Summer Dreams

If I sat at my Heavenly Father's feet right now, and if He weren't too busy with a war or tornado, I'd touch his knee and ask Him: "Should I be afraid?'
I don't know what He'd answer. I can't hear Him. He is silent on this point. I wonder if He has ever been afraid, and if so, whom did He ask? Whose knee did He lean against? Is there another God above our God?

 I feel inept today. Just out of my reach, just beyond my fingertips is some great and wonderful "thing." I can feel it, at certain times more than others. But I can't take hold of it. It does not fill me up like I know it can. When I look at a flower in my garden, a sunflower that grows all by itself with no help from me into this delicate red fragility, I still can't reach inside it and grasp its fullness. A veil hangs there. Sometimes a moon shines through the trees in my backyard, and I watch it as it moves from branch to branch. But I watch it from a distance. It isn't really mine. And I ache with longing for more. I want more of the moon, more of its roundness and glow, more of the symmetry of moons and trees. A cat brushes up against my leg, I can feel him moving as he twists back again and rubs his head against my Levis with some kind of energy called "life," which is . . . what? This energy, this life, that I can sense is running, little by little, out of me with every passing year.

I used to dream of such high things, but, I can't remember these dreams; I can only remember their intense possibility, the endless hope of some grand destiny, the sense that nothing was impossible, nothing would be left undone. I do not remember fear. I remember the confusion, a lack of direction, complications, but I didn't care. It was just the stuff that came along with the dreams. I sensed even then that a god was my father, and that He was caring for the universe while I skipped along in my little bubble of happiness--glad for a body that could run and sing and dance. He would smooth out the path and be around every corner to protect and lift and lead.
. . . .

 But He didn't protect us . . . or rather, maybe, we really didn't understand the reality of living--its ups and downs, and swirls of light in the darkness, and endless hell.  I'm glad I took pictures in my mind of those hopeful times because they passed quickly.

 I've heard His voice before.
 It is out of this longing for his presence again that my writing comes. . . . Is anybody here?

Journal Entry 10/2/2015

I wish I hadn't told anyone that I sold my camp trailer today. I feel slightly nauseated. I guess I want some sort of recognition or, at the very least, a slight understanding of how hard it was to reduce a dream full of pine trees, highways, and rivers to dollar signs.  I dreamed of the freedom of now, of moving through different landscapes, of shaking off Idaho, of watching others walk through colorful lives, of meeting nomads on the road, sitting on a beach again unaware of time.
Then, I had to reel it all in like gathering blown away threads and draw it close to wrap it up and drop it on Craigslist like crumpled up paper.
But, who did I think would see this? I live my life alone.

Home

No one knew this river home like I did.

Some, more friends than I can count,

dug their feet, deep, into the river's mud

and, on weekends, claimed it for their own.

Those moments they take away forever

But, I knew this river every hour of each season.
I watched the first single leaf in autumn

fall from a tree beyond my kitchen window.

And mourned the last yellow patch of grass
covered by sudden flurries of swift Idaho snow.

I've wrapped up in quilts on a porch swing,

and studied the river carefully in the rain as

small perfect circles rippled outward

breaking against other raindrop circles.

It was easy to breathe there.

I was happiest when the deer came back.

Driven away by loud weekend laughter,

they moved slowly, cautious and wary,

barely parting the air, blending into green,

letting the simple quiet settle again like silk.

The snakes had gone away from there,

though, always, those first years there were two or three

suddenly slithering beneath my feet,

sliding under rocks as I pulled weeds.

We, all, finally leave places where we feel hate.

