tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64920760631016442292011-10-05T10:40:58.029-06:00Let no fracture separate us from the dreams we carry of ourselvesStephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.comBlogger291100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-88793926596206309202011-10-05T10:11:00.003-06:002011-10-05T10:40:58.069-06:00

Here in this garden among the tomatoes are wheels within wheels. The guinea fowl are guard watching the perimeter of the yard. The planks of wood for building a tree house are an on-the-ground-house amidst circles of daisies. The tree is still a tree and the children take a photo of it, because of how they admire the branches. The smell of these round red cups, these tomatoes, these sweet waters,

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-80330046608636926452011-05-13T22:18:00.004-06:002011-05-13T22:29:13.594-06:00

I guess a year has passed since I rendered anything written, here. The children are growing. The children are snakes. More lists then. New house and old house still on sale. 80 something chickens. Feathers and straw. Greenhouse and greens all winter. Who owns this rain water? Why do so many people in New Mexico run red lights? Healing waters. Hikes and flint.Some arguments. Some long walks.

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-27633710665483947072010-05-27T22:50:00.004-06:002010-05-28T00:18:54.294-06:00

This is my conversation with you. I close my eyes to have it. Our mouths open to speech and it takes us below the ground. What was once casual is now ecliptic. We are in the dark together. We do not know where this will lead or how we will find our way. But this moment contains a sifting quality; we are sorted by our trust. What will remain of us is dust so fine it can only move like breath.

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-18186984217255374392010-03-30T05:50:00.004-06:002010-03-30T06:15:42.644-06:00

Slivers that inch their way out of the skin or dissolve. Palpating the major bones of the body, wondering, "How deep is the Yes?" Thinking of the yellow marrow in the shafts of long bone. Where unprocessed memory (trauma) resides in the body. How come it's taken so long to reach this blooming? In the dream a man touches her face, says "You make me want to do 36 things I've never done before."

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-8026515678659882952010-03-24T02:22:00.015-06:002010-03-24T08:08:31.280-06:00

Wake in the night and do not furrow into sleep again until you have heard these stories. This is the season of spring, of seeds unfolding, and the landscape invites me to still, enter the quiet alertness of the company I seek--this earth, all of its tremblings. No anthology as large as this one, well, besides the Universe. Turn the page. In this new branch of time and space I am studying the body

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-22091072802486820632010-02-27T23:50:00.008-07:002010-05-27T22:50:32.614-06:00

Today I discarded the majority of my paper files from graduate school. I have certainly slimmed down a number of educational relics prior to today's happenings, but the impetus for the cleaning today was different. I have been struck lately by the necessity I have for human interaction. My children, my husband, new friends, old friends, family afar. What does a pile of old poems give me in the

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-55444149958494611652010-02-25T23:00:00.004-07:002010-03-24T03:21:42.264-06:00

In the time it has taken me to post here we've been on grand family adventures. A swift cross-country move, a distant house in Minnesota with frozen pipes, long commutes across New Mexico--all a result of this thing, the yes that I keep holding to. A few times in these months I've wondered if I really had it, Is this Yes really mine? It is the stretching of the spirit, the truth of human

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-76335201434287350792009-11-11T23:10:00.009-07:002009-11-11T23:41:58.735-07:00

That time of year again when something in the earth tugs at my earlobes each night, the darkness of dreaming pulling me a little closer to the mystery, closer to the center of something that retains gravity but no name. Each year I feel myself called to this place, a seed sunk into the ground, burrowing beneath the leaves. Waiting. Who will I be when I wake in the morning? What will my face say?

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-47636541168734848052009-09-02T23:15:00.006-06:002010-05-28T00:22:14.102-06:00

Scanning the old files tonight, seeing duplication, and deletion too--photos I thought I would find but could not. And then this, from last year, shortly before the second baby was born. Skin, oh glory. This photo came back to me like church bells, the sound of something so lovely drifting across the lawn outside a church, down the street, and up to my window, waking me in the morning, music

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-75713450365906643802009-09-02T12:57:00.005-06:002009-09-02T23:12:03.621-06:00

