The bus snaked it's way up the cliff side, stopping and going as we waited for cars to pass before we could go around the sharp turns. Getting off the bus was like stepping into the moon. This town felt like the edge of the world, I could see all the way down the cliff side, to the waves crashing into the coast far, far below.
I've never been afraid of venturing off by myself, especially when presented with an opportunity to explore a small town high above the Amalfi Coast. I ditched my classmates as they were being corralled into the church and snuck off in the other direction. My goal was to make it to the other side of the town, there had to be another fantastic view of the other side of the valley.
I wandered the streets of this quiet village, taking in the sights and sounds. And smells! My god it was the best mixture of sea air, flowers and romance! I can't specifically tell you what romance smells like, but if you go there, you'll know what I'm talking about. I only got the camera out when I thought no one was looking. It made me feel like an outsider and I felt it was disrespectful to take pictures of people just minding their business. I sure as hell wouldn't want someone doing the same to me.
It was peaceful there, and so serene. I came across a beautifully simple, stucco building with cars parked in front of it. Upon further inspection (peaking in a window) I saw it was a church and there was a wedding taking place. I quietly slipped away around the side of the building as the wedding party came out and guests were leaving. My heart ached. How incredibly lucky the couple must be, to have a wedding literally right under Heaven, together and surrounded by people who loved them... and here I was in one of the most beautiful, majestic, places on earth, alone.
I kept wandering, a strange combination of homesickness and yearning, sinking into me. Eventually I found the other side of town and another fantastic view of the valley below. I could see a couple lights from houses on the other side. I tried to imagine what it would be like to live there. How cool it would be to go hiking along the hillside...
As the sun set and shadows filled the valley, I did the only thing I could do when alone and surrounded by unparalleled beauty. I drank in the view, burned it into my memory and vowed never to come back to Ravello, by myself.
11/23/2009
10/07/2009
“Our lives become the stars that others steer by, and if we live them well, the world will change.” -Barnes Boffey
When my father was dying from emphysema, I was in my final year of college. I would drive from Ames to my hometown on the weekends. Later, staying for weeks at a time when things started to get worse. This was probably the most time I ever spent with my father and it allowed for deeper, and stranger (because of the morphine), conversations than any others that had previously transpired between us.
We would pass the time in his bedroom, which had transformed into something resembling a hospital, watching TV, napping, talking. One afternoon he started to tear up.
“What’s wrong dad?” I asked, as the tearing turned into a harder cry.
“It’s just, it’s just… that I never taught you girls anything.”
I was stunned. I blurted out, “That’s not true!” as my mind searched for something, anything, that he had in fact taught us. “You taught us about money and finances, and gave us advice…”
I was grabbing at straws, in all honesty I wasn’t sure what he taught us. His emphysema started to get bad when I was in junior high and we didn’t spend a lot of time together besides watching TV.
“Not anything that matters!” He responded in disgust.
I spent the next few minutes trying to console and convince him that, yes, he had taught us something that matters! Eventually, he settled down and fell sleep.
It’ll be three years this January since my dad passed away and last spring I discovered something that he had passed on to me, although somewhat indirectly – the love of manual labor and working outdoors.
We had a woodstove growing up, and I have pleasant memories of falling asleep by it in the winter. I love the sound, smell and heat from a fire. My dad would cut down trees for people and we ended up using them in our stove. For storage, my dad had welded together some brackets and rings to pile the wood into. I have fuzzy memories of seeing him split the wood, which was on some property on the other side of town, but I clearly remember him yelling at me to stand clear. And seeing the ground covered with wood chips and sawdust! At the end of the day they followed him home on his boots, gloves and overalls…
That last paragraph of memories had been tucked away in my brain for years, until I saw the Best Made axes. Something deep inside me wanted one. When I saw them, I had such a feeling of conviction that if I bought one – it would make me happy. It was bizarre. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not the type of person who needs material objects to be happy. In all actuality, I sometimes think that if I had less I would be happier.
