tightrope [don't forget]

  tightrope
        

        strings around
                       my finger


walking conviction
                          
                                 to not forget

      treading softly

               meet you in the middle

               on the other side
                    would you--
                        
      
         holding on
                                        still
                                              
                                      
                  tightrope

by any other name---

these past two weeks i've been helping one of my students write an essay on helen keller. i've been really inspired as well. both of us have been inspired. writing on and off the essay topic, inspired by the persistence, the strength and the courage of helen keller and the details that surround us, those that we walk past and never notice, and the ones we stop and think about with respect to helen.

we were taking notice of the small details around us -- sight -- sound -- words spoken -- songs -- laughter -- rain -- conversation -- shadows -- with new eyes we saw the sounds and heard the words. the other day at the cafe where we meet i told her just to take a few minutes, look around, and see what was there. next thing i knew, i tried to talk to her and she held up her hand, mumbling something to indicate that i shouldn't bother her. she was very busy scribbling something down. "oooh you're gonna loooove this" she squealed with delight as she was writing. in about three minutes, the 11-year-old girl who came to work with me in september and told me proudly "i hate writing" had written this poem:

What Helen Should Have

the sun on a rainy day,

people in the café,

a look in a good book,

the way the cloud sway,

that’s what i see today. 

then we were on the phone this afternoon finishing up her essay that's due tomorrow and we --sidetracked momentarily-- were discussing the performance of the school play willy wonka and the chocolate factory that she was in last night. she started counting for me, the number of roses she received after the performance,"i got a lot of red ones... and some pink... and-- "

i heard her telling me the colors of the roses, yet underneath, my mind wondered as it was already composing this next bit that i've now finished writing below......




the roses as helen knew, as i hold them in mind.

they were never yellow, never red, nor pink, purple, white or speckled. they were r-o-s-e-s spelled in hand. they were never admired from afar, or on the kitchen table, never seen from the window. they were touched, learned from fingertips and palms, yet as far as i can see...

the smell was as sweet, perhaps sweeter, but more dangerous to the touch-- causing pain without warning, a disguise, enticed, by the pleasing scent above the stem... nature's silent way, to illustrate for helen, to warn, that nothing sweet can be held, can touch without moments of unexpected pain t-h-o-r-n soft petals at fingertips release with the breath of dusk into helen's trusting palm p-e-t-a-l. under her bare feet on the grass, the rose petals tickle helen with secrets as they fall one-by-one but she doesn't notice as the petals fall from her rose, from her fingers to the ground and touch her feet and the toes that hide in between blades of grass, never knowing a color of greenest green, or yellow petals at her feet.

the fragrant petals just fallen in the air faint perfume lingers in her nose, in her fingers that believe they will once again reach out and grasp-- and bring light to her face. she reaches once more, not knowing that what was once there will never be, has fallen at her feet, and thus believing and trusting--  the prick on her finger from the thorn of what remains from the beauty of what was once, of what was just-- of what was lost-- aches, unexpected blood unseen, and sudden movement away from uncertainty, the blood-stained finger and her hand brushes past the bush where red roses grow and the scent turns her head familiar, new, and knowing now, and trying once more. reaching higher this time with experience, for if one reaches higher, with more caution, perhaps the soft scented object of desire will come into hand, gently reaching with certainty-- seen or unseen-- pain will be avoided, not forever, but in this moment.

and not knowing the richness of the iridescent crimson glimpse of that red r-o-s-e she gently caresses in her palm, she knows. bringing her nose, her eyes, her lips, to the open petals that welcome her; and no one hears her laughter, but her laughter, and roses, fragrant vibrations fill the air, and roses are experienced, not seen, their colors are touched, embraced, fallen and held, never peach or violet, crimson or yellow. delicate p-e-t-a-l-s blush with fragrance. laughter paints the roses colors vivid as your presence, feel them bloom in season-- in turn-- in pain-- in palm-- in faith-- unseen lessons love tangible in essence unexpected detail the r-o-s-e as sweet, by any other name---




chantal--raquel--helen

with a push... the elephant that could ...and six [precise] words

 
 

balance. measure. in measure, for measure--


[photos : by c] flickr

in winter hanging bright spots of color in darkness from blog entries scribbled

in time like oranges
in winter hanging bright on
dark clouds and strong leaves




 ..•.

in time like oranges
in winter hanging bright on
dark clouds and strong leaves

fall.


