CHANGING WOMAN

Photo by S. Auberle
sculpture artist unknown

CHANGING WOMAN

Changing Woman is a Navajo deity

She carries herself like a gift
this season--tall and erect.
In the new, moist heat of summer
her hair has turned electric,
curly, a silver halo surrounding
her face in the mirror and she feels holy,
though she thinks often of bees and honey,
the rich smell of damp leaves and earth,
the fierce mating of hawks, how they plunge
and spin out of control.

She wonders if she is alone too much,
for it's hard to look in people's eyes.
She sees nakedness there, reflecting her own
and is glad, then, to return home
to the path she walks in early evening
where light haloes trees and flowers,
and the air is sweet like honey.
She is happy to be alone again
and carries herself like a gift,
feeling holiness everywhere.

- mimi

DREAMER

Photo by S. Auberle

DREAMER

Thunderstorms rolling in off the bay all night, bringing
dreams with them: a woman frying potatoes in my
kitchen; a great black bull chasing me--not your average
Angus, but a mythical, fiery-eyed beast; three dogs
taking shelter from the storm in my living room; and my
mother, grandmother and I seated together around an old
oak table, talking of passion and love.

My mother speaks of a man named Jack Cassidy and
says she has shed many a tear over him. The name
sounds familiar to me. My grandmother tells me of a
Japanese man she adored. Both these men, they say,
were dancers--the most important attribute for
romance to my mother and grandmother. I tell them
of a man who once brought poetry and chocolate to me.

I am reminded this morning, writing this as rain still
streaks my windows, of something a professor once
spoke of that has stayed with me: the "numinous chain
of being" among women. The dream felt like that--as
though even death could not break this line of my
ancestry.

Perhaps the woman frying potatoes was a distant
great, great, great back in the old country. She
appeared to be listening to our words, and fried
potatoes with onions has always been a staple in
my family.

The ancestors I know of in this one branch of my
family tree all carry good, solid, Dutch names.
Except for one, who has always intrigued me. Her last
name is French and I've wondered how she came into
this family. What is her story, this woman named
Henrica Chatillion?

Maybe she was a poet who sat on a rainy Sunday
afternoon, scribbling a few lines on precious paper.
Maybe she dreamed one stormy night into the future:
that she was frying potatoes in a strange kitchen,
listening to women she didn't know, but who seemed
strangely familiar, as they spoke of dancing and poetry
and love...

- mimi

THESE ARE THE DAYS

Photo by S. Auberle

Forgive me. For yet more words about
spring. It's just that, after sixteen years
in the southwest, where spring blows in
one day and out the next; where June
can yet see snow in the mountain town
where I live, I have fallen in love. With all
that I'd forgotten about the Midwest spring.
I've been away from my roots too long.

I am in love with what spring does to me,
how it renews me. I become the lover I was
when I was sixteen and everything stretched
out before me. My whole life--endless
possibilities, endless springs, endless passions,
all there ahead of me. There was no sense
of time passing too quickly, no fear lurking
on sleepless nights of winter turning hair
white, taking energy and desire too soon.
Life, like springtime, was electric, turned on
all the time.

Li-Young Lee, one of my favorite poets, says
it perfectly:

"There are days we live as if death were
nowhere in the background, from joy to joy
to joy, from wing to wing, from blossom to
blossom to impossible blossom, to sweet
impossible blossom."

These are the days. Forgive me for loving
too fiercely.

- mimi

MAKEBELIEVE

Photo by S. Auberle

MAKEBELIEVE

by the light
she knows

it isn't real,
this place of stones

high on the bluff,
a small Camelot

in the soft shade
of green radiance

one might, if lucky,
see in a wolf's eyes

or before a tornado
spinning down,

upending all
in its path,

in the jade flash
of mystery at sunset,

but here, for a moment,
she rests in the light

while new,
tender leaves

whisper
it's only makebelieve

- mimi

DAVID

Photo/collage by S. Auberle

"People say that what we're seeking
is a meaning for life. I don't think that's
really what we're seeking. I think that
what we're seeking is an experience
of being alive, so that we actually feel
the rapture of being alive."

