There's just as much inspiration here

And then can you believe it I, me, got a hankering to watch a football game for the first time in at least a dozen years. And then can you believe it when we looked up the schedule that was available in our area Penn State was playing Michigan in the prime time game. And then we put on the game and I sat rapt for the next several hours, yelling at the TV occasionally get him or stop im stop him stop him yessssssss, thinking about kaiser rolls with a little mayo, a little mustard, turkey and Swiss and some romaine lettuce and a slice of tomato, generous side of gherkins and dill pickles, Martin's potato chips, remembering the door open to the green-treed yard and my mom yelling, dad on his feet with excitement, missing my siblings, my parents, my childhood dogs. And then can you believe it we won.


All week we have cared for two dogs and Hanna has loved it and aside from needing to wipe down two wet bellies after that chilly impromptu dip in the river so have I



Yesterday we drove the dogs up, up until rain turned to snow and then we hiked through a winter wonderland--snowy creeks, meadows, wooden bridges over water. Evergreen forests tall enough to make you crane your neck


Don't go back to sleep 



Hanna you've got this

Four pumpkins perched comfortably about the living room as if they owned the place, one on top of the bookshelf, one on top of the crate tipped sideways and filled with cookbooks, board games, old magazines, one on top of the speaker out of which we blasted 1990s concerts while deep cleaning the apartment with the windows open

As I write Wilson sits on my chest pressing the top of his head into my mouth and I with my arms extended 'round either side of him rest my occasionally kissing lips on his sweet orange little fuzz head


So many vivid dreams this week I'm pretty sure Ben Stiller wanted to fuck me

What I enjoyed more than knowing that he found me interesting was cussing out that dickbag who squeezed my right butt cheek

Most of all what I am enjoying is my waking life--so many family cuddle times and sleeping better and writing more and eating well and reading poetry and remembering to play a bit and, as my guides have suggested, dancing




After we hiked through the creeksides and meadows and forests in snow we all piled back into the car and exclaimed over the fun we'd had

We're all in our amygdalas

Don't put me on a pedestal; I'm no longer willing to do the work to stay on it

Letting myself be a human being these days


Is his desire triggering to me?

When he doesn't ask I slide off the couch and onto my knees


I'm happy for you that you're getting married. I hope it goes well

Life changes go with it



I trusted everything but my own experience

Walk the snowy trail with my tongue sticking out


I'm a see-er

Genius doesn't work on humanity's timetable



Two nights ago four happy dogs of all colors shapes and sizes surrounded me as I dolled out treats and it was one of the best experiences of my entire life



Culture has taught us to worship something that isn't our own hearts


Remember the sound of coyotes howling

"The last time we met you said YOLO to me"

Sick but still a 20-mile bike ride, worth it

Lying on my back on the couch hair wet from showering

Waiting for the comforter to finish drying so I can put it on the bed, too cold now to sleep without it



I thought of a really cool line earlier

Last week I saw three hawks fighting in the air in front of a cliff

Today during my bike ride I saw two hawks, but this time they were resting on branches in miles-apart trees



Now that someone has told me I'm good of course I'm worried about being a quack

People condescend to my chosen letters and so I don't tell many people

It's not that I care what they think, it's just that I'd rather not deal with it



Amazing to realize that I am needing less external validation. In the past even one person disliking me would be agonizing. Now in many cases I truly do not care

For some reason I am remembering walking and biking through that playground park on the sleepy west (west?) side of that middle-of-the-state town, leaves aflame with Fall



In just a few weeks I have written nearly 30 pages. What will I accomplish when I'm doing this regularly for two whole years? A lot of pages. A lot of writing. A lot of processing. A lot of understanding. A lot of healing. A lot of focusing. A lot of liberation.


That woman had been waiting her whole life for a chance to walk the runway, and even though it was a surprise and she hadn't been practicing she was beyond ready to deliver



You just step up to the plate and play ball

"Vivas to those who have failed: for they become the river."

-From "Vivas To Those Who Have Failed: The Paterson Silk Strike, 1913" by MARTÍN ESPADA

"Failing and Flying" by Jack Gilbert

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.

It's the same when love comes to an end,

or the marriage fails and people say

they knew it was a mistake, that everybody

said it would never work. That she was

old enough to know better. But anything

worth doing is worth doing badly.

Like being there by that summer ocean

on the other side of the island while

love was fading out of her, the stars

burning so extravagantly those nights that

anyone could tell you they would never last.

Every morning she was asleep in my bed

like a visitation, the gentleness in her

like antelope standing in the dawn mist.

Each afternoon I watched her coming back

through the hot stony field after swimming,

the sea light behind her and the huge sky

on the other side of that. Listened to her

while we ate lunch. How can they say

the marriage failed? Like the people who

came back from Provence (when it was Provence)

and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.

I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,

but just coming to the end of his triumph.

From "Passing Through" by Stanley Kunitz

The way I look

at it, I’m passing through a phase:   

gradually I’m changing to a word.   

Whatever you choose to claim   

of me is always yours;

nothing is truly mine

except my name. I only

borrowed this dust.

"Poem Without An End" by Yehuda Amichai (translated by Chana Bloch)

Inside the brand-new museum

there’s an old synagogue.

Inside the synagogue

is me.

Inside me

my heart.

Inside my heart

a museum.

Inside the museum

a synagogue,

inside it

me,

inside me

my heart,

inside my heart

a museum