•

.


at once -- rough winds or ready

.



fallen. sometimes the sweetest fruit-- winter.


.•.


hi.
after a long absence (i've been scribbling down all my blog entries on papers ..easier on the head to stay away from the computer screen.. and i've been caught up in typing kids' stories and newspaper when i do get on the computer, and so i've never gotten to typing my stuff here, but you know i've been writing, and still making entries, how could i not....?) nevertheless, in the midst of darkness (literally) and worsening headache today,

i bring you: one haiku two ways, •and with an extra syllable• and two six word stories that i stitched together.

the other day i was struck by the brightness of the oranges in my backyard, glowing on the tree in the bareness of winter when the surrounding trees seemed to have literally given up. but the oranges were there hanging strong in the wind and rain against the dark clouds, and i'd never really considered how they hang on there, through it all, (thick skin i guess) and still give us the sweetest juice through the shortest days of the year, and all winter long. At times we hear this loud •thump• from outside as another orange --rough winds or ready-- falls from the waxy leaves of the tree and hits the deck, fall. and still the other oranges cling cheerfully to the tree, the bright oranges embraced by the (ok, yes, not so common in california, but we still have winter) dark grey of a cloudy ominous sky. it was there before me the other morning ..this image.. as if i'd never noticed. and yet i enjoy the fresh and plentiful orange juice every winter. and so i hurried inside to scribbled down this haiku.

and sitting here today in darkness, i remembered it. and you, and this.... and it's been so long since i posted any of my writing, and some of you are so good, so loyal about contacting me and checking on here, or encouraging me, and i don't always respond right away, but i answer in my head, i've composed great responses in my head! and those words from you are my oranges, and you know who you are, and it will get better, and i always say i will try but then life-- and then life--

but i will try.

and while looking for spots of color in darkness--
x c

to fall leaves

--changing only as the leaves, falling, flying, turning, 
moving with the wind and against it
across empty parking lots searching, lost, but
just having fallen, again every season
find these colors fading and now and again--


rough winds disturb the poetry of the leaves

--they go with it thus,
let it take them far,
it has they'll fall, they have,
hit the pavement lightly,
lose sight of what was as it
wrecks havoc on what was coming into view
from above and despite-- and at the will
at the whim of your capricious nature--
like the seasons i've known them all

and at times i've even loved them
loved the rain loved them in that rain,
wind at times has changed direction,
and changed-- and
fallen-- still and standing
up against the wind, grasping on
to every last second of fading daylight

to fall, having fallen long ago 

and again and leaves to fall here

amidst fall and caprice-- and

the leaves fall, and the leaves change color,

and leaves--

change the color darkness seasons evolve

and wind, and nights and you become colder

and wind and color and early dusk and--

leaves-- and leaves-- to leave-- and fall--

to fall

•••

all photos by : c (my flickr)

(been super busy with the newspaper will write more soon!) 

x c

any time you need a smile just look at this photograph : and have a good weekend

then—
her laughter
shattered my silence—
a faint light
flickered in darkness
as pieces of her laughter
fell—
sparkled
--reflected
danced—
touched me
--gently
let them fall
laughter
and her eyes big
–gleamed with
something else to
tell me on another day
as her nose scrunched
and the corners of her mouth
could no longer contain
her laughter

(for abby)


 photos : by c
(for more visit my ever-growing fickr)

bon week-end x c

--under construction--

not the blog, just my mind.

it's rather simple. like the old nokia cell phone i've reverted back to using in the past few weeks since my smaller more socially acceptable cell phone died. wires crossed uncrossed and now at rest. a little over a month on a new headache medication and the world seems to have slowed, calmed, nearly emptied-- through this view out the same sunglasses i always wear, it's in a light i've never seen before. simple. just phone calls received, dialed. text messages-- not enough memory to save the ones from last week so just delete and start fresh. a familiar phone-- so old i think it's probably back in style-- remember the old nokia you could drop in the gutter and take in the shower and spill coffee on and step on or drive your car over and it never broke or stopped working-- it's that one, and it works perfectly and it makes me laugh when i use it and it's easy. it's simple. {abby one of my young students thought i accidentally brought my house phone to the cafe the first time she saw it! she still calls it my house phone} but you know what, it works better than any of the fancy mobile phones i've used for years and it's reliable. the reception is unbelievable and the battery never dies it's suddenly everything i needed.

