For over a year, I have sat down to write and this phrase came to mind. I was a faucet with no running water.
I have nothing to say
That is the fear of a writer
The voice of shame
Convincing me of its darkness
Pleading with me to break into the pain of its secret, which is this:
What is most broken
(The very axis of inaction)
Is the same as a lost sun aching for its sky
Obey the law of nature
And write because
From within the crack rises
The impossible light of the world
Ever since I declared that I will write an anthology of poetry, the poems come to me everyday, anywhere and everywhere
1
In an act of precision my lover makes surgery of me
Babble and foam in tongues encanting some devil I tried to forget
My eye loses true north and I roll away into the dark
Yet I have learned other languages
Beyond my own heart's speech
By tracking the pen of my dearest editor
Whose stroking red marks on the curves of my verse
Makes tension in the economy of words
I see sometimes in the softness of the space within him
That he is bilingual
His touch to me then,
The heat of his hand singing to my skin
Speaks to me in my native tongue
When he decides to put back together as a whole and make of us one
2
If my mind is my home
I live alone
By the shore of your river
Which sometimes floods its banks
Because I live by the fresh air of my open windows
And because my front door is rarely closed
I walk on wet floors when you storm
Before going up to my study to dry
While on vacation with my family and my sister’s family in Costa Rica, this experience happened. I said a prayer for this man, and that prayer slept through the night and today woke to me as a poem
We picked up a passerby as we left the beach
That was yesterday
I could not see him
Thin man as he was but for his skeleton
And fuzzy head of hair that was barely there
The chemo in San Jose he said
Four hours away has been difficult for me
Too expensive by bus and now he gets no more treatments
It has been very difficult for me
Here, the grocery store is my stop
Death is coming for me soon maybe one month
Can you spare some money?
My husband spoke: Maybe you will live longer
If you don't drink
No alcohol no beer
The thin man turned to my husband where they sat in the front seat
I caught his profile
Through the cries of my fussy baby
From where I sat in the back
His eyes bigger and clearer than ours
His sudden gaze beyond the depth
Of any sea I have ever known
Please, sir, I haven't had a drink in 8 years
His words thundered a sober quiet in the car but
We gave him no money and
The lightning was this:
If you can spare none then please pray for me
He climbed out through the pain of his joints
Clinging to his life in the door jamb
As he found his legs under him on the pavement
We could see through the rearview mirror
His slow walking across the street
Long as his life and as slow as his death
Tenderness dressed as horror
Dawned in our hearts there in the passing sunshine of the coast
And the blue of the sky reflecting the water
Or maybe the other way around
Through the window
My heart
My husband's heart and the sudden calm and quiet of my fussy baby
Opened inside of the silence of a primordial prayer
Of learning and loss
Of giving and not
Of sadness and pain
Of the truth of humanity when it visits you as a dying stranger
As the open palm of God
Inviting the gift of your sight
Of another
Covered, uncovered
Unearthly pigments staining her limbs
Tall, lithe, long
Nimble fingers of flame
In nature, in the firewood
In the herbs
In the speak of the animals
She wanders amid roots and the soil
Luxuriates in a deep waterbath under the kiss of flowers
She is the healer of time
Conductor of seasons of change, now
Screaming, keening, grieving,
Tearing, shredding, ripping at the loss
Bringing to a close
The gap of this cycle as it turns
Praying, crouching low into the smoke
Speaking into the wind and rain the blessing that
Calls in the spirits who fill her hair and breathe her skin
They listen like a whisper
They speak like a void
Guiding the steps birthing the next cycle
To heal, to cleanse, to raise, to begin again
New life visible through the quickness of her hands
That tend the seeds burrowing into the dark
Below her feet as they
Dance over the earth
Beating out her song
Celebrating ecstasy of breathing this air today
Willing new life to rise
Like the fullness of the moon into the million eyes of eternity
She sings
Touches tips where new leaves
Like tiny tongues begin their speak
With the adoring eyes of a mother nursing her young
In praise
She spreads her joy wide for the preciousness of Her own Self,
Creator of all things
"There once was a little girl and her grandpa..."
