L'aura del Campo

A day of balance. What we remember.

Thoughts about this time of balance. Journal is on page 1,102. What I wrote in class last Monday, circled with Native American Art, listening to the changing music. Saw the game from the Hill. Jayhawks won.

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███████          L'aura del campo
███████          AUTUMN: 16 'Izzat (23 September)
███████          Weather outside: fair and cool.
███████          Weather inside: confused but calm.

'é a lua,  é a lua,  na quintana dos mortos'          
~    Federico García Lorca

In the balance

The first day of Autumn in the North. Spring in the South. A day when an egg can be balanced on end. The beginning of Libra.

It is also Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of Ramadan, Aki-no-Higan (Buddhist/Shinto). The 22nd was First Nations Day, the commemoration of the Death of guru Nanak (Sikh). It is the equinox.

My balance

I have reached page 1,100 in my Journal. Is it time to for it to end? I doubt, but I must ask myself. It is written to a friend and much has changed since I began it on December 9th, 2003.

Originally, it was a depository of everything I could not say in a letter. No one wants to receive a book of tears. It was a place to weep in silence. Slowly, I am learning how to pour more from my cup on-line, less in my journal. I try hard not to merely share my spleen. Still, I feel safer commenting in your blogs than in mine. In my own blog I must own the pain somehow.

These days I am able to write and phone my friend more often and have less to say that I haven't said already. Even though the time may never come to share some inner thoughts, the need to do so has diminished.

So AL is right that I should share more. Read her blog and you will understand that she doesn't hold back ... much. Yet, she and I both know that she does hold back some. We are of like mind in many ways. Still, she doesn't dwell each day on the pain and I can't afford to either.

Too dry, too wet? ? Think Autumn or Spring
Temperature where I am: 61º and cloudy.
Weather in Dublin, Ireland: 61º and rain.
Weather in Dubuque, Iowa: 57º and rain.
Weather in Duquesne, Pennsylvania: 67º and thunderstorms.

IMAGES

Orange sun setting behind a silhouette of trees. A rainbow, faint against the lowering grey. The rainbow's end - the bell-tower. The hills across the valley glow in gold. Stiff breeze.

MY LIFE

Boring when I stay at home!

Last night went out to Henry's and got into a good conversation. Today I took a bath. Went to the game.

Did call my mother. My parents were married 56 years ago today at 4:05. It was a Saturday in a yellow brick Methodist church. Small wedding. My mother wore a navy blue outfit. So ... my mother spent the day with her memories and a picture of my dad. They were married 48 years.

FOOTBALL

Well Kansas won over U. South Florida 13-7. Not an impressive win, but after last week's debacle any win is a-okay. Next week the game is at Nebraska. They will seek revenge.

WRITING? YOU CALL THIS WRITING?

Last Monday we had to write to the prompt "I remember" while our teacher changed the music. No punctuation just writing. This is an edited version. The numbers indicate when the music changed.

What we remember

We remember ...

1

and they circle to the drums through generations, these faded pictures on a quilt now come to life. The pom pom pom pom now pompompom. The beat of hooves, of centuries of stomp dance

2

in the chapel where we put down quilts and kneel before the flames and cross. In a chant our voices raise our praise to upper levels of the vault, our nave, inverted here on grassy plains. They echo our ancestor's ancestors.

3

Strange melodies from foreign lands amuse our ears. So much noise that the forest has never heard. It's not the chirp of lark, the caw behind a bush, the rush of blackbird wings. It sings the end of fry bread with its horse-hair-screech across a stretch of cat-gut. It carves our minds with other winds and waters.

4

At dusk the fire embers, gives way to the light of moon. The child sleeps and dogs keep vigil. The horses rest with its caress. These nights our worries wait til day

5

when the tempo quickens and the dance of urban noise and rural alcohol become a battle of the bottle. Who wins this dance?

6

The far off music of a radio tells us stories of a place we only know from tales. We do not know it. We are invisible. It does not speak of us. Our trials and triumphs do not scatter along the piano notes, slide to trombones, blare to trumpets.

7

Only in these images we've sown on quilts are we remembered. [163.365]

BLOGVILLE

I worry about young college students. Can't help myself. For instance, SSTheWriter and Joshua Alan Lindsay are both college freshmen and need support. There are many others too. Have you adopted a 'young person' to mentor with their writing or with life in general?