little black book

I'm staring at a small black notebook—a journal filled 30 or so pages deep with my own handwritten scrawl. I bought the notebook at a bookstore in Kauai so that I had something to write on, besides a hotel notepad, without having to open a laptop on our honeymoon. I wanted to write it all down. Write down every feeling, every emotion and sensory moment of the wedding weekend prior, before the moments were left to the fate of my own fickle memory.

And then, of course, I planned to bring the book back and post all of my musings for the world to see. But I didn't.

For all the stuff I've posted out there in the ether, and for such a public event as a wedding is, why am I now feeling that I want to keep this moment private? I want to move on and start writing about other things. I want to keep the book to myself and Colin, my husband.

Is that okay?

For the record though, I will post a small summary and one of my favorite photos from the weekend by our friend Isaac. He took a bunch of pics that weekend and you can see them here. (Note to self: for all private feelings, emotions, sensory moments, please see Little Black Book)


Colin and I were married on January 23, 2010 at Trapp Family Lodge in Stowe, Vermont. A beautiful chill and sunny day—the sky blue like a swimming pool, mountains cloaked in icy white hoar frost. A rare kind of day, not often seen in Vermont winters. As dusk approached, guests gathered in the candlelit Mozart Room of the lodge.

Both sets of parents were present, as well as siblings and their spouses, a few aunts and uncles and close friends from near and far. My bridesmaids were my two sisters and my 2 best friends from college, Bibba & Brooksie. Colin's groomsmen were his brother, brother-in-law, and 2 best friends. My father officiated. My mother and sisters sang a song that they had written together. Auntie Lucy read a poem: Colors Passing Through Us by Marge Piercy. Colin's sister Kristen read a poem: A Birthday by Christina Rossetti. There were tears. We exchanged vows in front of a fireplace. We exchanged rings. Kissed. My mother played Edelweiss on the classical guitar during the recessional. Then we celebrated. We ate amazing food. We cut the cake. We danced and danced and danced all night long.

Lots of people told me before this day to expect my wedding to be a blur and that I might not remember many of the details. I was determined not to let this happen and in the end the entire day played out like a movie—like a long, romantic, perfect movie. And everything still remains as clear in my mind as the crisp blue sky that day. It was magic.

And now we're married. And I say to my new husband, Grow old with me, the best is yet to be.

today from Aunt Lucy

Dear Family,

Some of you have requested a copy of what I said at Mom's Mass so here it is. Also, here is a poem I would like to share with you by Lisel Mueller:

When I Am Asked

When I am asked
how I began writing poems,
I talk about the indifference of nature.

It was soon after my mother died,
a brilliant June day,
everything was blooming.

I sat on a gray stone bench
in a lovingly planted garden,
but the day lilies were as deaf
as the ears of drunken sleepers
and the roses curved inward.
Nothing was black or broken
and not a leaf fell
and the sun blared endless commercials
for summer holidays.

I sat on a gray stone bench
ringed with the ingenue faces
of pink and white impatiens
and placed my grief
in the mouth of language,
the only thing that would grieve with me.

Love, Lucy

*****

Mama Sonia's Eulogy

When I think of Mom some of the things that come to mind are: loving, generous, thoughtful, supportive, caring, laughing, wonderful food, music….

Wherever Sonia lived she became involved in the community and was very giving of her time and talents. She worked hard raising funds for the Eye Bank Assoc of Puerto Rico. When we were kids she was a Girl Scout leader and a Cub Scout Den Mother. When Mom & Dad moved to Florida one of the things she did was become a Meals on Wheels volunteer delivering meals to people who were much older at the time. Of course Mom did not just deliver meals they became friends-she knew their life history, she gave them birthday and Christmas presents… Also, she was Chairman of the Beautification Committee of the Winter Park Chamber of Commerce. Sonia was very involved with her Bible study group and her Tertulia group of Spanish speaking friends.

Mom’s thoughtfulness was especially evident in her gift giving. When you received a gift from her you could tell a lot of thought went into selecting the gift and the perfect card to go with it. About 10 years ago I mentioned to her that we used to see rabbits around our house but had not seen any evidence of rabbits for a long time. The following Christmas she sent us (2) cast iron rabbits for our yard. When I see those rabbits I’m reminded of Mom’s love and thoughtfulness.

