a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet

This is cool. And something to think about as we enter the holiday season, when we are just as likely to curse the “stranger” driving too slowly in front of us, or taking too long to get out of their parking space, or too long at the counter as we wait to pay.


very un-guru-like

but apt, nonetheless

Embrace the fact that you’re going to get older. Ask your boyfriend if he will still love you when you’re seventy and your tits are down to your knees. Look forward to this time – seventy year old women are allowed to do pretty much whatever they want, and no-one can stop them. You can carry candy in your bag and not share it with a single soul. You can stay home all day and cross-stitch expletives onto handkerchiefs for your grandchildren and slip them under the table out of sight of the people you raised. You can drink whisky at 10am. Every phase of your life is going to be amazing for different reasons. Embrace that.

 Some more little life lessons, by Daisy Lola. (via jordanleeemerson)


No, I’m not going to break into song.

Lately I’ve been very aware of the fact/idea that we are really nothing more than our memories. Perhaps this is where my recent obsession with the problem of “you’re there and then you’re not” is really coming from — trying to come to terms with the idea that all of the things that exist only in your own mind completely fail to exist when you expire.

All of the things you thought but didn’t say, all of the things you wanted but didn’t do, they all go when you “go.”

We can all go around making our lives meaningful, leaving a “mark” on the world (whether it be in a garden plot, a happy child, or a redeemed social condition*), making some kind of difference to someone/s somewhere, but what about all of those other things that never manifest outside of our thoughts?

A family member asked once why I blog. It seems that my desire to speak to the world, and to be heard, isn’t necessarily understood, nor shared, by everyone.

I think this is why. To be more than just my memories, to give voice to all of the “voices”^ in my head.

I want as many people as people to know that  I was here. I’m here.  Right here. Do you hear me?


So much held in heart in a life. So much held in heart in a day, an hour, a moment. We are utterly open with no one, in the end–not mother and father, not wife or husband, not lover, not child, not friend. We open windows to each but we live alone in the house of the heart. Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be so naked, for fear of a constantly harrowed heart. When young we think there will come one person who will savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know this is the dream of a child, that all hearts finally are bruised and scarred, scored and torn, repaired by time and will, patched by force of character, yet fragile and rickety forevermore, no matter how ferocious the defense and how many bricks you bring to the wall. You can brick up your heart as stout and tight and hard and cold and impregnable as you possibly can and down it comes in an instant, felled by a woman’s second glance, a child’s apple breath, the shatter of glass in the road, the words I have something to tell you, a cat with a broken spine dragging itself into the forest to die, the brush of your mother’s papery ancient hand in the thicket of your hair, the memory of your father’s voice early in the morning echoing from the kitchen. . .

~Brian Doyle, The Wet Engine



*Ralph Waldo Emerson

^I don’t hear voices in a schizophrenic way, just the usual, and I recognize them all as my own.


almost 49, REALLY!

i am running into a new year
and the old years blow back
like a wind
that i catch in my hair
like strong fingers like
all my old promises and
it will be hard to let go
of what i said to myself
about myself
when i was sixteen and
twentysix and thirtysix
even thirtysix but
i am running into a new year
and i beg what i love and
i leave to forgive me

– Lucille Clifton

Even fortysix.
Even fortynine.

I’m about to be that age when, if someone actually had the nerve to ask me, and I actually had the nerve to tell them (I would; I’m not the type to lie), they wouldn’t believe me.

Forty nine.








I told Husband tonight that I was really having a problem with “that death thing.” He laughed, like this was a recent discovery.

Posited that “the universe wouldn’t mind.”

I suggested that there might be a few people who might mind, maybe just a little, himself included.

I suggested that I might mind even more; although then he pointed out that I wouldn’t be “there” to “mind.”

God I hate it when he gets all Logical on me.



How did this happen??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

(I swear, I was paying attention, but it was like I was in my 20s for something like 5 minutes or something, no exaggeration)

That’s how the light gets in

~Leonard Cohen

The birds they sang at the break of day;
‘Start again,’ I heard them say,
Don’t dwell on what has passed away,
or what is yet to be.

Ah the wars they will be fought again,
the holy dove, she will be caught again,
bought and sold and bought again,
the dove is never free.

Ring the bells that still can ring,
Forget your perfect offering,
There is a crack in everything —
That’s how the light gets in.

We asked for signs, the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed, the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood of every government —
signs for all to see.

I can’t run no more with that lawless crowd,
while the killers in high places say their prayers out loud.
But they’ve summoned, they’ve summoned up
a thundercloud;
and they’re going to hear from me.

Ring the bells that still can ring …

You can add up the parts, but you won’t have the sum,
You can strike up the march, there is no drum,
Every heart, every heart to love will come,
but like a refugee.

Ring the bells that still can ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack, a crack in everything —
That’s how the light gets in.