Tag: emotions

emotions, holidays, memories

reflecting

etikser
An old photo, captured in the rain through wet glass.

I am,” I said
To no one there
And no one heard at all
Not even the chair
[Neil Diamond, 1971]

Reminiscing tonight.

These years, Thanksgiving is a big production. I’m thinking back, though, to when I was 25, many years ago, to the year I did Thanksgiving all by myself. I can’t imagine doing this now, but I cooked a frozen turkey TV dinner for myself. Swanson’s or whatever. I was okay with it, but I remember talking to my mom on the phone, as was our ritual for years mid-day on Thanksgiving, and how bad she felt about my being alone.

I was embarrassed to tell her I didn’t mind, that I was planning to enjoy my four-day weekend. I had off from work Thursday and Friday, and of course the rest of the weekend, which was a real treat. It was my first grown-up job, and I hated it. And for four days, there would be no job. No stress. No pressure. No emotional drama about who was there, and how we were getting along. Relationships had ended, as they do sometimes, and all I had to worry about was me. Just to put my frozen dinner in the oven, and to take the aluminum tray out when the timer buzzed. I was okay with being alone. It was just me that November, and I don’t know why, but I was totally cool with being alone. It was me and my apartment. My couch and my TV, and my stereo and albums. And whatever has happened in my life, I have good feelings about that one-bedroom apartment.

I don’t have memories about the Christmas that followed. I probably flew home. But I remember that I got a little three or four-foot artificial tree for myself, for my living room window, and I went to Macy’s, which was Hecht’s back then, and bought some crystal icicle ornaments for the tree. I also bought a gold-colored angel topper that I still have today. The icicle ornaments all fell either that Christmas or the next, and broke, all of them, sadly too fragile for realistic use. My gold angel lost her wings. How or when, I don’t recall. But my angel has survived, minus her wings, and I would indeed feel a sense of great loss if something happened to her. One Christmas I couldn’t find her, and I missed her terribly. I’m sure she represents to me something I can’t explain about myself.

I am … I cried.
I am … said I.

It feels good  to recall these formative times,
That are part of life,
When we’re alone with ourselves,
And we hold together.
We survive.

___________________________

© Etikser. All Rights Reserved.
All photos and images here are my own.
They may not be used elsewhere or reblogged.

november, seasons

moving along

etikser

It’s cold so you need a jacket tonight, and the wind is blustery, leaves rustling, still clinging to branches above me in the trees. The moon’s high, shining bright behind tall oak trees in an otherwise open sky. And we’ve made it, yes, we’ve made it, to an old familiar rite of passage called November.

Turning the page, and making it past transitions. Truth be told, I’m awful at transitions, more okay once I get there. September, October, I didn’t get there yet. I held tight to summer habits, to the bliss and freedoms that probably didn’t even exist in the summer months. When I get to November, I feel like I can switch gears and roll through the next few months, even when it’s not really true. I’m not dismayed by winter. I would definitely miss it if there wasn’t a  good hard winter. Christmas and the holidays are one of my favorite times, and I’m cool with January. It’s almost sure to bring some frozen times and a good snow or two. I wish no one had to work when it snows, but I’m selfishly glad when I am snowed in. I try  to not schedule important appointments in January, and I like a good snowed in feeling. Under the covers with some good winter movies, and nothing else that’s too pressing. Come February, I’m hoping I can coast the rest of the way to spring.

I took this picture on the last day of October, but it looks the same today. So…moving along…yay, November.

___________________________

© Etikser. All Rights Reserved.
All photos and images here are my own.
They may not be used elsewhere or reblogged.

emotions, nighttime

about fear

etikser

“Do one thing every day that scares you.”
― Eleanor Roosevelt

Where to walk.
Which way to steer.
Dread and fear,
Scared.
Terror???

Some of my best moments
Were past sunset,
Meandering about my favorite woodlands,
Relaxed and comfortable,
In my element.
But I’m watching Stranger Things these days,
And I wonder,
Why these folks persist in wandering, after dark,
Among those tall trees,
In the woodlands.
And I think, “Get out of there!”

Much as I love my trees,
And I’ve wandered, past sunset, later than I should,
Among my favorite trees,
Off the path, and down to the creek,
I’d never crawl through a hole in a tree,
through the Upside Down muck and the distinctly creepy.

Where to walk.
Which way to steer.
Dread and fear,
And scary terror.

Alarmed, upset,
Sometimes, I fear,
Scared to death.

___________________________

© etikser. All Rights Reserved.
All photos and images here are my own.
They may not be used elsewhere or reblogged.



emotions

night and day

etikser

I don’t know the constellations like so many do. I know the Big Dipper, and the Little Dipper, and I used to know the North Star. Now it’s just me and that bright star I see so many nights in the west…Sirius? a planet? I don’t know…and it’s not just for me, it’s for everybody, I suppose…that bright star (or planet). It’s been guiding folks for centuries. Surely, you know that star.