- Joseph Campbell

I know the picture has nothing to do with
the quote. I just like the picture and the
quote. And since my muse, blue or otherwise,
has not visited in awhile, I'm just rambling here,
filling the blank blog, in the hopes that some
muse out there will see fit to swoop down and
lend some inspiration. And, come to think of it,
why do I assume he or she will come "down?"
Why not "up," from the depths of me? Why do
we say "falling in love?" Why not rising in love?

There are some who believe the "rapture" is
coming. That we, those of us worthy enough,
they say, will rise up in rapture. I say Joseph
knew what he was talking about. We're all
worthy and the rapture is now.

Amen, brothers and sisters...

- mimi

EVE

photo/collage by S. Auberle

For some peculiar reason, the blog will not let
me post beneath the picture today, so guess I'll
have to go with that...

"Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? Am
I no longer young, and still not half-perfect?
Let me keep my mind on what matters, which
is my work. Which is mostly standing still
and learning to be astonished."
- Mary Oliver

Don't you think that Eve must have spent a good
deal of time being astonished? In this luscious
time of spring I've been thinking of her, wondering
what her true story is. Not this patriarchal version
we've been given, which mostly portrays her as the
downfall of man. Sorry, but I don't buy that version
anymore. I want to believe that she wrote the
Book of Love, as that old sixties song goes. That
she walked through the garden and fell in love...
with all that she saw--including Adam, of course,
though probably from the beginning she couldn't
figure him out. Nevertheless, she loved him, and she
loved the clear waters, the sky, the stars, birds,
flowers and animals. Yes, even the snakes. I want
to believe she gloried in the exquisite beauty all
around her.

Eve, I think, spent her days like me. Being astonished.

- mimi

KOBENHAVN

Photo by S. Auberle

On another trip, though not to Copenhagen. Instead,
I am in my heart place, my soul place, my joy. No need
to say where--because we all have one of these places,
don't we? So just think of your place, and you'll know
where I am.

All I've written since I've been here is one short poem.
Too busy catching up with friends. But today begins
my solitude, another old, too-often neglected friend.
Anyway, here's the poem:

here,
at sunset,
an exhaltation
of light

- mimi

DIVA

Photo/collage by S. Auberle

"A flower's sole purpose in life
is seduction."

- Anthony Eglin
The Blue Rose

THE MOTHER

Photo by S. Auberle
sculpture artist unknown

ON MOTHER'S DAY

women are remembering
the days of bountiful breasts
swollen and tender with need
they are remembering
moonlit nights and scent
of lilacs and baby powder
and how they waited for the music
of infants' new cries, and the way
sweet milk came down then,
flowing, flowering
in the blossoms
of their children's mouths,
they remember the first time,
and every time,
how they fell in love

- mimi

FULL MOON

Photo/collage by S. Auberle

"The moon is full in Scorpio tonight. In
the spiritual sense, this is the Full Moon
that marks the Wesak Festival, which
celebrates the enlightenment of Gautama,
the Buddha, sitting beneath the Bodhi tree
some 2,500 years ago. The effect of this
Full Moon is said to last seven days--three
days before and three days after."

- Josseph, the Star Watcher

JEROME

Photo by S. Auberle

JEROME

I don't know this man's name, it's not Jerome.
The photo was taken there, in Jerome, that
funky little town on the mountain. But I like this
picture, though yes, it's over-exposed. Still, there's
something about the mood of the guy, the moment,
the fact that's he's playing a harmonica to no one
but himself, in the hot noonday sun. Couldn't
hear what he was playing, though it sounded
like blues. He looked content, like maybe he
wasn't thinking anything heavy. Just happy
to be where he was, in the moment. Maybe
it's why I like this photo. Reminds me to do
that too...

- mimi

NEVERMORE

Digital collage - S. Auberle

NEVERMORE

If there was ever a doubt that members
of the corvid family (ravens, crows, magpies, etc.)
are intelligent, we're here to say: THEY ARE
AMAZING..

