Text conversations with my dad.....go a little something like this:

Dad: Sweetsie get chocolate bar or some donuts i got bananas earlier

Me: Okey dokey

Dad: U ROK

Me: 9:30 = American Idol + delicious surprise

Dad: 9:30 = the first day of the rest of my life

Me: I like your attitude

Dad: Ur a crumb donut

Dad: Think about this 2 crumb donuts in a bowl broken up heated up vanilla ice cream carmel topping eat

( I think he thinks that texting never involves punctuation.....?)

How To Be a Poet

BY WENDELL BERRY

(to remind myself)

i

Make a place to sit down.

Sit down. Be quiet.

You must depend upon

affection, reading, knowledge,

skill—more of each

than you have—inspiration,

work, growing older, patience,

for patience joins time

to eternity. Any readers

who like your poems,

doubt their judgment.

ii

Breathe with unconditional breath

the unconditioned air.

Shun electric wire.

Communicate slowly. Live

a three-dimensioned life;

stay away from screens.

Stay away from anything

that obscures the place it is in.

There are no unsacred places;

there are only sacred places

and desecrated places.

iii

Accept what comes from silence.

Make the best you can of it.

Of the little words that come

out of the silence, like prayers

prayed back to the one who prays,

make a poem that does not disturb

the silence from which it came.

Watched Where the Wild Things Are tonight. So good.

Douglas: "Will you keep out all the sadness?"
Max: "I have a sadness shield that keeps out all the sadness, and it's big enough for all of us."

Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door. - E.Dickinson


And it could be that simple and that lovely. Mornings nestled into wicker chairs with tea and the sun sitting right on my shoulder. Afternoons slipped through one another's arms while our feet lead us into the unknown. I want our nights to be clandestine, never knowing what dinner will be until it enters our mouths.

And all our days will be soaked in words, congregating onto pages, collected into books. I want books to sit at the table with us when we eat dinner and books to wake up with and fall asleep with. I want books to mark out and remember every year of our life.

I want every day for the rest of my life to be in solid color. Grey is not good enough.

"How beautiful you are, my beloved, how beautiful!" - Song of Solomon 4:1

Sometimes the little girl in me still tugs wistfully at the things I wish I could change about myself, but today I found this magazine excerpt taped in an old journal and I was reminded that, underneath the gaudy definition of beauty that the world has tried to pin on me, my Father's original intention for what beautiful means is written into my heart's deepest layer.

"I'm learning an interesting concept, though. In reality, anyone can be pretty. Before and after photos aren't hard to achieve. On the other hand, I'm convinced that there are only a few truly beautiful women in the world. I want to be one of those. Sure they care about their appearance, but they're more concerned with living an amazing life. They naturally make people feel at ease. They have the kind of personality that draws people in, that isn't rude. They can be confident without being cocky. They're cool with doing their own thing - whether it's marching in the band, collecting rocks from cool places, going to concerts, working on their three-pointers or treating every customer on the other side of the counter like he or she is important. They know how to dress and that modesty and chic can indeed go hand in hand. They're not obsessed with their jean size.

They're all about denying themselves and serving other people, whether they're playing with kids in a tribe along the Amazon River or going out of their way at church to talk to someone new. They dig into God's Word. They don't just tote their Bible around for fun; they use it. They memorize it. They go to it for answers.

Ultimately, beautiful girls know how loved they are by God and that gives them the kind of joy and security that shows. Beautiful girls rise above the fake, plastic kind of pretty our world is obsessed with, and they choose something far more wonderful and mysterious: a heart like Jesus'.

Pretty girls come and go. Beautiful girls leave a legacy. God calls us beautiful. Let's believe what He says."

About Rich's work, the poet W.S. Merwin has said, "All her life she has been in love with the hope of telling utter truth, and her command of language from the first has been startlingly powerful."


November 1968

Stripped
you're beginning to float free
up through the smoke of brushfires
and incinerators
the unleafed branches won't hold you
nor the radar aerials

You're what the autumn knew would happen
after the last collapse
of primary color
once the last absolutes were torn to pieces
you could begin

How you broke open, what sheathed you
until this moment
I know nothing about it
my ignorance of you amazes me
now that I watch you
starting to give yourself away
to the wind

-Adrienne Rich

“Richard, do you ever think about luxury?” she asked him.
“I don’t crave it, if that’s what you mean.”
“Luxury, I think, is the total fulfillment of all five senses at once. Luxury is now. I feel warm; and, if I wish, I can reach out and touch your hand. I smell the sea and, as well, somebody inside the hotel is frying onions. Delicious. I am tasting cold beer, and I can hear gulls, and water lapping, and the fishing boat’s engine going chug-chug-chug in the most satisfactory sort of way.”
“And what do you see?”
She turned her head to look at him, sitting there with his hair ruffled, and wearing his old sweater, and the leather patched Harris tweed jacket that smelt of peat. “I see you.” He smiled.
“Now it’s your turn. Tell me your luxury.”


I was going to compose beautiful (I hoped) lines about poetry and coffee and warmth, but when it comes down to it, Jesus is my one luxury. He alone gives purpose to my life. I do so love those other things, but they pale in comparison. Here’s everything I have, my Love, because You are the richest of fare.


Look, the sea has not fallen and broken
Our heads. How can I feel so warm
Here in the dead center of January? I can
Scarcely believe it, and yet I have to, this is
The only life I have. I get up from the stone.
My body mumbles something unseemly
And follows me. Now we are all sitting here strangely
On top of sunlight.

- James Wright


Found this in a journal entry from my days in Barcelona:
“EFFING CATALAN. That language is out to ruin my life.”