A story unfolds in a low voice
And the funny face of a character he plays:
An old guy slightly dopey and chagrined
Leaning in, he begins,
Speaking softly to the baby of his daughter
"And she was wrapped in a blanket,"
Telling her tiny listening face
Looking up in rapt attention,
"I don't know what kind," he says. "Her name was Amoryn."
"And she lived in Arenal," he explains.
My dad and my girl lean in to touch foreheads today, bonk
How does she know to connect in this way, bonk
Deep knowing through crowns tapping, bonk
As Strangers in a Strange Land who grok*.
With her smitten grandpa
In sweet routine, a joke,
Passing into posterity
A moment in the life of Amoryn
Between the two of them
This time and place
Then quieter, he says, "Are you grandpa's girl? I think so.
Yes I think so, you're grandpa's girl."
How does the story end?
As a grown woman that little girl would then
Know that even as she stood on the lap of
Her mother's father - herself a daddy's girl -
That in this time much later
When grandpa's forehead is nowhere to be found
But a memory now
Of a sunny porch
Early in the day
Early in life
She was still Grandpa's Girl, which can never be undone.
Bonk.
*The Oxford English Dictionary defines grok as “to understand intuitively or by empathy; to establish rapport with” and “to empathize or communicate sympathetically (with); also, to experience enjoyment.” (Citation here.)
My daughter is now 7.5 months old. She is the oldest soul among us. Thomas and I had already sworn off Facebook posting about our private life with our new little family before she arrived last summer, and thus I only share little snippets of our life instead of photos of our baby. Much like our rebellion against the Costa Rican custom of piercing a baby girl’s ears when she is born, we have taken a different road with our daughter’s presence online. There’s a belief I have that when and if Amoryn would like to place her likeness on the internet, she will be able to do so when she is old enough to consent to it. She will be able to tell us that she wants to begin sharing pictures of herself, and until that time I believe I am doing a kind of favor to her by allowing her the choice, by foreclosing on the possibility that she might say, “I’m a teenager and I’ve been online since I was a baby. What you have shared of who I am and my life – I never agreed to this.”
It’s well enough for us that the people who care for and know Amoryn see her in our texts, emails and in person. We may be old-fashioned but we’re totally okay with it!
Here in Costa Rica, my parents are here escaping the 7 degree Maine winter. Tomorrow we go to a beachside place to celebrate their 46th wedding anniversary (married 1973 when they were 23 years old). They are turning seventy this year, both of them, and imminently retiring from their careers in the legal field. Much of our conversation centers around what will happen in the future: my dad’s writing project, my mother’s activism around legislating gun control, and their visits with their precious granddaughter.
She is my mom’s peanut butter. The coos, the sweet cuddles, the songs she sings, the games they play. This morning, I wrote about this while Thomas did his daily ritual of reading books in bed to our baby, giving me the most important personal gift of the time to drink coffee, sit and write by myself. While writing today, I was inspired with a poem to in some way encapsulate, or perhaps better said, to reflect on seeing my mother with Amoryn. It could not be more obvious to me the fleeting nature of today, when Amoryn is so young, only crawling, unable to stand or speak, but still a strong and vibrant communicator and presence. I see her grandparents with her now and imagine when Amoryn is my age. What will she remember of them? Will she know how she captivated, enthralled, charmed? Will she hear the songs my mom sings to her? Will she feel her embrace? Will she know the role my mother played in the world, how she created herself to be a strong and vibrant person too?
This poem is for the occasion:
Pink stripes, well-tailored
The shirt my mom wears as she holds my baby daughter
Whose fingers play at the pearly buttons
Bouncing held close on the knee along to the song
About tonight you belong to me
A happy cooing voice, babbling, belonging to them both and
I hope in a time far away when Amoryn stands in my shoes
My daughter will hear and know the tune
As the love song from her
Billie to little peanut butter
In the chill of that wind
Whose head and tail whips all the trees
Into their bobbing dance,
This morning rises.
It shakes its heavy head and
Rubs its eyes.
What sleep could it find last night amid
The darkness of rain
Its torrents loudly announcing
Their imminent domain?
And now, the wideness of
The sky illuminated by
Some sun, somewhere
On the other side of that blank wall of clouds
Brings freshness to the air,
Lifting our heads and
Starting within us anew
The day we know it can be.
