the end product – the editing, the reading, the technicalities, even the way words look on paper – the shapes of letters, the scratch of a pen on paper, the way the ink sinks into the smooth, white fiber, the clicking of keys on a keyboard, and metaphor, how I love it!
The way the world becomes a tunnel, a sharp ray concentrated on the page – how words and letters originate, how they are spelled, how they sound before meaning is attached to them – what the symbols mean, to pause, to stop, to emphasize – it’s like looking first at a work of art, then taking steps closer and closer until the image disappears and you see the strokes, the layers, the hidden things that have been absorbed into the whole.
You start on the surface and sink to the core and that’s where you really learn something. For me, writing is where I meet God. It’s how I process, pray and worship.
I write to convey what I love, what I hate, what I feel, what I know, what I’m told, what I learn, what I see, what I hear – the way I respond to living; I love it all.
No matter how existential something may sound or a person may feel, a writer writes because they believe something.
Writing means you move and breathe. When you put something down on paper, anonymous or known, to loved ones only or to the world – while you are still living or after you’ve died, it matters.
Only God can blot out what someone has written.