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…since I posted something.

I’ve been busy trying to find a job and being a mom of two teens. I’ve always heard that the first years were the hardest. Not true – my girls were easy babies and easy toddlers – well-behaved, easy to entertain – and no saying on what to wear, eat, go, when to sleep, shower… I think it gets harder as they get older!!!! I’m always taking kids somewhere – and, goodness, they have an opinion!!!! Just joking – they are lots of fun! With that said, I am the very proud mother of two incredible girls and my older one just won the video festival at her school! Super cool. So here is a link to her video:

or

http://dl.dropbox.com/u/62310951/Making%20a%20Difference.mov

Hope you enjoy it!

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Knitting the time
With colored yarns
Creating a pattern
Of useful thoughts

The rhythm of clackety needles
The peace it gives me
To just repeat
And repeat
And repeat
Till time is so
Painted and decorated
That we make sense of it
With tired eyes…
Looking back
At the net we weaved (or knitted)
To pass the time
And find ourselves in the now
We used to know


If I were music

I’d be all over the score

Incoherent – no cadence

No rythm nor harmony –

A noise – mismatched sounds

Like the Orchestra tuning the instruments

Just before the concert –

The intention of calm melody

Being declared…

If I were a painting

Cubist I would be

With precise geometric forms

In an altered manner –

Landing ground for the chaotic stance

That reigns over the internal order

The colors of dried flowers

Proclaiming the inevitable – end

So we can complete the cycle – so round and circular

Thus reaching the beginning

If I were a tapestry

I would have seedy thread

A sign of fatigue that comes with time

Feet that walk the long walk of life

And found rest in me.

My stitches would be spun

By old women hands –

Quiet – arthritic – contorted bones

conquered by the mighty needles

With every stitch a story

Forming an image

Searching the memory

What an irony

The elder can only sew

The remembrance of the wound

I am not painting, music, nor art

I’m not whole – nor part

But I spread myself – in disasters

I don’t try to hide what ignites me


Open the faucet

Letting all words and ideas in a torrential spill

Flooding the soul

That was rusty and stiff – empty without inspiration

So hard to control the flow

The stream is powerful

Runs freely – no caution

It’s better to follow the natural

The little sprinkling of the water

Refreshes me

But the rocks

Make the walk harder

Bruising my steps

The fall is consequence –

The climax of the navigation

I’m so out of control – no rudder, nor compass

I continue adrift – submitted to the torrential waters

I shall get to the Valley

That is expanding in my mind