I’m off of social media and no longer plugged in to the greater online community of friends’ and family activities. This blog is thus an outlet for inviting connection from our end. I’m back writing on Joanna’s blog – now with a twist!
Starting Again For me, this simple, plain blog is nothing mundane at all. Since I began this blog on our honeymoon about a year ago, I wanted to continue writing and sharing about life. I stopped, however, because I found myself wondering, Who cares what I have to say? I couldn’t find an answer, so it became, No one cares – least of all me. In crept doubt about my own voice, having simply lost motivation and inspiration to write, let alone share. The sad truth is that I didn’t believe my experiences or thoughts mattered enough to blog about.
Why return to the blog now? As of this post, I am in the final two weeks of my pregnancy, about to be a first-time mom. I have known for a long time now that I want to be a great mother. To do that, I must be the kind of woman who inspires my daughter to be the fullest and greatest version of herself that she can be. I want her to believe, for example, that she is worthy of participating in the world in whatever way she finds most meaningful. To do this, I must show her the way, and to show her the way, I must do it first myself. For me, that’s trusting and raising my own true voice. Writing is how I hear my voice, how I know myself on the most true level. I have been inspired all my life by those who chose to know their true selves, and then chose to share with the world. I chose now to flip the script on, Who cares to hear what you have to say? to May this effort to speak my own true voice be of benefit.
Writing in my own true voice is to hear myself expound on it on the written page. To be willing to see my own experience as valid enough to spend time hearing and writing is the one place I have resisted going. I know come forward, going deeper into my inner world to unveil what’s true, to let it have light, to breathe life into what I let stay buried or hidden… here I am. I will write about the “little now,” the small moments of what’s happening in the present moment, and the “big now,” the larger themes, questions and challenges made evident through sitting with what is. Little Now, Big Now.
In my writing class, I wrote these instructions on how to begin.
In French, the term for have a good day is bonne journée. “Jour,” of course means day. In English, we say “journey” to mean a trip or voyage. Many shop owners tell us to have a good day, wishing us bonne journée as we leave the store. I appreciate this because of the play on words with “journey,” and because when you live for today, the day indeed can be a journey unto itself.
Before our trip, I’d imagined I’d brush up by reading some French literature – or at least a few language program lessons. I did neither. I have been using my French skills to communicate here, and what a lesson to the need to continue learning and practicing the words! I understand some but not all of what I read and hear, and find that my ability to communicate is mitigated by the words I don’t have fresh at hand in my mind. Now that I know the slow curve of recall while immersed, I highly recommend to myself to do so next time!
We’ve done all the usual activities in order to experience Paris. We listened to some Rick Steves audio tours recently and learned all about Parisian customs and history related to food, society and certain monuments.
OF course the famous Eiffel Tower! An impressive fact we learned is that Monsieur Eiffel constructed an apartment for himself on the top of this tower, built in 1889. Peering into the apartment, we saw an installation with wax figures of the inventor and engineer, Eiffel, with his daughter and Thomas Edison. Thomas was smitten with the idea of a an apartment 1000 ft up.
We arrived to the top area of the tower in part by stairs. While we were chilled by the wind when we stopped, and grateful to no longer stand in an hour-plus long line. (The wait did, however, serve as a great time for us to share headphones to take in more Rick Steves Paris stories.)
The view on the top of the tower looking over the city gave us a grand perspective on the sheer scale of the city. Apparent to us was the grear amount of green spaces. So many trees in the city, largely in the wide boulevards made by Louis XIV to allow for a procession to the castle for all to see.
We saw the Louvre from above, with its palatial arrangement of castles and the world’s oldest (and biggest?) art gallery.
We visited the Louvre on our first day in Paris. This visit was on my bucket list in life, and we were thrilled to spend the day there covering almost the entire area. We learned that only 30% of the collections are on display – the remaining works (70%!) are in storage or restoration. We saw old paintings of people in the Louvre in the 1800s looking at the old paintings we were looking at today. We saw classic works including the Mona Lisa. We didn’t unfortunately take the time to fully absorb the power and mystique of this painting widely held to be the greatest of DaVinci’s work. Even having seen it now, I still don’t fully grasp why the painting is so acclaimed. It’s good but not better than some other masterpieces there in the exhibit. If you really think about it, curious to wonder how a piece becomes so revered as to take a life of its own.