I remember lying in bed at the beach after Christmas. It was night, and so it was dark, the room was dark but for the glare of the tv, and outside it was dark. Beach dark. The way it gets dark at the beach. There was enough light from the pier to see white caps as they moved on shore, what a treat, and the sky (eastern) seemed clear but with just one distinct light, probably a planet, I assumed, just to the left of the patio door frame. I didn’t think it was the North Star, but my eyes were drawn to that one bright light on the vast dark sky, and I held onto it as if it were my North Star. How many times I looked out before I fell asleep. And every time I woke during the night, I looked out at the waves and then up to the star. I looked to see if it had moved. Was it closer to the door frame? Did it get to the right of the door frame? It was the dearest, most precious thing to me at the moment. I didn’t understand, but I knew, without figuring it out, how precious it was to me. It was as if that star was there for me.

I had things that were worrying me that night, and the light, whether it was a star or planet, was wonderful and stayed with me as I navigated an anxious state of mind. Whatever troubles were haunting me through the night and the previous and the following day, whatever troubles were part of my life, I had that star. I wish I could see it every night from my bed. I wish I could open my eyes in the middle of the night, like I did that night, and take in the wonder of that little bright light and it would give me peace enough to return to sleep.

I need to get to bed. It’s late and way too cold to go outside and look for stars. I can pull the curtains aside and see the skies outside the window are cloudy gray, too gray behind the treetops to see any stars. Even my bright star in the west. When I wake in the morning, it will be past the time for stars. The clouds scatter and the morning sun shines bright these days on criss-cross footprints and left-over snow, and sweet little birds hop about and peck at wintry white icy crystals.  

___________________________

Like flickering starlight, beautiful words from songwriters call and inspire:

“In the darkness of my night,
In the brightness of my day.” [Bob Dylan, Girl from the North country]
Out of Dylan’s prolific wording and wonderful imagery, these simple words have called to me for years, and it was inevitable one day I’d write about the darkness of night and the brightness of day.

Kris Kristofferson repeating Bob Dylan’s description of Johnny Cash: “Johnny was and is the North Star, you could guide your ship by him.”

___________________________

 

© etikser. All Rights Reserved.
All photos and images here are my own.
They may not be used elsewhere or reblogged.

 

sunset

on a warm summer’s evening … 2

etikser

Mornings, I look to the tops of the tallest trees while I drink my coffee. I don’t know what I’m looking to see. Clouds and blue skies, I suppose. Circling birds, perhaps … a hawk or crow.

This time of year, fireflies party nightly up there, near the tops of the trees. I looked to the dark sky the other night to see if there were stars, and I saw stars flickering and moving. Not stars, silly me, but fireflies. A dazzling sight, the treetops and fireflies co-mingling with a starry sky.

Tonight, following a day that was hotter than summer days ought to be, and after an early evening rain that fell short of what was needed, the last light of day painted the sky a bright, colorful hue of yellow-gray. It was a noteworthy, beckoning sky, one you couldn’t miss. Then I noticed the house siding was unexpectedly lit with the brightness of the setting sun. An atmosphere that’s unique and embracing, radiant, and at the same time, turning dark. An atmosphere steaming with contradictions and serendipitous possibilities.

Sometimes when I first wake and glance about, inside the confines of the closed shades of my room, I see only the distressing loop of reality and worry. I should know to go outside those shades and look up for the promising possibilities I’d find in the breeze moving around the tops of the trees.

There’s this thing about serendipity, though. It comes as it wishes. You can’t count on serendipity, you can’t look to serendipity. It comes as it will.

__________________________

On a warm summer’s evening … simple words … my favorite kind of words … packed with age-old nuance and memories.
Credit:  The Gambler, performed by Kenny Rogers (1978), written by Don Schlitz.

___________________________

© Etikser. All Rights Reserved.
All photos and images here are my own.
They may not be used elsewhere or reblogged.
Please visit my other blog, Clover & Ivy, https://cloverandivy.wordpress.com.
I post mostly nature photos there.

emotions

lie-la-lie

etikser


Paul Simon wrote the ‘lie la lie’ line as a placeholder, because he didn’t have words at the time for that part of the song. Destiny?!? It’s the part we all remember, no?

Lie-la-lie
Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie
Lie-la-lie

The Boxer. We all know the words. Thank you, Paul Simon, we all know that part. Lie la lie. Over and over. When we get to that part, we all know what it means. It’s like that part of Prince and Purple Rain, when there aren’t any real words and he’s just moaning, oou-oou-oou-oou, still we get what Prince is saying. Maybe it’s the way we remember Prince, the way we hold onto his soul, and that incredible, signature (wonderfully grimacing) guitarwork.

