November 14: November Rain

At the end of the Juice conference tonight, the buzz of people leaving the opera house spilled out onto the wet sidewalk shining under streetlights. I left feeling inspired, intellectually stimulated, and energized by all the people I had listened to or spoken with during the day-long event. But as I walked the few blocks to my car, away from the hum of excitement and the warmth of the lights of Main Street, the chilly, rainy evening soon draped a cloak of moodiness over my shoulders. Alone, I hurried in the dark to where my car sat by itself in the corner of a near-empty lot. I suddenly felt drained and exhausted; all I wanted to do was get home, knowing that when I got there I would see lights on behind the window blinds for the first time in a week.

The last line of this poem is pulled directly from a Guns N' Roses' song called "November Rain," which is also covered beautifully by Gheto Blaster Ltd. The song perfectly evokes the mood of this bleak season, as well as the usual themes of love and loss that seem to fit so perfectly with this time of year when we are losing the living green world as we know it for one of long nights, cold rain, and bare branches.

Leaves slick underfoot

as I walk from light to dark--

cold November rain.

November 13: No Voice

I spent the whole day today at the Juice conference in Camden, the focus of which is Maine's creative economy. A lot of networking, meeting people, energetic breakout sessions, and running into friends, followed by dinner out, Pecha Kucha, and an evening "block party" of sorts at the six Bayview Landing restaurants. (I only made it to one before I had to call it a night.) After such a day, and still hampered by allergies, I am hoarse and exhausted. But in a good way. In fact, the day was inspiring in so many ways that it would seem hypocritical for me to use it as an excuse to forego my daily blog entry.

Throat sore, no voice left,
Yet how I talked earlier
surrounded by friends.

I do blame my exhaustion for not doing better than that, but sometimes the most important thing to me is that I keep writing something.

November 12: Rest

I've been home sick today, nothing serious but just very tired. Spent my entire day sitting on the couch glutting myself with one episode after another of a series I've been recording on the DVR ("Bones") while reading through my backlog of New Yorkers. Very relaxing in its way. And the cat has been thrilled to be able to lie next to me on the furry blanket all day long. 

But I haven't summoned a lot of creative energy. (Or any other kind of energy; dinner consisted of ramen flavored with half of that sodium-laden powder included in the noodle package. Made me long for the authentic ramen I used to order at this great Asian restaurant when I was in grad school, real ramen with slices of pork, egg, green onions, some ginger... Funny the comfort foods we become nostalgic for when ill.) 

I'd hoped to use the time home today to work on a piece of writing due soon and maybe come up with some brilliant entry for today. Instead, trying to craft 17 interesting syllables has summoned back my headache.


On the couch all day
I imitate my old cat.
It's all about rest.

November 11: Necklace

My husband is away again this week, and while I like the time alone, I miss coming home from work and having someone there other than the cat with whom to share my day. And of course I miss his physical presence, that comforting power of touch.

A brief digression: A couple of summers ago I spent a week at an artist/writer retreat on Great Spruce Head Island, an island in eastern Penobscot Bay that has been owned for several generations by the Porter family (as in, photographer Eliot and painter Fairfield). We stayed in Fairfield Porter's house, ate gourmet, organic food, and did whatever we wanted with our time. I napped, read, and roamed the island, watching birds and writing notes and some mediocre poems about the incredible landscape: fog, sea birds, stony beaches, dense spruce forests carpeted with moss and lichen, the sound of the waves, sunny meadows where deer graze. But in the end what I felt really inspired to write were haiku. And interestingly, some of my most successful ones were sensual "love notes" to my husband, whom I was missing. For our last night's "show," while all the artists (there were nine artists and two writers) arranged and hung their paintings, pastels and drawings for display, I paired some of the haiku I had written with appropriate natural objects and created a tactile poetry/object to create an interactive exhibit of sorts. This is one of the haiku I wrote for my husband, written on a piece of paper roughly torn into the shape of a heart and stuck to a heart-shaped stone I found on one of the island beaches:

If I were going to similarly display the following haiku with an object, it would be the necklace I was wearing of big, chunky green and yellow stones interspersed with carved wooden beads. When I got undressed last night, I was surprised to feel how hot the beads were from being in contact all day with my skin. The sensuality of that realization made me miss my husband.

Home alone tonight.

Unclasped necklace in my hand,

wooden beads still warm.

November 10: Wood Smoke

Going from my car to my house, I noted a strange perfume wafting through the air and was surprised when I realized I was smelling smoke from my neighbor's chimney.