One way Mom expressed her caring and generosity was thru her cooking. She devoted a lot of time and energy to the planning and cooking of amazingly good food. When we were kids every picnic on the beach, every dinner was a gourmet treat-a delicious leg of lamb (my favorite) would be followed by a scrumptious shepherd’s pie.

Mom & Dad were famous for giving great parties in Puerto Rico-relatives and friends knew that a party at Roger & Sonia’s would be lots of fun with great food. Thirty years ago when they moved to Florida, Roger and Sonia continued to give wonderful parties.

Mom loved music-some of my favorite memories are connected to music. When I was a little girl we would listen to opera on the radio. As we listened to operas such as La Boheme, Aida, La Traviata she would be explaining what was happening.

Mama Sonia had a special relationship with her grandchildren. She relished their visits both in Florida and Vermont. She had all sorts of activities planned for everyone’s enjoyment—museums, concerts, shopping, Disney World, Sea World and every other kind of world.

Mom and Dad had an extraordinarily wonderful relationship, an example to be followed, and now they are together again.

limerick

There once was a plane to Nantucket
With white leather seats like big buckets.
Some kids rode that plane,
Gurgling flutes of champagne,
And landed bubbly and sunny in Nantucket.

owl shadows

I saw the owl today.
He was facing the other way—his back to me.
Silently he peered beyond where my eyes couldn't see.
Higher and higher,
I beckoned him this way, quietly.
I gave up too quickly, perhaps.
He wasn't looking at me,
But I knew he sensed my stare.
For as soon as I circled round
Just a few moments later,
He was gone from his high-in-the-sky perch—
That old gnarly tree in the swamp.
And I immediately felt—
Too little too late—
That I had wasted a perfectly good acquaintance.
My one chance to speak with the owl one on one,
Gone.

pregnancy, plums, peas, and a painting

I wrote a poem about plums once—I had a bowl of perfectly ripe plums ready to burst. Seeing the plums and holding them in my hand reminded me of a pregnant woman's belly. So I wrote about it. I wrote about what it must feel like to lose control of your own body. To have to displace a piece of your body to make room for a new one. It might get messy at times, but the ultimate joy it elicits has no match. But there's also an element of fear there. Fear of the unknown, for, truth be told, I don't really know what it's like being pregnant. My friend Elisa does though. She wrote this week's posting for Eat Peas Weekly.

Pregnancy is in us all I suppose—well, us women at least—whether we've experienced it or not. Whether we like it or not. Even if we never get pregnant. The idea of pregnancy is ingrained subconsciously in our biological and psychological make-up. But I didn't always think this, or think about it. Yet the feelings and the shapes would always surface unexpectedly in my creative output.

I remember during my final senior art show as a student at Middlebury College, a woman from the campus newspaper came to interview me and review the show—a culmination of 4 years of intense work and exploration. She mentioned an apparent pregnancy theme in all of my female figures. I think I returned her comment with a blank stare. If it was indeed there, it was purely unintentional and I told her so. But looking now, I'm in awe that I—the creator of it—could not see such an obvious statement in plain view. It's there, is it not? The pregnant woman in the painting, flying through the air (jumping or falling?) gracefully full speed ahead. How could I be so blind to it? Or so dismissive?

little american

At the beach, the small child—
She's no more than eight—
Smears white sticky sunblock
Onto her porcelain face.

Carefully drawn, Japanese eyes
Peer through the make-up
Like a little Geisha.

Tight Jewish curls topple
Down from the top of her head
Like a little child clown.

Is this what it is to be American?
To have a Jewish father, a Japanese mother,
To vacation at the seaside on Cape Cod,
And put sunblock on when the sun gets too hot?