Oct 2,2015

Resolve

My resolve is to write at least a couple of lines each day on . . . whatever--no matter what happens. I know a couple of lines is a pathetic goal, but at least it's some sort of writing resolve. I just got back from the Writer's Conference in Denver. Megan came with me, which is always wonderful. It intensifies the whole experience because I see and hear the speakers through her eyes as well. Sometimes they seem better than they actually are; sometimes they seem more pompous and arrogant than they really are. I loved eating at the Hard Rock Café with her as she gave me suggestions on what to eat and only took a couple of bites out of her own pulled pork sandwich. We sat next to Stevie Nick's wedding gown. We read scriptures every morning and used all the lush white towels the Marriott had to offer. She coughed her guts out, but she felt better the third day. We walked to the Hyatt Centennial ballroom to hear the main speaker, whom I did not know, but who turned out to be great. He said his own writing is influenced by the books he's reading. They drift through his mind like ashes from a fire burning bright outside a window (paraphrased). Megan loved it also, though she had to leave and cough her throat out in the lobby for awhile. We took pictures of each other later, while writers all around us got drunk at the little tables. As we walked to the sidewalk mall, two men passed us and said, "Wow, I wouldn't be walking at night in a big city if I were two women alone." I didn't hear them, but when Megan told me we burst out giggling. How absurd to two who had ridden around the New York subway at 3 am one year. Megan looked so tailored and professional with her jacket and Writer's badge on. I took a picture of her next to a huge blue bear.
We listened to Kirby read a semi-respectful poem about Jesus, but I couldn't help be offended because He (the Savior) is so sacred to me, but I had to admit it was a good poem as far as poems go.
I remember the huge bright-blue mustang standing in a meadow that we passed driving from the airport; the statue of a cow in the walking mall; the shuttle driver who wanted Meg to drive after he got in the passenger side instead of the driver's side; Megan getting me glasses of water; eating salads at a very loud bar after a reading; listening to Kittridge, whom I thought was dead and whom I admire greatly. I remember introducing Meg to Jack Harrell, whom she thought was a mouse. "Hi, Jack, this is my daughter. Megan, this is your father's friend, Jack." We walked through the hundreds of book publishers, bought cough syrup at 11 pm, and Meg bought me a cinnamon stick before I sat in on a Writers Abroad workshop. Arrived at the airport two big hours early, but sat at a small table, eating nachos and watched people. We were with the wheelchair athletes on the escalator--they broke our hearts with how much they tried.
Watched Hurt Locker but got up early enough to make it to the old church with stained glass windows. Then Ben beat us in three card games, while we waited for the roast to get done.
Beau flew in later that night, and the next day we all ate Italian--real Italian pizza and M. cheese with tomatoes--together in SLC before we drove back. I love my Megan and Beau.
Writing--even these few words--makes me want to cook a good meal. Ha.

For Beau and Megan--always!

And We Always Sing

bob marley - no woman no cry

I love this man.

Dying is as constant as living

Cool green shade
slides across the river.
Even mosquitoes are sleeping.

But bats zip through the nights,
blind, like military jets
heading for warm blood.

Ben Harper Mother Pray Lyrics

How sweet and happy seem those days of which I dream Memories I recall now and then And with a rapture sweet my weary heart would beat If I could hear my mother pray again If I could only hear my mother pray again If I could hear her tender voice as then How happy I would be It would mean so much to meIf I could hear my mother pray again Around the old homeplace her cherishing smiling face Was always bringing comfort joy and cheer And when she used to sing to her eternal King It was the sound I loved to hear If I could only hear my mother pray again If I could hear her tender voice as then How happy I would be It would mean so much to me If I could hear my mother pray again If I could hear my mother pray again If I could hear my mother pray again....

A New York Night

Running fingers through my hair,
I realizing it's turning gray
and think, "So what?
Are you afraid of gray?"
I'm not even afraid of earthquakes,
though snakes still send me running.

My roof is leaking--
irritating.
So I heat up hot chocolate
scratch my dog's back
and listen to Obama
heating up the country.

Tiny slivers of light
played on a hospital wall
the night I bothered God,
Why don't you bring me home?
This is enough.
And God said no, as usual.

He'd rather I travel to NYC
six years later
with my re-born daughter.
We even sang in the subway,
ate steaming hot dogs,
late, 3 am, in the rain.

Wailing the Blues-This Groaning Guitar

Surely We Can Change

Those dreams--those many dreams.

Political Games

Tonight, I listened to Richard Holbroke, a former ambassador to the UN, speak with Charlie Rose about hot spots in the world, about the international hell the next president will inherit. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was listening to an intelligent man who has a coherent vision of not just our problems but of world problems. Kissinger, though I disagreed with him on many things, had a world view also. And his view was objective, though some of his actions may have been immoral. How refreshing to see a bigger picture instead of fragmented chaos. And also to see the possibility of a quiet diplomacy uniting many countries in the world (as soon as Bush is gone). If we don't get more unity at least with our friends and then start on the second tier of solidifying relations with Russia, etc, before China decides to move her giant carcass, we will be in way over our heads.

Phillip Pen from the Washington Post , a Chinese American journalist, spoke about his book Out of Mao's Shadow. I was fascinated. What do these Olympics mean to China? As her coming out party happens, China will have to form some sort of identity. If she chooses to stay with an authoritarian government, fine, as long as the leaders are reasonable and conscientious, but will she export her system to Africa or South America? Here, look, this system is working. Follow us. I am worried when I hear about the round-up of young Chinese dissidents as the Olympics drew near. She is a sleeping giant.
I hope Taylor listens and learns History, so he can act and help others. Yet, I'm not sure we can get him off his skateboard long enough.
It is in understanding others--spending time talking and listening rather than defensive shouting and flexing our American muscles--that will help some sort of unity happen. Russia goes to war with Georgia. A hot spot that we cannot control. Where will we stand? If Russia declares war, can the US stand with them against a small country, which we normally defend? But, what happens if we stand against Russia? Ah, what a mess. I say to myself, you have had enough politics, but everything is political. When we are without ethics, we will be without politics.

