Guest Blogger: Lydia Smith

I apologize for the delay this week in presenting my guest blogger.  She is one of my favorite people in this wide world.  Talking with her has always been like drinking from deep streams of water.  She is one of those people who dances in the rain and writes beautiful poetry.  She has a fantastic blog that you can request an invite to.
   So without further ado...Lydia Smith







wandering

thoughts

meander along the labyrinthine routine

of this night day clock

it's a bit confusing
but i see you there

waiting
smiling

seeing

what do you see?

that i don't

my head feels fuzzy

until i find myself embraced by this night's

blanket

i want to be cozy

but i must step out onto the gnarly rocks

that push me towards the waves

of tomorrow's change

Breath by Aaron Tardie (Part 3 of 3)

Later today I will announce the winner of our first ever giveaway but for now here if the last segment of Aaron's short story...

Sometimes she has a way of creeping into my life without me taking notice of her. She comes and sits with me for a moment, but just as I feel her she is gone again. I have to learn how to live each day. I had to learn that in order to grow I must let go of her for a while. I can allow her to creep in, but I cannot let her consume. It took a lot of messing up for me to learn that. I remember when I first learned to function without her, when I learned how to survive. I neglected my feelings out of fear that I would be constantly broken down. Being numb is what kept me alive. 

I moved on from the numb stage and progressed into surviving and breathing on my own, but I was still not alive. I thought I had moved into a place where I was able to create once again, but each time I had arrived I caught the next train backwards. I kept taking that train for some time without realizing it. This happened for months, and eventually it turned into years. After a while I was able to realize I had stepped onto the train, but I had no idea how to convince myself to not get on that damn train. At least I knew I was getting on it—at least I was aware of what I was doing to myself. 

I learned that it was okay for me to go backwards, that it was a part of the whole process, but that realization came only after I let go of all the control I thought I had over the situation. I realized that my emotions were going to come no matter what I thought I could do about it, and my only real option was to choose how I was going to respond to those emotions. I learned that I am not my feelings. Feelings are as transient as the clouds; while they move in and out, I remain the same. Sometimes a storm moved in, but eventually, the storm and the clouds move out. 

Those setbacks became a growing experience; they were a chance to learn about myself. There was a specific time about two years after she had passed away, and I remembered taking out my journal and writing down all the things I loved about myself. I scribbled down everything I thought was important to me and I tried to do it without thinking about her—I found that most of what I valued was because of her. But this was about my own journey, my own discovery, of what I loved. I picked out everything I loved on this page in my journal and decided if it was really something I valued, or if it was something I thought she valued. That process, that car wreck, was beautiful. It was so horrible, so painful, and so foreign, that it bled beauty. 

That journal turned into my journey without her, and from it I was able to learn the two most important things I would ever come know in this life—that I was worth something apart from her and I could create. Accepting those two things changed my life.  

How you doing Wesley?

You know, I’m doing good Tim.

What you working on there?

It’s just side project. I started it years ago, but I just picked it back up. 

You’ve been in the garage quite a bit lately. Just wanted to make sure everything was all right.

I’m fine. It’s a guitar Tim. The wood got here yesterday. It’s going to be a beautiful red mahogany top with a warm spruce backing. The ebony piece for the neck is coming soon too.  

It has been seven years since she went and each night since then Jack and I sit out here next to the fire and sing together hoping that she can hear us and that she will look down at us and laugh as we pee together on the trees. I think about the time I have spent without her here, and how I changed. 

I got up and walked over to smell the berries in the yard, and I felt the fresh dew on my feet. The rhythm in my chest started again. It felt different this time, stronger than before and it hurt a little, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t done looking at my yard. The pounding kept growing, but I ignored it and continued walking around the yard—I liked the way the dew made the soles of my feet wet. The pounding persisted and then it consumed me and I couldn’t find Jack. 

“Jack! Jack! Here boy, come on. I need you buddy. Where did you go?” I said. 

The pounding was getting louder and the pain kept rising. The noise from the hatchet crushing the wood was echoing in my head. I kept hearing the noise and calling out for Jack but he wouldn’t come. Where had he gone? I had stumbled back towards the fire and found myself lying on the bricks. I couldn’t stand up any longer. The noise kept growing and even if Jack had found me I wouldn’t be able to hear him coming. But I still cried out for him. 

