Batter Up.

Baseball in in the air. Andrew is trying out right now for the Little League All Stars team. He is amazing on the field. Very graceful and joyous. It's amusing because parents assume Kris and I are diligent with Andrew about practicing. Not even a little bit. In fact we have some guilt for not practicing with him more. He loves baseball the way a kid should. It's magic for him. It's not corrupted by salaries, steroids, or obscene trades. It's about throwing, catching and hitting. I am not lying when I say that one of my favorite past times is watching a little league game. 

Kristopher won diamondback tickets! Get this! His office had a trivia contest for exactly one month. He had to answer random questions everyday. Yesterday he found out that he won 4 tickets with box seats and a parking pass to see the D-backs play the Kansas City Royals play at Chase Field. How cool is he? Super cool!

***Home run, Dearest Vincent***

In the back of my mind I am thinking of things other than baseball. Van Gogh is haunting me a bit. I'm considering his Cyprus trees and some of his letters to brother, Theo. I don't think he was crazy in the least. I really don't. It seems his fatal flaw, (lead based paint theories aside) was being so deeply idealistic. He truly believed he might form an artistic utopia where competition between artists would become unnecessary. Instead, he envisioned an enlightened group sharing and pushing boundaries with paint, imagination, and companionship. 

I think he was beautiful. Too innocent, or progressive for his time. And, I know he was human and desired to be acknowledged for his work, but he seemed to struggle with that. He was aware of his desire for an audience, and seemingly tried to rise above, or at least away from it by confronting it head on. That's brave. I love him for risking it. And I love him for leaving us with emotional sunflowers.

Succulents

This picture is from Oregon, last summer. Miss Lilly's full name is Elisabeth Lillian. She calls our swimming pool the sea....

I've planted new succulents in the backyard, washed the dogs and set up new umbrellas. Husband bought little umbrellas for our pool area. I told him they look like they should be in a a shirley temple. Still, they look lovely and create the perfect amount of shade. 

Today there will be yoga. Today we will be sea-side.

How I Awoke on the First Day of My Summer Vacation

Mama? 

I'm still sleeping....

Andrew's mad at me. 

Hmmm?

Well, I accidentally hit him with a dodge ball. Hard. In the face.

**********************************************************

After coffee and mediation of the dodge ball wars (in the house no less!) we're off to the classy dollar store for scrapbooking materials. Next, some rock climbing and racquet ball at the Freestone Rec. Center. Then, swimming. I'm going to tire them out. I'm going to make naps an unavoidable fact in their day. I'm going to sing loudly and drive erratically so they don't fall asleep in the car. It's torture by way of fun. 

Pronouns

People of the world don't look at themselves and so they blame one another. - Rumi

In my poems, I typically shy away from the pronoun I. Journaling demands it.  While reviewing my post from yesterday I became slightly freaked out by how much I am in it. There is almost a shame....that deserves examination. If as Rumi asserted, introspection will help with personal accountability, then I could go through my days thinking about me, me, me with a deeper awareness; and hope that in doing so I'm contributing more positively to the world. Yet, I can't help wondering if that isn't a bit selfish? I'll Ruminate on this a bit....

I have friends who strive for a constant awareness of self and they are beautiful people. However, sometimes I want to shake them a bit. Remind them to get out of their own heads and respond to the world without processing events in terms of their own balance. It is definitely possible to lose one's sense of self by way of incurring too many external obligations, or some kind of unintentional martyrdom... common in women for sure. Still, it seems that being too introspective also cuts short the rope of connection to the world. I suppose it is an important balancing act requiring practice. 

My arms are extending by way of this keyboard. May this space be a balance of connections inside and out. Have you ever noticed that if you place the letter I on it's side, it looks like a tight rope? 

Seasonal Blogger & Post Graduate Lessons

My New Year doesn't really begin in January. Rather, it occurs in August, at the beginning of the fall semester. Springtime is traditionally when I begin to daydream about my summer resolutions. Usually, these dreams involve reading lists, submissions and some new form of exercise. This spring I dreamt of other things. Play dates for my son and daughter, scrapbooks, new recipe marathons, freelance writing. Don't I sound like a Betty?

The further away I move in time from my MFA experience, the easier it is to unbraid this pervasive semester mentality. During the program, I believed summer was the only time I had to accomplish what all of my colleagues appeared to be able to do each quarter. Things like regularly submit their work, take a yoga class, watch late night television... I'm sure that was a skewed perception. Still, I was in my thirties, married and raising two children under 5 when I began my Master's. I didn't meet a lot of others like me in my classes.

I think that was to my advantage on some levels. (These levels being very long term in scope.) The boat for networking and publishing and editing sailed during my time as a student. Readings were on weeknights, and opportunities to meet visiting writers usually occurred at noon. This is a problem is you work somewhere other than the University, probably even if you are on site. And in all honesty the idea of struggling  to make fast/false connections causes me to cringe. So, I suppose even if my external obligations had been minor, I still wouldn't be in the circle of "What's Happening" as a poet. And that's okay. For awhile it didn't feel okay, it felt lonely, and a bit shitty actually. However,  it made me consider the reasons that I write in a very emotional way, as well as is an objective way. Audience remains invisible. 

For a time I wanted to see my readers, and hear from them and now it as if the audience is an imaginary friend or friends.  I remember writing my first poem at the age of eight. It was after I finished reading something I found really good. I like that eight year old girl a lot. How she spelled words wrong, and made some letters too big for the lined paper. I like her intensity. Her relationship with the energy of idea to page. I'm a little bit eight right now. I wonder how many other writers feel that way too. I am listening to the "Rilke" voice inside. It is much louder now, and also, much more patient. Writing has become mine again. I don't try to corner it into a genre. I accept it gladly even if it's in the form of a note to a parent, or a well written lesson plan, or a write-up about pomegranates. Writing is year round. Happy New Year Every Day~!