Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters

RIP, JD Salinger.

I can't recommend reading Flannery O'Connor before bed. Just saying.

Stock Show - Hog and Heifer Heaven - Yakity Yak

Guess who took no photo equipment to the Stock Show? Hmmmm. And some of us with really fancy cameras. No names. We parked at a dubious parking lot where the attendant apparently absconded with the money and left the cars unattended by the time we had left, around 4:30 - all was well, however. We especially enjoyed the Yaks, a truly intractable breed not fond of halters and especially not fond of packs. The Grand Champion Yak, a 9-yr old bull with amazingly curled and polished horns, flung his considerable bulk on the ground and rolled on his pack. They have a little grunting noise that is their form of communication, and they are talky. Unnnh, unnnnh. The Yak owners and fans accept this behavior and call it the Yak circus. My father-in-law woulda worn out a couple of sticks on those Yaks, I'll tell you.

On to the Scottish Highlanders, who were not being shown that day and generally were reclining in their stalls. There were owners from coast to coast - Vermont, Michigan, Washington State, Oregon, Montana, Colorado, Nebraska. The Highlanders have cute bangs and are shaggy with long horns. Built pretty low to the ground and have to have fans going to keep them from overheating indoors. Norman, aforementioned father-in-law, had cattle in North Dakota; his Highlanders wouldn't come in from blizzards, just lay out on the hillsides dusted with snow and ice. I like the red Highlanders, but they also come in a blonde shade, and I saw some dun colored ones. Some of the owners sport kilts, which is a fine sight at the National Western Stock Show.

We breezed by the Angus, finding them incredibly well-groomed but not so interesting, other than the sight of a 900 lb docile steer being groomed with a shop vac and clippers. (The Yaks would not have tolerated that foo-foo treatment.) Also saw Suffolk sheep in beige hoods and capes, which was a startling picture (not that I have a picture of them). We admired the hogs and Herefords, but none of these were being shown, so they were pretty laid back, especially the hogs. Hogs are much leaner than they used to be, being the other white meat. Not svelte, but not porky, either. And squeaky clean.

The smells at the stock show are pungent, authentic and nostalgic: straw, alfalfa, manure; burnt sugar, barbeque and sizzling red meat. You know where you are, home on the range. The cute cowboys in their tight jeans didn't hurt either. Cowboys come in varieties: cute, rugged, or weathered and you never forget who jeans were made for. Uh huh.

I managed to exit the exhibition hall without purchasing one of those sparkly cowgirl belts, but hey. Cheynne Frontier Days is only six months away, and I can save up for one by then.

Who Dat

Anything I have to say is eclipsed by the Saints' big win over the dreaded Vikings and old Bret. I was on pins and needles and could only run to and fro the TV periodically. Yikes! Tied and tied again. I feared my watching would be bad luck. I feared not watching would be bad luck. No worries, the Saints have the saints at their backs. On to Miami, where I assume, The City of New Orleans will be temporarily relocated.

Yeee Haw

Saddle up, cowgirls and boys, it's Stock Show time in Denver. Went to the parade last week and was reminded of what so charmed me about Denver in 1977 when we moved to the area. 1977 Denver was still Cowtown Denver. The Longhorn Saloon, Lane's Tavern on West Colfax (which literally did not have a men's room - there were trees out back), and Shepler's in its heyday. If you went to El Chapultepec, you were escorted from your car to the bar by a bouncer. No foo-foo Lo-Do goin' on. Attached are pics from the parade, graced by a local old girl in her Western finery - Ms Mary Lowe Green. Pictures courtesy of lb holden, talented photographer, papermaker, bookbinder, et al.

Giddy-up.

The longing for the dance...

I went out dancing Saturday night - at the bowling alley. We know how to party in Palmer Lake. My favorite dance band, "Reckless," and their groupies, my friends and dance partners. Danced my tush off. Danced the "stuck" out of my hip. Went home and took a hot bath with epsom salts.

We used to dance until 2a, shut the bars down and then go out for breakfast: eggs and bacon and country fried potatoes, toast and coffee at Grimm's Cafe. Home before dawn.

Now we dance until 10 and go home and soak our old bones. Just as happy.


"Desire, desire desire.
The longing for the dance
Stirs in the buried life."

