from the legal pad

i met a hard-living rancher from west texas who cried at the drop of a hat. our conversations were odd. as he told me about his cattle, the drought and old-world things, he would get choked up and have to look away.  my father, a large man, cried all the time. as an adolescent, it drove me nuts. i spent a few years reacting against my father's emotionalism (among other freudian behaviors). i didn't, or acted not to cry throughout high school and college. the more recent fact is that i have less problems with the boohoo-ing. maybe i've matured a bit.  maybe i'm learning to accept the parts of my father in me that drive me nuts.  these are logical explanations. but i'd prefer to confess this as my litmus test:  if it's beautiful, then it's worth my emotion.  most weeks i celebrate the genius of modern family with a laugh, but ever so often, it's with reddened, moist eyes.  sometimes, after a hard month, i drive and let...

it has taken years to get here. what has not lead me to this place? had i set out to come to this, likely i'd still be lost    wandering    and opposed. then why do i want you to hurry? unsuccessfully i've rushed    myslef. so please, don't come. but find a way    to ignore me    to translate    to wait    to find self    to

entering the second, i recognize a great failure. of all the words and phrases that have trended in our vocabulary, one i enjoy the least: secular. i cringe, yet also realize the distinction, not between meanings or contexts, but between values. what was once clear to me in the first half, is now blurred, though no less important.  i welcome the creativity of the gray, the artistry of the world, the thrill of breathing. there is neither secular, nor super-natural. there is only alive. i believe that humans are flawed, yet at once, incredible. all life is secular, yet entirely belonging to the greater. rinse and repeat, my hope is not for more division- i wait for wholeness.

i go among the tall trees, looking for nothing. trail interrupted by a large oak. face down after august storm, too high to scale- too low to duck, unclip. the uprooted stump lifts the earth and leaves a grave beneath. the canopy gapped by the loss. i sit, sip, catch my breath. mosquitoes catch up, peace hard to appreciate. as i leave, i hardly notice the holly tree sprouting from the base of the downed giant. arising parallel to the ground will make the winter long. but spring will bring new light where the tall tree once stood.

mid-october, mild bundles   even inside. the man from chicago, laughs. while the east texan, first shivers. the trees, hardly orange. the earth, still warm. taking longer showers already, i plan my layers. but in a few weeks when dried fallen leaves line entry ways, and my coats only make short, outdoor commutes, cold becomes comfortable.

i don't find the big bang theory right or wrong because of any scientific evidence.  i could care less as to what may or may not be empirical. the beginning of the universe, in the christian scriptures, was sparked out of spoken poetry.  i believe in a resounding bang when it comes to good writing.  the big bang theory doesn't discount poetry. here's where simon cowell and i disagree.  american idol winners and x factor contestants are largely not song writers.  by my definition then, these shows advocate an industry that has little to do with music.  this phenomenon is lacking in bang. there is a world of beautiful poetry out there.  and generally, an eleven year old girl has not lived enough to know about it, to write it, to embody it.  a teen sensation looking for a record deal has misplaced pen, paper and harmonica. a (former) alcoholic, who struggled for years to make it on the road, writes actual music.  a...

afterwards, nothing. oddly unmemorable. i've come to prefer    the quiet    the slow    the calm. i believe in the movement, most days. the wonderful let down reminds me of my place. rinse, and repeat.