Our (optional, as always) prompt for the day is taken from one of the prompts that Kwoya Fagin Maples suggests in here interview: a poem that addresses the future, answering the questions “What does y(our) future provide? What is your future state of mind? If you are a citizen of the “union” that is your body, what is your future “state of the union” address?”

“Everything means something” she said, pen pausing long enough for her to speak. She looked at me over a pair of reading glasses and a legal pad. The light from the tiffany desk lamp to her left, gleamed yellow across her lap, illuminating the legal pad and her nails as she wrote. She’d offered to review my dreams with me and was writing the details down as I spoke

I’d paused, and hesitated over a detail, deciding out loud whether or not I should include it in the retelling of this dream

I’d been coming weekly for a couple of months

And the more I spoke, the more I realized that I understood quite a lot and quite a little of myself

Without aggrandizing my own state of mind too much, I’ll tell you that delving into your own mind is like a competent sailor plunging into the depths of his beloved sea

On the surface he understands the waves and the wind and the nautical relation from one shore to the next. He can reasonably predict the response of his ship in the presence of any given weather scenario, the strength of his sails, the direction of his vessel and himself according to the map of stars that unfold when night descends

But outside of the bones of his ship, outside  the boughs and the sails, no sextant, no compass, alone in the cold sea water, pale body floating and bobbing at the surface, miles and miles of deep blue below him, he is alone, and entirely new way to navigate will be imagined

His body and mind, the only tools

So I described the tiny detail in the dream that I’d almost skipped over, and she nodded as she wrote, the tip of the cap of her pen bending in air, dipping and tipping, giving ink-shape to the details of my dreams

And as I heard myself speaking, heard my voice giving sound to the details of my dreams, I saw a white and iridescent little fish with the scrunched up face of monster, swim by

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2017, action healing, awakening, Being a nurse, Being a poet, Fear, Growth, NaPoWriMo, NaPoWriMo2018, Personal Experiences, seeking, signs, summer, the color of moments, vignettes

NaPoWriMo Day Eleven: The State Of The Union Of Body And Mind

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awakening, Evening, NaPoWriMo, NaPoWriMo2018, Personal Experiences, summer

NaPoWriMo Day Nine: Something Small Comes Together With Something Big

Small Things Of An Evening

Plate

Fork

Peppercorn

Knife

Spoon

Napkin

Candle

Olive

Table

Letter

List

Pan

Action

Flavor

Sautee

Sauce

Life

Nourish

Dinner

Weaving

People with people 

Love

Healing

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Comfort, NaPoWriMo, NaPoWriMo2018, Personal Experiences, summer, the color of moments

NaPoWriMo Day Five: Among The Fruit Trees

The prompt for day five was to take a poem in another language and pair it with a  photo. Without knowing the actual content of the poem in it’s native language, translate it into English with the idea that the poem is about your chosen photo.  I did that… sort of.  I took a photo of a poem from a book of poetry that belonged to my great grandfather, Kristo Nedeff (known to us as Chris Nedeff) who came from Bulgaria to the United States  10-15 years after the turn of the twentieth century. Chris lived in the Ohio River valley, and then settled in Wapato Washington, growing fruit trees and fruit in a community with other Bulgarian immigrants. Wapato, by the Bulgarian immigrants was said to look most like their homeland region in Bulgaria. The original poem is in Bulgarian (or Russian) and I imagined/translated it into a poem about a fruit tree orchard back home, in Bulgaria.

Fruit trees 

Stand upright in 

sunlit rows across 

the orchard 

Tucked among 

the shelter of 

leaves 

blossoms bough 

their blushing faces 

Whispering, rustling 

sweetly 

Hiding and peeking 

like lacy skirts of 

my fair maiden love 

Cherry blossom 

summer’d bees go 

on about their 

ancient work 

Casting stories of 

their own 

And along the 

breeze they live 

And in that hour I 

can also live and 

sigh and breath 

and dream 

Huddled under 

the nacreum of

my mother sky

Hiding and peeking 

There among the 

fruit Trees 

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