dmdubay

I heard a talk last night about “the muse.” One of the recommendations suggested the importance of changing scenery to evoke the creative spirit. While I love the implication simply because I love change in general, I believe the urge to create can be inspired by viewing the same familiar scene in a new way. I remember living in the Eagle River Valley and gazing across to snow covered peaks. I never tired of the view. The shifting shadows with the movement of the sun across the sky, the colors changing with the seasons, the melting snow revealing different patterns, clouds: all combined to make it a new and different scene every day. Now in Western Washington, my view includes distant snow covered mountains, islands, farmland, tides, trees, wildlife and, of course, clouds. I stare out my window and perceive small changes, or things I never noticed before. It’s always new. How can I ever plumb the depths of one particular scene?

contrail

My preferences say much about who I am as a person. They are neither good nor bad, although some attempt to impute moral values into their preferences. (I never eat meat. I always get up early. I only listen to classical music.) But what about when a strongly held fondness for something ties me up and prohibits me from trying something new? Am I free? Am I accepting of whatever comes my way? Or am I trying so hard to control my environment that it ends up controlling me? Some things are important—some are not. I want to have the wisdom to discern and the freedom to choose new things that will enrich my life. So today, if someone offers me, for example, deep fried oysters, I’ll try them. Who knows, I might like them. Or, if someone invites me to watch a chess tournament, I’ll go. I might like it. In the process, maybe I’ll be enriched by the experience and get to see something from an entirely different point of view.

clams

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “If a person sweeps streets for a living, he should sweep them as Michelangelo painted, as Beethoven composed music, as Shakespeare wrote his plays.” That makes me stop and think. How do I fold clothes, or set a table, or even walk and move about? Do I do all these things with grace? Am I aware of the artistry of every moment? Did I fly airplanes with the beauty of Beethoven’s ninth symphony? Maybe. Sometimes. And now that writing is my primary occupation, do I try to polish my words so they become meaningful phrases that last? How great it would be if all our works were works of art!

It’s a very special day—Rene’s birthday. The years have gone by much too quickly. She has been a gift at every age, but the time of her infancy holds some very special memories. I remember how she would wake up in her crib and be laughing and cooing. She never cried to be picked up. As a toddler she played by herself and always liked to be outdoors. At grandma’s house she was easily entertained painting china, picking flowers and, of course, playing with dolls. Our move to Alaska cemented her love of the outdoors. She and Adam played outside daily in the snow, regardless of the temperature. Often her “idiot mittens” were dangling from her sleeves and her hands were bare, her coat wide open. Now, with her daughters at those interesting ages, Rene’s gifts are coming to fruition. Her photographic talent is being recognized and she has a show of her photos at a Wedgewood café. Today we celebrate the person she is. She is on to a new year in her life. Happy birthday! Rene.

Rene and grils at Yellow Aster Butte

For the Skagit Valley Writers’ League meeting last week, we were given the following words to write into a poem. We had to choose at least seven of them. It was a fun exercise and what follows is my poem. No name has emerged yet. Can you suggest one?

Sky                fable               pixilated

Muddy           giddy             gruff

Swan            ripping           nincompoop

Sunset          morgue         hooligans

Poppies         synergy

As evening came the glowing gold of sunset washed across the fields

I strove towards home and crossing, as it were, a stream, I drank

The pure and bubbly waters and allayed my thirst. Light-headed with relief

I raised my eyes to wonders now awakening in that holy space.

The poppies bowed and danced, blood red in the iridescent light.

The song of life they sang was filled with sorrow at the arrogance of men

Who fight and kill and somehow believe in fables of dominance and power

The wisdom of the poppies as they yielded to the wind now shouted to the sky

And one solitary, pure white swan held aloft by that same wind

Answered with a swoosh of wing beats, ripping silence into shreds

And I was giddy with relief that no longer does the morgue of death hold fast

The lives of those who err in foolishness and pride

It yields, instead to life now soaring, dancing, rising above the muddy fields

Of our illusions.

poppies by the wall

Every morning I pray that my mouth will be opened to give praise. It’s easy to give praise to the creator of such a magnificent world in which we live, but people? Sometimes I shy away from saying anything, because, like my mother said, “If you can’t say something good, don’t say anything at all.” What is needed is for me to find something good to praise. And once my mind is open to that possibility, my mouth should easily open to acknowledge it.

Duomo of Siena

I’ve gotten off to a terrible start. Not only have I not done many new things—I’m still in the same rut—but I have not even done the old things I promised I would do, like write my blog every day. Not that I haven’t been busy, though. I had a book launch party and what fun it was. I felt so supported by my writing friends. So I guess that was a new thing. I’ve never published or launched a book before. Also, I finished my Christmas cards and letters before the last day of Christmas, which is tomorrow. Some years I don’t get that done before Ash Wednesday. I’ve also committed to walk, jog or run at least two miles every day—and so far, I’ve done it! That’s not new for me but it has been a long time since I have run every day. So I guess if I take a moment to stop and reflect on what’s going on in my life, I see that new things are happening. Tomorrow I go to work in the soup kitchen.

A friend’s response to my last blog really made me stop and think. She talked about how hard it is to be in the asking line rather than the giving line. But life’s circumstances put us all in that position at some time, in one way or another. And I, for one, am extremely averse to asking for help. But we all need others, don’t we? This morning a grandmother at church was distraught over the death of her grandson. Her devastation was heart wrenching. In her desperation she cried for help and comfort which all of us tried to give. Sometimes you just can’t do it alone.

Thousand Island Lake, JMT

A friend invited me to participate in an activity I have never done before and I am excited to try it. It involves helping to feed the hungry. I guess it is like working in a soup kitchen. I know in my head that there are many in this community whose basic needs are not met: needs of food, shelter or safety. I will now have the opportunity to learn with my heart what it is to serve my brothers and sisters.

Ruah’s art