“Jack I need you buddy! Come on buddy, I need you!” I said, but still no Jack. 

Maybe he went to pee I thought. Damn dog. The sound from the hatchet breaking the wood remained inside of me but it was fading now. It was quiet in my head. It was still. I was still. I cried out for Jack again but my breath was slow to come out. It was choppy. It hurt as it slipped through the cracks in my lips, and I could no longer cry out. My body collapsed and I lay with my arms and legs sprawled out across the patio, and my fingers curled around the lip of the bricks as I tried to cling to this life. But in this moment I felt safe. And I let go. 

As I lay there I thought I heard whimpering and felt something furry on my arm.

Breath by Aaron Tardie (Part 2 of 3)

Here is the second installment of the short story I posted yesterday...

I focused on my breathing after I had finished the puff of my cigarette. My therapist had gone over several breathing exercises with me shortly after it all happened. She urged me to focus on each breath I took, and to isolate all I was taking in and all I was releasing. She suggested that I name what I was giving away and taking in, and she even suggested putting a color to what I was releasing if I was unable to put words to it. I remembered the training and thought about all the things I had released into the air in the past few years. In the beginning I wanted so badly to release the pain I was feeling, and I wished it could be released by something so simple as breathing. I just wanted all my grief and guilt and anger to fade into the darkness like the smoke from the end of my cigarette. I found it was not the breathing that was the problem; rather, I wanted to let go of the pain before it was time. I needed time to sit with the pain and learn from it, and for it to show me things about who I was, and it did. 

I was breathing heavy now, remembering the first breath I took after it happened. The cold air that escaped from the window that day stung as it entered my lungs. My chest was home to that cold air for a long while. Eventually I learned how to breathe again and how to let the warmth from the air fill my chest. It took a bit of time, but I learned that time was necessary. As I sat by the fire that night I released more pain out of my chest into the darkness. 

I got up to piss. I had been sitting for a long time and had drunk a few cups of wine. Jack saw what I was doing so he got up from his chair and followed me, and we both picked out a tree and marked our territory. Somehow he took longer than I did even though he hadn’t had any of the wine, so I went in the house to grab a flannel. I came back outside and picked up Jack and brought him over to my chair. Jack had a funny way of curling up next to me whenever he sat on my chair. He always stuffed his head right between my back and the chair, which I never understood the reasoning for, and left no room for me to sit. Damn dog. I didn’t mind so much now that it was colder and I could lean in closer to the fire. 

I think it hit Jack harder than it hit me. He used to have more spunk in him before it happened. He moped around with me for those first few months and slept more than usual. He still sleeps more than he used to but that’s not it—he is lost like I was. Well maybe he is just older now. After it happened I thought about getting another dog, but Jack wasn’t into the idea. He was happy with just me, and I realized I was happy with just him. 

I got up from the chair and chopped some more wood for the fire; it wasn’t dying but I was restless. Jack woke up and followed me over to the side yard again. 

“What are you doing, old dog?” I said to him. “Every time I get up you come sniffing around making sure everything is okay. Can I chop this wood? Huh? Is that okay with you, boy?” 

Jack said nothing. He just stared up at me like I was a moron. I finished chopping the wood and carried it back over to the fire. 

The rhythm from the hatchet was beating in my chest again. It was stronger now. It was steady. The fire was blazing and the red glow from coals resting underneath the wood scowled at me. I stared into the fire for a moment and tried to follow the pattern of the flames. My eyes followed from the bottom to the tips of the flames, but I could never stay with them. Their movement was too fast for my eyes. 

I was growing tired and I could tell Jack was too. We had been sitting out there by the fire for hours—it was a little game we played each night. I think we play it because she used to love sitting by the fire with Jack curled up next to her. She loved to sing with me, but I think at times she adored Jack more than she adored me. I don’t mind though. Jack’s all right.

Breath by Aaron Tardie

This is the first installment of a short story written by Aaron Tardie.  My sister first introduced me to his work and I am so grateful that he was gracious enough to share it with us this week.  

