|Jim Harrison in his Livingston Montana writing cabin (Photo by Kurt Markus via outsideonline.com)|
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Reading these lovely poems by Jim Harrison, thanks to Michelle Aldredge and Gwarlingo. He and I feel the same way about the world.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
woodbird! it's morning--5:30 am--and i'm downstairs at the kitchen table like my old self again. kiddos sleeping. T sleeping. buzz of the fridge and a slow, humid air. we're in the summertime thick of it. last night, dinner at the pond with friends drinking box wine and effervescent cider while my girl climbs trees and my boy runs bare. there's a bushel of peaches from a neighbor sitting on the porch and blackberry stains on all our clothes. there are flowers, Little House on the Prairie books, a yard full of chickens and piles of laundry that are never done. there's fresh salsa and the yard turned into our living room. this is what we dream of nine months of the year. this is the it, the here and now promise that gets us through winter. it's a go go world, thick with amber light and drinking. thick with small limbs running and too much storing up for the long season of too little.
so that's why i've been quiet. my introvert spirit ajar with summer. rest assured i'll be back in the fall.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Late afternoon, tea, kids gone to the farm for milk. Hello. I’ve been thinking of late about the bifurcated me’s. The versions of Robin that wrestle, on a daily basis, for time, patience, energy, commitment, allegiance, solidarity & love. There’s the mother Robin and the artist Robin, perennially battling for time, of which I’ve written before. But there are more versions at odds. There is the minimalist condemning the hoarder. The environmentalist at odds with the feminist. The environmentalist reviles the use of plastic and the driving of cars. She wants to grow as much of her own food as possible, cook only from scratch and never touch a disposable diaper. The feminist Robin thinks she’s a wet blanket. The feminist wants convenient food wrapped in plastic to throw in a bag (in the car) and hand to her children the minute they squirm. She abhors the kitchen and the garden and loves plastic diapers because they all buy her the thing she wants most: time. Then there’s the domestic Robin leering at the restless one (and vice-versa). The domestic one got herself five chickens which quickly multiplied to fifteen (go figure). She can veg out for hours in front of the Pinterest screen, get giddy rearranging furniture, and prettify the table till the cows come home. The restless one says fuck all that. Get yourself on an airplane! Smoke a cigarette! Remember when you were young and took all those road trips? And of late there’s been the writer eying the musician suspiciously (and quietly, from the corner of the room). The writer wants rhythm. Quiet mornings to herself in a small room with a cup of tea. Ceremonious and holy time sacrificed for no one and no thing. But the musician keeps stealing time. Rehearsal time. Travel time. Gig time. She’s remembering lyrics to old songs when she should be waxing poetic alone. She’s getting all excited about cowboy boots and road trips. Shit, she’s getting all excited. All infected by enthusiasm and attention and positive vibrations and other people. The writer thinks she’s petty and vain. The musician thinks the writer is conservative, fearful, and may as well be sixty. Am I alone here? Am I crazy? Well, the car just pulled in. My people are home. I'd love, when I get back (whenver that may be) to hear what angry/anxious/tender/fearful/witty women (or men) bicker inside your oh-so human bodies.
Friday, August 2, 2013
|Photo by Michelle Aldredge|
Every day I try and figure out what to do with my life. Every day I ask myself what it means to live a good one. I know I'm doing a few things right--raising these kids of mine, for one. I know at other times I'm spinning, or wasting my energy on things not meant to be, or not meant for me. There have been many times I've decided on giving up this music thing. The stage is not my favorite place to be. The road tires me to no end. I'm an introvert. I love my chickens and my kitchen and my woods. But then there are times, like last night, when we get up on stage and sing and play and it, well...feels like a gift we're meant to give. Something we're meant to spin together. Something a little bit larger than either one of us on our own. So I don't know what to do with that. How are we to know what our greatest gifts are, and where and when we're meant to give them?
PS: could you imagine a prettier room to play in?
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Busy times around here. Red Heart gigs, baking gigs, chicken madness, berry madness, wild child 1 and wild child 2, which make moments like these in the speckled moments of quiet calm all the more sacred. What is this? Ice, rum, tonic and mint divine.
And in case you're interested, there's a video of us singing our next Lunar Phase song live in NHPR's Studio D (recorded live a couple days ago), here.
And we'll be playing tonight at the Nelson Town Hall in Nelson, NH, in case you want an exciting summer backroads road trip (bring a bottle of wine and dip in a lake after).
Summer is just like this, I remind myself every day. Don't fear, it will slow down. It always does. Too quickly.
What are you drinking these days?