This is from an e-mail that I received in August of 2000.  No, I didn't just remember it, but I did come across a printout that I had made of the message.  Whilst it is addressed to a woman's point of view, a casual reading of it seems that most of them are appropriate for men, as well.  And, since I am more evolved (at least I hope that I am) than I was seven and a half years ago, I will modify whenever I can to make this gender neutral, and if not possible, will leave the 'woman' part intact.  I will be cleaning it up a bit, too.    Anyway, I think that most of them are touching, in a provincial kind of way.

 

Oh, and I also found a programme from an exhibit I had in January of that same year.  It was poetry that I wrote to go with some of the paintings in that exhibit.  I warn you, they are very sentimental and more than a little weird, even for me, so please read at your own risk.  They are at the bottom of this post.

 

 

...one old love you can imagine going back to, and one who reminds you how far you have come.

...enough money within your control to move out and rent a place of your own, even if you think that you never want to or need to.

...something perfect to wear if your employer or the date of your dreams wants to see you in an hour.

...a youth you are content to leave behind.

...a past juicy enough that you're looking forward to retelling it in old age.

...the realization that you are actually going to have an old age, and some money set aside to fund it.

...a set of basic tools, a cordless drill and a black lace bra.  ?  Okey-dokey.

...one friend who always makes you laugh, and one who lets you cry.

...eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal that will make your guests feel honored.

...a resume that is not even the slightest bit padded.

...a feeling of control over your destiny.

 

...how to fall in love without losing yourself.

...how to quit a job, break up with a lover, and confront a friend without ruining the friendship.

...when to try harder, and, more importantly, when to walk away.

...how to have a good time at a party you would never have chosen to attend.

...how to ask for what you want in a way that makes it most likely that you will get it.

...that you cannot change the length of your calves, the width of your hips or the nature of the assests you inherited from your parents.

...that your childhood may not have been perfect, but at least it's over.

...what you would and would not do for love.

...how to live alone, even if you don't like it.

...whom you can trust, whom you cannot trust, and why you should not take any of it personally.

...where to go, be it to a friend's kitchen table, a charming inn, or a sacred bit of nature when you soul needs soothing.

...what you can and cannot accomplish in a day, or a month, or a year, or even your lifetime.

 

The titles of the poems were the titles of the painting, natch. 

 

Lived in blue rooms, I did.

Quite given to gathering and hiding.

Given to illusions of safety.

Right.

Rooms empty now of the living,

still holding echoes of lost hope, wasted potential.

Sad, fair dreams and sibs gone forever.

Perhaps.

 

My boldness surprises me.

The ground murmurs with ever widening circles of thunder from my footsteps.

The ancient Mothers whisper in my ear and flick their yellowed fingertips on my frontal lobes.

I am amazed at my audacity.

Ignoring the voices that ask who the hell I think that I am, I scatter the mild of creation,

creating new stars to rival theglow-ers that light and guide my passage.

 

Bittersweet body memories.

Ambivalence stalls my progress.

Potential wasted.

I forgot to live in the moment.

 

Once man learned magic, he denied the practice to woman.

Too much natural ability, you know.

The downfall of humankind averted by the subversion of generations of faithful babes.

All is one, you know.

Suckle, secure in the knowledge of mercy.

 

Cool, deep water.

Tender, warm bloom.

Goddess gate, entrance to inner mysteries.

She, whose body is the self of the Universe.

Queen of heaven, Blessed Virgin, Isis born.

Sacred ritual of onjoining communion.

Odysseus, shy boy, the lotus-eaters know.

 

Even during times of denial, I held beliefs.

Held in silence, held in fear, held for safekeeping.

A secret language of hopes and desires for connection to the 'larger.'

Whatever that meant.

Beliefs left to wait, percolate, grow until the hiding place burst in a messy, disorganized birth.

No matter.

I am here.

I am less than clear.

But, I am dear.

 

Sometimes I miss the journey.

A tendency to over-analyze gets in the way.

Sometimes it is just and only about the scenery.

 

Dream ancestor.

You beckon, I remain.

I regret the disappointment I see in your eyes

As you turn and walk away.

Love, me, forgive my reluctance to follow.

 

The meeting of thought, communion and need is essential to my life.

Keep your commerce and give me the juiciness of experience with like-minded creatures.

Sanity reigns where women gather.

 

My sleeping dreams disturb my sleep.

I wander through the glowering past, the lowering present and the flowering yet-to-be.

Expecting, one, slight evening to work on my waking dream problems,

I find myself floating above a deep, crisp blue.

Icy crystal clouds drify brightly across the curved surfaces.

Drifting in the airless void, I take a deep, cleansing breathand lift my gaze to peer past orbs with and without gaseous rings, further and further to glimpse home, dimly seen in the glare of Sol.

 

Thank you, kind and loving Universe for hot, wet, way too-busy days

followed by tender, dreamy evenings spent in the loving presence

of cricket symphonies, berry wine and fireflies.

 

Cream (this is my son-in-law's favorite painting of mine that he and my daughter own.)

Most days I must seem such an ass.

Unintentional, it's true, but still, an ass.

My words, expressions and gestures belie my true nature.

I yearn for someone to be able to see beyond my crispy surface

to the soft, creamy center.

To be able to find the sweet, delicious essence kept safely hidden from careless scavengers.

I am reluctant to admit to my part in this misunderstanding of the heart.

Learning to share would not kill me.

 

There are more, but they are even dumber than these.