This Old House
With joy I am watching my ninety-eight year old house disintegrate. Intentionally of course! I have a friend pulling the ‘60’s marlite board off the bathroom walls, exposing slats and two different types of beaded board from almost a century ago, taking it down to the skeletal frame.
I could have painted this room six years ago, but with an old house life is never simple. Walls are not smooth enough to paint, outlets are missing or misplaced, the occasional hole – I know better than to cover that up without repair (but I gave it some thought). The sink drain has breathed its last. Rotted wood? This has to be dealt with!
Put in that nice new overhead light? Can’t – a problem with the electrical. And so it goes.
I’ve been eyeing the staircase for two years now, it had already been sheet rocked and could be painted, but I was told last summer I should remove the sheetrock nails and replace them. . .the house shifted when the foundation was jacked up a few years back.
You can’t do this until you do that which you cannot do until you do this which you will not be able to do until you have the money to do ________________.
I wish I could just make the changes I need to make in my life, “just do it!” they say. Well, hey, I’d love to! Doing it isn’t the hard part. Getting past the undone items, the baggage and belongings of yesteryears, is the hard part. What to save, what to toss. What to keep, revive, renew.
I’m on a mission. If I can fix, repair, revive and renew something within the next four months, it stays. If not, it goes to a loving home when someone will have the time to enjoy it. Do I need to describe how much I am currently throwing away, giving away?
Life lessons are there if we will listen. . .I draw hope from viewing the end result of the mudding, taping, sanding of the other bathroom we gutted last winter. Pale green paint (the color I call “old green” like in quilts and McCoy pots from the ‘30’s and ‘40’s), finding an antique version of a towel rack, plants and linens are next.
I draw hope from remembering I am not the person I was 10 years ago, 20, 30, 40, 50. What to save, what to toss. What to keep, revive, renew. Nothing ever lost, but everything put into a new and healing focus. Joyful! Jubilant. And grateful.
Janey Pease
SPRING
First Blooming Tree of Spring
elbows leaning on the fence
in early spring
the tulip tree bends
and touches the road
lavender and pink
an extravagant loudspeaker
announcing spring
to winter weary people
frames with branch-black leafless trees
caught in winter’s gaze
Deep My Sleep
(a dream two weeks after my father passed away)
deep my sleep
and deep the dream that brought a river
rapid and sweet with hands lifted
fingers rippling west to east
green waters of the carolinas tumbling past my porch
and deep the dream that brought a river
rapid and sweet with hands lifted
fingers rippling west to east
green waters of the carolinas tumbling past my porch
clear and clean and smooth with round river rocks
waters pulsing
trees crowding the far side
waters pulsing
trees crowding the far side
waves streaming from the Source of all life
angels stirring the water after the long winter freeze
angels stirring the water after the long winter freeze
i was with friends in peaceful disarray
repairing a car
gathering broken pieces and putting them together
repairing a car
gathering broken pieces and putting them together
Then he showed me a river of the water of life, clear as crystal. . .and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. Rev. 22:1-2
Blue Ridge Parkway
you remember the place
where the road tilts west
and the tips of mountains
elbow each other
and shove for position
dark and dusky beauties
in muted shades of purple soot
and blue skirt swirls
folded
pinned
pleated
lined up in a queue
of their own mysterious pageant vying for validation
as most beautiful
strong
and steadfast
chunky mountains
flexing shoulders
elegant with strength
like body builders
oiled and primed
narrow peaks
scarce and scant
noses high and broken at the top
this range stiff
fold upon fold
tucked and starched
with the valleys pressed thin
and this ridge rounded
filled with clouds water wave soft.
smoke signal clouds
hover
watch
and float away
this road the only caller
my car reels and swings
now face to face
honest and true
now dos-à-dos
sweet as a shrug
swaying right
swaying left
contra dance couple
in a jig with the hills
i learned when i was four
to loathe
the common road
trudging
great lakes to chicago
purest snow abandoned
edging the path with debris
cars slogging west
deranged dolphins
with no sense of self
i learned to love the back roads
and the twisting shimmy
of the mountain path
i see the sign that signals my descent
something in me
reckless and wild
shudders and smiles
road worsens next seven miles
Artist Statement:
Driving to teach, to intern, driving to go to Appalachian State attending classes, I see this often! The Blue Ridge Mountains have views of these mountains from every angle possible. . .even a sign stating “road worsens next seven miles” near Spruce Pine. The thought always crosses my mind, “It get WORSE?” But as I say, never an ugly drive in North Carolina.
Blue Heron
(Canebrake ford)
in the beginning
the spirit of God. . .
this water is too still
and yet the heron comes
only with a struggle
the water comes
the water goes
and if indeed
God's spirit broods
God's spirit moves
across this water
i too will live. . .