When I told people that I was going to buy an axe, they asked why. I guess I don’t fit the lumber jill stereotype… I thought it over. The aforementioned memories are one reason. What I’m about to tell you is the other.
Around the same time I purchased my axe I had the opportunity to hear Jerome Ringo, former president of the National Wildlife Federation, speak at a conference. He was the first African-American to head a major conservation organization. Most of his speech focused on this:
While there is an obvious demographic that comes to mind when we think of conservation, we must challenge and encourage the relationship between all people and nature. All people must learn to care for the earth if we have any hope of saving it. But how can we expect our children to be stewards of the planet if they are inside playing video games all day long, or if they do not have access to resources that put them in touch with nature? They must learn to appreciate the environment before we can expect them to care for it, which means they must be taught. Who will teach them?
Right then and there I knew what I had to do. I have a responsibility as a parent to teach my son to respect and care for the environment. To get started, I spent the summer chopping down trees and limbing them for firewood. Learning how to wield and care for my axe, becoming comfortable with it. And after clearing dead wood from the forest on a cousin’s farm, we celebrated with a bon fire. Was I happy doing all this? You betcha!
It’s a small start, but as the saying goes - if you want to change the world, you have to start with yourself. I have hopes of becoming more involved with local conservation groups and possibly 4H, most definitely encouraging my son to be a boy scout.
Unlike my father I want to be certain that when I go, I have taught my son (and hopefully daughter) something. At the very least, to swing an axe.
As the Best Made website says, “Buy an axe, unfurl a legend.”
When my father was dying from emphysema, I was in my final year of college. I would drive from Ames to my hometown on the weekends. Later, staying for weeks at a time when things started to get worse. This was probably the most time I ever spent with my father and it allowed for deeper, and stranger (because of the morphine), conversations than any others that had previously transpired between us.
We would pass the time in his bedroom, which had transformed into something resembling a hospital, watching TV, napping, talking. One afternoon he started to tear up.
“What’s wrong dad?” I asked, as the tearing turned into a harder cry.
“It’s just, it’s just… that I never taught you girls anything.”
I was stunned. I blurted out, “That’s not true!” as my mind searched for something, anything, that he had in fact taught us. “You taught us about money and finances, and gave us advice…”
I was grabbing at straws, in all honesty I wasn’t sure what he taught us. His emphysema started to get bad when I was in junior high and we didn’t spend a lot of time together besides watching TV.
“Not anything that matters!” He responded in disgust.
I spent the next few minutes trying to console and convince him that, yes, he had taught us something that matters! Eventually, he settled down and fell sleep.
It’ll be three years this January since my dad passed away and last spring I discovered something that he had passed on to me, although somewhat indirectly – the love of manual labor and working outdoors.
We had a woodstove growing up, and I have pleasant memories of falling asleep by it in the winter. I love the sound, smell and heat from a fire. My dad would cut down trees for people and we ended up using them in our stove. For storage, my dad had welded together some brackets and rings to pile the wood into. I have fuzzy memories of seeing him split the wood, which was on some property on the other side of town, but I clearly remember him yelling at me to stand clear. And seeing the ground covered with wood chips and sawdust! At the end of the day they followed him home on his boots, gloves and overalls…
That last paragraph of memories had been tucked away in my brain for years, until I saw the Best Made axes. Something deep inside me wanted one. When I saw them, I had such a feeling of conviction that if I bought one – it would make me happy. It was bizarre. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not the type of person who needs material objects to be happy. In all actuality, I sometimes think that if I had less I would be happier.
When I told people that I was going to buy an axe, they asked why. I guess I don’t fit the lumber jill stereotype… I thought it over. The aforementioned memories are one reason. What I’m about to tell you is the other.
Around the same time I purchased my axe I had the opportunity to hear Jerome Ringo, former president of the National Wildlife Federation, speak at a conference. He was the first African-American to head a major conservation organization. Most of his speech focused on this:
While there is an obvious demographic that comes to mind when we think of conservation, we must challenge and encourage the relationship between all people and nature. All people must learn to care for the earth if we have any hope of saving it. But how can we expect our children to be stewards of the planet if they are inside playing video games all day long, or if they do not have access to resources that put them in touch with nature? They must learn to appreciate the environment before we can expect them to care for it, which means they must be taught. Who will teach them?
