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The read/write head of a dead hard-disk.
"Make a photograph today with a diagonal line leading the viewer's eye through the composition."
I thought I got there too late. My feet were placed squarely on the blacktop parking lot at one of my favorite soul places, a space I have been to recently but haven’t been to, ever, to simply be and write.
Sam and I used to come here during his home school day to collect wood and explore and we still come here so he can ride on the tire swing and we can throw rocks into the river. We have explored the area fully and know it pretty well from those moments, but I wanted to come to know this place intimately by connecting to it quietly, with my body connected to its body, my soul connected mindfully to its center.
The autumn-colored leaves I would kick away from the foot path were long gone, returned to the Earth. Their crunchy selves had surrendered completely and I had missed that process.
Then I stepped into a spot off the path, by a small stream to sit and write and I realized I hadn’t missed the process at all. I stepped onto what looked like Earth and instead, I was stepping into a pile of leaves that was choosing to merge with the soil. My choice to take a moment or two or sixty to be in a space of quiet soulfulness was graciously allowing me to become a part of the process, too.
I discovered how deeply they had piled themselves up, creating a soft sofa and pillows just for me so that I could sit upon them and experience them, their luscious returning-to-dirt-scent. They seemed to giggle as I sat down with my paper and pink notepaper and trusty black mirado warrior and started to move it, contentedly, along the page.
In that moment it was as if the leaves hugged me, welcoming my reality to rise up and meet my longing, leftover from months ago when I was in a time of profound sadness, a time when I wasn’t able to settle into their crackly, crisp newly fallen selves. Instead, I got to sit upon their softened not quite moist selves.
It was then that I heard the unsurrendered leaves, the ones still on the trees that pushed against one another, applauding my return. It is like those leaves held on, bravely, past their amber-golden time to their withered crusty selves so I could hear my message.
Divinity says, “Be with me. Trust. Follow my lead. Don’t try so hard, but do know the strategy that works best, beloved one.”
I felt an exclamation point rise up as two trucks rumbled past and the wind blew and suddenly I was aware that my stomach was telling me of its hunger.
The exclamation was part celebration as I heard the words “Beloved one!” and knew Divinity meant me.
I sat, still, for a moment, just being with the leaves and the trees and the water. I heard a frog singing her song. I smiled in gratitude.
I wrote:
Sometimes surrender comes quickly and sometimes the holding on, like the crusty withered leaves held on, is the surrender. It is in the unknowing of whether or not its right or wrong and being ok with it no matter which way the judgment or comparison lands that holds the power of truth.
Today, do I go deeper? I asked. Do I go further on the path, closer to the larger parts of the river, or did I get what I was supposed to get here, on my leaves-turning-to-dirt sofa.
I smelled the leaves below me, supporting me. I heard the wind play my ears like a drum and the grass and leaves pirouetting and doing a grande jete or many grande jetes. I watched a plane use the air as a mattress. A man with a grey covered hood covering his head and speckled deck shoes covering his feet walked silently behind my surrendered leaf throne.
SUVs and pick up trucks a stone’s throw away rumbled past, separated by steel from all this wonder right here, oh so close.
Did any of the drivers or passengers capture the bright pink of my shirt out of the corner of their eye, strikingly out of context in this place I sat, deeply entrenched in awe?
It doesn’t matter whether they do or do not, but I prayed for each of them anyway.
I realized then that although I hadn’t gone deeper on the path, I had gone deeper.
My heart was swollen with joy.
I wasn’t too late. I was right on time.
I write in riddles
I don't understand.
All the words are
shifting shapes
and blur
against my iris.
I can relax when reading,
make up ends of stories.
But my own?
There's no way
of knowing
so I cross my i's
and dot my t's
and hope to God
He can decipher
what I scratch down
on paper.
"Latinas Write/Escriben", a bilingual anthology that features first-person account stories are sold for $10 the Brentwood Public Library Welcoming Reading Circle event on Tuesday, August 14 2012.
ilovesusanfreed.me Do you ever write in your own diary? Or did you ever write a novel in your lifetime? Many people question the reasons whyI love to write.
Long write-up for today's batch of awesomeness.
First off. This whole covid thing, the election, working from home, not being able to go out, not seeing friends/family, etc. Has me, and I'm sure everyone else frazzled. Having a project to work on, in my case hiking out and shooting photos of graffiti on trains has been the one thing that's keeping me sane at this point. Hoping to see some new pieces from writers that I respect is like opening a pack of baseball cards and finding your favorite players rookie card for me. Yeah, it sounds goofy, but I've been having fun, staying sane, and seeing and capturing some amazing pieces of rolling art.
So I had this weird Monday vacation day on 11-2-2020. I decided to drive out to one my my benching spots and hang out for the day.
The plan was to set up a time lapse camera, and then just hang out and bench freights for 5-6 hours. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and a slight breeze, 88F. high. No clouds makes for a very boring time lapse between trains coming by. I also only brought my little Small Rig clamp for the time lapse camera and couldn't decide where I wanted to clamp it. I should have just brought a tripod.