The window opened and the cold air escaped the room and made its way out onto the porch. As I looked through the window I noticed the chipped paint, curled and resting on the sill. The frayed edge of the frame speaks of age, but it’s still strong. The cracks in the paint appeared fresh and the porch was lit. The door slowly closed behind me, followed by Jack. I made my way over to the white wicker chair and Jack sat down at my feet, panting as if he’s discovered something yet again. 

Ignoring him, I focused my eyes outside. The sky came to an end and color seeped into a sunset, casting a pink umbrella above—the color rained down, almost reaching the top of the oak tree. I stared blankly at the color in the sky and became amazed by the beauty. I understood that it was a mystery, but still peering at the sky I sought after something. I searched to see if it was still there. It was. Just like it always was. It hadn’t moved and for good reason: it couldn’t. It was a part of me just like the head is a part of the body. There was a point when I wanted it to move, to disappear, but even then it always seemed to be, hiding, perhaps for a moment but never for too long. It wouldn’t want me to worry now, would it? No one likes a worrywart. 

Jack got up and headed for the roses. With his left leg hoisted and tail taut he looked back toward the porch and snickered at me, almost as if he were saying, “Hey! Look what I can do!” Jack scurried off and barked at the top of his lungs at the plane in the sky. He hated them. And for good reason. They come into the sky without warning and pass by screaming down at you. I checked the sky to make sure it was still there. It was. The color from the sky was fading, and the sun began to hide its face. Darkness was soon to follow and my stomach reminded me of the time. I began to turn inside, and Jack came shooting up the porch into the house. He always needs to be first—it’s a little game he plays. That thing in the sky followed me inside just as it does every time night swallows day, making its way into my chest, heating up my shirt—the warmth never seemed so strong. Gently, I closed the window, trapping the air inside, and began to fill Jack’s bowl. He never seems to be full—odd for a dog so small. 

After dinner I returned to the porch and made use of my hatchet. I spent a half-hour or so splitting wood for the fire and organizing the wood into piles of kindling and logs and put them next to the fire pit. The sound of the hatchet hitting the wood was constant inside of me—it was a rhythm that I loved. After I was done collecting kindling, Jack came out to the patio to help with the fire. He loves watching the fire start up. I went back inside and grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses. Jack loves wine, but he’s allergic. I also grabbed the guitar. 

Jack and I sat out there by the fire for hours and I sang to him and he howled back at me and I drank my wine and we laughed. I started up my old habit again and pulled out a cigarette. Jack doesn’t like when I smoke so he moved over to the other side of the fire and curled up on the ground next to a different wicker chair. By the time I finished my cigarette Jack was sleeping, and I crept around him trying not to wake him as I walked around the yard and went to light another.

I used to stand out here on these bricks staring out at the neighbor’s light—it made me feel like Gatsby. I often thought of my yard I have and how I had gotten to this point in my life. I ran my eyes along the bushels of raspberries and blackberries clustered together on the ground against the white picket fence. I noticed the yellow dead spots painted in the lawn, and made a mental note to rearrange the sprinklers so the dead grass would come alive. I looked out at the chicken coop and remembered how she loved to take care of those chickens and now, how I had to feed them in the morning. The oak tree needed to be trimmed soon and its leaves covered most of the lawn—the branches reached down and kissed the grass. 

As I stood out there thinking I recalled that it was here, in my yard, that I heard the voice, God’s voice, I suppose. The sound echoed in my soul like music at the peak of a steeple—a sound I will remember for a long time. I was told about the voice and the importance it would hold for me, but until recently I didn’t fully understand. It was rough for a while after it happened, and they kept telling me that things would bounce back, that I would make it, and would be all right. But they were wrong. At first things didn’t bounce back, I could hardly breathe. I lost everything that day. It was gone and I was alone with this damn dog. But when I heard that voice as I stood out here on the bricks I began to breathe again. It took a while, I’ll admit, but I came around. 