Megan on the tracks

FLY "Please, Give me Second Grace" (Nick Drake)

Please give me a second grace
Please give me a second face
I've fallen far down
The first time around
Now I just sit on the ground in your way

Now if it's time to recompense for what's done
Come, come sit down on the fence in the sun
And the clouds will roll by
And we'll never deny
It's really too hard for to fly.

Please tell me your second name
Please play me your second game
I've fallen so far
For the people you are
I just need your star for a day.

So come, come ride in my my street-car by the bay
For now I must know how fine you are in your way
And the sea sure as I
But she won't need to cry
For it's really too hard for to fly.

Another Train

I have a song I want to give to you and Megan, but I don't know the technology to put it in. So I'm hoping you can get it from this URL http://www.petemorton.com/listen.html. Go there and click on Another Train. Hurry while it's still there! xoxo Anne

Nick Drake - A Place to Be

He's so sad. This is like an old English Folkson.


When I was younger, younger than before
I never saw the truth hanging from the door
And now I'm older see it face to face
And now I'm older gotta get up clean the place.

And I was green, greener than the hill
Where the flowers grew and the sun shone still
Now I'm darker than the deepest sea
Just hand me down, give me a place to be.

And I was strong, strong in the sun
I thought I'd see when day is done
Now I'm weaker than the palest blue
Oh, so weak in this need for you.

I should have been a French Hooker in the 1920s

Choice

And yet, we keep breathing. I remember that being a curse in my own life; waking up after dark nights and a thickness in my whole being that weighed me down to where lifting my head up seemed too painful. So much self-loathing rolling empty inside of me. My soul raw and open, an almost animalistic need for the abscence of pain-- anything to numb those sharp edges...

And yet, we keep breathing. Is that our curse or our great blessing?
Let's choose, beautiful mother of mine...

Let it be our blessing. Haven't we found yet, that it is better to be grateful for our handfuls of light (though I dream of more than just handfuls someday) than to continue to hate our own selves? Why not shake our own hands and comend ourselves for not giving up the fight? Instead, why not love ourselvses?

Because who's going to if not us? One of the many great wisdoms that you have built inside of me is to always rely on my inner strength, my Morgan blood. You did NOT give away your birthright... that lives in you, in your blood, your muscles, your mind, and especially your heart. No "man" can take that from you, Mom. And you can't give it away for very long, either. Because you find out that you can't betray yourself for very long without having to change something... And you are no longer betraying yourself in a marraige that had you chained.

Like in that Alanis Morisette song... "Staying with you meant deserting me..." Remember?

I will never tell you to "just let it go" again. That's crazy and ridiculous. Our pain becomes a part of us, just like our joy -- but both are very real and very much wrapped around our very being.

But I will tell you to be grateful for your very breath, Mom. And I will remind you to let yourself laugh today. I'll remind you to stand by your river, with your head back, arms stretched up toward the sky, and allow yourself to inhale that deep smell of the wet grass and trees all around you. And I'll remind you to DANCE, with your soft chinese shawls around your shoulders, spinning in circles like I used to do when I was a little girl.

And I will ALWAYS remind you that I LOVE YOU... So much it's like a seperate piece of me that I can pull from inside me, that gives me comfort and strength and most of all, courage.

I love you, Mom. Let's make friends with our breathing.

Puzzled

There's a movie called Catch and Release that I keep watching over and over, and I don't know why. It’s a movie about friends living together in this hippie house like we did in Moscow. The main character's fiancé dies, and she and his friends try to get over it. They break down and get angry; they laugh, and fish, and paint the rooms. They somehow get on with life. And there's this great music clear through it.
What if I could wish you away? What if you were gone by morning? And Mr. Neil Young sings, nothing is as it seems.
Megan said, "We told you to 'let it go; just let it go, Mom.' That was like telling you to cut off your arm or leg."
How did she know that?
It was more like cutting off both legs with my own knife and watching them bleed, waiting to heal without bothering to stop the bleeding--yet he was a blessing.
But he wasn’t who I thought he was, and I wasn’t who I wanted to be. I have known so many men better than he was. Did I suddenly need safety so much in my life that I sold my “birthright”?
Some days I can't get up because the sun is too bright; some days I can't because there's no sun at all.
But the problem is I do keep breathing--and that's a huge problem.
I am puzzled.

Been ill too long

Today I'm grateful for Me.

I'll always remember...