Great things to do while waiting: forget about anything that isn't under the umbrella of love in the heart. Forget credit card bills for a time. Look at color. This time last year I as waiting for the baby. Now we are waiting for other things, like the next scene of remembrance as it filters through a kaleidoscope. I remember this, I remember that. I remember the moon from a window in my parents'

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-38511380943040915312009-02-09T19:43:00.008-07:002009-02-09T20:14:54.996-07:00

An image of the church in Valladolid. I'm remembering the place today because I did not go inside the church, but looked through the entrance where many young children were receiving their first communion. I saw lots of dresses made with white lace. I stood outside with my sister, Laressa. Inside the church a young girl turned and I saw her eyes, two brown gemstones. For a moment, I went inside

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-51888113526033098312008-11-18T07:31:00.002-07:002008-11-18T07:48:20.706-07:00

The journey on the outside of the self, could it be anything without the journey on the inside? In a coffee shop the other day I remembered having had an engaging conversation at one of the little tables, using my intellect to sort and unscramble some idea. I am different now, holding a different set of keys, though I love that old self sitting there, sipping mint tea, talking and unlocking

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-18465364550373508432008-06-13T04:01:00.003-06:002008-06-13T04:39:56.760-06:00

Each morning I wake around 4:30am, a little stunned that I'm moving in synchronicity with the sun in this way. What should I do with myself so early in the morning? Who should I speak to when my beautiful husband is sleeping, when my spirited daughter still dreaming in her new big girl bed? Whether or not I actually rise, I find myself in conversation with the trees. With the walls sometimes.

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-17404076777634914172008-05-07T20:58:00.002-06:002008-05-07T21:16:58.509-06:00

It is true. The story that I tell myself about the world in and around me. Always, within me, it is this story that creates my reality. This evening Ava was a little homesick for her Papa, who is working up north on the streams and lakes of the Rainy River basin. We spoke about how it's possible to be anywhere at anytime. So that our reality can consist of two or more places at one. Translation:

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-8877648901705878602008-05-04T19:25:00.005-06:002008-05-04T21:09:34.159-06:00

She's turning two and today we had a birthday party for her. Small party, minimal gifting, lots of spring sun rays on her blonde head. In her actions I saw my actions. In her voice I heard my own at that age.This evening, just before bath time she said, "I want to take off my five pound diaper" (a wet diaper she'd been wearing for many hours). She's learning to articulate most of her needs and

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-2737128789776294762008-05-02T19:43:00.014-06:002008-05-02T21:41:04.469-06:00

The completion of the night brings the beginning, this day of salt water and coral stones. The ocean in southern Quintana Roo with its turquoise waters. Not many photographs taken here with a camera. Instead, I've been absorbing the elements of water, earth, air, fire, embodying the reflection of these things. Who are you really? They ask. And then they say, Just listen. Touch us and listen.With

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-20023903436523730422008-04-30T20:16:00.007-06:002008-04-30T20:42:43.478-06:00

I will continue to write about the heart until my own has stopped beating. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that the heart is what writes. For this I am grateful and this gratitude occupies a lot of my attention. The heart is the physical manifestation of my spirit. It regulates everything. If I don’t speak from my heart, then my spirit resides in chains. And the body sags and struggles when

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-78706188294929399392008-04-13T14:09:00.001-06:002008-04-13T14:11:10.787-06:00

Last week a man in Tai Chi class was talking about a very pregnant friend of his. He held out his hands in front of him as though his belly had grown large with a baby.When people are amazed their eyes open widely, their eyebrows lift. Their spirit's lift too.The man was amazed. His spirit seemed to grow larger around his body. He said he was womb-envious, that he'd love to know what it feels

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-24085027164863994952008-04-08T20:08:00.003-06:002008-04-08T20:13:24.763-06:00

I feel the heartbeat of the baby in the stillness between dreams. I see inside myself. He is whole. He is a form recycled from other spaces in the universe. I know him well. He bathes in light. Perhaps to someone out there all that he is could seem impossible. I am someone else. He is possible beyond millions. He exercises his power of choice. This is why he as come. In this life, he is his own

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-41500010563949202132008-04-04T19:23:00.002-06:002008-04-04T19:28:00.073-06:00