Right then and there I knew what I had to do. I have a responsibility as a parent to teach my son to respect and care for the environment. To get started, I spent the summer chopping down trees and limbing them for firewood. Learning how to wield and care for my axe, becoming comfortable with it. And after clearing dead wood from the forest on a cousin’s farm, we celebrated with a bon fire. Was I happy doing all this? You betcha!
It’s a small start, but as the saying goes - if you want to change the world, you have to start with yourself. I have hopes of becoming more involved with local conservation groups and possibly 4H, most definitely encouraging my son to be a boy scout.
Unlike my father I want to be certain that when I go, I have taught my son (and hopefully daughter) something. At the very least, to swing an axe.
As the Best Made website says, “Buy an axe, unfurl a legend.”
7/23/2009
out the window
billowing by in a hurry
to the left of my window they move
shape shifters in the wind
they change with each passing moment
heavy on their bottoms
blue with impending rain
they keep on moving
always on the run.
to the left of my window they move
shape shifters in the wind
they change with each passing moment
heavy on their bottoms
blue with impending rain
they keep on moving
always on the run.
7/22/2009
campfire
Pungent smoke surrounds me
to fill the fibers of my hoodie,
glowing embers tremble
burning red, orange, black and gray.
Whispering heat moving
across the summer air.
Marshmallows soft in the center
their outer shells crack
as I squish them between graham crackers
and chocolate in the dark.
to fill the fibers of my hoodie,
glowing embers tremble
burning red, orange, black and gray.
Whispering heat moving
across the summer air.
Marshmallows soft in the center
their outer shells crack
as I squish them between graham crackers
and chocolate in the dark.
7/13/2009
Elegy for my Father
NOTE: My father died from emphysema the winter after I graduated college. He had been a smoker since he was a teenager. Smokers may think that smoking only affects them, but it also affects your family. As emphysema progresses, physical activity decreases to the point of immobilization. As you can imagine, my father missed out on some things.
For over ten years
you were slowly dying.
Another day, another pack of cigarettes,
the foul orange butts collected on the ground like tally marks.
Everyday your footsteps were silently stolen
as you cupped the lighter near your face.
Until you could no longer take us on vacation,
leave the house, or get out of bed.
The last months you were in your own morphine world
with brief moments of clarity.
We stayed with you then,
unsure of what would happen next.
The rhythmic sounds of the oxygen machine
filled the room as we waited
until the last struggle for air
brought you to an end.
For over ten years
you were slowly dying.
Another day, another pack of cigarettes,
the foul orange butts collected on the ground like tally marks.
Everyday your footsteps were silently stolen
as you cupped the lighter near your face.
Until you could no longer take us on vacation,
leave the house, or get out of bed.
The last months you were in your own morphine world
with brief moments of clarity.
We stayed with you then,
unsure of what would happen next.
The rhythmic sounds of the oxygen machine
filled the room as we waited
until the last struggle for air
brought you to an end.
7/10/2009
Potassium Pistols
They look as if they might still be good
but they are too brown in some places.Bruised.
Ovals left where one has grabbed
a little too hard, an imprint on skin.In your hand they give softly
No, these are not good.They still smell like bananas
but older, muskier.
The way all things smell
Kerouac is my haiku hero
girls laughter
sounds the same everytime,
annoying
.....
gooseberry
falls, tripping on root
laughing and bleeding
.....
slowly closed the door,
cabinet that held poems
of my stuggle
.....
Bebo, my beta
wags his tail
like a dog
.....
bittersweet smell
of dying petals
trampled under foot
sounds the same everytime,
annoying
.....
gooseberry
falls, tripping on root
laughing and bleeding
.....
slowly closed the door,
cabinet that held poems
of my stuggle
.....
Bebo, my beta
wags his tail
like a dog
.....
bittersweet smell
of dying petals
trampled under foot
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