Garden & Gathering

Nature is Party to All

A Case of Tenderness

I am reminded now of a night in the college dormitories, where I was suffering from a high fever. I was angry, sputtering. Getting in the bath because I could not get warm. I tossed in our bunk bed as my roommate CJ was studying. It’s all such a dream now, I remember moaning. I remember slipping in and out of sleep, never aware of reality. I woke to see CJ watching my pathetic misery. He asked me if it was okay if he prayed. He was Russian Orthodox. I might have feebly nodded my head yes, that’s fine. He laid his hand on my head and started his prayer. I slept the rest of the night through, my fever broken in the morning.

 

I am also reminded of the migraines I had as a child. At some point, I was on a lake with friends and their parents when the pain struck. I had to lie down and occasionally vomited into the lake. They took us back, we went to our cabin and I got into bed. A friend’s dad came in and told me his daughter get migraines. He learned that there are pressure points on the feet to relieve head pain. He asked me if it was okay to massage my feet. I grumbled out a yes. I fell asleep and when I woke up the pain was gone. I even had my first kiss that night.

 

I think there is something to say about occasional vulnerability and a bond formed in tenderness.

The Cure for Depression

The other day I was catching up with an old friend. He has gone through a full lifetime of hardship in the last few years. He told me, “I put a pull up bar in my front door. Every time I walk in the house or leave I jump up and do a couple. I don’t feel anxious or depressed anymore. Everyday I change it up, I think that is what is helping.”

In other words: If you are depressed, get out of bed.

I understand mental illness is not so simple. I am only encouraging myself to do the opposite of what my head is telling me to do.

Cubist Poetry 2

The sun without duress
of winter cover.
The jagged rocks.
The red sand.
The thin creek.
The bush clinging.
The arrows trajectory.
The imagined smoke.
The power of words.
The cliff.
The soil succumbed.
The weight of wet cotton clothing.
The imbedded dagger.
The sink and throat.
The goose skin.
The salmon thought.
The unseen blade.
The weakened nerves.
The sacred sound.
Mild mild.

Cubist Poetry

Trying my hand in Cubist Poetry. Early Rexroth and Reverdy being my inspiration, I’ll post when complete.

THE SAME NUMBER

The hardly open eyes

The hand on the other shore

The sky

And everything that happens there

The leaning door

A head sticks out

From the frame
And through the shutters
You can see out
The sun fills everything
But the trees are still green

The falling hour

It gets warmer

And the houses are smaller
The passersby go less quickly
And always look up

The lamp shines on us now

Looking far away
We could see the light

Coming

We were happy

That evening

At the other house where somebody waits for us

-Pierre Reverdy

Fellow Magazine

fellow

I have a short piece being published in Denver’s new Fellow Magazine. They recently posted a kickstarter to get their debut issue printed. Please check it out and support if you are able. They are wonderful people who have set out on an important journey for Colorado makers and creatives.

Fellow Mag Kickstarter

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