Desperately trying to navigate the subways of New York City, the only thing running through my mind, "What's the difference between Uptown and Downtown?!?" I hear my mother beside me asking me the words to this song that the Bohemians were strumming on their guitar in the Subway... "I hear her softly singing these words "What I really want to know..., what I really want to say, is I'll be fine... and I'll get by..."
My worries disolved underneath the folds of her voice and I felt joy in rising in me. You know that hollow in your chest that sometimes aches? Well, that's where my joy was.
... And I no longer ached.

My soul is grateful today...

For my family. For the beautiful misfits we are; and how we all just fit together no matter where we're at in our lives. The undercurrent of love and this unbreakable bond we have. I'm grateful for my mother's way of listening to my exhausted, spread thin emotions. Her way of making me feel like I'm really "okay" for the moment. What a gift she is in my life. And whoever reads this, you might think I'm just an overly-affectionate daughter, but I'm really not. It's just truth that she is my light, my friend, my strength. Always has been, and always will.

Your daughter's favorite stuff...

My mother's presence: my home. Thoroughbred horses with their long graceful legs and powerful necks. My mother's ducks. And her river that slows down my mind like nothing else can. Good books, kitten paws, Patch's "I'm so excited to see you" dance. Riverside camping with my family. My Grandfather's tolerant smile and his humble prayers for our family, his quiet way of loving all of his many children/grandchildren. My Grandmother's sweet spirit. My brother's smile. The smell of rain and the color of sage. Ben's slow spreading smile in the wake of my stress-storms; his soft eyes. Comfy pajamas and warm blankets. Watching Sebastian (thinking I can't see him under the rug) carefully sneak out to attack my foot with his ears back when he wants more attention. Fly Fishing. Getting lost in stores shopping with my mother. Photographs. My mother's beautiful power points that speak so much emotion. Being an aunt to my wonderful nephew and niece. My relationship with my God. And so much more... to be continued...

My Favorite Stuffs (I hate the word "things")

(not written in any specific order)

My children, Red Chinese pillows, All of France and Italy, Brayten's endless questions, a well written sentence, Certain old hipsters, Western lakes, Western rivers, Highway #1 down the California coast, Loyal friends, Pieces of bark from the river, Registered Quarter horses, My sister Becky's blue eyes, The smell of Cedar and wet sagebrush, Airports, My mom's tears, Silk sheets, My dad's voice, Curled up puppies, Leather, Deer tracks, Green grass, Purring kittens, Pine trees, Saddles, Elk bugling in the fall, Drift boats, Navajo saddle blankets, Megan's laugh, Rodeos, rodeos, rodeos, Cameras, Spring, Mini Coopers, Sharpened pencils, Beau's sincere smile, Fast grocery checkers, birds (except magpies and buzzards), Mashed potatoes with chicken gravy, The way Taylor cocks his head when he's listening, cold water, guitars, art museums, fresh snow, honest talking, deep sleep, long long long horse rides in the mountains, Jackson Hole Pass, Parker's shy duck of his head, my dad's straight back, walk, and direct look into my eyes;
To be continued . . . (forever)

Spanish Poem--Translation--don't know author

I do not doubt you would have liked
One of those pretty mothers in the ads:
complete with adoring husband and happy children.
She's always smiling, and if she cries at all
it is absent of lights and camera,
makeup washed from her face.

But since you were born of my womb, I should tell you:
ever since I was small like you
I wanted to be myself--and for a woman that's hard--
(even my Guardian Angel refused to watch over me when she heard).

I cannot tell you that I know the road.
Often I lose my way
and my life has been a painful crossing
navigating reefs, in and out of storms,
refusing to listen to the ghostly sirens
who invite me into the past,
neither compass nor binnacle to show me the way.

but I advance,
go forward holding to the hope
of some distant port
where you, my children--I'm sure--
will pull in one day
after I've been lost at sea.
Translated from Spanish by D. Zamora

Heart of Darkness

I don't know why I'm having a hard time writing. I teach others how to overcome "writer's block" every semester. I've taught that concept so much that I'm sick of teaching it. But knowing a lot of tricks around WB doesn't keep its knarly fingers away from tightening around my own brain.
Maybe I don't write this thing that hangs in my brain like dead weight because if I write it, I have to face its truth. All of it. The whole horror of it. Yet, not facing it doesn't make it less true.
My brain is tired of trying to find the "good," the lesson, the positive out of the last 15 years. I wear myself out looking for parts of it to make sense, to be fair, to connect with an eternal plan. But my marriage was a betrayal--my husband betrayed the family, and I betrayed myself.
At the end of Conrad's book Heart of Darkness, the main character is dying. He looks back on his life and says "The horror; the horror."
But, so what? What does all that mean? And do I demand so much meaning from life that I cannot move on without it? Yet, the universe does not yield meaning until we look slant at it. To stamp my foot and scream, "You are foul" will not change one second of my past.