Tag: Authors

July 16, 2014

 

palacio            On one of the PBS globe trotting shows, the hostess is in Barcelona. I am seeing locations known by Salvador Dali and Picasso. I am intrigued. I am also reminded of a comment recently made by one of my blog readers. My writing style reminds her more of Latin American and European writers than those of North America. It is not the first time I have heard this, and I was tempted to say, but I’ve never been published in Europe or Latin America. Instead, I listen and consider. Yes, I do love Pablo Neruda, Kafka, Elizabeth Borchers. I have also immersed myself in Kabir and Rumi.

 

I am equally fond of Thomas Merton, Emily Dickinson, Theodore Roethke, Sylvia Plath, Leonard Cohen and others. Though labels sometimes get in the way, what cannot be denied is that we love what we love.

 

On today’s walk, picking up deadwood in the forest area of the land under our care, I felt a sweet peace. I was wearing the toe shoes my daughter bought me after I broke my foot and felt well balanced in my stride. I could detect varying textures of earth underneath my feet, which somehow gave me a strong sense of belonging, after so many years of displacement and disruption in my life. This way of walking, that sensation of connection to earth, has a name given by the indigenous people of Borneo, I was told by someone born there—one is said to have “jungle feet.”

junglefeet

July, 17, 2014

 

We had a guest today, a long-time friend, who moved away, leaving a hole in our lives. There wasn’t much time, just enough for a cup of tea and conversation that felt unfinished at the end.

 

How difficult goodbyes can be, bringing to the foreground the direct experience of life’s constant movement. Yesterday, the day seemed solid and steadfast; today, I am faced with a stark sense of impermanence. And yet, there is something more.
The Presence of Absence

Between your departure and absence
my longing to have said what I didn’t
expands through space like a sound
that can’t be heard.
When you drove far away
consciousness extended until the currents
are as subtle
and powerful
as silence.

And between two points of separation
lies a vibrant electromagnetic field..

Can you see the light from my body
surge faster than your car?
Will you know me when I wait to greet you
at your destination?

 

© Gudrun Mouw

A Poem Personal Updates

lavender

It’s chilly today and very windy. The native sage bushes fling up. The English garden building comes alive with moving shadows on the siding. Lavender blooms burst forth purple from every stem.

Spring swings with constant movement, yet I am content to sit. I am happy to sit inside the house, and the house sits inside me. I am the house. The house is me. Walls feel porous. Ceiling are higher than they appear, and the floor tingles under my feet.

I am happy to swim this conscious stream. My father’s paintings do not make me cynical. The drumming angel from my daughter’s Mexican travels stands quietly overhead surrounded by the oldest living indoor plant I have ever had. This is the place to be. Here. Now. Strongly. Tenderly…so that a painful subject may arise and be healed.

I am reminded of the professor who said to me, “You are an immigrant. English is not your first language.” He looked at me skeptically. “You are an English Literature major? You want to be a writer?” He shook his head. He said worse, but my mind had already shut down. I considered changing my major to philosophy. In the end, I did not.

I finished my BA and MA; afterwards, I spent many evenings in the university library reading the tragic lives of numerous writers who rarely published during their lifetimes, or were sadly handicapped, or undervalued in some way. I worked as a substitute teacher during the day; eventually, I found a college teaching job.

I am partly retired now and can afford the time to contemplate the odd twists of life. Where does stubborn persistence end and creative inspiration begin? How is it that in a state between two languages I often find something strange and new and interesting?

I look outside, and the hills, the pine, the oak, the grasses and the sandstone do not name themselves in any recognizable language. They present themselves just as they are, unadorned, free, unencumbered by anyone’s judgment.
Gudrun

 

Personal Updates