Later, I look over and see the girl
Placidly pasting shapes into a paper sailboat
While the father sits nearby
Cutting them out for her with sharp scissors.

perfect plum

Even at times when the air is dry and
My neck is stiff from the night before, I
Know the plum just might be my salvation.
Sweet, ripe stone fruit—perfect pregnant lady
Sitting next to me in a purple bowl.
I want to peel her like a cucumber,
But I can’t—her face is a thick, sticky
Flow of skin—exposed to the juice inside.
I plunge to open this tight sphere of mine—
Bite in so ripe and nice, juice dripping down.
Bursts, spraying fruit like a poetic clown.
Vibrating, electric lava glistens,
Paints syrupy smiles on my chin and brow.

Yes, the plum just might be my salvation.
Ripe, precious stone fruit—perfect pregnancy
Sitting next to me in a purple bowl.

where does your soul find calm?

Where do you go to loosen the stiffness of the day?
To cool the heat of hot summer,
Let it wash over your shoulders like a wave,
Roll with the heft of the perfectly circular world
Down your spine.

Where do you let the breeze kiss
The down of your hand,
Touch it with the softness of air, and sift
Down to the lush ground
Like sugar into a mixing bowl?

Where do you drift--
Meandering like an approximate river in the sand?

On this day I wander through streets and aisles.
Allow my spirit to chime into this riff that has become
My commune's anthem--
Scuffling sidewalks, rut-a-tut drums,
Warm mellow voices. I fall into it all
Like a listless child.

It's as quiet as Monday eve, and
I'm as quiet as a mug of warm almond milk
With nutmeg and saffron just before sleep...

What's in my head now? Misty thoughts. Hazy remnants of angst, now quaint and mild.

Spencer, our friend

Spencer called yesterday. That's our friend from New York. What does he like?

"He likes McDonald's," Colin says.

What else?

"He likes taking pictures of people around the world. He likes music. He likes movies. And he likes laughing. And he loves his girlfriend, Courtney." We love her too.

Why do we love Spencer?

"Because he's nice," I say. "And because he makes me laugh and because he's curious and likes to show us neat things in the city and take us to good restaurants."

"And because he's a true friend," Colin adds. "He cares. He helps me out in need. And can laugh at himself." (Remember, fruit basket weekend).

Here's a poem by Colin for Spencer:

Short, built, and funny
Looking, that is,
Spencer's our friend
Who knows what life is:

Sometimes serious, but mostly
A joke.

Spencer, thanks for keeping us stoked.

oh, thirsty plants

It seems strange
that with all this rain we've had
over the last few days, and
the air saturated with moisture,
that my plants are still in want of water.

I can't bare to walk out on my sopping wet porch to pour
more water into the system. And yet,

I see the dry soil is taut and cracking--
just like the skin after fallen tears leave behind
their tight, salty residue,
essentially making the original wetness
inconsequential.

I see the green leaves are beginning to brown and
wilt at the edges.
They're so tired and thirsty.

on clyde pond

I always love going home to my parents' house. Going home to the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont is like going on retreat. No one will ever find you there. And once you arrive, you can finally breathe. This is not to say that Burlington is the rat-race. Not by any means. But in comparison to sitting in a canoe on quiet Clyde Pond, it might as well be.

Going home also means going to church. That's okay by me, especially since it's my dad who does the preaching and he's the best in the world. And not just because he's my dad. You'll always walk away from service with some kind of little nugget you can use to tackle the week ahead with joy and grace. And so I did this morning. But instead of walking, I decided to run--all the way to the house about 50 yards towards the woods--so invigorated was I from the good words and the gorgeous sun shining down my back. As I galloped down the path about a hundred tiny red butterflies seemed to burst from my feet and fly up beside me like dolphins, diving in and out of my sight. They followed me all the way. Good omen!

My dad and I took the canoe behind the house and put in at Clyde Pond, an old reservoir hidden among the woods behind Newport. Only the locals know about it, I think. For human visitors are few and far between. We paddled upstream to the Clyde River and my dad pointed to a stretch of shore where just last week he had seen a baby deer and its mother. In a strange way, I still felt the ghost of their presence there and couldn't help but recall a poem I once read by Mary Oliver in her stunning book House of Light. The poem called The Deer, depicts timeless, ever-present nature--like two deer walking in long grass as though time doesn't exist. The poem speaks to the strength and reliability of the wild earth. But it also voices a fear for its fleetingness. We need the make the most of every minute with earnest devotion.

