Elemental Portraits readings

A found poem on Ram Dass

He sits in the deep shadows of a long evening.

His wheelchair moored against an old picnic table. 

Silence. The mind is, he says. Leaves rustle in the soft breeze. 

The creek offers blessings over rocks, whispers. Silence. 

The mind, he says again. Silence. His eyes close, 

his head tilts towards the stars, as he searches for words. 

Doctors see the brain as the mind. He says, the heart,

a sudden rush of language. The mind, he says. Silence.

Before my stroke, I was looking forward. 

Are you still? No, he said. Silence. The mind.

But I’m here now. The creek answers.

A riff from an article I read in the Chronicle, Stroke Teaches Ram Dass Anew to `Be Here Now' / Spiritual teacher slowly recovering by Don Lattin 

Poet/Painter Series at The French Quarter in Rohnert Park, curated by Geri diGiorno

Poet/Painter Series at The French Quarter in Rohnert Park, curated by Geri diGiorno, funded by Poets & Writers and the Lannan Foundation.

You can see the scratchboards here. And the poem here. It's a pity I no longer remember which line went with which piece of art.

Journal entry, May Day. Beltaine

5/1            May Day. Beltaine. Odd to think I walked over the bones of Campbell of Glendyon—responsible for the massacre of Glencoe—in Brugge last summer with my cousin Dave. History lives beneath the shadows of our feet. I read about Scotland because of Neil, but have given up hope of consummating the relationship I was so sure would happen. All the false signals. But my dreams are rarely wrong. What goes here? I’m tired of waiting for the dance to begin. He hasn’t time for me, this fickle Scotsman who is to return home to Johnstone within the month. I’m disappointed, I thought he had more integrity. Did I read him wrong?

I read about the highland sheep shed their winter crop for the wool mills of Flanders. The unwinding of the thread that began in the highlands to Philip of Spain and the death of Charles V that set the turmoil of boundaries, nationhood and religion into action. The Jacobites. Bonnie Prince Charlie. The blood-soaked fields. 

It’s been nearly 25 yeas since I saw the fields of  Colloden Mór. One summer I stood in front of the statue of Willem of Orange in Leiden. This was the man my ancestral country still sheds blood over. The Orange Men. Dutch Willem (King Billy) became defacto king of Scotland. I read about the other William—Wallace, Braveheart. What has it to do with my life—other than my first boyfriend was a direct descendent of Robert the Bruce, and carried his name, plus Hamilton to the end of the 20th century. 

Neil was very nearly born beneath Wallace’s statue in Paisley. And Neil’s family from Tyrone were clansmen to my own family. I awoke singing “Come Back Paddy Reilly to Balley James Duff,” only to realize my grandfather was born near Baille Sheámus Dubh, at the crossroads of Moyne, our farm: Fiora. 

Philip of Spain sent a relation (my uncle’s namesake), John Alexander Reilly to build a fortress in Cuba. Many of my family married back into their own Irish clans: Walsh, Reilly, Sullivan. And into Irish and Scottish clans here in San Francisco: Ward, McCarthy, O’Neill, Driscoll, Dinsmore. A distant cousin of mine, Maureen O’Neill, could pass for Neil’s sister. I like the ring of that name.

Journal, Mayday memorials

5/1 May Day. Beltaine. Odd to think I walked over the bones of Campbell of Glendyon—responsible for the massacre of Glencoe—in Brugge last summer with my cousin Dave. History lives beneath the shadows of our feet. I read about Scotland because of Neil, but have given up hope of consummating the relationship I was so sure would happen. All the false signals. But my dreams are rarely wrong. What goes here? I’m tired of waiting for the dance to begin. He hasn’t time for me, this fickle Scotsman who is to return home to Johnstone within the month. I’m disappointed, I thought he had more integrity. Did I read him wrong?

I read about the highland sheep shed their winter crop for the wool mills of Flanders. The unwinding of the thread that began in the highlands to Philip of Spain and the death of Charles V that set the turmoil of boundaries, nationhood and religion into action. The Jacobites. Bonnie Prince Charlie. The blood-soaked fields. It’s been nearly 25 yeas since I saw the fields of Colloden Mór. One summer I stood in front of the statue of Willem of Orange in Leiden. This was the man my ancestral country still sheds blood over. The Orange Men. Dutch Willem (King Billy) became defacto king of Scotland. I read about the other William—Wallace, Braveheart. What has it to do with my life—other than my first boyfriend was a direct descendent of Robert the Bruce, and carried his name, plus Hamilton to the end of the 20th century. Neil was very nearly born beneath Wallace’s statue in Paisley. And Neil’s family from Tyrone were clansmen to my own family.

I awoke singing “Come Back Paddy Reilly to Balley James Duff,” only to realize my grandfather was born near Baille Sheámus Dubh, at the crossroads of Moyne, our farm: Fiora. Philip of Spain sent a relation (my uncle’s namesake), John Alexander Reilly to build a fortress in Cuba. Many of my family married back into their own Irish clans: Walsh, Reilly, Sullivan. And into Irish and Scottish clans here in San Francisco: Ward, McCarthy, O’Neill, Driscoll, Dinsmore. A distant cousin of mine, Maureen O’Neill, could pass for Neil’s sister. I like the ring of that name.

5/7 How frustrated I am by distance and bad timing. True, my phone’s been out of order for a week, but I left messages for Neil to call me at a neighbor’s. I know I can be hard to reach, but it seems I have to call him three times for his every one call, playing phone tag for weeks on end. By the time he did call, I was too distraught to pick up the phone. He’d picked up on a line of mine, repeating my message: “I’m beginning to take this personally.” I wailed for an hour, grief bubbling up, drowning me. I was so desolate I had to call someone. Verona wasn’t home. Ann Erickson was very good about listening to an inarticulate friend crying over spilt milk. I returned his call when I was more composed, it was another two days before he returned my call. His sense of timing, very different than mine. Has he any idea of the grief he’s caused me with all this waiting? Or broken dates? (Or how hard it is for me to call him once—let alone, three times—I’m weirdly old-fashioned.) I retrace the whole gambit of emotions from hope, expectation, to anger and despair, so by the time he actually calls, I’m flattened from my roller coaster emotions.

Geraldine says, “You’re blaming Neil for not calling you. You want someone to blame.” True. This is it. He’s outa my life for good. I’ve had it! I channeled my anger into cleaning my truck, inside and out, even under the hood. It took me three days. I was so savagely thorough, the truck wouldn’t start. In my cabin, I attacked piles of clutter, spring cleaning had begun. Verona called about Herman’s birthday; Neil called her wanting to know if I’d be there (I told him no), she said “Yes,” twisting my arm to come. I said I had no idea how I’d act; angry, cool. She advised, “No, no! Just be yourself. You have so much power and magnetism. Draw on it.”