November blessing:
wood smoke rising like incense
in the chilly dark.

Being warm and safe is the most basic of comforts. When our basic needs are met and have the added bonus of being pleasurable, so much greater is the blessing.

(Sorry for tonight's short entry; I'm off to what will probably be a long work-related dinner event. Satisfying some more of life's needs. Food, yes. And also, the society of others.)

November 9: Clementines

Mondays can sometimes be the hardest day of the week. There's catching up on e-mail accumulated over the weekend, staff meetings, and then the realization of all that needs to be accomplished in the five days ahead. Especially when the weather is as unseasonably warm as it was today, and all I wanted to do was get out on a trail somewhere to look for sparrows among the dead leaves and weeds.

But small pleasures can be found. The perfectionist workaholic in me appreciates the satisfaction of completing a day's tasks well and making a good start on the work week. And there are the day-long distractions of the titmice at my feeder, scolding each other with more aggressive vigor than one would expect in such tiny birds. Or the lingering citrus fragrance of fresh-peeled clementines that transports me from a dim office on a November afternoon to somewhere tropical and exotic...

Blue bowl, orange fruit.
Sweet clementines for my lunch--
perfumed taste of Spain.

November 8: Football

Although the focus of traditional haiku was the natural world, contemporary haiku--especially contemporary American haiku, no less--has been more wide-ranging in topic. My personal lens is a natural one. Birds, weather, and the outdoor world generally inspire and inform my writing, one reason why I am drawn to haiku as a form of aesthetic expression. Which is why I surprised myself with today's poem.

On this uncharacteristically warm November morning, I went for what may well have been my last outside run for the season. We joined friends for a neighborhood brunch, at which we marveled at being able to sip our mimosas on the deck. I spent some time tromping around in the leaves in the back yard. It seemed like everyone was out for a walk. But this is Sunday: football day. So while we opened some windows to continue to enjoy the unseasonable warmth, we were on the couch when this afternoon's game came on.

I am an unabashed sports fan, avidly following the Red Sox and the Patriots. I also enjoy watching top-level golf and tennis tournaments, and have harbored a secret passion for horse-racing since childhood. (Having now made that confession, I can't resist a small aside here celebrating yesterday's victory of the undefeated, 5-year-old mare Zenyatta in the Breeder's Cup Classic. This race had never been won by a female, and Zenyatta had never been run against the boys, but she was the favorite--everyone was holding up "Girl Power" signs. I am not ashamed to admit that her dominating, come-from-behind win versus a strong field that included this year's Kentucky Derby and Belmont Stakes winners made me cry.)

So, I take my sports seriously. And Sundays revolve around the Patriots in this house. There are few athletic feats more satisfying to watch than Tom Brady throwing a perfect pass to Randy Moss, who then cruises across more than half the field dodging Miami defenders to score a touchdown that puts us once more in the lead. And a reference to football is as appropriate a seasonal marker for autumn as falling leaves and the harvest moon, right?

Randy Moss touchdown,
Pats take the lead. Have to cheer!
So sorry, old cat.

November 7: Prayer Flags

Every morning before beginning my day I sit at my desk and check my e-mail while looking out the window at my back yard. We live on the Megunticook River below Seabright Dam, so the water course is rather narrow here. But we can often hear the river's soothing rush. Birds move through trees that form a screen of sorts between our house and the water. Right now a flock of crows is noisily making its way through the neighborhood. Because most of the branches are bare, I can see where they land; their bodies bob up and down with each yell.

A hollowed stump holds a last lingering chrysanthemum, brave purple blossoms capped by a pile of fallen leaves. One tree retains most of its foliage, a young maple that was the last to turn. Its wide bright leaves, turned up to the morning sun like so many outstretched palms, scatter and twirl in all directions in a true shower of gold. A mosaic of russets and golds from maple, beech, ash and oak carpets our lawn. And our mossy-roofed shed sits in the middle, blocking the best water view, but also blocking our winter view of nearby houses that become very visible once the branches are bare. Our tiny space is contained in its way, bound by the river and a steep bluff, and a fence one one side. A neighbor's dog barks in the distance, and nearby someone chain-saws fallen branches, making firewood for the winter ahead.

A string of Buddhist prayer flags hangs above our shed door: blue, white, red, green, and yellow (symbolizing sky, wind, fire, water, and earth) against the white of the shed. When the wind flutters the flags, it spreads the blessings inscribed on each piece of cloth throughout the surrounding space of my yard, the neighborhood, the river...  This morning I notice that a maple leaf has landed exactly at the end of the string, gold leaf right next to a yellow scrap of fabric, as if it wanted to be part of the "wind horse." It too is inscribed with a mantra written in the calligraphy of its veins. The crows, chickadees, and busy squirrels will benefit from this blessing when it eventually blows away.