On the other hand, after absorbing the depth and character of so many works, this piece brought us a moment of levity. Here, we found a painting that stood out from all the other portraits with staid expressions, and discovered this guy. Thomas and I had a telepathic moment as we took out our cameras to capture Thomas’s rendition.
In sum, we absorbed certain pieces more than others, such as exquisite portrayals of the Last Supper, the collection of Rembrandts (largest in the world), Sumerian artifacts (including Hammurabi’s Code). For me, the splendor of the Louvre was the building itself: the Grand Hall was the most spectacular place to see art I’ve ever known.
On the way home from the Louvre, we found a soccer ball in the Luxembourg Gardens. We’d walked 5 miles that day so far (including around the museum) and yet something inspired us to get a little sweaty playing soccer.
Being outside is a major element of our time here. Thomas is a true nature-lover and gets lost in the gardens. We talk often about our home in Costa Rica and our farm and trees there.
Throughout this trip, we have spent a long time perusing gardens. We both deeply enjoy botanical gardens, trees and learning in nature. We saw parks and gardens in each city we stayed in! Like here, in Florence’s Boboli Gardens (thanks for the recommendation, Rhoda!).
Today, we admired the herbs and placard descriptions of various beds. That, and wherever we go, we deeply inhale the flowers. Irises are Thomas’ favorite to behold, and roses are mine.
We walk everywhere not just because we aren’t wasting money on taxi rides all over town, but because we get our bodies moving and see more of the city. We refer to a map before leaving the house each day, and while we walk through the streets, parks and gardens, somehow Thomas guides us to our destination with very little map consulting.
We enjoyed a dinner cruise on the Seine, inspired in part by a long walk and lunch along the river. This experience was a bucket list item (who doesn’t want to have a romantic, rainy French dinner on the Seine with their dearest love) and we ticked that one off with a chin-chin!
Last, the miles of walking and hiking up and down stairs and all over the city (to Notre Dame, to parks, to markets) is a great way to work off the Paris pastries and wine!
Thomas can’t get his fill of the pastries – they are truly works of art. I’m not a huge sugar fan in general but I have to say, the pastries here are on another level of taste.
Thomas goes out in the morning to find pastries. The classic croissant is my favorite (yet I still have a cream-and-fruit-filled treat waiting for later day after our walk!). The butter, sugar and flour mixture in these edible art pieces are majestic. Even the local bakery near us , the most banal of bakers can create treats exuding such layers of flavor and taste delightful on the tongue and palate… we really appreciate enjoying French pastries here at the source!
Also, the wine. We’ve had lots of it. We had our last wine in Europe last night on the dinner cruise, and have enjoyed several bottles at home. We have a thing where we speak a toast to something, like a blessing. We toasted like this with Kim & Michael when traveling a few weeks ago. With them, we started a spontaneous toast in which each person fills in part of the sentence about what we toast to. So, in the spirit of fun after opening our last bottle of wine in the living room at home the other day, Thomas and I began a spontaneous cheers. I started: “Here’s to the eternal flourishing of…” and he ended with, “our love for each other.” Cheers to that!! ❤
Travel for a month in Europe and being on honeymoon together is incredible. We are wrapping up our month of Italy and France tomorrow to head to Costa Rica. We look forward to the house being done and to setting up our home there! We enjoy the sweetness of our honeymoon and, by contrast, our home.
With the ins and outs of a life of travel, we’ve have cultivated an appreciation for what it feels like to be at home. At some point while in Provence, we tapped into a realization of how we prefer to travel.
While on honeymoon we have looked at each other in awe and gratitude at our amazing good fortune to be here. We have taken in so many historic, inspiring, beautiful and awesome places, people, experiences and food this month. In the midst of experiencing so many things – from art to artists, architecture to appetizers, avenues to apartments – we became aware of a certain ungroundedness given the periodic changes of location.
Skating from home to home in different cities, settling in, packing up, setting up new kitchen, new living space, new work space, orienting to the local resources, etc. takes some energy. We no longer underestimate the stability and healthy lifestyle of having our daily routine available regularly. In the future extended or shortterm travels, we will plant: stay in one home for the trip and take side day trips to see sights.
