Wish I could take credit for this one. . .

If you don't read The Burnside Writer's Collective (click here to visit) you should!  They have all kinds of articles on pop culture, literature, movies, social justice, etc. etc. and one of the best parts is the section devoted to poetry and prose. 

I read this poem the other day, and it really resonated with me, so I wanted to share it with you.
It's untitled, and it's by John Pattinson. (Click here to see the original posting.


I do not see your face in the moon
Though once I saw your face in the moonlight, and
I cannot find you in the sunset
Though once we walked
Through an explosion of amber, ruby and topaz
And talked of nothing and all things and sun things.
I look for you in the stars of steel
And space-age plastics that orbit my backyard
Relaying phone calls not from you and television programs
You never approved of.
Once I had you but now I have lost you.
Yet I do not suffer from the delusions of the brokenhearted
Because I do not see you everywhere I go.
I see only that you are not with me.

Making Plans. . .

I don't know how many times I've heard someone say, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. . ." or something of that ilk.  Sure, the people who say that might follow it with a rather genial chuckle to themselves, but at the heart of their statement, there seems to be an undertone of disappointment, or dare I say, anger, frustration, or pain?  This age-old saying, while seemingly innocuous, almost implies that not only does God laugh at our plans and our our ability to achieve them, but he might be actively involved in squelching/ruining/derailing any sort of plan man makes.  At least, that's what the adage seems to imply, and that's what is has sounded like to  me the last 1.2 million times someone has said it to me, lately.  As well meaning as the speaker might be, when he or she says this, I shut down. . . I rebel. . . I find myself saying, "No!  That most certainly is not true, and how dare you say those trite words to me?!?" I might have been guilty in the past of saying such things, but now I know better.  Now I know that a heartfelt "I'm praying for you" followed by fulfilling that promise is the best thing you can do for someone whose plans have been pummeled to bits by the storms of life.

If you know me, at all, then you know I am a plan maker. That's just how circumstances of my life have taught me to live. My desire/need/compulsion to plan can be one of the most endearing things about me, or it can be one of the most frustrating (it just depends who you ask).  I make plans and I work my absolute hardest to make them happen. I make plans.  Sometimes my plan is to just see what happens, but still, that is a plan.   I just have to have a plan.  And not just one plan either.  I like to have at least a plan b, though often times I have plans c and d waiting in the wings for their chance to shine, should plans a and b fail or become fruitless and/or obsolete. 

In the past couple of years, I realized that my need for "back-up" plans could actually be seen as a lack of faith, or proof of neurotic tendencies, or evidence of someone who needs an escape hatch when life gets tough.  So, for the sake of  being an adult, stepping out on faith, committing to something with my whole heart, I gave up my back-up plans. . . all of them. I gave up on planning for all the contingencies, and found peace when I finally gave up planning for what to do when the other shoe dropped (as it inevitably had for my entire life. . . thus the planning compulsion).  It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do.

These past couple of years, with the exception of losing my grandmother, have been the absolute happiest of my life, so in that sense, giving up my back-up plans was the best decision I could have made.  However, now, without warning or clear reason, I find myself having to scrap the plan I had committed to so wholly.  The one time I could really use a plan b or plan c, or heck, even a plan z, I find myself without one.  Adrift. Directionless.  Lost. I wish I could just buck up, get to my drafting board, and come up with a new plan.

I know that giving up my back-up plans was the right thing to do, but right now, I will admit that I'm kicking myself for not tucking away some little, tiny, scrap of a back-up plan, just-in-case I needed it on a rainy day.  But, I didn't.  And so -- *gasp* --  I must get along as best I can without a plan (for now).  As much as I loathe this particular hand life has dealt me, I know God is in it, too.  He is good all the time -- even when I don't understand it, even when I can't see it, even when I'm angry, even when I am heartbroken, even when I don't have a plan anymore and I'm not sure what to do with myself.  So, I'm a mess, but I'm a beautiful mess.  I don't have a plan; I don't know when I will have a new plan; I don't know when I will ever feel like making plans . . . but I trust that one day, I will. 

Poets and Poems that I always seem to turn to . . .

I can't write my own post right now, but I wanted to share with you the poets and their poems whose lines are swirling around in my head right now. . .