The fire was dying so I walked over to the side yard and grabbed more wood. I turned on the outside light, and Jack came over to check on me just like he always does. I reached down and scratched his back and kissed him on the top of his head. He needed a bath soon—maybe I should toss him in the pool tomorrow. 

Jack and I haven’t always gotten along. Actually, I used to hate him. He was always running around and peeing on things, and he had a knack for waking me up just after I had fallen asleep. It wasn’t until after she was gone that I began to care for Jack. I began to love Jack as she had. I remembered how Jack used to follow her everywhere she went. He would be right up against her while she was in the kitchen making dinner, or curled up on her lap as she read in bed. He adored her. I wished sometimes I could have been more like Jack. 

Wesley? Is that you?

Yeah, it’s me. 

Come here would you?

Do you need me to bring you something?

No. No. I’m fine. 

Well, what is it that you need? 

Would you dance with me?

What?

Yeah. Like we used too. 

I don’t think that’s a good idea.

I’ll be fine. I swear. 

Molly, I don’t think…you shouldn’t be…you just need to rest.  

I grabbed the hatchet and split the wood in half several times. The rhythm was pumping inside of me again. My hands were steady as I hacked down on the top of an old tree and made more kindling. With each swing of the hatchet the blade drove further and further into the wood until the wood finally gave in, and the kindling fell off. I walked over to the fire with fresh wood stacked on my arms and placed the wood into the fire, fanning it with the unread newspaper. Jack curled up on the chair opposite me and I strummed a few chords and sang to him again. The fire was spitting back shards from the fresh, sap-filled kindling and Jack jumped up and darted over to my chair, whimpering a bit. I picked him up and let him sit with me as I continued to play a few songs. 

“There’s nothing to be afraid of Jack. That fire won’t get you, boy. I won’t let it.” I said to him. Jack looked up at me with his dark eyes and his long droopy ears rested on my jeans—she picked him out when we were first married because of those droopy ears. 

You don’t like him?

No.

But he’s so cute. Look at his ears! They cover his little eyes. 

What kind of a name is Jack anyway? 

If you’re going to be like that about it then let’s just go.

Fine.

Fine what?

You have to look after him. He is not my dog. 

I lit another cigarette and Jack moved back to his other chair. I noticed the smoke from the end of my cigarette curling around my fingers after each inhale, how it lingered around my hand for a moment and then disappeared into the darkness.

Shasta Lake by J.R. Dietrich

I am honored to welcome J.R. Dietrich as our guest blogger today.  He is an artist in a multitude of mediums and an incredibly gifted teacher.  He is perhaps most importantly (to me at least) my dad and I love his poem that he chose to share with us today.

"We are told that all creation tells the glory of God...but are we listening?"

Shasta Lake

I

The flutter and flap of the canvas awning echoes the lapping water.

Pines and sweet potato banks light up in the cool sunrise

Rise to the peels and sketch wild blackberries for breakfast

II

Cold night sleeping compasslike

head to the full moon, feet pointing to the big dipper, pondering true north.

You kept me warm last night with the softest down and silk from your youth

III

The wind tugged and poked at my blue shroud

all night till the blue mountains went purple.

The sunrise calmed my fears while my sail luffed gently in the wind

IV

Less breeze, more cold,

the down has slipped and the silk won’t warm

Wake up and fluff the feathers under moonshadows

Interlude

What a surprise to see bats and butterflies

one in the night twilight skies and

the other among the pines.

Mr. redhead sharpbeak

touch of the berry in the garland pine

a little taste of the cardinal thinking cap

your call betrays you

as counterfeit

a summer clown

with snow striped wings you

bob on your air sled

to the next holiday meal.

A helix of six vultures

wingtips transparent in the sun

swoop and lift like the DNA chain of a zephyr

Searching lack of movement

smell of death

black like

their own bodies closing

the chain of life.

V

A man should know the night sky like he should know the phases

of the moon and the constellations as they wander westward following the sun

A man should be able to look into blackness and see the light shining through.

VI

The geese awake me.

A vaporous serpent swallows

Mars and steps over the gibbous moon (she and Venus can not be eaten.) 

A mourning dove murmurs for her mate,

lost now almost a year.

