Another Buddha

I don’t want to get into all the stuff going on right now and all the things I need to do, so I’ll just post a pretty picture. Every time I look at it, it makes me relax.

Birthday thoughts

It’s time to think about how to remember Paul on his birthday this year. Had he lived, he would have become forty years old on December 31.

I wonder why I can remember the day he was born so vividly. I can also remember the day he died – over twelve years ago now. Some of the in between is gone, some of the memories may be skewed a bit, but not a day goes by that I don’t acknowledge Paul’s existence in my life.

Maybe it’s enough of a celebration to have a celebration of his life – listen to his music, get out and read from his favorite books – they are still packed in boxes out in the garage – and eat some of his favorite foods – probably those would be pizza and sushi. And continue to write about him.

Many of the poems I’ve written about him appear in my memoir, Leaving the Hall Light On. I think I’ll post a few of those this month too. I’ll also post some more of his pictures. He really was an adorable baby and a good-looking guy. After all, I am his mother, I have a right to boast.

Paul in 1972, less than a year old

Here's one of my favorite Paul poems. I tried to capture his Buddha kind of guy quality. Also, it gives you an idea about the books and music he liked.

Buddha

“The dead we can imagine to be anything at all.”

Ann Patchett, Bel Canto

He sits cross-legged in a tree

deep in concentration,

the way he would sit on the floor of his room

learning against the bed doing homework,

composing music, talking on the phone.

His closed-mouth grin shows

he is pleased to be where he is.

No longer a skinny rail, his cheeks filled out,

his skin clear, his eyes bright.

His tree has everything – soft jazz sounds

flowing from all directions,

deep vees and pillows for sitting and reclining,

the scent of incense and flowers,

branches of books by Miller, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky

the music of Davis, Gould, Bach and Lennon,

and virtual communication to those he loves.

He needs no furniture, no bedding, no clothes, no food.

Those necessities are for worldly beings.

The passing clouds give him comfort

and the stars light his way.

Heaven takes care of him

as he imagines himself

to be anything at all.

Midweek Work Progress Report

This week has been very productive.

I’ve sent off my second piece for the PsychAlive website, and I got word from the editor that it’s ready to go live. The piece is called “Comforting Those Who Grieve.” I’m still awaiting word from my Savvy Over 60 editor about when my November piece for them will be up.

I also started working on a piece for a new blog I’m interested in called, Heartache to Healing, founded by grief coach, author, and speaker, JoAnne Funch. Hopefully, the piece will be good enough that I’ll be allowed to contribute there once in a while as well.

And I started working on my speech that I’m scheduled to make on November 19 for our local chapter of the American Association of University Women. It was suggested I talk about the mental health and suicide prevention services available in our area. I’ll do that and expand the speech to tell my story of healing after my son’s suicide that I describe in my memoir, Leaving the Hall Light On.

And surprise, surprise, I got a chance to write a poem and work on my novel this morning. I plan to continue with my creative work for the rest of this week.

Then this Saturday I’ll be signing my books from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon at the Ventura County Book Fair at the Pleasant Valley Community Park Auditorium, 1605 Brunley Street in Camarillo – about an hour’s drive from my home in Manhattan Beach. I’ll also get a chance to do a ten-minute reading in the early afternoon. So, if you’re in the neighborhood, please stop by. I’ll be at Table 28.

Of course all of this takes place while I continue my everyday social networking work on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, Book Blogs, my blogs on Choices and Red Room and prepare for my next blog tour in the spring. I’ve learned that there is no rest in a writer’s life.

And as my garden Buddha seems to say, it’s all good.

Back from Esalen Institute (Big Sur, CA)

After almost a seven-hour drive, I arrived home Friday evening after a wonderful five days of writing poems, chatting with old friends, hearing some brilliant poems by very talented poets, soaking in the hot sulfur baths, walking Highway 1 north to the South Coast Center, and eating healthy Esalen garden food. Unfortunately the long drive home in sometimes very heavy traffic almost erased all that Esalen wonderfulness.


I did take a few photos so I'll have reminders. This time, rather than take the usual Big Sur ocean and cliff scenes, I gravitated to the many succulent garden areas on the property - some in pots and some in the ground. These gardens were new to me. Like the rest of us water-challenged gardeners, now Esalen is also doing its part to conserve. 


Of course I couldn't resist the little white Buddha or the tree masks I passed everyday on my way back and forth to my workshop room.

I love my garden

Sun Tipped Leaves

An Isolation Poem

Every day I isolate myself in my office.

I sit there for hours

thinking,

looking out my window

at my cement pool and fountain.

And I write a little in between.

I like the isolated space to do my work

I like that my husband stays away

I like the solitude and quiet.

And I like that as the trees rustle outside,

their leaves tipped with sunlight,

I can’t hear their sway

I can’t hear their song. 

First small stones

North end of Manhattan Beach

NaSmaStoMo entries for days one through three:

Jan 1: The puffy white jet streams intersect the morning’s clear blue sky, belying those dire predictions of rain.

Jan 2: The bubbles dance on my cement pool’s surface, waiting for the birds to drink.

Jan 3: My little Buddhas in green, gold, silver, and stone, greet me with laughter, success, and good health. They watch me closely as I write.