Life is so fragile ...

Dandelion in my yard

We are all thinking the same thing, because we're all watching and hearing the same tragic news being echoed around the globe.  We are speechless and shake our heads in disbelief at the sheer horror that the unbelievable power of nature has unleashed in one little corner of the world.  We utter silent prayers of gratitude that we were spared from this awful calamity.  But what happens to a remote island somewhere in the Pacific, creates a shift in the inner and outer geography of the entire planet. This is not only happening in and to Japan, this is happening to us, all inhabitants of the Earth, at this time and place in our history.  Our world remains in a state of flux with shifting plates, unexpected floods, raging wars, and releases of extremely powerful, invisible energy.  It always has. We spin so fast that we appear to be standing still. Are we even aware that we remain in constant motion, even while we sleep?  When something moves, something changes.  In a single unexpected  gust of wind, a dandelion is nearly blown away, forever, never to exist in exactly the same way ever again. Wake up. Be aware. Time goes by quickly, and life is so very fragile.

I wrote the following piece on the day the earth quaked under Haiti.  It still applies today, not only to Haiti, but now to Northern Japan, as well and to all who have suffered the ravages of natural disasters.  The first three lines of the second stanza were changed from the original text.

In Our Time

Wars continue to rage.
Calamities crush and crumble.
Pregnant, barefeet women
run in the streets in search of
 grains of rice to feed their children
who haven't eaten in days.

Roofs of their homes have been reduced,
and the timbers of their walls
have been blown like matchsticks.
Where in the world
does their help come from?

They are a people in exile,
a people in waiting,
starving to be fed,
embarrassed by their nakedness
and the shame of being exposed.

Long ago, we were told
the poor and hungry
we would always have with us,
and those who have plenty
were told that more
would be expected in return.


~from the book, Pilgrimage to Self



Thank God, I'm a Country Girl!





Fields of sugar cane in my hometown of Erath, La.

My playground used to be

long, straight rows of cane

that stretched way beyond

what was visible, perfectly

planted without even a bend.

I rode barefooted and bareback

on bicycles and ponies

under green canopies deep

in the field until the harvest

was ready to yield.

My young life of innocence

and play was simple and free.

The fruit of that soil is what

has sweetened and sustained

who I am today.

A seed is buried deep

in the dirt, until Mother Earth

pushes her offspring into the light.

It's in brightness that I found

myself after a long night.

Now I know what I couldn't then.

That was my first encounter with

life's hard lesson, that something

must die for another

to be fed and live.

~from Rangs de Cannes (Rows of Sugar Cane)

  Pilgrimage to Self

Growing up, from sun-up to sundown, we literally took to the country roads,

on anything that would transport us, a bicycle, a shetland pony, our bare feet.

There was no X-box or Playstation. I grew up in the days of black and white televisions, no remote control, and an outside antenna that occasionally had to be manually turned for better signal reception. "Rabbit Ear" antennas that sat on top of the TV set were also a common household addition. Besides, my mother, would never have us in the house for very long. On rainy days, when we had to stay inside, she would rename our house, "Grand Central Station!" 

She's been to New York, but never Grand Central Station, and if she had been, she would surely have known the difference.

Our household was filled with energy of all sorts, especially when all five kids were in the same space. The instruction from her was usually, "go outside to play, and don't come back  until street light comes on!"  So, off we went to invent our own games. Hide and Seek in the sugar cane fields on the North Road, near my home, became a popular and well-liked game amongst the kids in the neighborhood. This is where Hall of Fame jockey, Randy Romero, Kentucky Derby rider, Shane Sellers, and my brother, Kim Frederick, also a long-time jockey, got their start ... riding shetlands, bareback and bridleless, through the long narrow rows of sweet cane.

We always knew when the harvest was ready to yield. If we got too sore from riding, we'd often dismount, and sample the crop. Our taste tests would confirm if the cane stalks were ripe enough for Steen's syrup factory, just a few miles down the road, where my Dad worked. We would soon be sampling the crop again, this time in the form of thick cane syrup; watching it slowly pour from that famous yellow can and right onto my stack of pancakes. "We'd raise cane if we didn't get our syrup, Steen's cane syrup in the yellow can," is how the commercial jingle went. We all licked our fingers and sang along.

It sometimes turned into a game of Lost and Found, Lost and Not Found, or  Lost and Not-Wanting-to-be Found. At times, I preferred playing the latter. I often went off to do my own exploring, seeing things the way that only I could see them. Even today, as a 51 year old woman, my friends accuse me of "going off and doing my own thing!"  Don't take it personal, it's what I've always done. I'm still a kid at heart. I've traded in the shetland for a nice adult bicycle, helmet and all. I usually have a camera and a few pieces of paper with a pen in tow,

to capture a worthwhile moment. Some experiences are definitely worth preserving.  Frolicking in the cane fields was one of mine. 



The Book Has Already Been Written ...







Pigeonier near Chartres, France

The poetry and lines of prose have already been written. For a visual association, images of leaving, walking, and returning, have been purposefully placed.  Beyond words on pages,  I  realized there was so much more left to be told...so much wonder to behold.  It's what lies between the lines and beneath the telling that lingers on.

There are real stories of real lives, lived and died, tangled in a mesh of words.  As we live our own lives on various levels, so too, do the metaphors exist at different depths.  The images are an integral part of the story, as well.  A story about a picture, a photo to help imagine a story, or a story about a story; sometimes it's of greater nourishment to us than food.

When I've spoken to groups, in sharing stories that prop up my poetry, new energy arises. With each remembering and retelling, an inner room in my life and that of the listener is revisited.  For many reasons, we greatly desire to tell our life's stories over and over again.

Oral traditions and treasured experiences, so very deeply woven into our cultural fabric, repeatedly longs to express itself ... from generation to generation, life passing life on to the next.