as i've often mentioned i've been battling chronic headaches for years and going through a series of new medications and treatments. the latest approach was the most drastic, and i've found some headache relief, but all at once everything else seemed to change as well, thoughts come slower and are often lost right in mid sentence, and words--- well-- i feel like we're starting over again. this has been a transforming month. another life. things are somewhat simpler, and i almost like it. but some of it has also been unbelievably frustrating and disheartening and just exhausting.

in the midst of all of this i had a visit from my dear norwegian friend and i will share some of our photographic explorations of suburbia. and then there's something that i found which i'd thought existed but also somewhat took with a grain of salt--as myth-- urban legend, turned out to be walking with me all along just like they said but-- you know how things come and go and if you listen closely you can hear me whispering it right now, but maybe you can feel it under my words, and words to come. until then, and until i figure out how to merge the new and old ways of living, thinking, functioning, observing, appreciating and most importantly writing, i might play around with posting some of the photos i've been taking lately with my really old, faulty digital camera, as for the past month, my words have been lost somewhere inside this head of mine that's trying to find its way through the pain and back again speaking the same language, and learning yours. the headaches aren't completely gone, and even though at times it makes me dizzy, somehow things stopped spinning. please excuse my unplanned absences as i adjust to all of this and still find my words, and you-- and back again.

x c

photos : by c

shadows in the distance-- light

we're always meant for goodbye, again.
#sixwords




my poetry blog :: chandeliers on the floor
jerry yoon :: image

sitting amongst shadows of her memory

a dear friend of mine who has with dignity, strength and grace been enduring an illness, has passed away. i sit holding the breath within me feeling this news envelop me still fresh though it has stood wavering on the edge of my thoughts lately. been writing tonight ever since i heard the news an hour or two ago, these thoughts and memories in no particular order have come over me and with the touch of words i have begun to capture the essence of what she meant and what this means.

image :: flickr

i just stand and stare before me shadows on the wall of dark purple orchids on bending branch..don't..hear what they're talking about..lost..shadows deep colors still capture her memory here in a dimly lit room that looked exactly the same five minutes ago before i knew

she dried the sage i still put in my dark tea today..gave it to me by the door..waiting..as i walked out into the sun didn't realize it was goodbye

shadows on the wall of dark purple orchids on bending branch..don't..hear what they're talking about..lost..shadows deep colors still capture her memory

echos of her accent melodic in my head take me somewhere else i hope she knew--

still in this moment right after i read those words so easy to read what i already knew so hard to believe i won't hear her generous dignified gentle voice again

wish i could have saved some of the messages that she left me on my cell phone. like the day i left her house without taking some cake with me for my family. i had a worried message from her telling me to please come back, that she'd forgotten to give me more cake.

shadows on the wall of dark purple orchids on bending branch..don't..hear what they're talking about..lost..shadows deep colors still capture her memory

this is the surreal moment before it sets in where i float slightly above my chair, numb, resonating, fingers working madly on this keyboard to capture her as if she could somehow silently slip away from my memory my fingers work reach move to grasp cling caress while knowing somewhere along the way that what was can never truly be lost

sitting amongst shadows of her memory
smiling amongst the echos of her laughter

.


.
.

never easy..

© Eni Turkeshi Photography

"It is easier to blame others than to look inward;
to see what is different about someone than to find the things we share."

obama's cairo speech 4 june 2009

how everything turns away

© Eni Turkeshi Photography

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure;
the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

w.h. auden’s musée des beaux arts

::

this is me......

image by {one of my favs} carla coulson

they can't understand
doesn't make it easier
to realize---

::

to realize---
doesn't make it easier
they can't understand

cleverly disguised

© Eni Turkeshi Photography

ink-stained hands word-stained
pages rustle with the breeze
can't get you--
--out of my mind
::

a hush falls... on rue mademoiselle

rough day. been meaning to write for the past few days... in fact, i've been doing so, been writing so much, just not posting recently. i will. the haiku have been flowing..... i will also be back to communicating with all of you, i haven't forgotten. but i'm writing this late night post {in lieu of sleeping off this headache} because i received some news just now that saddens and slightly startles me, despite the fact that i knew.. one day.. it would happen. the beautiful sophie marie of mon bon chien in paris who touched something in us all with her devoted eyes and perfectly manicured paws has passed on in search of greener grass, more squirrils to chase, and walks with cedric that never end. i miss her presence already. and in heavy-hearted haste, tried to capture her sweet, gentle, patient, loyal spirit in this poem:

though i knew
one day it would arrive--
still my heart--
skipped a beat
sweet face tender eyes baby in her paws
resting her chin patiently attentive
as she'd sit waiting for the next adventure



ears alert to the sound of
biscuits dropping on the floor
or the infamous sliding door--
gentle loyal soph soph sniffing the air with curiosity
found her way into our hears and smiles
{as well as the biscuit cabinet, the kitchen..}
and into her french quartier and our laughter
the golden
pink painted paws touch softly
the sidewalks of paris
now only in our sweetest memories



and every time we pass
the window of her shop
somehow we know she's still there
crunching nostalgic dreams
and squirrels yet to chase
and on occasion {though cleverly disguised
as only a diva so artfully can}
tapping her tail on the floor over
her next mischievous but ever harmless trick
her next meal her next hug from harriet
daily caresses of small eager hands
who come from all over paris
to pet her soft {shedding everywhere} fur
on rue mademoiselle
and her next steps
into the forest she knew one day
she'd run through once more
in our bittersweet dreams

from squirrels in seattle to tempting baguettes and birthday parties on rue mademoiselle, the infamous, almost 14-year-old golden retriever with pink nail polish has retired from her position as princess of the boutique mon bon chien paris, leaving both joy and emptiness in our hearts. we still expect her to awake out of the deepest sleep and come out of nowhere just to sneak another biscuit. from all sides of the world, we remember her sweet eyes, her silly ways, her eyebrows that told stories of their own, and her devoted owner harriet, who started her doggie bakery business so that she could spend every day with sophalina. sending love and peanut butter kisses to you both, and dearest diablo {soph soph's rascal of a little brother.}

my puppy poulet {the one jumping here in the picture} learned his best tricks from sophie marie, he grew up in her sparkling shadow: how to guard the treats and how to sneak extra, patience and fidelity, guilt and begging as well as pouting to get what he wants {ok, that last one he may have learned from me}, his kindness to other dogs and feisty guarding of the bone, how to dress to impress and confidently wear pink, and soph's trademark move he does every morning that makes me laugh and think of sophie, the rollin' on the back with the legs flailing about it the air move.

you guys are the best thing that ever happened to us....
can’t imagine where we’d be without you.

i will write more mon bon chien stories soon {and please check past mbc posts here.} images: from the mon bon chien site where you can order biscuits online shipped all over the world, and from my camera last summer when i spent some quality time with soph. poulet {my little guy} is performing his trademark move above in the photo and sophie is, as ever, begging gracefully by his side.

"sweets to the sweet, farewell!"
shakespeare

careful

{but ya, you're careless}

-- but you don't know
and you don't know what else to be,
so you're careless
maybe it's how they taught you
maybe it's what they didn't show
maybe you think it's the only way--
and you never know--

but what you believe--
whatever that may be,
don't really say--
the rest is suspect
only trust yourself
to save, dismiss, inflict-- the pain
and not know the extent--
but if only you could--
but you just don't know

so you're careless
in the words, in the actions,
in the brush of the hand--
the curve of the lips--
the shrug of the shoulder--
but not in your eyes

yet you're careless
quand meme
you're careless
maybe you decided long ago
maybe you think it won't hurt
maybe you think it's the only way
-- gives mask to the fears
don't let yourself realize--
of that i'm certain
and it takes courage to feel
and it takes another kind of strength
to give in, to show, to not walk away, to care--
but you've grown accustomed to your ways,

so you're careless
in all the moments
-- save the glimpses in between
when you see
and i know
but you don't know
and you don't know-- i know--
because you're careless

maybe you decided long ago
to be careless
in the words, in the actions,
in the brush of the hand--
the curve of the lips--
the shrug of the shoulder--
but not in your eyes

just-- careless
maybe you can't help it
and maybe i can't help it
still you're careless
but your eyes--
but i know--
but you just don't-- know, yet--
you may be careless
and somehow--
and maybe one day--
-- and in time
and with time--

and i'm here
to experience details of the world
and falter, and stand
the sadness, fear, and you
in all its intricacies
somehow i've the courage to endure
and i will, and you'll find the way--
i believe you've the strength to care
and so i withstand, at times impatient
and mostly i believe
and i don't care--
and i don't care, any less