We have a pair of ravens in our yard that are
getting downright spooky. The male is a big bird,
his headfeathers fluffed up in this mating season
to make him look even larger. He is immensely
curious about us, constantly looking in the windows,
pecking on the frame, trying to get in--his wings
flapping mightily against the glass. This morning,
at dawn, I looked up at the skylight to see him
peering quizzically down at me, as if to say,
well, when are you going to let me in? He has a
unique, three-note call--always the same--always
recognizable from all the other ravens. He pales,
however, next to the object of his affections: a sleek,
glossy female whom he is obviously smitten with,
trailing behind her all the day long.

This lady raven has figured out, in a complicated,
three-step move, how to remove the inside packet
of suet from the holder, fling aside the plastic wrap
and enjoy a delicious meal of peanut butter and
seeds. First she lifts the ring holding the suet feeder,
which allows it to slide down the pole to the deck rail,
where she opens the spring-held latch, then removes
the suet container from the holder. A three step
experience in logic!

We don't know if she shares this sumptuous delicacy
with her suitor or not. Perhaps it's the hope of this
that holds his attention; perhaps it's that he values
her mind over her sleek body. Perhaps these birds
aren't even birds at all. Down through the ages,
in many different cultures, mythologies speak of
Raven as the trickster, the messenger, the
shape-shifter...

"The raven is almost universally familiar, a large
ebony bird the size of a hawk, but utterly lacking
the hawk's dignity, fierceness and strength. What
the raven has is a gift of cleverness and a potent
ego, combined with audacious wit."

-Richard K. Nelson
"Make Prayers to the Raven"

MAGIC OF ANIMALS

Digital photo/collage by S. Auberle

"As a poet I hold the most archaic values
on earth. They go back to the Neolithic:
the fertility of the soil, the magic of animals,
the power-vision in solitude, the terrifying
initiation and rebirth, the love and ecstasy
of the dance, the common work of the tribe."

- Gary Snyder

GOLIGHTLY CAFE

Photo by S. Auberle

First look at Mimi's cafe. You will notice it's dark,
though brightly lit inside, behind that mysterious
green door. From the mists of my childhood I
remember a song called Green Door. The only
line I can recall is "green door, what's that secret
you're keeping?" The cafe is a place of secrets
and a place of joys. It's always dreamtime there.
And it's always open, waiting for you.

Step through that green door and it's where you
go when you sit on top of a mountain, or walk a
wild beach, leaping out of the way of oncoming waves.
It's where you look at the Milky Way, or hold a warm,
sleeping baby on your heart. Where you listen to
Handel's Hallelujah Chorus or watch the Nutcracker
for the twentieth time. Christmas mornings and
Easter dawns are always happening behind that
door. And yes, behind that door, you're always
falling in love--with the world--and with yourself.

- mimi

BLUE MUSE IV

Photo by S. Auberle

And again, today, here she is,
on a beautiful spring day
in the little cliffhanger town of
Jerome, Arizona, that haven of
old hippies, artists, poets and
ghosts. Once home to Nellie Bly
and Belgian Jenny, so the stories
go, as well as the current House of Joy
and the once- infamous red light district
called "Husband's Alley."
Wonderful art here, and it's still the
only town I know that you can,
literally, fall out of. It sets on the side
of Mingus Mountain, at an altitude
of about one mile high, and in some
places, only a railing keeps you from
falling over the side. The jail once
slid down the mountain to it's
current resting place. I believe
they've replaced it...

INDIGO III

Photo by S. Auberle

My blue muse is getting impatient.
She's showing up everywhere.
(See April 20 post)

- mimi

THE ANSWER

Photo-collage by S. Auberle

THE ANSWER

And when you finally
sit them down,
these busy little souls
with stars and skies
shining in their eyes,
they want to know everything:
like who tore that moon in half,
and does the wind sing
trees to sleep, and
they believe you know
what this world is all about
when, in fact, you understand
less each day, though suddenly
it doesn't seem important
to know anymore
even though they're looking
at you for answers
to a thousand questions
and you can only reply
love, just love.

- mimi

MOOD INDIGO II

Digitally altered photo by S. Auberle

No Time for Blues

No time
for old blues

when May is flowing
like warm honey

down the curves
of my soul.

- mimi