Fallen maple leaf
joins the string of prayer flags--
all spread their blessings.

(Unfortunately this was taken before the leaf positioned itself at the end of the string.)

November 6: Gulls

Some days I'm just driving around minding my own business when poetry throws itself in front of me. Today while carrying out an ordinary errand in Rockland, I was startled into attentiveness by a pair of gulls flying above my car, the light catching their wings and bodies in a way that made them glow angelically. I actually slowed my car to watch them.

Caught me by surprise
over Route One, McDonald's--
flash of white feathers.

Of course, these gulls are among the noisy gang that vigorously scavenge food scraps in the McDonald's parking lot, so not the most likely source for an afternoon epiphany. But that juxtaposition of the sacred and profane of sorts made the moment all the more enlightening--to find beauty amid the ordinary ugliness of fast food restaurants at a busy intersection gave me a brief sense of renewed joy in the greater world. It woke me up, made me aware of where I was and what was around me. Reminded me of the poetry to be found in the mundane if we catch a glimpse from just the right angle.

Further along Route One, a swirling whirlwind of hundreds of leaves rose up over my car, dipping and scattering like small brown birds. Another lovely moment. My favorite song came on. For a few minutes, I was acutely conscious of being happy.

And then I got stuck at a light, a car cut me off, and my mind started to focus again on the next task at hand, shifting out of that brief phase of awareness into just driving back to work.

November 5: First Snow

Driving south to Bath this morning, I was surprised when the slushy rain changed over to big snowflakes. The snow was even sticking, forming some wide roadside patches. Although last month we had light snowfall along the ridgeline of the Camden Hills, that doesn't really count as "first snow" for me because I didn't get to touch it. Now wet flakes coat my hair, if just for the brief moments I am outside my car.

The first snowfall has the power to transport me into the near future. I catch myself thinking about what I might give my family members for Christmas and how I hope to snowshoe on a river front property in Belfast that will become a new Land Trust preserve in late December, looking for winter finches in the old farm fields there. These thoughts anticipate the pristine blankets of snow that decorate picture postcard views of "winter in New England" that show up on mass-produced calendars you get from your insurance agent or fuel guy. They bring to mind the serene winter scenes depicted in 19th century woodblock prints (ukiyo-e) by such Japanese masters as Hiroshige and Hokkusai--snow-draped bare branches curving over a busy footbridge, the cone of snow-whitened Mount Fuji, snow decorously trimming the eaves of a tea house or temple...

Yet now even the snow that dusted a shorn corn field just an hour ago has melted away, and the snow has transitioned back to rain. And I'm brought back to the reality of weather on the Maine coast, where our snow often melts into rain, or worse, sleet or ice. Not that I'm really ready for winter yet anyway. But maybe the transitory beauty of those first fluffy flakes falling on the still-gold leaves has better prepared me for winter's imminent onset.

First falling snow flakes
brush the burnished autumn leaves,
melt in their gold fire.

November 4: Crows at Dusk

I've had better days. I got to work late because allergies had me feeling low this morning. The disappointing election results defeating the gay marriage bill--and reading all the messages of pain and sadness from friends gay and straight around the country--certainly didn't help raise my spirits. I'm still adjusting to the fact that by the end of my work day it's full night outside, pitch black dark. I can't even see the way to my car without the aid of that little flashlight on my key chain. And my husband's away, so I came home to a chilly, empty house to microwave a lame frozen dinner for myself (my husband is the cook in the family).

I don't say all this to vent and whine about my life or about politics--I don't want this to be that kind of blog (though some may argue that everything I write is about my life in some way, and/or that everything is political). Instead, I include these details about my day as a way to explain the stark mood that settled on me at about 4:30 p.m., when dusk began to creep in behind the increasingly bare branches, and the passing cries of the local crows sounded almost desperate. Personal mood affects the way you perceive the world. And how you express it creatively. So here is my bleak November afternoon, distilled into 17 syllables:

Crows fly past, cawing

as the afternoon deepens--

dark feathers, branches.

(Because I don't like to linger in darkness for too long, however, I hasten to add that I actually enjoy this particular frozen dinner (Ethnic Gourmet's palak paneer) and am looking forward to curling up on the couch with my cat to watch Pedro Martinez pitch in Game 6 of the World Series tonight.)