We are so excited to hit our stride of home again – waking up early, meditation, yoga, breakfast, sight-seeing, work and above all, eating healthily! I listened this morning to Doreen Virtue’s reading on YouTube about health and just as I was, Thomas came in and discussed his fitness aspirations for these coming months. The turning leaf is near for us both. For me, veganism and no alcohol feels like a great return to my base to detox after this trip! We’ve begun, starting at breakfast this morning! Sitting at the table with my matcha latte and my fork in a plate with the kiwi, salad and I told Thomas, “look, my dream of a green smoothie each morning again is starting to come true!”
(And then, as I finished writing this post, Thomas plied me with a delectable almond croissant… the man loves his pastries!!!)
Well, we wave goodbye and say bon voyage à Paris! We can’t wait to come back one day and are starting the pack up from our honeymoon to go home!
While in the south of France, we’re renting a flat in Aix-en-Provence. Much to our dismay, Aix feels like any small city anywhere but French. During our stroll around town we appreciated the quaint and historic mix that seems to be a European speciality: ancient city blocks and metro shops… it rings familiar… I think Italy spoiled us, having already gotten a full dose of “old European city” in Florence. Aix therefore feels a bit old hat.
A major difference here is that English is not as commonly spoken as in Italy. As a result, I’m having fun dusting off my conversational French to get us around – and Thomas is happily reliant upon me to do so!
While Aix hasn’t fulfilled all we’d hoped, my main desire for coming to Provence was Seguret. I’ve been so excited to share this area of France with Thomas.
The doorways open from narrow lanes into homes built inside castle walls. I saw many people inside their homes as we passed through the town. Peeking in the open doors, I saw hearths, arts supplies, flower pots, boots. I imagine artists live here. Their homes – along with the hotels and restaurants – have a spectacular view of the Provencial vineyards below.
Before coming to France, I asked my sister and father to help me find the hotel where we stayed twenty-two years ago. I’d hoped Thomas and I would stay there and experience Seguret’s charm as I knew it. The dining room of our hotel had a plate-glass window overlooking the countryside, and inside the building was rustic and humble decor. Despite the research we all conducted online, no such hotel could be found in 2017.
We departed from the Seguret visitor parking area down a dirt road on our 9km hike to the ruins the Prébayon monestary. Each whiterock road led to the next. Our path wound down in the valley among fields of grapevines. Eventually the roads gave way to trails lined with trees and wildflowers.
The Prébayon nunnery was established at the bottom of the valley by the Dauphin in the 7th century. A natural flood occurred in about 962AD causing most of the nuns to die. Since about 1750, the Catholic church has continued to hold an annual service at the ruins site on the first Saturday in May (a few weeks from now).
We barely passed any cars or people in the 3+ hours while we walked. We spoke little and gratefully absorbed the wildflowers, light breeze, young trees, the gentle sun and the fresh air blowing the scent of earth and flowers. We’d come to France from Italy on Mistral Air, and the word “mistral” struck us both. After seeing the word around Aix, we researched its origin. “Mistral” is the term for the wind coming from the north in winter and spring:
The Mistral, a cold dry north or northwest wind blows down through the Rhone Valley to the Mediterranean, and can reach speeds of ninety kilometers an hour.
We finished our hike just in time for our lunch reservations in the village of Seguret. I booked a table at the restaurant, Le Mesclun because of its reviews – and especially because of the view overlooking the countryside of Provence. Our several courses on the terrace were accompanied by fresh bread and more mistral, with a view of the vineyards from which we partook. We had the best glass of red wine I’ve ever had. It came from a local “domaine” in Seguret. Possibly from the same grapes we passed earlier that day.
This being Thomas’ first trip to France, he describes Seguret as the quintessential French vineyard country. We both had fallen in love with the countryside of Italy (Lucca in Tuscany, in particular), so I was curious how Provence resonates. For him, the hike in the nature was quiet, steeped in history, off the beaten path and pleasant. He prefers Tuscany for its less arid climate, and yet we dream of returning here to rent a Seguret villa one day!
Joanna Horton McPherson 
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