{but ya, you're careless}

images: jerry yoon photography

ashes and wine

been a bit ailleurs this week {ie somewhere else} was literally supposed to be in santa barbara visiting my sister... and then the jesusita fire started, and everything got...smokey, so to speak. so i didn't go to santa barbara and instead kept my eye on the fire, the evacuations, the devastatingly captivating images of the fire in the mountains and streets of a place i'd once known as home. beautiful and nostalgic images in my mind of my years spent in the gorgeous town of santa barbara were dominated, more than anything, by my constant concern for my sister's safety. and i twittered a lot. and i don't mean anxious chatter or jittery fidgeting {though restlessness abounded} but i mean literally twittered about the fire, read constant updates on twitter, and got way too much information for my overly active imagination that proceeded to run away from me.

anyway, during the worst night of the fire, sometime well after midnight as they were still evacuating people, i needed distraction but couldn't look away long enough to find one. and my dad, lost for any way to really help me calm down, said in a serious-bordering-on-exasperated tone "why don't you, just, write some poems or something." alas it's not easy for an engineer integrated circuit designer dad to have an overly creative, imaginative, emotional, sensitive {etc..} daughter, but he tried. and in fact, about a half an hour later i found myself absorbed in turning the verbose, redundant thoughts that were overwhelming my mind at a furious rate, into simple, sleek, perfectly shaped haiku poems.

if you haven't noticed, i've been a bit obsessed with haiku lately. it all started just with me attempting to find a fun form of poetry to work on with one of the girls i tutor {hi olivia ;)} and then i got kind of hooked.... because the challenge of streamlining my thoughts into seventeen syllables became fascinating, and rewarding. and helped to clarify, and speak louder than i'd anticipated, and set these thoughts to a new rhythm. then i worked on haiku with another one of my students {hi abby :)} and we were all hooked. at times the rhythm lulls me into..something...somewhere else...

and especially on this fiery night, it soothed my fears a bit. and took me away. i posted the haiku on twitter each time i wrote a new one, one after another, hoping that anyone else who was worried about the fire, might too, find some element {other than fire :)} of comfort in the brief words. and how gratifying to hear from readers that in fact, they did.

here are some of the poems i wrote during those tense days in the beginning of the jesusita fire in santa barbara, and a few of the spectacularly calamitous images of the fire. the flames were all along and above the 101 freeway, and my sister said that while driving on the freeway beside the fire, it was hard to look away {though dangerous, as she was driving} from the dramatic view.

and all along, the song ashes and wine by a fine frenzy has been playing in my head... {santa barbara is known for its vineyards} and in fact, funnily enough, it's playing on my sterio as i type this. 'don't know if our fate's already sealed. this day's a spinning circus on a wheel ... there is nothing left to say but is there a chance, a fragment of light at the end of the tunnel, a reason to fight? is there a chance you may change your mind? or are we ashes and wine. the day's still ashes and wine, or are we ashes..'

it's the not knowing
and knowing what you know won't
stop fire from burning

a sky so dark, thick
air, smoke hard to remember
yesterday's calm blues

we sit and wait, i'm
here on twitter while she's there,
watching fire and news

it's the little things
you want to hold on to when
it's time to let go





she sees fire light the
mountains, sky, smoke in her eyes
close mine, i see her





ash falls from the sky
gentle like snow nothing's as
it seemed anymore




you don't feel until
it touches you, don't see 'til
you look in their eyes



images via latimes and noozhawk

it was the silence

can't remember what language

we spoke said it all




{& in response to eni & anyone else who was wondering, unless otherwise cited the haiku, poems, words etc.. on here are my own; in my words and i appreciate - more than you'll ever know - sharing them with all of you}

sands of grain

katya de grunwald photography


they all write about this, i know, to the point of cliché....
so many words, eloquent, trite, common, touching,
describe a simple notion:
the persistent inability
to firmly grasp the grains of sand that
inevitably fall through our fingers
despite an ever present desire, need,
attempt, to hold on.

they all write about this,
today it is i, who will write, scribbled down on paper,
typed hastily on macbook, repeated over
and over under the falling water
of my shower, the persistent inability
to firmly grasp the grains of sand that
inevitably fall through our fingers;
the ever present desire to hold on.