Ps. 41:1-3
Blessed is he who considers the helpless - protect him and keep him alive -sustain him in his sickness
i saw a cloud today
i saw a cloud today
square as a post it with a torn and rumpled head of hair
streaming into vague flailing arms (fat baby)
leaning towards me like a kite
or a time-released photo
i don't know
i don't know
why i must say these things
why i must tell you such nonsense
but it was white
and childlike
joyful
and i just didn't understand it
SUMMER
Llamas
they say a llama will never be pink
and i get that
flower petals are pink and smooth
and smell good and llamas?
not
they say a llama will never be yellow
and i understand
because yellow is sunshine
high and hot above me
and butter
slippery smooth on my morning bread
but a llama smells and feels of the earth
rough
alive
with heavy breath
they say a llama will never be green
because green is grass and smooth and standing tall
but a llama's edges
curl
twist
and catch your fingers like an oily pillow
if earth is brown
and so i'm told
then llamas are brown
uneven
rumpled
rugged
small clods of dirt put together
in useful patches of heavy smells and wordless promises
Still Life
still life rising from the earth
stronger than the breath of silence
three stone deep
ancient keep
cat curled arms
embrace the edge of home
boundary the flowers
as they rant and wither
. . .we are still here. . .
shabby stone
stalwart chimney
field stone lone
stark
stable
hope twists in furtive joy
blue smoke hovers hints and whispers
sweet fire waits a breath away
deep water sweet water well at the core
heart pulse firm at the center
. . .we are still here. . .
still life rising from the earth
still life waiting
. . .we are still here. . .
"For there is hope for a tree, When it is cut down, that it will sprout again, And its shoots will not fail."
Job 14:7
Artist Statement:
I have always felt my heart flicker when driving through the country and seeing an abandoned chimney or foundation, the remains of a well, an abandoned garden along a broken wall with lilies or daffodils still blooming. It’s my respect for foundations, and the hope that something will come back to life - it moves me. It’s the physical representation of my hope for broken people.
Nine House Lights
too many lights
trace and track across this sky
behind my back
they may be trading places
and how would I know?
some stare in blazing silence
arrogant
stable
steady
cold
some tremble with a tender shake
and eye-blinking
stand twisting
in the background
youngest child
speechless
mild
nearest and dearest
brightest star
flash of blue and white
wavering rainbows
sweet sirius
outshines the sun
the sparkling one
the scorching one
drawing
an arrow’s point
from the belt of orion
some join hands and shape a horse
a bear
a warrior
a drinking gourd for the thirsty
curve of sky
patted
plumped
bent in the soft shape of rising bread
curve of heaven
star spotted
light splattered
grass angels formed in shallow summer fields
my eyes to the sky
earth’s swift slant beneath me
http://www.space.com/5104-spot-brightest-starsky-html
Late Summer Gifts
had i known the secrets of weeds
i would have waited to snap them loose
from this tender earth
this year i left them wild
and with a tender tug
saw they loosened best
even weeds require grace
and when they need to travel to a better place
(not my garden!)
i contemplate mercy behind their demise
i might have missed seeing wild vines of morning glories
one white as early mist
one purple as dusk
nuzzling my garden fence
enduring
endearing
and undersized
tapping the ovals of small watermelons
planted by grandchildren
snagging tomato plants
given by a son
pointing reedy fingers at melons rolling their rough sides
into the maze of overgrown greenery
i might have missed half grown elderberry
pale red paint strokes between the leaf and stalk
like the ruby throat of a nearby humming bird
wisp of a prophet
promising wine for winter when the berries ripen
and the healing begins
Fruit wines made from elderberry offer a variety of health benefits. . .may help to treat or prevent several common diseases. . .
http://www.livestrong.com/article/269213-benefits-of-elderberry-wine/
i hold the unknown singer
i hold the unknown singer in awe
the uneven voice
the simple guitar
without fire and ice
untouched by second opinions
flowing waters
springs charged with simple life
straight from the heart
pulled from the rush of an underground river
no one heard until now
the uncorrected pitch
the unresolved cadence
breath that pulses like wind across the fields
midday in summer
clouds with unexpected heaves and switches
endless quiet surprise
whose brush paints again?
the pattern of stepping stones
spackled and spattered across the rivers
before dams made by man
regiment the flow of water
of words
of airs and jingles
the songs of simple singers lost in love with their own words
who boxes into the language of everyman
the first new thought you ever had
Old Home
i hear windows
shutting down
doors slam around me
with guillotine force
this house i inhabit
sash windows full-blown open
curtains like the sails of a ship
drifting
fluttering
bringing fingers of this heavy wind
to shift and dance around me
always in my mind
a picture of Jerusalem's wall in ruins
Is. 49:2, 16
He has made My mouth like a sharp sword,
In the shadow of His hand He has concealed Me;
In the shadow of His hand He has concealed Me;
Behold, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands; Your walls are continually before Me.
