A Celebration of Life      


It is winter at the high desert,
Everything is a tone of grey or brown.
Nothing is straight.
The wind has bent and bowed all
That is above the cold
Craggy ground.

The crooked scrub pine will
Grow anywhere it can,
Even if it is out of a wretched rock.
And before its time, it is
Gnarled and worn from the
Pounding weather.  

There is brush that is sage and
Juniper rolling away after
It has been broken by
The frozen elements.
There is not much else.
Animals roam and scurry searching
For the nourishment
That sustains them.  

But as it is so with all of life,
And as it will always be,
When you’re there,
And you look over to the mountains
And you look down at the canyons
And when you see for miles the level vastness,
When you stand up straight, upright against the wind,
Standing as tall as you possibly can, then
My God in heaven, you feel alive.  

Susan Patterson
November 2011

I wrote this poem during a visit to Eastern Oregon.  I was out walking.  It was windy and cold, but still there was an appreciation of the area and its features.  This is a poem about standing up to the hardships or challenges of life.  The high desert is a metaphor of life.  Sometimes how we live is beautiful, sometimes it is harsh and difficult.  But, to continue to metaphor out, when we stand up against a difficulty, it is often then that we feel the most alive and the most strong.  We may be surrounded by cold and grey. Living beings may need to look long and hard for sustenance.  However, even then, with cold, craggy ground to stand on,  being upright in spirit is still a powerful stance to take.  skp

▶  The calendar is man's way of tracking the works of God.     Earlene Grey

Happy winter to you!  skp

And, I Will Blanket You

It is winter and time for hibernation.
Turn your back to the wind.
Lean low and feel the
Earth cooling,
Resting from delivery.
Another year will come and her
Returning warmth will waken us.
But right now, let us bide,
Lie down and slumber at her side.

Susan Patterson

02-2011

It seems that in every season there might be an excuse for resting.  For some reason, I often write about resting.  It could be that I am writing poetry using a broken record here, I don't know.  Well, maybe one cannot rest in spring.  How can one take it easy in a time of year named 'spring' for heaven's sake.  And, then there is summer, with its epistemology of total light.  Resting in the total light?  I don't think so.  Now, resting in autumn (fall or harvest) is difficult as well.  Clearly one should not rest during the harvest time, or there will be no food for the winter.  But resting in winter?  Well, one could always mend the nets or sharpen the saws, but really there is not much else to do. 

So why not enjoy the long evenings and cooler temperatures?  Why not lean low, metaphorically, and connect with all that is earthy?  The other times of the year you can play and work.  Hibernate now and let someone blanket you.   skp  

Recently I was sent an article about a wealthy French socialite who fled from the Germans in 1942, leaving her apartment, never to return.  The home was only recently re-opened.  The treasures of another time and place that were found inside are incredible.  Her lifestyle must have been one we could only try to envision, let alone live. 

Following is the link with the fascinating pictures. 
http://themetapicture.com/abandoned-this-apartment-from-1942/

Maybe we can all make a space, either big or small,  just for ourselves alone that will hold the treasures of our life.  skp

À bientôt!  skp

There is a lot to think about in this poem.  It is about the rush of our modern life.   It is about getting in trouble for going too fast.  It is about slowing down and having tea with a friend.  (Preferably tea, not coffee.  There is reason for that, but I will not get into the health benefits of tea right now.)  It might even be about driving or walking too fast.  I refer you to my third book, Tom and Irma-Chronicles of the 1950s , Chapter 3 - I Want To Drive a Packard, for driving instruction.  Or take a look at my poem, The Surety of the Slow, for insight on moving slowly.   But, I will not explain every line.  I think that in this particular piece, the reader will take in what is necessary and the rest will go by.

Please understand, those of you who live with adrenalin, speed, many worthwhile endeavors and causes, I am not saying you are wrong.  It is not mine to criticize.  Each of us must live his life with his own values and abilities.  This poem is just one person's perspective.  Thank you for reading.  skp

▶ Tea is not a guilty pleasure, otherwise Hades would have no room.  
                  Earlene Grey

Cheery-bye!  skp

Finally, I Can Hear Myself Think

I lost myself somewhere between early and now,
Maybe it wasn’t so much that I was lost, but that I
Had never quite arrived.  
There were so many strong, solid sounding voices,
Sermonizing to me, they almost drowned out
The utterances of my hesitant soul.

It was only recently that I quit listening to those
Leading me by their own understandings.  
Maybe I went deaf.  
It’s hard to say.
But now, I do hear the voice
That was given me,
And what I hear
Is plain enough.  

Susan Patterson
09-2011

I think that at some point in our lives, most people can all relate to this poem.  We've listened to other people, foregoing our own innate wisdom.  It happens.  Most of the time, we can get over inappropriate counsel.  But when there is a pattern, even a life time of allowing others to make our decisions and life plans for us, it is not good.  Now, I am not here to say that I've received a life time of bad advice.  I have not.  But, I am glad that in my senior years, I've started paying more attention to the voice inside of me.  Some of what I hear that voice saying to me, I share with you.  skp

Yes, more cat pictures. You asked for them, why I do not know, but here you go.  This is a picture of Dewey and Louie.  They are twins.  There was a third brother, Hewey, but he was hit by a car on a country road. For their safety, his brothers were brought to our neighborhood. 

Dewey and Louie belong to my neighbor, Teresa.   Teresa, is a good pet owner, but she works long hours and has three dogs.  Because of this, Dewey and Louie visit our house often. Her cats enjoy the open door (actually cat door) policy at our house.  They like to sleep on heated cat beds, to eat food whenever they want and to have a lap to sit on.  Dewey and Louie are truly strikingly beautiful animals.  They are big and strong and very well mannered.  They are our latch-key kitties.  It is not unusual for us to have six orange kitties around this house, four of our own and the two neighbor cats.  Whew!  "How did that happen?" James and I ask ourselves.  Oh well,  we just take care of that which is put in front of us.   skp

▶Begin to write what you know your truth to be.  If it is not real, the words will not come to you.     Earlene Grey

À bientôt!  skp