As one who prefers to be a hermit and an introvert, I remain driven to work within my community to advance our cultural resources, literary, artistic, etc.  My mantra is: be an agitator, inspirator, activator, for the arts, especially the arts in education for our children.

Many years ago, I was, on this day, curled inside my mother, “fired up and ready to go.”  Perhaps she had had enough of my kicking and rolling within her, and that’s why she  held her moon-sized belly and got down on the floor and scrubbed and scrubbed, agitating and inspiring and activating until I was born the next day.

Carmela, my Mother, even though I agitate and work to inspirate and activate, I am still curled in the love and grace of your belly —

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To Plant Plum Trees or Garlic, Do Anything, Something

In her book, American Primitive, Mary Oliver has a poem about John Chapman, who, for planting apple trees in Ohio, is known as Johnny Appleseed. Well, apparently, at some point in his life, the bottom fell out, so to speak. I quote the second half of the poem.

Well, the trees he planted or gave away
prospered and he became
the good legend, you do
what you can and if you can; whatever

the secret, and the pain,

there’s a decision: to die,
or to live, to go on
caring about something. In spring, in Ohio,
in the forests that are still left you can find
sign of him: patches
of cold white fire.

NOW, my dear reader, as part of me wants to wallow in anger and grief
over this election fiasco, I tell myself, do something, go out and
plant another plum tree, garlic, anything, something, and your
grief and anger will turn into blossoms and green shoots in spring.

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A Vote for All Women

Women all over the world are waiting, waiting for us to elect the first woman to the U.S. Presidency. All of us can uplift women in this country and all over the world by voting for Hilary Clinton. Do something great, now! Women all over the world are waiting for your vote; you’ll help women all over the world by voting for Hilary Clinton. (Pass it on.) A vote for Hilary is a vote for all women all over the world.

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Rebirthing Storm

Rebirthing Storm
Aug. 29, 2016

Across those dark clouds
jagged zippering lightening

One, one thousand
Two, one thousand
Three one Boooooming
Rumbling bowling ball thunder.

Phew! So close!
Open the window.
Smell — smell the rain.
Earth will live again!

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What the Cricket Knows

“Some of the ancients, divining the truth
. . . reckoned that the soul knows things
because it is composed of them.”
Thomas Aquinas, 13th Century philosopher and Theologian

“And those crickets last night? What?
They know what their soul is composed of: singing creates love!”

“Or, so much of what we really need to know, like who we are,
is already profoundly within us. Knock and it shall be opened to you.”


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Eat Paper Drink Ink; Thrive

“He that hath never fed of the dainties of a book, he that hath not eaten paper as it were, he that hath not drunk ink, his intellect is not replenished.” Shakespeare

Plumlover says, “Eat and drink great books and thrive!”

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Who Hears Crickets in the Garden?

Aug. 11, 2016, morning journal notes. Sitting under grape vines in the arbor. Already summer flirts with autumn, courting with cooler mornings, boldly coiffed clouds, sweet showers, and the strong perfume of scented breezes.

Last evening, the crickets; how do they play those scratchy violins all night long? I wonder, did their mates enjoy their love songs?

And if I had not been outside last night, to hear them in the dark of a summer evening, would the cricket songs have serenaded the night? The crescent butter moon shine above the pine tree? I believe so — their existence, crickets and moon and more, their sight and sound, do not depend on me to hear or see them. That is the beauty and flow of nature, this hymn of the universe. The hymn I passionately adore, revere, and love. Adore because every creature in nature is a warrior, one who is not afraid to live true to oneself, yet not arrogantly narcissistic nor selfish. I revere them because in their essence they teach us a lesson of interdependence and detachment; if so self-conscious would the cricket dare sing such a raspy song? The moon show off? And love, as I hold an affection for their beauty, simplicity, and consistency of their natural world.

In the arbor and under these vines I see how rogue and self asserted the vines with canes stretch out new growth wherever they find purchase; those thread-thin green tendrils, as if they have eyes in their ends, seek out and lasso, then curl around any wire or plant or thing, to clasp to tightly in green curls, thus giving the cane a strength and hand hold to grow forward.

I know I should organize and control the growth pattern of the new wild canes but a caring search within finds me listening to a chirping voice that tells me to let the canes grow where they want and be wild in their own song. Amen. Chirp on crickets, I’ll be listening for you tonight.

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