A line of crows (or starlings) rides a current in a single undulating line

then like a waterfall descend into the waking horizon.

A pair of kites silently squabble

then rise to the smiling moon.

VII

The dove again mourns the

waking day and the decay of mystery.

Up the ravine, shadows fall

unveil footsteps of harts.

I follow them to the flat where

goosedown gathers and waterwalkers skate

upon the mirrored lake.

The tumble of water almost drowns out the bees

as they forage among the orange and yellow.

VIII

A lone hummingbird rescued from the fall

now tastes the sweet nectar of sunrise and

two dragonflies become one...

Peace of Art by Jane Dietrich

      It is Wednesday, so I again have the privilege of introducing you to an extraordinarily gifted individual who has changed my life.  This week’s post was written by my sister, Jane Dietrich, a gifted artist and writer.  I think Wednesdays are my new favorite day of the week...

"Previously, Anna spoke to autumn being a time of change and processing. It struck a chord with me as I am currently changing and processing life during this season. 

In art and in life, process is important. Yet, at an art exhibit the process is rarely seen; only the finished product is judged. As I work on my art and my character, I must keep in mind that the work won't be finished today or even tomorrow. I can’t rush. But, I can finish a part today, and another part tomorrow. 

Sculpture, my favorite medium, begins with a process called pointing. During pointing you hit the corners and edges off the stone with a hammer and chisel. Then, you carve a shallow grid on the stone to make sure all loose pieces come off early in the process instead of when you're almost done. Without this process, I am an amateur. The work will fall apart without the structure of process. In life, skipping steps of development result in immaturity and needing to regress when hardship strikes. Avoiding the hard hits of life will end up having a good thing crumble when all seems almost perfect. Though it takes time removing the stone, when a piece is finished, you see how important the tedious, boring, and seemingly invisible parts really are.

In most aspects of my life, the process tears me apart. It’s so frustrating and hard that I want to give up. I want to know what’s next. I want to be in control. However, in art, the process, not the final product, is what gives me the courage to keep creating. I create because, ironically, the process removes me from my thoughts. I lose track of hours and love it. I am not escaping reality but processing it. I have control over the tools but have no idea where they will take the piece. I do what I can in that time and when I am done for the day I am drained, yet renewed. This phenomenon is how I know without a doubt that I am meant to be an artist. 

When I lose track of time, I truly find peace in where I am. The thoughts, anxieties, pressure of being the best all go away. For a person who is extremely concerned with what others think, deadlines, and perfection, THIS IS SAYING A LOT. But the process is what keeps me going when I do feel like the worst, or I can't see how it will turn out. This peace is how I know art is right for me.

This is all well and good to say about art but I'll admit, at times I've gone through the entire correct process and come out with works that are not great. Or, despite my following all the steps flawlessly, a finger falls off when I’m almost finished carving a pair of hands. What does this say about process? Was it not worth it? I've realized that the process is much greater than simply getting to a great work. There is process within the oeuvre, the artist's sum total of works, as well. A poor piece still teaches the lessons from its individual process. Though it may not be much to look at, the piece could be a huge stepping-stone in a greater discovery for the development of this oeuvre.

So, the age-old question arises once again: 

What is good art? 

With famous artists, museums keep terrible mess up works simply because they were done by this artist or that one. At one time these pieces were trash. Still, people look at them in awe because in the grand scheme of things, these terrible works are magnificent. They are a piece of history. We love to know that something terrible can be turned into something worthy. Yet, the difference between life and art is that in art we are usually admiring other works while in life we focus on our own. Still, the questions remain the same.

 Who really sees what happens in the process? How much should we let people see what happens behind the scenes? Does seeing the process make the final product lose some of its mystery and wonder? 

With what attitude are we admiring the works of our own and those around us?"  

- Jane

Autumn by Anna Paddock

My incredibly gifted friend Anna Paddock is the first ever guest blogger on this site.  I am so excited and honored to house her work here today.  

