Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I swear, if I were not the strongest woman alive, I don't know what I would do.
I don't know if I am being semi-successful at adjusting to the sad new truths in my life, or if I am becoming numb, or if there is some siren song of future happiness just out of my range of hearing. I am beset on all sides by trouble, and I seem to be doing ok, considering the circumstances.
I want so badly to have something witty or even comforting to say. I wish I could just wrap my arms around everyone and hide us all from the world until this blows over. I want to cook everyone dinner and give everyone wine and try and find the humor in all of it. If you don't laugh, you cry, right?
Friday, April 24, 2009
Waves crash in tidal relentlessness
Grind me into fine white sand.
Emotions blend so that one to the next
Flows , teeming with life in between grains.
Churn me now so even I can’t say
Whether I am animal, vegetable, mineral.
Am I sea or storm-swept sky?
Am I plankton or vast blue whale?
Am I fierce avenging God,
Or trembling sack of sinful flesh?
Am I my good intention’s deeds,
Or a cork tossed while the message bottle sinks?
Can I contain all, be all?
Be shells and mollusks, crab and coral?
Be the moon’s seductive pull
And the battered cliffs at the water’s edge.
Scoop me into a jar and prize me.
Sift my being for the valuable effluvia.
Crucible those contents that will serve
To blow some glass for your banquet table.
Into that crystal goblet pour hopes
To overflowing, and bitter poison too.
And love, love everlasting and pure,
Until the drink tastes of life, and of tears.
© Stacie Ferrante
Sunday, April 12, 2009
I fell far short of my goal. I wanted to write 40 poems in 40 days. I ended up with 14.
On the other hand, I refused to write bitter, self-indulgent poetry. I refused to write stupid Haiku about Battlestar Galactica's lame finale. I refused to write fluff. So out of the 14 poems I did write during Lent this year, a larger percentage were of better quality. I know that runs counter to what I wanted to allow myself to do, but there it is.
I have had some serious emotional blows the last 40 days. Also, some moments of bliss mixed in for good measure. I preserved some of it in poetry form. Some of it I would rather forget.
In any case, the second annual 40 days project is over. Spring is here in earnest. Now what? I'm always curious about what the future holds. I never want to wait for it.
Monday, April 6, 2009
I think it is funny that when my stress levels rise, I often dream about cooking. There is something about my mind's desire to put things in order, to have what I need at hand. I wish the problems I am facing now were that easy to sort out. It is easy when you have a well-organized kitchen and can reach out and have what you need to make anything at your fingertips.
Can I do that with my mental well-being? What is the equivalent of the dish of chopped shallots that is ready to saute? What is the analog for mirepoix? I need to figure out the key to that demanding executive chef in my dreams. I need to crank out the tickets in the window without getting in the weeds. I want to please my "customers" with a beautiful plate. What is that beautiful plate in my life now? What product of my creativity will give me the reassuring results?
Lots of questions and few answers. But it rolls around in my head. I keep looking for beauty in everyday things. I know I can still create something good, even if I am having to search harder for my shallots.