Monday, March 29, 2010

Floor Downstairs, keeping the carpet after all

We thought we had a concrete refinishing contractor coming to give us an estimate. Four times. I take the flake as a message from God. We are keeping the carpet, despite the disgusting things it has lived through. Either we've gotten used to the smell or it has dissipated. We have to finish moving in and settling into this house. I cannot stand the piles and upheaval any longer. I need my office space.

So, for now, we're keeping the carpet. Eventually, we may take a do it yourself concrete floor refinishing week. Reusing is the greenest choice anyway--we're not sending anything to the landfill; we're reusing; we're not wasting electricity; throwing away paint cans; using chemicals; creating concrete dust; etc.

Still, it feels like we're settling for less than we want. That's okay, too. For now.

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No NAIS!

Crossroads

On the day of my 45th birthday

this poem was published in the

Sanctuary at the Women's

Colony. I love it and thank

the author, Joyce Sutphen,

for writing this poem honoring

the process of living a life

beyond youth.

Crossroads


The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.

The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers sifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys in into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.

The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.


~Joyce Sutphen
Straight Out Of View, New Rivers Press

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