From "Touch Me," Stanley Kunitz ("Passing Through")

Communion

For Suzie and her Mom: Communion

The cornmeal snow crunches and squeaks beneath my boots, like coarse sand or grains of rice. Suzie told the stories of crystals and of rice, withering with regret and shame; sweet and pure with love. Words matter. Words heal us and comfort us. I will not attempt the experiments: talking to the grains of rice or whispering to the crystals. Some things I take on faith. I prefer to believe. I need to believe. Transubstantiation is magic. God is in the Host, in the wheat and in the water; the Goddess is in the hands that bake the bread and form the Host. Each and all, we are in the transforming words, we are the blood of the wine. We kneel at the altar of redemption. We are worthy.

Five Degrees and Holding

Benet Pines Retreat - Burning Desire

Das Blog - January 5 2010

I packed up Christmas today. I placed an old white sheet on the floor and dragged out the brittle-branched tree, stripped of its holiday finery. The ornaments, the Mexican creche, the candles and the wreaths and the big creche from Annapolis rest in Christmas nests of old crumpled newsprint and used plastic bags. Despite my abhorrence of Commercial Christmas, I find myself at WalMart, seeking bargains in red and green plastic storage bins. I score two 21-gallon bins and a wrapping paper storage bucket with a top hat nearly as tall as the bucket itself. Christmas fits nicely, boxed and ready for attic exile. Every year I dread unpacking everything; every year I cry as I pack it all up. Every year I buy more lights.

Day 3, Benet Pines: Enter Laughing

into the new year, into a new decade. Dancing Goddesses, live and in color. The Circle of the Sacred Sisterhood blessed us all, each and all. Light, love, laughter. In memory of Odetta: This little light of mine... I'm gonna let it shine; let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

Retreat, Day 2

The cold metal gate of the dog run comes off in my hands, I hustle Mo into her pen, squeezing through the narrow opening to drop off a food dish, a ham bone, my guilt at leaving her all day and most of the night. I jerry-rig the gate and drive off into the cold bright morning, ready for meditation. The proverbial fingers of dawn caress the Eastern sky. Up and at 'em, cowgirl, get out your meditation rug.

Sins of Omission -
a prose poem under construction

This is what broke my heart: these sins of omission, these things I could have done to keep you, to heal you, to cherish you. These pearls locked in unforgiving shells, safe, inviolate upon the shelf. Homages to stubbornness, to brittle righteousness. Prideful withholding of gifts ungiven, unforgiven. Gems locked forever in hard rock, geodes uncracked. Delicate, complicated conch shells, whispered stories unheard. Loving glances averted, words locked forever into the harsh coffins of small square diaries. We lost the keys and burned the pages. Raw empty spines remain. This is what breaks my heart, what we break ourselves upon, yet do not risk breaking open. We do not risk the vulnerability of light, the terrifying light of love, of grace. We are safe, yet have risked all, have denied truth for the sake of pride, for the pride of safety. We crash upon the sandy shores, untried waves retreating with tide and time. We hide behind the moon, her tattered veil hiding our unshed tears. We break upon one another, in love, in passion, in withholding our deepest selves. What is the heart of the matter? The unbending? Opening the hard-shelled oyster to find only a flawed pearl? We break upon our need, we break upon ourselves. The heart beats on, broken, transmuted into ashes, into regret. A heart un-read, the translation lost.

+++++++++++++++under construction++++++++++++++++++++

Zen Writing Retreat - Day 1

I left my homework to the last minute (morning of the retreat, of course) and found it made no real difference (naturally) - the curse of procrastination is success in spite of it. We are twelve women, two instructors and Susie the yoga queen - wounds to bind, clarity to seek, yoga to practice. We inhabit a house at Benet Pines. As the afternoon light weakens, we seek comfort in afghans and tepid tea. We write, under duress, our assignments; we see who we are. I neglect to mention my blog.

We Welcome the New Year
The silent dawn of New Year's Day blankets Chataqua Mountain, as the
cold blue moon slips into Limbaugh Canyon.
Resolute in her departure,
She takes with her, her shadow - last night's Dark
Companion.
We are left, then, in a bare newness,
A soulful tabla rosa, stark
And bright in its promise
and in its unknown terrors. jeb


"Through the bee, we come to eat flowers, to eat light, and by those intricate sugars we ourselves ignite." - Jane Hirschfield, "Making Soul"

"Language-making isn't incidental or ornamental to human consciousness; it is its center, its essence." - Norman Fishcer, Zen Priest, "Why I Have to Write"