. . . . not too far from where I live

Buffalo, New York

gets a bad rap.

But after all the travels I've done,

and the places I've lived,

this is where I've ended up.

And sometimes they do things here that are just

too right.

Like this:

This is called a "Little Library."

Anyone is welcome to take a book, and to leave one.

they're just out there, on the streets (in the snow!)

And yes, if you're thinking:

isn't that a Frank Lloyd Wright house in the background?

Well, yes,

you're right.

That's the Darwin Martin House, one of the few multiple structure residential complexes 

designed by Wright,

and one of the biggest reconstruction projects of a Wright work.

Yes, I volunteer there, too.

I can't live in a city with something like that going on

and not try to help, even in 

the smallest way.

~ ~ ~

I'd like to say I'm hibernating, by the way,

and that is why I've not been here.

But that's not really true:

I am working like a dog.

I am tired,

and I am also writing~ ~ 

other things,

not this blog.

But I miss this blog,

and love its readers,

and I promise to return,

if only intermittently.

I'll be trying to return more and more

in the next few months

because this blog

helps me stay in touch with me.

'Til next time,

and

I hope it's soon,

here are a few photos

of Buffalo snow

:

stay warm, 

my dears ~ ~

. . . after a brief silence: winter, again

Winter again, this year will it be

rugged, demandingly, indeed

it approaches, insisting

attention, and yet we don't heed

the oncoming force that

belittles elections, not to mention T.V.

                                                   Be

ready to be awed in the true sense of the word. Vocabulary

can't encompass

the winter we're about to see.

(I do hope all my blogging friends

are fine.  I've had a terribly busy

semester ~ ~ nice to just

be moving my fingers across the keys!)

winter stillness

Although

we haven't had much snow,

my mind has felt numb these days.

Hibernation, I believe, is meant to be the condition

of women and men during the season of shorter days.

Words themselves seem

to have taken refuge

in the cave of  my mind.

So,

I have found it very hard to write blog entries

on things like

the Republican candidates (we are, it would seem, in America's endtimes,

during which the best candidates we can muster are the ones

who embody our overindulgences and mutations),

sinking cruise ships,

Madonna's Super Bowl Half Time Show,

or men who kill their children

then light their house on fire.

The desperation of each of these silences me

and makes me simply want 

to look close at each

and every day.

I actually pray

for more snow,

so 

the earth too can slumber with me.

I know,

as you know,

that after great silence comes

sound--

in the meantime, I will write here sometimes,

on days of thaw,

or share the words of others with you

that I think

are worthy of contemplation.

Be well,

dear friends --

I'm still here!

(all photos by Makropoulos)

Living in Ice-Land

I've only been to Iceland

once, around the year 1992.

But the exact day was certain:

it was June 21: the longest day of the year.

And in Iceland that means the sun

never leaves the sky.

In Iceland in June,

many fields are green, but

you can also find ice, for sure,

and geysers,

and the 

omnipresent smell of

sulfur,

and the pale blond Icelanders

smile at you and dance

in the sun, determined to celebrate

their endless day.

The man who was my husband at that time

was mad at me,

when I slid between the sheets

and fell asleep

around 1:00 a.m.

He wanted to stay up through a night

with no night

(I believe he actually did, too),

and now I understand why:

It was a rare occasion,

it was why one would be

in Iceland on June 21,

and I, with my usual

naivete

fell asleep.

( thepunkguy )

The people of Iceland

drink a lot,

sincerely and matter-of-factly:

it's what one must do to weather

those long, cold, dark nights.

The people of Iceland

read a lot too,

and their eyes burn like

smoldering coals,

turned inside out by months of

darkness.  

One of their great national poets was a guy

named Snorri Sturluson;

I visited what is reported to be his home,

but it looked like a mound of sod with a door:

the people of Iceland know

that when it's really cold

true warmth can be found

underground.

( mangabay )

When you look through the Icelandic phonebook,

(and if I recall correctly, there was only one

for the whole country)

you will find the names are alphabetized

by first names,

not by last;

even last names are spawned 

by first names;

I interpreted this to suggest

that these people accept and acknowledge

they're all in this together,

so they might as well not try to mask anything

with the false veneer of 

formality.

In fact, reportedly,

there is not much crime in Iceland.

One would be foolish to alienate one's self so

in such an alien land.

( icelandweatherreport )

I remembered that trip to Iceland

today, as the sun glinted off the deep, hard packed snow

in the quadrangle of the college where I work,

and then again, as I shoveled over a foot of the heavy stuff

off the second story porch roof

connected to the place

where I live --

We are, so many of us,  living in Ice Land right now.

And I believe

we have a lot to learn

from the people of Iceland

in this chilly season,

as our wounded earth pulls round herself

this deep white blanket,

a death-like blanket to us,

but really intended to restore.

We struggle across the surface of it,

insistently trudging

through our self-important, self-destructive

lives as we know them,

but what we really know,

if we listen to our bones,

is that we should be sleeping right now,

gently resting inside the womb

of our slumbering mother,

Earth.

Iceland, they say, 

is the youngest landmass on earth, and under her surface

bubbles the cauldron 

of new life.

The ice and snow protect the budding rebirth,

and heals the wounds inflected

by her heedless inhabitants.

~ ~ ~

I've decided to become

an Ice-Lander today,

tomorrow,

and always,

and the next time I get the chance

to experience endless day,

I'll stay awake,

and bask in it.

( theodora.com )

my worst habit (two poems by Rumi)

( gamesandwallpapers )

My worst habit is I get so tired of winter

I become a torture to those I'm with.

If you're not here, nothing grows.

I lack clarity.  My words

tangle and knot up.

How to cure bad water?  Send it back to the river.

How to cure bad habits?  Send me back to you.

When water gets caught in habitual whirlpools,

dig a way out through the bottom

to the ocean.  There is a secret medicine

given only to those who hurt so hard

they can't hope.

The hopers would feel slighted if they knew.

Look as long as you can at the friend you love

no matter whether that friend is moving away from you

or coming back towards you.

~  ~ ~

( hickerphotography )

Pale sunlight,

pale the wall.

Love moves away.

The light changes.

I need more grace

than I thought.

(Jelaluddin Rumi 1207 - 1273

translated by Coleman Barks)

. . . on snow

 ( global-greenhouse-warming )

. . . in the chill

of mid winter

the mind stills

,

the spirit too

--

has anyone ever heard

of the spirit being frozen

out

of a sentient being?

no

The spirit exits on a 

burning

;

cold

brings stasis

a numbed waiting

for rebirth.

( guy-sports )