On Sodom Pond

Postcards from rural Vermont


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Upside-down broken heart

I did not want to post on this day. I was avoiding it. But a snowstorm has buried my car in the drive. I can’t get anywhere, so I might as well face it.

It’s Valentine’s Day.

It’s been a little over four months since my man threw me away like an empty cereal box in the morning’s recycling. I say that with no self-pity. You don’t have to hold onto such things. But you do need to know what happened to you.

For those of you who are experiencing no love, partial love, bad love, thin love, uncertain love, hasty love, dead love, fickle love, anti-love, lost love, unrequited love, bitter love,  and a dozen other variants of amour that are getting them down……

Surprise! That is love.

If you’re not willing to handle the grief, someone once told me, don’t go looking for love.

My friend told me his kindergarteners describe a deer track as an upside down broken heart. 1392295310220

I am co-opting this image for the day. My upside down heart! It falls in love all the time. It’s not loyal or faithful. It keeps flipping and fluttering:  at the old couple walking along the road who, as I drove past, raised in unison their canes in salute; the warmth of the wood fire after a long day’s work; the sauna at the gym; my new seed packets dreaming themselves up on the shelf; the moon growing brighter each night and the thought of being on the trail in its glow with friends.

And my shiny new red bongos. IMG_20140214_073640_469 I’ve got Sade’s, “Smooth Operator” and Billy Joel’s “Zanzibar” to keep me pumping and thumping today as I wait for the snow to pass, for my heart to rise up again, turn upside down and break. They tell me that’s how the light gets in.

Bongo on!

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Kindling #1

Orange cover, 70-sheet, wide-ruled, 1-subject. July 2010. 

Mo(u)rning pages. The Artist’s Way. Dreams and freewrites. Do it do it do it.

A letter to my inner artist. Questions and quotes.

Can I make a choice? To speak? “You need to create pain. That’s part of your emotional makeup.”
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Someone who would not “drool over my Quackenbush.”  

“The grief point,” in the center of the chest, closing what the heart opens.

Do it do it do it. Secretly I would love to ______. Those who help us know things.

I pummel them into tiny balls and lay them in the ash, criss-crossing the wood on top.

Believing mirrors.

I light a match and sit back and watch my reflection in the glass.

Burn, baby, burn.