Santa Cruz, poppies n sea

Big Sur River

Pfieffer Cove, Big Sur

Deetjen's Big Sur

Big Sir

The speed of this luxury is going to catch up with me very, very soon. I am so undisciplined, so ordinary and lurky and all of my sentences read the same. My mom said never to spend a minute doing anything I won't remember a day or two later. My response is to do useless painless things all day and then write about them in an empty way because they are so lackluster that I'll forget them. Clearly, the strategy is misguided, but here I am anyway. These are some photos from Mystical Dayzzz 2k11. Many more to come, here's hopin.

A moment after I posted that last entry, my mother called to tell me my grandmother had passed. And that my dad was on his way to Russia and no one knew where my brother was (turns out he made it to the North Pole after all). And as much as I cursed myself for having mourned only for my own loss, I kept the new sorrow at bay. And I mindlessly scanned my photographs and drank with my friends. I am so afraid to  get trapped below the water. I feel on the edge of something novel, vast, and murky. I am completely and honestly terrified to lose the light. I tear at my hair when I'm alone. I invent hopeful outcomes to get through the day and night. Above all, I am regretful and inward, and I don't know how to pray for other people because I am afraid to take on their losses as well. I stared through the palms today and sang "Hosanna in the highest" and I want time to speed up or back up and for me to have flown there and seen my grandmother one last time and picked boysenberries from her garden and learned her recipe for honey buns. And I want one more time for his arms to find me in the night. The end was near and the end has come. They tell me that the glory is Yours, and that my soul will be restored. I repeat the words one hundred times a day in the hope that I will learn to believe them, and feel everyone's pain but my own because mine does not matter, not to the kingdom, not to the crocus bulbs that finally blossom into the weather's new warmth.

Endless numbered days.

The one thing I have learned through all of this, is that love is the most holy heavenly objective in the base world. Let none of you hear what I have heard so many times over: "I loved you for two-and-a-half years, and I fought for you, and now it is over." Like an episode, or a book, or anything whose edges mean finality.

How can he fail to feel what moves me, and what moves in the air around me? I am helpless, and deceived, yet I am in possession of the greatest clarity I have ever felt. I despise what I had been for those years, the petty, trifling, moody little girl that I was, and I love only what faith has bloomed since. And I love him. I will always love him. And all of the kindness that has been handed to me, graciously, with nothing wanted in return. Even in light of that, I feel like it is all over. If I were to stop lying to myself, I would have to say that there is nothing left but faith and hope for another love like I had, and finding that love, wholeheartedly and without substitution, in the weather, in the work, and in wakefulness.

Lord, have mercy upon me. I don't want my heart back, but for it to be given entirely to others. Instead of withdrawing, I will let my love spread from one man to all other instances of kindness, grace, and diligence. Lord, have mercy upon me.

In the Taizé tradition, the first few words.

Jesus, remember me, when I come into your kingdom.

Father, forgive me...
Mother, don't cry for me...
Lover, forget me...
Sorrow, let me be...

Jesus, remember me.

I'll be home when I will.

I'm sitting on the corner of the bed, and I'm watching how naturally everything has falling into place since we made our home here. The cords to all the lamps coil into the burrows between the desk and the chest and the bed. The mirror has found the most upright position where it will never slip. All the clothes hang exactly down, centered and straight. I've inadvertently acquired so many southwestern prints that the room looks as much as a desert as is acceptable in the cold Northeast. There are spaces in the bookshelf where some are being read. Two people had lived here, and one is now sleeping in the living room and the other is sitting on the corner of their bed.

And as quickly as I came, I've gotta get out. Find my own home and build it in myself. Find in the Big Sur coast, and the desert monuments, and the southern porches this summer. And not in whiskey, or loneliness, or the same old songs over and over. The day is coming ever nearer!

From cup to thorn to crown.

Still deciding whether to live in Navajoland for a bit this summer. I only know that I need to see this for myself. I'm a tentative traveler when I'm on my own, and alone is how I go.

From indiansummervintage.wordpress.com

Secrets of the easy yoke.

"If all that's left is duty, I'm falling on my sword; at least then I would not serve an unseen distant Lord.

Could someone tell me the story of sinners ransomed from the fall? I still have never seen you, and some days I don’t love you at all. If this is only a test, I hope that I’m passing, because I’m losing steam. But I still want to trust you.

Peace, be still. "