November 14: November Rain

At the end of the Juice conference tonight, the buzz of people leaving the opera house spilled out onto the wet sidewalk shining under streetlights. I left feeling inspired, intellectually stimulated, and energized by all the people I had listened to or spoken with during the day-long event. But as I walked the few blocks to my car, away from the hum of excitement and the warmth of the lights of Main Street, the chilly, rainy evening soon draped a cloak of moodiness over my shoulders. Alone, I hurried in the dark to where my car sat by itself in the corner of a near-empty lot. I suddenly felt drained and exhausted; all I wanted to do was get home, knowing that when I got there I would see lights on behind the window blinds for the first time in a week.

The last line of this poem is pulled directly from a Guns N' Roses' song called "November Rain," which is also covered beautifully by Gheto Blaster Ltd. The song perfectly evokes the mood of this bleak season, as well as the usual themes of love and loss that seem to fit so perfectly with this time of year when we are losing the living green world as we know it for one of long nights, cold rain, and bare branches.

Leaves slick underfoot

as I walk from light to dark--

cold November rain.

November 13: No Voice

I spent the whole day today at the Juice conference in Camden, the focus of which is Maine's creative economy. A lot of networking, meeting people, energetic breakout sessions, and running into friends, followed by dinner out, Pecha Kucha, and an evening "block party" of sorts at the six Bayview Landing restaurants. (I only made it to one before I had to call it a night.) After such a day, and still hampered by allergies, I am hoarse and exhausted. But in a good way. In fact, the day was inspiring in so many ways that it would seem hypocritical for me to use it as an excuse to forego my daily blog entry.

Throat sore, no voice left,
Yet how I talked earlier
surrounded by friends.

I do blame my exhaustion for not doing better than that, but sometimes the most important thing to me is that I keep writing something.

November 12: Rest

I've been home sick today, nothing serious but just very tired. Spent my entire day sitting on the couch glutting myself with one episode after another of a series I've been recording on the DVR ("Bones") while reading through my backlog of New Yorkers. Very relaxing in its way. And the cat has been thrilled to be able to lie next to me on the furry blanket all day long. 

But I haven't summoned a lot of creative energy. (Or any other kind of energy; dinner consisted of ramen flavored with half of that sodium-laden powder included in the noodle package. Made me long for the authentic ramen I used to order at this great Asian restaurant when I was in grad school, real ramen with slices of pork, egg, green onions, some ginger... Funny the comfort foods we become nostalgic for when ill.) 

I'd hoped to use the time home today to work on a piece of writing due soon and maybe come up with some brilliant entry for today. Instead, trying to craft 17 interesting syllables has summoned back my headache.


On the couch all day
I imitate my old cat.
It's all about rest.

November 11: Necklace

My husband is away again this week, and while I like the time alone, I miss coming home from work and having someone there other than the cat with whom to share my day. And of course I miss his physical presence, that comforting power of touch.

A brief digression: A couple of summers ago I spent a week at an artist/writer retreat on Great Spruce Head Island, an island in eastern Penobscot Bay that has been owned for several generations by the Porter family (as in, photographer Eliot and painter Fairfield). We stayed in Fairfield Porter's house, ate gourmet, organic food, and did whatever we wanted with our time. I napped, read, and roamed the island, watching birds and writing notes and some mediocre poems about the incredible landscape: fog, sea birds, stony beaches, dense spruce forests carpeted with moss and lichen, the sound of the waves, sunny meadows where deer graze. But in the end what I felt really inspired to write were haiku. And interestingly, some of my most successful ones were sensual "love notes" to my husband, whom I was missing. For our last night's "show," while all the artists (there were nine artists and two writers) arranged and hung their paintings, pastels and drawings for display, I paired some of the haiku I had written with appropriate natural objects and created a tactile poetry/object to create an interactive exhibit of sorts. This is one of the haiku I wrote for my husband, written on a piece of paper roughly torn into the shape of a heart and stuck to a heart-shaped stone I found on one of the island beaches:

If I were going to similarly display the following haiku with an object, it would be the necklace I was wearing of big, chunky green and yellow stones interspersed with carved wooden beads. When I got undressed last night, I was surprised to feel how hot the beads were from being in contact all day with my skin. The sensuality of that realization made me miss my husband.

Home alone tonight.

Unclasped necklace in my hand,

wooden beads still warm.

November 10: Wood Smoke

Going from my car to my house, I noted a strange perfume wafting through the air and was surprised when I realized I was smelling smoke from my neighbor's chimney.

November blessing:
wood smoke rising like incense
in the chilly dark.

Being warm and safe is the most basic of comforts. When our basic needs are met and have the added bonus of being pleasurable, so much greater is the blessing.

(Sorry for tonight's short entry; I'm off to what will probably be a long work-related dinner event. Satisfying some more of life's needs. Food, yes. And also, the society of others.)

November 9: Clementines

Mondays can sometimes be the hardest day of the week. There's catching up on e-mail accumulated over the weekend, staff meetings, and then the realization of all that needs to be accomplished in the five days ahead. Especially when the weather is as unseasonably warm as it was today, and all I wanted to do was get out on a trail somewhere to look for sparrows among the dead leaves and weeds.

But small pleasures can be found. The perfectionist workaholic in me appreciates the satisfaction of completing a day's tasks well and making a good start on the work week. And there are the day-long distractions of the titmice at my feeder, scolding each other with more aggressive vigor than one would expect in such tiny birds. Or the lingering citrus fragrance of fresh-peeled clementines that transports me from a dim office on a November afternoon to somewhere tropical and exotic...

Blue bowl, orange fruit.
Sweet clementines for my lunch--
perfumed taste of Spain.

November 8: Football

Although the focus of traditional haiku was the natural world, contemporary haiku--especially contemporary American haiku, no less--has been more wide-ranging in topic. My personal lens is a natural one. Birds, weather, and the outdoor world generally inspire and inform my writing, one reason why I am drawn to haiku as a form of aesthetic expression. Which is why I surprised myself with today's poem.

On this uncharacteristically warm November morning, I went for what may well have been my last outside run for the season. We joined friends for a neighborhood brunch, at which we marveled at being able to sip our mimosas on the deck. I spent some time tromping around in the leaves in the back yard. It seemed like everyone was out for a walk. But this is Sunday: football day. So while we opened some windows to continue to enjoy the unseasonable warmth, we were on the couch when this afternoon's game came on.

I am an unabashed sports fan, avidly following the Red Sox and the Patriots. I also enjoy watching top-level golf and tennis tournaments, and have harbored a secret passion for horse-racing since childhood. (Having now made that confession, I can't resist a small aside here celebrating yesterday's victory of the undefeated, 5-year-old mare Zenyatta in the Breeder's Cup Classic. This race had never been won by a female, and Zenyatta had never been run against the boys, but she was the favorite--everyone was holding up "Girl Power" signs. I am not ashamed to admit that her dominating, come-from-behind win versus a strong field that included this year's Kentucky Derby and Belmont Stakes winners made me cry.)

So, I take my sports seriously. And Sundays revolve around the Patriots in this house. There are few athletic feats more satisfying to watch than Tom Brady throwing a perfect pass to Randy Moss, who then cruises across more than half the field dodging Miami defenders to score a touchdown that puts us once more in the lead. And a reference to football is as appropriate a seasonal marker for autumn as falling leaves and the harvest moon, right?

Randy Moss touchdown,
Pats take the lead. Have to cheer!
So sorry, old cat.