A near two-month hiatus from blog writing....
I just wanted to let everyone know I'm winding my way down from a very intensive past several months...a blur and whirl of teaching, lecturing, unbelievable, surrealistic and life-warping tragedy, deeper sorrow than I've ever known, the richest rewards, internal synergies, incredible gifts of reading and speaking with top notch writers, opportunities and joys of the reading moment that are among the most tangible word leaps and spirit connecting and "success" than I ever could have expected or believe I'd ever witness, sweeter memory than I've ever touched, sharper loneliness than I've ever felt, work-shopping, greater gifts than I've ever unboxed, morphing and mingling with groups and individuals of amazing people....from Mapping the Desert to my friend the Marine, from cousin upon cousin visiting from Oklahoma and Texas to student poets and artists at C.O.D.....
connecting the dots from one amazing, uplifting, transformational poetry reading to the next, going to a music rave in Joshua Tree, collaborating on several writing projects, publishing an e-zine, returning to supermom status (Tarah and Alex have moved in with me, sign of the cross,) spending time with more family in the past month than in the past several years, and healing, healing, healing, transforming....tragedy into beauty, life into poemas, heart-shock to memory, and my storied landscape into innovative reality...I am beyond honored that people follow and lead me, time weave through and beyond hugs and words....o, life tapestry...
More than anything, I've been carrying giant yellow notepads for the past several months, writing and writing and writing everything I can: every feeling, every dream, every grief, small joy, private 107 degree afternoon gut sobbing sessions, snuggling up against the random facebook IM session here and there (several who do so much to comfort and support me,) friend outreaches, gentle lentil soup making even without appetite, my big dog approaching me when I crumple on tile floor to show me the love, for every person who saddens me by not making that call, I embrace midnight nude full moon pool swims and sweet mountain waterfall, sage collecting, and wildflower embracing....I'm grateful to be surrounded and immersed in so much love. Year of the Tiger, 2010, and I'm a water tiger.
Keeping my head just above surface line. Immersing, full body and head, and emerging occasionally to remember, I am real. Sometimes. Summer, end-June, and finally finally time to reflect, go within. 2morrow I board a flight for Ashland, Oregon. Peace and pine trees, my first time there. Kiss touch, my loved one. You are and were for real. As I brace for flight and then, the calm of air soaring....above clouds...touchscreen, get a new i-pad, and magick memory and love into i-touch. i-hug. you. Remember. My name is Love.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Badlands
Badlands
Here,
The pretty hills
The pretty hills
I see people circling on freeways,
the circling
of red tailed hawks above
ancestral Cahuilla land
in Redlands, Box Springs Mountains,
at the Santa Ana River
close to downtown Riverside
with its Mission Inn,
realize there were no Mission Indians,
only slaves,
now the old asistencia on Barton Road
sits by Loma Linda hospital behavioral center
and the monument of de Anza
adjacent to the river,
stippled with graffitti, urine, blood
so I begin to live in circles,
repeating the same affirmations
listening to NASA voyager recordings
of outer space over and over again
making the rounds from Palm Desert
past Chino Canyon, where all of
creation was begun
through the shouldered gap
of San Gorgonio Pass
through Badlands, Riverside, Redlands
the I-10 to the 60 to the 91 south,
and looping back,
passing Mary Jane Cemetery
and back home,
after easing downhill
through the windmill farms
I see open space
where once there was a tree, views
of the little San Bernardino mountains
a bit more breeze
and I want to photograph the absence,
frame it with memory, now I can see
familiar patterns of stars,
a better view of passing satellites
tracing their faithful circumference
around the earth faster than planets do
The pretty hills
The pretty hills
it will give me hope, I hope
I hope I hope I hope
that things really are connected,
better this than the whip of thorned
cactus stinging me in the face
every time I stepped into the front yard,
the sad fact of a bird's nest tossed
onto the ground by a blast of wind,
the hooks of religions that rope us in,
the dams that block us all,
the demon intaglios can't be pulled
to the sea on the Colorado River
anymore from the tops of canyon walls
the water is re-assigned
before it reaches the sea,
tell me there is no obsessive
compulsive disorder here,
just a smooth meditation
of people walking the same
pilgrimages, embellishing here,
pruning here, entirely colonizing
over there, new volunteers,
a deeper groove in the old flood
channels each time the heavy
rains push water over the top,
magical strata revealed in rock,
unimagined layers of sand
richer in color and theme
the same stories played out over
and over again, circularly
Red tailed hawk
The pretty hills
The pretty hills
Morning, 11 a.m.
by Ruth Nolan
copyright (c) 2010 Ruth Nolan
Ruth Nolan, June 25, 2010
Here,
The pretty hills
The pretty hills
I see people circling on freeways,
the circling
of red tailed hawks above
ancestral Cahuilla land
in Redlands, Box Springs Mountains,
at the Santa Ana River
close to downtown Riverside
with its Mission Inn,
realize there were no Mission Indians,
only slaves,
now the old asistencia on Barton Road
sits by Loma Linda hospital behavioral center
and the monument of de Anza
adjacent to the river,
stippled with graffitti, urine, blood
so I begin to live in circles,
repeating the same affirmations
listening to NASA voyager recordings
of outer space over and over again
making the rounds from Palm Desert
past Chino Canyon, where all of
creation was begun
through the shouldered gap
of San Gorgonio Pass
through Badlands, Riverside, Redlands
the I-10 to the 60 to the 91 south,
and looping back,
passing Mary Jane Cemetery
and back home,
after easing downhill
through the windmill farms
I see open space
where once there was a tree, views
of the little San Bernardino mountains
a bit more breeze
and I want to photograph the absence,
frame it with memory, now I can see
familiar patterns of stars,
a better view of passing satellites
tracing their faithful circumference
around the earth faster than planets do
The pretty hills
The pretty hills
it will give me hope, I hope
I hope I hope I hope
that things really are connected,
better this than the whip of thorned
cactus stinging me in the face
every time I stepped into the front yard,
the sad fact of a bird's nest tossed
onto the ground by a blast of wind,
the hooks of religions that rope us in,
the dams that block us all,
the demon intaglios can't be pulled
to the sea on the Colorado River
anymore from the tops of canyon walls
the water is re-assigned
before it reaches the sea,
tell me there is no obsessive
compulsive disorder here,
just a smooth meditation
of people walking the same
pilgrimages, embellishing here,
pruning here, entirely colonizing
over there, new volunteers,
a deeper groove in the old flood
channels each time the heavy
rains push water over the top,
magical strata revealed in rock,
unimagined layers of sand
richer in color and theme
the same stories played out over
and over again, circularly
Red tailed hawk
The pretty hills
The pretty hills
Morning, 11 a.m.
by Ruth Nolan
copyright (c) 2010 Ruth Nolan
Ruth Nolan, June 25, 2010
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