"The fall equinox is only a few days away.  Autumn is usually a sad season for me.  I get anxious to jump from summer to winter in one big crash - to ignore the fact that change is often slow - I try to create my own solstice where all at once, I'm different.  But it has struck me the past few days that I should let autumn rest in my bones and in my spirit.  Fall holds both the final secrets of summer and the doors to the winter.  It's almost hot, and then almost cold.  It's the last taste of life and the first bite of death.  It is a season of change, and I want to be seasoned and changed by it this time 'round...

As a songwriter, I feel this fall will be a time to form new ideas, new projects, and to write.  But then I ask myself: "What if I'm not inspired?  What if I let winter creep in, and I miss all the colors?  What if I just watch my leaves fade, then fall?  What if I don't find anything to write about?  In my opinion, my best songs are those that are sparked with inspiration and finished with process.  Inspiration and Process. Meat and Bones.  I need both: if I try to write a song that is 100% inspired, then it lacks precision, form, structure, and clarity.  If I try to write a song that is solely from process, it can only ever be a representation of the real thing - a skeleton - no meat!  This is why I am keen for inspiration this fall.  I want to gather and reap and store away, so that in the winter months, I will have meat saved - I will have substance to put on the carefully crafted skeletons.  

I had a summer filled with music, performances, friends, family, and travel.  It was a time to be in bloom, to show off, to be brave, bold, rich, and colorful.  I released my first solo album in June, and I spent July and August performing the songs off of that album and many new songs.  I formed a band, and we rehearsed, wrote, explored, collaborated, disagreed, recorded, and lived together.  It was fruitful. 

Now that season has ended.  Now, I need to harvest the memories and ideas created in summer.  Now, I need to witness the beautiful changes around me and within me.  Now, I need to be willing to fall and to die, to loosen my grasp.  I sometimes try to squeeze a moment or a day or a person for all their worth - in attempts to get 'the most out of them' - but in so doing, I risk strangling the moment, the day, or the person.  Now, I need to prepare, watch, listen, wait, save, write, store-away.  Now, I need to change. 

The fall equinox is 12 hours of day and 12 hours of night.  This is a day and a season of 'in between'.  I want to learn how to work, create, and live in the 'in between' this autumn."

Anna

*Thank you to Kate for asking me to be a guest writer on your blog!

If you are interested in purchasing my recent album, Feel Better, it is available on iTunes (search Anna Paddock and/or Feel Better).  It is also available on cdbaby.com

For more information or to stay connected, visit:

www.annapaddock.com

www.facebook.com/annapaddockmusic for more information.

Candlelight and Silence

This is a day for remembering.  I always forget first thing in the morning, and then it hits me.  

12 years ago I had completely forgotten too.  I had forgotten what it meant to be vulnerable.  

I was sitting in a narrow classroom, completely absorbed in myself, chatting about something I will never remember.  Suddenly, Mrs. H burst in.  Her face was awash with panic.  Since panicking wasn’t completely unusual for her it took a while for the reality to set in. 

My immediate reaction was to disconnect my heart from my head as best I could. I focused on walking, breathing, noticing details.  

We all gathered in the cafeteria to talk, to pray.  My body felt heavy, my stomach would not let me forget my emotions all together. Nothing we did felt right. I was angry that I didn't know what to do in the face of all this death and uncertainty.  

Our neighborhood held a vigil that night.  We lit candles and sat on the front stoop. Many people walked the neighborhood with candles in hand.  Some stopped to talk, but much of the time was silent.  More silent than ever with no planes roaring across the sky, not a single one.  In the candlelight and silence I didn’t feel angry at all.  I felt grateful to be alive. It was enough to simply be in that moment. 

It is strange now because most of my students were toddlers when 9/11 happened.  Their memories are filtered through their parents or guardians.  Every year, I feel somewhat sorry for those who do not remember at all.  I’m not sure why, but I feel as if they missed a moment of history that was real and that was pivotal.  Each year I remember what it means to be vulnerable and that sometimes simply being in a particular place and time will change your life.  It is beyond our control. 

What do you remember?  The start of a World War? The JFK shooting? The Berlin Wall coming down?  

*As for the future, I would very much like to dedicate Wednesdays to guest posts.  So many of you have art, music, writing that have enriched my life.  If you are willing to share it on this blog, please, let me know... I can't wait to hear from you.