In The Boxer, we all get it. We know what it means. It’s for the boxer in all of us, in each and every one of us. It’s for the boxer who remains after we’re worn down to nothin’. When we’re beaten down to nothin’ and somehow holding on.

Sing:  Lie-la-lie
Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie
Lie-la-lie

What’s missing? What’s missing for me? A cold, aged, winter feeling. Even on a warm June evening, it’s the feeling of a cold, dark, bitter winter night. A cold, dark, bitter winter night, and repeating melodic syllables running roughshod over the wordy thoughts in my head. And on and on and on. And some beautiful fingerpickin’ guitar strums to lead me and soothe me, lie, la lie.

We’ve all been there when we’re trying and we’re trying, and we carry the reminders, don’t we?

Lie-la-lie
Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie
Lie-la-lie
___________________

The Boxer (1969), written by Paul Simon, recorded by Simon & Garfunkel.

© Etikser. All Rights Reserved.
All photos and images here are my own.
They may not be used elsewhere or reblogged.
Please visit my other blog, Clover & Ivy, https://cloverandivy.wordpress.com.
I post mostly nature photos there.

Uncategorized

grace

etikser

Sometimes I write like grace is right there. Grace, magic, and our souls. It’s there, there, and there. As if we can access it, if we just reach out, and look to the stars scattered among the tops of the trees.

Silly me. Grace isn’t that easy, is it? It’s elusive. It’s the imploring anguish. ‘Please’, and ‘please’, and the most exhausted, begging, pleading words in the world, ‘please’. That’s where the grace lies. It’s a sad, painful place that spills out from the very bottom of our souls. It’s a moment when we walk along the beach, surrounded only by honest desperation. The ebb and flow of infinity, and all we have to offer is truth and a desperate plea. When you don’t know if you need more wine, xanex, or whatever can carry you to the next step.

The stuff of grace.

___________________

© Etikser. All Rights Reserved.
All photos and images here are my own.
They may not be used elsewhere or reblogged.
Please visit my other blog, Clover & Ivy, https://cloverandivy.wordpress.com.
I post mostly nature photos there.

seasons

a little bit of February

etikser

Maybe February is there for these very thoughts. When my physical body is weary, exhausted, and my heart feels heavy…which means, I guess, my eyes feel weighty. Which means what? I feel sad? Sorry? Knowing those deliberate thoughts of encouragement, and visuals of twinkly stars and wintry tall branches, knowing these aren’t enough to re-set my frame of mind.

Maybe perennials need the cold dormant period of winter to find energy for a new spring. Maybe I need February to get through to the other side of my mood.

___________________

© Etikser. All Rights Reserved.
All photos and images here are my own.
They may not be used elsewhere or reblogged.
Please visit my other blog, Clover & Ivy, https://cloverandivy.wordpress.com.
I post mostly nature photos there.

winter

wintering

etikser

There’s a drag that comes from lack of sunlight. That’s for real, and the lure of sleeping in on a winter morning is a real temptation.

I’m not a morning person. We know who we are. Years ago, I was in a carpool with a woman who was a morning person. I’m not sure she ever stopped talking for the entire ride into work. It worked out fine. She didn’t seem to mind that no one responded. Other than her and the driver, everyone else in the car was asleep.

This is how it works with me. I open my eyes, and even before the sleep fog clears, a whole litany of unwelcome thoughts line up for attention. Really…can’t I just get some coffee or OJ?

The thought that wakes us at 3 am feels like a heart-thumping immediate crisis. What if there’s a new killer COVID variant? At 8 am, it’s not quite as dramatic, more like a mental listing of every conceivable worry and bad outcome I might need to deal with that day, or anytime in the next six months, or the next six years.

So how does this relate to winter? In the winter, I wake and the sun’s shining through the shades, or it’s not, and either way it’s something to be happy about. Well, maybe not happy, but relieved. It’s something like the winter clause. I have good reason, loosely based on science or nature, to postpone, to hesitate, or to give in. To succumb, to hold back, put off, delay, and dispense, everything I don’t want to deal with, in effect and with great affection, on the pretext that it’s winter.

Bob Dylan

white pines & music

etikser

Tall white pines and a path that takes you. It doesn’t lead you, it takes you.

Do you know the long soft needles of a tall white pine? A pine tall enough to meet the sunny sky in the last moments of a December day. North Country meets Norwegian Wood meets what? I don’t know. It’s gentle. Or it’s pain, or it’s a place to leave behind.

When you choose your favorite lyrics to a Dylan song, it’s hard to find THE lines. I have this thing – sort of a pretty unimportant guiding principle. If I single out the same musical lyrics more than once, if it’s a sequence of lines or a few words, if those are the words I remember or I want to remember after I hear a song, then I guess I love those words.

In the darkness of my night
In the brightness of my day

Bob Dylan works a magic with images nobody else can do. And in the middle of all that you find words you plainly love.