I don't know much about gardening. But tonight Ava and I found some crocuses growing through the dried oak leaves along the edge of our yard. I didn't think about gardening books or what internet sources might say about how to care for the flowers. I scraped the leaves away, giving the plant room to gather sunlight. Ava got down and touched them with her fingers, petting them like they were

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-92203859728621423762008-03-01T13:28:00.013-07:002008-03-04T09:30:13.869-07:00

I've thought a lot lately about the expression, "What's wrong?" A question someone asks when another person appears to be in the midst of some dissonance, some torrent of emotion.Is this question the opposite of "What's right?"Sometimes I hear myself ask: Ava, what's wrong? And I hear myself using a description in our language of the black and white world. You're either good or you're bad. Right

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-10275453556919632192008-02-28T07:35:00.004-07:002008-03-04T08:11:10.626-07:00

So it's been a long time since I've voiced something here. Like the oak tree in the yard, regal in summer with shimmering leaves. Speaking often in the wind. Have I talked about this tree? On windy days in the winter it's difficult to see the wind in a bare branched tree. But the wind has been blowing steadily all winter.In the back ground while I write an old jazz standard plays, brought into

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-29035757317977545962007-10-31T19:30:00.001-06:002008-03-04T08:11:59.327-07:00

Halloween night, mixed messages in the neighborhood. Some houses with outside lights on, some off. What kind of kid was I? One who rang the doorbells of darkened houses? I remember running through a Minneapolis neighborhood, swinging a pillowcase heavy with candy. I think I was a lights-on kind of girl.I was washing the dishes just now while my husband was giving little Ava a bath. The wind

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-34932804101021971442007-10-16T17:38:00.001-06:002008-03-04T08:12:43.843-07:00

Things up front that I love: faces. Skin and cheeks that tears run down from the honesty of emotion. Whining or distance. Pain and elation. The shimmering sketch that tears create on a face. The mandible, chin chaperoned by genetics. Cleft chins in my husband's family. Dimples that ricochet against the idea of accurately guessing one's age. Zygoma, two round mounds on either side of the nose that

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-25118066162913757622007-09-19T21:41:00.001-06:002008-03-04T08:13:00.105-07:00

It’s all fair game. Every memory of the past, all the shoes I’ve ever worn, the railroad tracks where I used to place nickels and dimes for the wheels of approaching trains. Even the memories not mine. My father not going to art school and instead the military. My mother’s piano lessons at age six. My great grandmother’s decision to marry at age fourteen (or younger?).Somewhere in the dark night

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-22241694943990576542007-09-17T13:11:00.000-06:002007-09-17T13:31:01.701-06:00

Notes on a few tectonic shifts scheduled in the self:–noun 1.the state or fact of being visible. So I've been working on a web page for a few months, but I've stalled out for fear of being seen to anyone anywhere at anytime. Secretly, I'm hoping no one will see this blog.2. the relative ability to be seen under given conditions of distance, light, atmosphere, etc.: low visibility due to fog.

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-39464486647792525892007-09-11T21:21:00.001-06:002008-03-04T08:13:15.726-07:00

Driving home after eating dinner at Caspian with two perfect and beautiful friends. Tonight I saw two new facial expressions in each of them. L with her love for A, and A with his love for L. You now know who they are. They are every memory you've ever carried of love. The way love helps us to see ourselves new again. Once in a time past I introduced these two lovers to one another. Would they

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-49236969001652537452007-06-27T14:58:00.002-06:002008-03-04T08:15:27.378-07:00

I am home again, as in, I am inside the cabin after walking up the dirt road and fetching the mail as I do daily. Daughter, dear little one—she is sleeping in a crib she’s outgrowing. All over the earth there are children with mothers who think of other things while the babies sleep. Food to make, coupons in an envelope, philosophies and spiritual wisdom, how to refinish furniture, which strategy

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6492076063101644229.post-40153145690577290122007-05-18T14:26:00.001-06:002008-03-04T08:15:57.839-07:00

The day again. Wind chimes and a lawn mower. The wind. A loon call. My daughter trying to get comfortable for a nap on the living room floor. We have been out strolling down the country road, she in the radioflyer wagon, me on the two wide feet of this body. What have I invented today? Toast and jam. Bananas fed to the ants (mother and daughter practicing generosity). What have I thought about?

Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01411025570269051271noreply@blogger.com0