Each of us is given/only so many mornings to do it--/to look around and love/the oily fur of our lives,/the hoof and grass-stained muzzle./Days I don't do this/I feel the terror of idleness,/like a red thirst./Death isn't just an idea./When we die the body breaks open/like a river;

As I was thinking about this--I could think for ever on this quiet, isolated river--I gazed among a patch of lily pads, looking grand like a hundred emerald sun dials, and saw a white flower peeking up from the water.

"Look!" I said to my dad, "the flowers on the lily pads are blooming!"

"Yup, waterlilies," he relied. "That's what we used to call the sailors."

"Really?" I asked. "Why?"

"Because of those hats they used to wear. You know, those white ones."

"Can we get close to it?" I asked. We paddled towards the lone bloom. In my thoughts, I imagined a handful of earnest sailors bobbing up and down on the water like buoys. Not the same effect really. I thought of Monet's large old paintings of waterlilies that I was fortunate to see up-close over the winter at L'Orangerie in Paris. If you are ever lucky enough, like I was, to see these massive round panels in person, you'll probably notice that they're surprisingly drab, albeit breathtaking. The flowers themselves are barely noticeable in among the grass and ripples and brush strokes. I guess that's why the painting are so famous--you have to squint your eyes a bit. They're gorgeous, but they do no justice to the waterlily flower that, in real life, stands out against the deep dark waters like a bright star in the midnight sky.

We were now close enough to the flower to touch it. I wanted to take a picture. But the lily seemed to be playing a game with me, ducking in and out of the shadows, in and out of the water, and only peeking out long enough to say, "Here I am, and here I go." Fleeting and exuberant, as only a real-life waterlily can be. Finally I got a snapshot. A quick snapshot of the yellow pollen mustache, the pointy white petals, the game of peek-a-boo to remind me of this fleeting moment and make it timeless.

Leaving my parents' is as thrilling as it is to arrive. There is no room for sadness, because your arms and your car are filled to the brim with fresh flowers and produce from the garden, clean laundry--line-dried and smelling like sunshine, new plants to add to my porch pot garden (this time I have two mint varieties and borage, whose flowers garnish any summer cocktail with a colorful flourish), and my parents' home-roasted coffee tickling our noses (oh, how Au Lait loves the scent of coffee!).

on level water

There's something in the Clyde, the river.
I belong there--we all do--tenderly
Drifting towards the edge.

We all belong on that river
In one way or other, in
Some nook or cranny.
We're all on the same level there.
That's because water levels off.
It's always harmonically level.

How it happens is this:
When you're sitting on a boat on the Clyde,
You're at eye level with all of life in those parts--
The bugs buzz buzzing around your head,
The baby deer tip-toeing at water's edge,
Pausing, looking, ever-still.
Even fish are close enough to see.

Please note: it has to be a quiet boat, like a canoe.
No motors will do on this river.

Rider, driver, whatever. There's no us or them.
We're all the same here,
All together drifting down in chorus with the current pull,
The hull, sometimes swimming in whirlpools,
Fishing in and out of sunspots and shadows,
Sometimes still--Quiet as a hushed breeze in midair.

I know, this is where I belong on those days
When I hear the level dissent in syncopated rhythm,
When I can't see eye to eye,
When the deer sees me and runs away in fear.

I just need the river to be here.
To pull me in legato mood
To the nearest quiet pool of water,
So I can sit and ponder
My place here on this river.

popcorn the wonder food

Sometimes I like it with salt and butter.
Sometimes with a sprinkle of brown sugar.
Shake it and bake it with some taco spice.
Rosemary and olive oil always tastes nice.

Popped in the air popper or hot oiled skillet--it's all good.
Popcorn is my favorite snack food.

to reflect

Sometimes it's so easy to get caught up in the moment, to feel so full of life and friends and feeling. And then you wonder: how can you possibly put this all into words? So that you can forever instill the moment in your memory and so that others can also enjoy your experience through the story you tell.

