slow morning

the past few mornings, i have been giving myself time. i don't need to be anywhere, and even though i have plenty of things to do, my body thanks me for the extra hour or two of quiet before i begin the day.

this morning, i stumbled across a handful of lovely blogs. i love these collections of other people's snapshots and musings--everyone needs a little inspiration. i would like to start recording my inspirations in a simple way, as these do.


http://gracefullady.blogspot.com/
http://greenolivesdesign.blogspot.com/
http://www.hearblack.com/
http://folkloricblog.blogspot.com/

also: listening to this song.



b

hello june

walked across a stage.

earned first tips.

secured housing.

packing packing packing.


b

Think, after so many times, how/nothing is pure or completely/lost.

Landscape

Josh Booton

I love you, she said, meaning

why do you always have to be

like that. And he, turned

to the window--the loose tunings

of telephone wire, the half-drawn shades

across, a woman or man naked

from behind--thought,

after so many times, how

words mean more or less than

they mean to, are made up

of other words, agreements

for flux or inflection

or whole lives. So that

hotpot means that morning in Prague

when she burned her arm

and he mimed fire,

with his hands, to the young pharmacist

who gave him Astroglide

and her a scar, strangely the shape

of Czechoslovakia, to remember by.

Or why those nights,

he home drunk but happy,

she would listen to him

in the dark, taking off his clothes

and the whole evening--

the tipsy tables and forced jokes,

the brief signatures of smoke;

how the waitress called him

honey across the bartop's honey shellac,

the mile home--and think: watermelon.

Think, after so many times, how

nothing is pure or completely

lost. Each word to usher

the world in, each world

to make the words less sure.

Until there is nowhere to stand

except at the window

looking out on cars for miles

and think: desire.

Nowhere to turn but to her

through the black-earth scent of coffee,

the country blues from another room.

I love you, too, he said.

i miss poetry.

b

colorful things

sunshine

citrus

canned goods

swatches

haight st

flags

camas

carrots

sky

b

hood canal

hood canal

outside the window bank
small blue waves pass on their
endless way too and from
the end of the canal
brushing unknown depths

and here we three sit
each lost between pages
scrabble tiles scattered across the floor
the table set for dinner
later we will play games
maybe drink a beer

but in this moment
the silence between two songs
on an old scratched CD
we sit on the edge of the water
and that is more than enough

on the water

small worlds


lena lake hike

at the lake


cabin

mt. walker hike

view of the olympics


perfect calm

last evening on the water


b

let's not let this be true

from this week's postsecrets

anxiety

i am well acquainted with stress. i don't know how, after (almost) four years of college, i could have avoided that. stress is a strange sensation. i feel it bodily--not just in the blocked up sensation in my brain, but also in how my limbs become restless and my breathing rate rises, and how i start to sweat. the thing about stress though, is that i know how to handle it. i've become quite adept at ignoring it. passing it over. hiding it behind other things. it lets me do that: it's sufficiently dull to shove under a to-do list somewhere, and know that it won't show its face again for a while. lately though, i've been experiencing a new feeling. something different than stress; something that i don't quite know how to handle. and i have decided that it is anxiety.

for me, anxiety is a horrible sensation. just like stress, i feel it physically, and it is much harder for me to ignore. it's a kind of pressure, like some enormous invisible hand was holding me tight, and then squeezing. it feels like drowning: it's hard to catch my breath, and i'm afraid to because when i exhale, the tears threaten to tumble out.

last week, i found myself clinging to the edge of the kitchen sink, fighting back tears that i had no real explanation for. sure, it was a horrifically busy day. sure, i had to drive to portland for a thesis interview immediately after attending five hours of class in a row. sure, i had a long list of reading assignments and a detailed outline of dates and times scheduling out how it was i would manage to eek out a thesis draft in a little over a week. but i've done this before. it wasn't like it was new, or that i had double booked myself, or hadn't yet found a car to get to that interview. it was going to be okay. but even though i knew that was true, it was all just too much.

i don't really know how to deal with this new feeling of anxiety. i can't hide from it, and when i try it just gets worse. but i also don't know where to begin. do i stop sleeping so i have time to finish everything i'm supposed to get done in a day? do i stop hanging out with friends in the evening so that i can complete job applications? do i eat whatever happens to be in the fridge instead of taking the time to slow down and make a meal that will actually feed me? none of these options are viable. at least not for me.
there are certain things that i refuse to sacrifice. sanity, for one. sleep, for another. time, for a third. without these things, nothing i do will make any sense, and i will have missed too many opportunities. that would only add guilt to the list. that's the last thing i need. after spring break and this draft, maybe i can figure out a few ways to take back control--something i was doing so well only a couple of months ago.

b