I am a woman
I am a woman
hammer in hand
pounding like Noah
endless taps
on the boat of deliverance
for this family generation
the wind blows and i pound
the sun streaks its wheel
and i pound
and the very children i long to shelter
question me
Gen 6:9
. . .righteous, blameless, walked in close fellowship with God. . .
FALL
Leaves
leaves fly past my window
men on a mission
paratroopers sailing
flailing in silk
undercover agents
trailing in brown camoflage
jumpers
desperate to escape
or to save
the earth
cluttered in sincere intention
covering the tender grass
rain follows
grasses fold and tuck their green
into the center
and wait for spring
Hogback Mountain Road in the Fall
slipping on the switchback road
twist here
circle there
up the mountain’s sharp side
windows open
wind snapping
like a rough shawl across my shoulder
sunlight sneaks and flashes on limbs
shaded like sweet citrus fruits of fall
leaves of tangerine
lime
grapefruit
lashed to trunks of putty and mud
raspberry trees
soaked in summer berry hues
burn with longing and late harvest sparkle
pursuit of the mountain top
my heart’s desire
fairy tale spiral staircase
grasps and grabs and thrusts me upward
reveals the peak and shouts the end of mystery
a sudden summation of autumn
trees flatten
colors dim
knowing all
seeing all
changes nothing
rock walls
terraced gardens
waning mountain laurels tipped towards the sun
back side shapes of mountains
strange and unknown
leafy strobe lights glitter as i wind down the ridge
street names
hogback
turn again lane
laurel
overlook circle
aurora
horseshoe curve
little falls drive
roads wind and wrap like knots of a drunken sailor
maple branches droop and beckon
long arms and fingers
catch me in sweet embrace
WINTER
Highway 221
tsunami of a waterfall
crashing down the rocky cliffs
to the side of the road
flash frozen water
cascading
curling
coiling
down
swirls of water
churning over and over
fingers of ice
holding emotionless space above me
Michelangelo’s Daughter
i am a daughter of michelangelo
chipping away with sculptor’s mallet
to free the man i see inside
frantic task with hammer and chisel
rasp and rifler
chaos flying from my hands
wounds inflicted
drawn to your frame
your structure
block of granite
chunk of stone
reaching to embrace you
finding no softness
feeling no give
my ear against your chest listens
pulse pops
warmth spreads
i gather my tools
gather myself
moaning soft songs
wings folding like a mourning dove
melodies sloping downward
that only i can sigh
i take flight
singing my story
releasing my song
beyond range
distant
clear
strong
your own song follows me
Artist Statement:
Thinking about the precautions we hear about “not changing” a spouse, a friend, etc. But doesn’t motive matter? Are we reflecting a lack of acceptance for the other person, or isn’t it - sometimes – the respectful acknowledgement of recognizing their true self, and our desire to embrace it?
“For Michelangelo, the job of the sculptor was to free the forms that were already inside the stone. He believed that every stone had a sculpture within it, and that the work of sculpting was simply a matter of chipping away all that wasn't a part of the statue.”
Shadow
a friend to my shadow
ally to myself
i won't leave behind
that side of myself
that stumbles and falls
muttering words
no one wants to hear
sticky hands
like a spider
climbing a mud-soaked wall
wandering hurt to hurt
wound to wound
waiting for the healing flood
in a desert land
i won't abandon my shadow
posing as whole
when my self
hidden behind me
weeps and waits
screeches and screams
at landmarks
in a world
that shouldn't be
in a world
that some say never was
but i was there
elbow in my face
kidney punch if i ran
i will wait
til the molecules
realign
and the vibrations return
and shimmer in song
and cells regenerate
til I see the shadow reflecting the joy
Safe
lean and tough
a rough hewn safe
the stone side of the mountain hugs its secrets
sunshine at midday
like the dial of the safe
reflects and flickers
sparks and stabs
circling past truth
again and again
spinning in surges like sunspots
waxing and waning like a moon on fire
starspots in flight
questions flicker and flash without rest
sos to a silent universe
save our souls
save our souls
save our souls
je suis trop tendre pour ce monde
je suis trop tendre pour ce monde
je suis trop tendre pour ce monde
i see you
but the earth opens between us
i hear you
but the song is silent
like a beggar
standing at the door
head bent against the portal
Artist Statement:
I drive a couple times a week through the Blue Ridge Mountains, and I saw a far-off bluff with sparkles on a rock that reminded me of a safe. Then there’s the word, safe. I was aware of truth and new directions in my life, but everything seemed elusive (circling past truth) and I felt adrift. “Je suis trop tender pour ce monde” means “I am too tender for this world.” Some things remain unresolved, unlocked, unopened. . .but truth remains, kept in a safe place.
-Janey Pease
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