'like the grains of sand through the hour glass,
so are the days of our lives'
a dramatic voice on the television
if you care to tune in,
speaks daily, from another room.

once i wrote a poem about the beach,
four pages long, and yet
one phrase: ephemeral sandcastles
stands out to me well beyond the rest.

does it all wash away? slip
through the fingers, smooth
out by morning as though nothing had ever been there?
whispers in the faithful return of the crashing
waves suggest to me otherwise..

you are like this.
these soft grains, course, at times
hot, and in moments, surprisingly cool,
damp; dry, too hot to walk on,
i sink deeper when i try to stand still, stumble
when i take a step toward you;
yet, they seem so firm
when you run away....

i reach down, without thinking,
yet it's all i think about,
and grab yet another handful of sand.
hot in the summertime,
cool in the autumn,
but i always reach for more.

grab a smooth handful of perfection,
a glimpse of what should be, an encounter
i can't ignore, pleasure
i don't want to forget and then i feel
the grains that slip through the cracks,
my desire fails to close the smallest of spaces in between
that allow you to escape,
seems the harder i hold on, the faster they fall,
can't grasp them, watch them, sense them
slipping through my fingers,
devastatingly deliciously caressing
as they fall away, reminding me to forget.

without thinking, and yet it's all i think about,
time and time again, i reach,
somehow faithful none the less, determined
to try once more; yet knowing all the while,
the small handful of hope that
i reach for and hold here is fleeting.

nearly immediate, eventual escape,
return, the grains fall,
mix with the sand below that spans
as far as my eyes can see, supporting me,
causing me to sink with every step.

warm breeze, cold wind,
the grains blow in my eyes, tears fall,
sandy fingers wipe them away with inherent motion
touched with familiarity and my damp fingers
reach down once more.
know i'll never be able to hold on
yet confident in that whisper,
gently touching me, slipping through my fingers,
but i'll never let go.

will seize them when i can,
feel the smooth, rough grains of perfection
between my fingers when
at last, your warm embrace
through the cool seasons evading, gentle, seductive,
fleeting, desperate, even apprehensive and infinite,
as the grains of sand we so often write about, read about,
walk all over and brush away with careless ease...

'when I consider every thing that grows
holds in perfection but a little moment…'
writes shakespeare in the first and second lines of sonnet 15...

ephemeral sandcastles

does it all wash away?
slip through the fingers,
smooth out by morning as though nothing had ever been
there; while whispers of the faithful return
in crashing waves upon these very grains of sand,
continue to suggest the caress of something more..

just passing through

i started this blog in the midst of one of the hardest periods of my life. and i'm still very much stuck here grappling with finding my way out of this mess. i've never really addressed the issues with you here head on, i guess that's not my style, but i do share a glance here and there, notes of sincerity that i'd never before passed on, and discover that some of us find inspiration and solace in the same things. i was lying in bed thinking and thinking and decided to just get up and write this. i was touched by a comment earlier in the evening by blair from delight by design, {one of her many thoughtful comments} and realized how this distant closeness can help us move on, in a way i'd never imagined.

in a constant state of change, rearranging the awkward and precious elements of my life, rummaging around what i have and have failed to hold on to, what i lost, dusty objects of value uncovered, those i hope one day to grasp, and everything in between... i search for perspective and share with you words and thoughts that i've found in myself and in the conviction of others, that capture a distinct sentiment in a particular light that suits my situation in this moment, and often in the next... only inferring at the heart of the matter, because it's the only way that i can pull myself through it.

it's not yet been six months since i started the blog and i've met some kindred spirits, some great talent, and an abundance of inspiration, compassion, and generosity. i glance through the progression of my posts as it documents -- in a hazy sort of light -- the roads i've tried to go down, the ones that i still find covered in fog, jammed with traffic or with one too many curves, and distant roads just around the corner that i've merely seen on a map and have yet to locate on my own, but at least i've got the license and the nagging desire to search for resilience, the {albeit, stop-and-go} drive, to look further ...and to maybe, someday, get there.



thanks for coming with me, and taking me with you, for the occasional honk or wave, and for often lending me the gps and inspiration for routes that i'd never stopped to consider along the way and that, just possibly, can take me.. where i will discover.. where i'll want to go.

x chantal



images: 1}carla coulson 2}julia galdo

"there's a curious thing about pain or hardship.
in the beginning it's an enemy, it's something that
you don't want to face or think about or deal with.
yet, with time it becomes almost a friend."


words: audrey hepburn
image: julia galdo