Once upon a time I missed a plane. This event, even though it was not the beginning, has come to represent a specific period of intense creativity in my life. It was almost like a second wave, or maybe a third or fourth. Time has begun to blur. The long title of the Missed Plane collection, which is a subset of This Passion's History (see language-woman-man), is a micro poem in itself...
it was so good
to miss my plane,
i may have to
miss another

Every creative spark has a catalyst--events, images, sounds, people, etc. People also inspire and encourage. For a writer, this is powerful. I've worked with many other writers in workshops, and couldn't have done any of this work without them, but I've found more growth in my writing from working with artists in different genres. During much of the Missed Plane period my writing was influenced by visually and musically creative souls. 

On the surface was once dedicated to someone who helped me comb through all my writing, rethink it, and ready it for publication. It was the first time I was truly encouraged to pursue writing as a career. Even though that dream didn't happen then, I am forever grateful for this support. 

I've recently replaced full dedications with initials. I'm not the same person I was when I wrote the poem. I'm often not the same person 24 hours later. The same is likely true for who the poem is dedicated. Small versions of us still exist. I cherish those past selves. That's what the dedication represents, and that's enough for me.

In a car not meant for winter driving, I had a long, slow, slippery, white-knuckled drive from Seattle back home to Portland one Sunday. Completely exhausted, I took Monday off work, and then woke up Tuesday to enough snow to shut down the city. The winter storm continued, giving me an unexpected week-long vacation. The Portland storm was full of ice, whereas Seattle's stayed beautifully snowy. I watched news video of people sledding down the hilly streets of Seattle, envious. This winter has been one of record snow, here in my new town of St. Louis and across the country, even in Portland. I was blessed to be in "Snowlandia" a few weeks ago for its beautiful snow storm. Instead of staying trapped inside, I did a lot of sledding. 

At one point in my life I spent some time on the back of a motorcycle. Even though the logical part of my brain is terrified of motorcycles, especially after witnessing a few horrific accidents, I absolutely loved riding on one. The very first time was in Oakland, CA, and I remember this intensity, or adrenaline, or something similar, that ran through me as I realized how quickly I could just let go and radically change my fate. In absolutely no way was this a serious consideration or a commentary on the value I place on my life. I very much love life! It was just an overwhelming awareness brought on by the experience, of how easy change can happen in some circumstances, while in others we work and work and work to create even small movement. This poem connects that first motorcycle ride with another, in which a new awareness about how the mind can also be changed quickly, or be allowed to "let go," through a seemingly simple physical and aesthetic experience.

I'm attracted to the juxtaposition of seemingly unrelated moments. They intensify each other is unexpected ways. I find myself quietly smiling, or shaking my head, or stifling a laugh, unable to simply explain myself if asks. delicate is an example of this, a very small one.

I still can't believe that life can surprise me, which is absolutely silly since I have two kids, 3 and 5 years old; each day is full of surprises. Earlier today, my three-year-old son peed on me, and it completely surprised me. This is because it is the very first time he has ever done so. I waited for it to happen when he was an infant; nope. I expected it when he was potty training; nope. But today, while I was hosing him off in the shower, it happened, just a little bit on my arm. No harm done-he's peed on almost everything else in the house-but I was totally surprised.  It brought me back to a time before I was a mother, before I was married, when a little boy did pee on me, or so I thought, at a wedding blessing no less. Good thing it was a hot day and I only had to walk back to my tent to change after.  Having not been a mother at the time, I'm surprised now that I was so calm, so almost at peace, but it was the culmination of a small little journey of rediscovery, and I believe this was the perfect ending to that experience. This poem, a wedding blessing, is subtitled sundance reflection #19. It is part of the Smudge Patterns collection, as are a number of sundance reflections born from the same two week period.

There is great meaning in seemingly tiny moments, and they often stay with me longer than grand gestures and events. Sometimes I find time slowing down enough for me to commit a moment to memory. Other times, quiet minutes provide waking reflections of time that passed earlier. The small vignettes in "weekdays" offer a progression of moments that added up to something more. They are real, unaltered moments, and metaphors at the same time.

This is the true story of something that never happened, but maybe should have. It's part of This Passion's History (see language-woman-man for an explanation of this collection), but in many ways represents so many should haves. Although that can just be the shifting perspective of time and my annoying ability to justify. Side note: this is perhaps the only poem I've never revised, ever. 

I also love that it reminds me of the Pacific coast, and that I need to wake up more often before the sun.

Smudge Patterns, reflective of the various spiritual influences and experiences in my life, are often poems about the journey. The journey of self, of belonging, of making a difference, of seeing, of finding voice, and of making sense. These poems are often created in the intersection between dreaming and wakefulness, whether that's in dreams before dawn or during daytime moments when reality tilts or blurs. "bareback dream" awoke from a dream many years before I actually moved back to Missouri. As a little girl I always wanted to ride horses bareback. This dream girl did that and more. She's still on the journey.

New revision January 10, 2015...

Each woman has multiple histories. Sometimes we synthesize them to reveal the whole self. Sometimes we deconstruct them to analyze how we came to be. But most of the time, we just live. Our love stories are one history we must own. I do that in the collection currently titled, This Passion's History.

When I lived in Colorado, I saw a columbine growing through a rock. The roots were in soil and somehow the stem had grown through stone, letting the beautiful blue-purple flower sit on the other side. I was struck by the strength of the columbine, and the contrasting nature of its petals. The outer petals like spikes a defense for the soft and delicate curves of the inner petals. 


The rock columbine sat on the edge of a small alpine lake where I watched a fourth of July firework celebration. For years after, I have thought of that flower as a metaphor for women, and the intensity of the fireworks exploding overhead while simultaneously reflecting in the water, a metaphor for relationships, or at least my relationship at the time.

I know it represents passion and intensity, so maybe that's why, (maybe it's an "artist thing") but ever since I've started writing, and I mean really writing, I've been Drawn to Orange. So naturally, I have a collection of work that uses the color orange as a central element. Some of this work also belongs in other projects and collections. And, as you may have noticed, I'm constantly rethinking and recategorizing my work, so who knows where "good morning" will ultimately end up. But for now, and actually for a long time, this poem has been the centerpiece of the Drawn to Orange collection.