Thanks to my sister for sending this to me with the words: “…it just inspires me to do my own stuff and know that folks are doing some beautiful things when the world can seem so ugly.” I agree sis, I agree.

Dreaming Door
for Don

You brought donuts in the morning of our first days and
we watched the great rivers through my South Side windows/everything
swelling, we ate in the turquoise kitchen and opened the dreaming door:
our Pittsburgh rolling by on the coal barges, the P&LE carting steel
to the still-rising cities of the West, a couple speedboats
running the dirty summer Monongahela,
you on your way to work. I said no one’s ever
been this nice to me as I walked you the 52 steps down
from my third floor apartment, you tilted your head,
looking at me in a way I’d never seen:
like I was the most sublime person,
your blue eyes seeming truly puzzled:
I haven’t even started to love you yet,
and at the door the world barreling through—
this time with gifts, fierce fires,
and planets of luck.

-poem by: Jan Beatty

(given on 03/29/08; returned on 01/27/09)

It isn’t that I forget, but moreso I can never be reminded enough. Creating means the world to me. Writing especially. I had one of those moments tonight when I sit down and expect a drought but then oh–the stars and luna align and I’m dead to the world for however long it takes me. And there it is, out on the page when I come back to earth. I cannot tell you where I go, or where it comes from, or why this ‘zoning out’ is and will always be my process. It just is. You could sentence me away for good with just a ream and a bundle of pens and my response would be “okay.” Send me gone.

Tonight’s writing proved to be very emotional, and I was surprised by that. I could not get completely through the lines without choking up. So what if that sounds super-dumb to you–if it does then certainly you probably don’t understand much about the creative process, the heart, the ink for blood. I’m saying that there are moments on page where I felt spot on with the connection between inner and outer–I grabbed the corner of this “wave of something” and pinned part of it down. Because for me, feeling inspired is a movement…this internal…graceful fidget that fights to find a way out. I am a translator for it, at best. And this time…I conjugated the verbs right. It doesn’t always happen that fluidly but when it does–dammit, I better take notice.

I’ve been having some health issues lately. Digesting food has become a chore–at least one meal a day makes me sick and leaves me doubled over in pain. Then the meal doesn’t stick around long enough to be properly digested. This has been going on for a couple weeks now. I’m going to the doctor to see about getting tested for gluten intolerance/celiac disease. Signs are pointing this way–the symptoms I mention above, plus a few other things. Of course this is just speculation until I get tested, but the evidence is fairly strong.

I wasn’t really interested in mentioning this on my website, but I figured that it couldn’t hurt to ask: anyone reading this have an issue with gluten intolerance? Or know someone who has to deal with it? If so, I’d like to hear about it. I’m feeling nervous about the possibility of having to deal with this. Thanks!

tv on the radio.

the inaugural poem, by Elizabeth Alexander

Praise song for the day.

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others’ eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, “Take out your pencils. Begin.”

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, “I need to see what’s on the other side; I know there’s something better down the road.”

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by “Love thy neighbor as thy self.”

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp — praise song for walking forward in that light.

The alarm went off at 6am this morning, the weekday usual. The standard buzzer-sound never worked well for waking me up, so my alarm is on a radio station that I know nothing about, full blast. I suppose some of us need startled awake.

I leaned over, reset the sucker for thirty minutes later. I do this sometimes, more than I would like to admit. I burrowed deeper into my flannel comforter, pulling the cat tighter against me–Abacus is a world class snuggle/sausage-er so she was into it. Closed my eyes…

And nothing. And everything. Nothing as in no falling back to sleep, everything as in the reason for being awake today for good. Instantly I thought of my dad, who is experiencing his first morning recovery after intensive shoulder surgery. I talked to him last night and he wasn’t comfortable then, and I’m sure he’s far from comfy right now. It’s part of the process. I could not just fall back to sleep after thinking about how he must feel this morning..how frustrating it must be to see at least 12 weeks of inactivity/recovery ahead of you. He never sits still. Today I packed my messenger bag with some shorts and a scraggly t-shirt, the tennis shoes. After work I’m going to the gym, because my father can’t.

Thinking of him, I pulled myself out of bed, popped my contacts in and set aside the clothes from work. Cracked open the laptop to check my email. There are a couple blogs I keep up with, so I thought I would check them quickly as well. One of them is written by a woman who survived a plane crash, despite the burns on more than 80% of her body. She is finally home continuing her recovery, after being in a coma(to aid healing) for over a month. She posted a-day-in-the-life post, covering a morning routine that includes a struggle of just walking to the bathroom. And there I was this morning, complaining about my complete ability to get out of bed on my own without pain, without thought.

I have so much to be thankful for, and nothing of permanence. Every morning is an opportunity to experience. Every day is a chance to be blessed and fortunate, and I’d rather meet every occasion on that ground. I’d rather not go back to sleep, when there is so much to see(and see again) and do. I tend to forget the constants I am granted right now–such as the ability to walk, to see, to speak, to listen, to take care of myself. None of them are ever guaranteed.

Last and certainly not least, today is January 20th. Today is so incredible for history. Today we welcome, officially, our new president. I can’t help but wonder: how many hours of shut-eye did Obama manage last night? And this morning, when faced with the alarm going off, how long did it take him to put his feet on the floor and rise to the day?

I doubt he hit the snooze button.

“I merely took the energy it takes to pout and wrote some blues.” - Duke Ellington