William Wordsworth described this feeling so well when he wrote his poem, "I wandered lonely as a cloud." He came upon a gorgeous field of yellow daffodils. It was a very striking moment in his life, but it wasn't until he came home and spent some time reflecting on his couch that he was able to fully understand its significance:

I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

We're back in New York again. We went back to Lil Frankies. We drank wine and ate our fabulous meal. Now I'm back on Spencer & Courtney's couch reflecting on the night, and I just have to thank Wordsworth (what a fitting name) for putting into words just how I'm feeling right now. And for giving me the a-okay for not having the words to describe it. For letting me know that it's okay to be laconic sometimes. The importance is in taking the time to reflect. And right now, I'm just really reflecting.

I caught a cloud

I caught a cloud one day.
I jumped that cloud and rode it far away.

Rode over the Atlantic, over Greenland
Where the air passed my skin like musical notes and where
Night awoke its deep purple stance.

I caught a cloud and rode it all the way to France.
I saw musicians from the Nile, Gypsy guitar players, and
Arab merchants.

I tasted duck carpaccio drizzled in olive oil, fresh goat cheese, eleven varieties of honey, ripened figs plucked right from the tree.

I soaked myself in the Moroccan tiled hamman, perspiration falling from my skin like rain.
I drank the mint tea to rain the water back inside of me.

I met a woman with crystal eyes--
she spoke my fortune on saturated breath.
I let out a sigh of relief. Now I can take my leave.

I said goodbye to the olive leaf, to my new found friends, said Au Revoir to the cicadas chirping on the sun-dried plain.

When I returned home everything remained
Quite unchanged
Still sitting in the normal place.

But the cloud and I shall never be the same.

big heavy sky

Sometimes the sky can feel so big.

Not so much when it's completely empty, clear and blue, as you would think. More so when it's peppered with small floating objects--stars, clouds, seagulls--in point of reference to its massive size.

When the sky feels so big, other objects on land seem disproportionate. Large billboards so up close dwarf the industrial rooftops below--so close together--industrial buildings piled so close together like metal cars on a train, toppled together.

They must breathe

in unison--in an out--in unison so as not to burst at the architectural core.

The buildings breathe in the hot heat of night. Breathe in the Harlem shadows, shifting in silhouette as we whiz by.

The night sky is big tonight, small electric pink clouds hang so high above. The sky is big, but is not airy and offers no escape. The heavy night suffocates the breath. We race to squeeze through the drowsy buildings before they collapse in on us. Envelope us in the night. And my eyelids are heavy. So heavy.

martyr metis for the poets: a sonnet

A greater man there never was than you,
Almighty Zeus, nor a larger lust
Than for the ever-thoughtful Metis, who
Begot with you a babe, though e'er she blushed.

And yet the oracle of Mother Earth
Saw first a girl-child, then a son follow
With high powers. You feared that second birth;
Suppressed your pregnant Thought in one swallow.

The climax of consumed lover in full
Phase became a vast pain, enough to blind.
A sharpened axe against your ruptured skull
Was sole cure to sooth the aching mind.

From that breach sprung forth in connate wisdom,
Athene--armoured with words--a grown woman.

hammock land

Wet, verdant, cool grass on my
naked feet
draws me like a leash
into the shade where I
can see the heat,
but the heat can’t see me.
The hammock accepts my fall loosely
wraps me up and holds me
freely.
I float on the breeze that
sings and breathes against my skin.
Back and forth, I sway
like a ship
and my lead body
doesn’t try to prevent
the daisy dust and
heady scent
of wild thyme hugging the slope,
to enter and heal me
and make me more sleepy.
I hear my mummy hum
from the window that’s open
she’s carried away
with the big heavy cars
and the high open wind,
the earaching bugs and
the fine lazy day,
and on the way,
grabs my consciousness’
hand
and takes it away to
hammock land.

paris on my mind

what I wouldn't give for:
a madeleine from rue Vavin
a glass of kir with France
a metro ride to tuilleries
a gallette from Marche Raspaille on Sunday morning
a midnight snack with Gino at hotel de chevreuse
a dance at v.i.p. room
a trip to chinatown
a paris raindrop
a moonlit jardin Luxembourg
my blue pantheon, my pont neuf promenade
bus-ride through Odeon, I see galleries, Japanese teapots, my eyes wide open
oh my city, bon vivant!