Out for a few hours before the BNSF guys in their truck rolled up, got out and started walking toward me. "Great!" I thought. They're going to try and chase me away. Nope, they walked over to one set of tracks, walked across the bridge inspecting the tracks, then under the bridge inspecting the bridge, got in their truck and left. I like that. I don't bother you. You don't bother me.
A while later I see tree guy coming back home. I don't know his name, but there's a guy who lives in/under a tree that's next to the trail I hike in on. Once he's in there you'd never know it. I've seen him, he's seen me, and we don't bother each other.
The whole time I'm there I'm using my little Tascam recorder to record train audio every time one comes by so I have audio for the slideshow videos I've been uploading on YouTube. Well, this time I forgot it out there. Didn't dump my photos until Tuesday night and discovered it missing. Woke up early, drove out and it was still there. It recorded for almost 5 more hours before the batteries died. Glad to have it back, I thought tree guy might have found it.
130/366
There's a couple of things that needs to be said today.
First of all, positive thoughts are appreciated for my dog today. He woke up with a random hurt back and I'm a nervous wreck about it, my poor baby.
Second, a big huge thanks to www.flickr.com/photos/shizu_bara/ for linking the instructions for the pencil and notebook tutorial!!
www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-f8BFpkqRk&feature=youtu.be
www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoRoQAEFvuU&feature=youtu.be
UPDATE--
Winston has a sprained back. Not surprising knowing how jumpy he is! He'll be better after a week of anti inflammatory medicine :)
A neighbor of ours told Deb and I about asking his son to write, just a little, during his summer off from school. Photo taken in California a few years back.
Public domain image
I love books and I love to write! What you see here are my favorite things in the whole world.
the words in my heart cannot be transcribed they simply hover unspoken like a heat haze that is slowly befuddling my brain.
If I tried to write poetry the haze might form droplets of water that could turn to an icy deluge that would drown anyone who listened.
So I can't write poetry.
(Words, by Me.)
For the May MSH - Self Portrait
(Word is a series of designs for books of the Bible. This is Ecclesiastes. Find out more about Word.)
If you are looking for a happy book to cheer you up on a bad day, make sure you skip Ecclesiastes. The book could be summed up by the word "meaningless" which it repeats 35 times through out its twelve chapters. It's dark, gloomy and pretty depressing. Kinda like a teenager... or Eeyore.
Your life is suckier than you think
Tradition has it that Ecclesiastes was written by an old man (some say King Solomon) who was looking back on the great achievements of his life. His conclusion is that all his great deeds and actions were worthless. He'll die and be forgotten. The good he's done will be undone by someone else. You're born, live a meaningless life, then you die. In his great wisdom, he makes the awesome decision to write down his depressing thoughts so they can be shared with everyone else. Pretty thoughtful, huh? Kinda like that person who eats something and is like "Oooo, this is gross! Try it!"
Past the Depression
Generally, I recommend bringing all your own personal prejudices into your Bible reading. Why bother trying to understand what someone else meant 2000 years ago when it's so easy to make my own judgements? Am I right or am I right? Well, I decided to break that rule this time and try to figure out where the author may have been coming from and whether he really was as depressed as I thought he was. In taking a step back out of my own judgements, I realized there's something kinda cool about this dude's thought process.
The dude who wrote Ecclesiastes was Jewish. Jewish people believed that our 60-70 years on earth was merely a tiny slice of our entire existence. That kinda reframes the whole book for me. Now I see this dude basically saying "Don't sweat this world. Whether you're rich or poor, smart or dumb, awesome or unawesome, this whole "life on earth" thing is a tiny piece of our existence. If you step back and think about eternity, it actually makes this time on earth seem pretty insignificant and meaningless. Be good, do your best and live life to the fullest, but just know that this is just a drop of water in the ocean of our existence."
Much less depressing.
Back to the Depression
For this week's design, I wanted to capture the initial darkness the book had to me. For those who, unlike the author of Ecclesiastes, believe that this life on earth is really all there is, this book is a big bucket full of depression.
Next week, it's time to get sassy with Song of Solomon.
Finally Did Some More Wreck This Journaling =D
Love This Page,
Oh The Reason For The Red 'Maintenant'...I Don't No Why It Means Now In French And I Thought It Would Be A Nice Addition To The Page =D Hehe
Im Going To Go Do Another Page Now...Which One?
write me a postcard
a note
a letter
I can't promise I'll write back
but maybe it'll spur something in my heart
Série "Computadores Antigos":
Exemplo de placa-mãe de Pentium com os famosos chips de cache falsificados, episódio muito comentado na época. Quase uma peça de colecionador!
"Vintage Computers" Series:
Example of a Pentium mainboard with the infamous fake cache chips. That episode was quite commented at that time. Almost a collector's item!
Despite 21st century, age of computers and electronics, it is somehow easier for me to write by hand. And the better I know the language, the least I need to do so. Or it is just the need to feel your writing, that it is not something virtual, black bugs on the screen that disappear as soon as you turn off the computer.