Robert Frost:
"Nothing Gold Can Stay"
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay:
"Sonnet LXIX"

The heart once broken is a heart no more,
And is absolved of all a heart must be;
All that is signed or chartered heretofore
Is canceled now, the bankrupt heart is free;
So much of duty as you may require
Of shards and dust, this and no more of pain,
This and no more of hope, remorse, desire,
The heart once broken need support again.
How simple 'tis, and what a little sound
It makes in breaking, let the world attest:
It struggles, and it fails; the world goes round,
And the moon follows it. Heart in my breast,
'Tis half a year now since you broke in two;
the world's forgotten well, if the world knew.

Pablo Neruda:
"20"

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche esta estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.
En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.
Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.
Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.
Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.
Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.
La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.
De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

I should be sleeping. . .

. . . instead, I will be writing for a bit.

I need some poetry.
               And no, not the epic
                                with its brash hero and wicked monsters.
               Not the love poem
                                with is sucra-loquacious
                                                              rhapsody over the splenda-or of love
                                   (or the agony of the lack there-of).
               No corrsetted sonnet.
               No elegy rife with tears.
             
Nope.
I need poetry.
But some of the less obvious kind.
Don't bother with the rhythm.
Pay no attention to the rhyme.

A simple subject --
predicated on understanding well
the story held in that old tea cup
or of your footstep as it fell.

Farmer's Market

I've  been going to Brownwood the past couple of weekends to help clean out my grandmother's house.  That has been tough . . . really tough . However, one of the upsides of driving the 3 and 3/4 (one way) hour trip these past two weekends has been getting to spend time with my family (with whom -- while I was in grad. school -- I did not get to spend near enough time). 

The past two Saturdays, my mom and I have gotten up early to go to the little farmer's market.  It's small, but full of really good people, selling really fresh, organic (usually) produce at really great prices.  There's a little bit of everything there -- squash, zucchini, tomatoes, sprouts, honey, eggs, flowers, and cantaloupe.  I love supporting the local folks instead of the corporate grocery types.  In fact, I would rather pay a bit more and know I am supporting someone local.  The market is full of people who care about their gardens, their community, and their customers.  It's so refreshing!

There's even a man who sells trees, and he has the most beautiful magnolia trees.  I wish I had more money and I would buy one for my mom to plant in her yard in honor of my grandmother.  I wish I had my own yard to plant one in, but I do not think it would do well in Lubbock anyway. 

Lots of work to do today, but going to the market was a nice way to start an otherwise tough day.

If I could write the obituary for my grandmother:

Everything happened so quickly this just doesn't seem real. In fact, I think the newspaper has yet to publish an obituary because my mother has been too overwhelmed to gather all of the needed information. I am not an obituary reader or writer, so I am not entirely familiar with the requirements, but I am sure the newspaper has a pretty standard format. However, I do not think the standard format would do justice for her life, so if I were in charge of writing it, it would go something like this:

Mary Grace Goodfield Clark Eville -- Grace Eville to most people who knew and loved her -- went home to be the the Lord on June 10, 2010. She was born August 30, 1916 in Malmesbury, England and came to the United States in 1925, settling in the Mayfield Heights area of Ohio. She spent most of her life in Texas, living first in Pharr and later in Brownwood. She is survived by two daughters: Clara Roberta (Bobbie) Price and Mary Grace Gray; four grandchildren: Bonnie Leigh May, Nathan Ross Gray, Leesa Dawn May, and David Allen Gray; two great-grandchildren: Dorian Optimus Gray and Owen Lennon Gray; and several step-children and their children.

She served as an amazing example of the way life ought to be lived -- though in her humility she would never make such a claim. She lived simply; she shared everything she had with anyone who was in need; she spoke carefully and wisely; she expressed kindness in her eyes, words, and actions; she epitomized selflessness; she knew how to both make and take a good joke; she could keep a secret; she cared for her friends as if they were family; and she loved unconditionally. She had a passion for people, plants, and animals. Many-a-stray owes its life and well being to her devotion to rescuing the lost and forgotten. Anybody who met her could not help loving, appreciating, and enjoying this woman. She made the most of every hand that life dealt her; she took the good, she took the bad, and she met them both with the same openness and strength. She had her faults and struggles, like everybody does, but she did not allow them to rule the way she lived. She demonstrated how to live with hope and faith -- no situation was ever so dire as to justify running away, no problem was ever too large to be solved, no person was ever beyond redemption. She lived a happy and full life, and would want everyone she left behind to find the same kind of joy in each day they are given. Her name was apt -- for indeed she was a woman of grace.

Though she is dearly and acutely missed, she is now home with her Lord, her husband, and her parents. She leaves behind a legacy of love, kindness, grace, and faith that those who are left behind hope to continue living out daily.