Heaped-Up Heart

I'm currently reading two books:

1. she walks in beauty: A Woman's Journey Through Poems by Caroline Kennedy

and

2. I'm a Stranger Here Myself: Notes on Returning to America After Twenty Years Away by Bill Bryson

The first was a birthday gift from my mother, well knowing my love of poetry. Kennedy's collection of poems covers all of life's bases from love and sex to marriage, work, friendship, death, growing up and the more tangible of things.

The second was a birthday gift from my boyfriend, well knowing my love of travel and Bill Bryson. And he, being British himself, thought it might help me to better understand him.

Daily I flip through these pages, and today I share with you an excerpt from each.

First, a poem by Roy Croft entitled Love

I love you,
Not only for what you are,
But for what I am
When I am with you.

I love you,
Not only for what
You have made of yourself,
But for what
You are making of me.

I love you
For the part of me
That you bring out;
I love you
For putting your hand
Into my heaped-up heart
And passing over
All the foolish, weak things
That you can't help
Dimly seeing there,
And for drawing out
Into the light
All the beautiful belongings
That no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find.

I love you because you
Are helping me to make
Of the lumber of my life
Not a tavern
But a temple;
Out of the works
Of my every day
Not a reproach
But a song.

I love you
Because you have done
More than any creed
Could have done
To make me good,
And more than any fate
Could have done
To make me happy.

You have done it
Without a touch,
Without a word,
Without a sign.
You have done it
By being yourself.
Perhaps that is what
Being a friend means,
After all.

And second, a rather fitting quote from Bryson's work has made every frustration and challenge and struggle of young adulthood seem trivial. Well, at least for today.

"Take a moment from time to time to remember that you are alive. I know this sounds a trifle obvious, but it is amazing how little time we take to remark upon this singular and gratifying fact. By the most astounding stroke of luck an infinitesimal portion of all the matter in the universe came together to create you and for the tiniest moment in the great span of eternity you have the incomparable privilege to exist."

And with that I wish you all a happy Friday and a lovely weekend.
Until next time, let us not forget that the perfect collection of words at the most ideal moments has the remarkable power to completely change everything.

Sampled Room

A bit of nostalgia hit today as I sifted through old journals. I stumbled upon a small red spiral notebook from a series of Choreography classes in college and got lost for an hour or so. There's something about revisiting creative thought, once you've had the opportunity to step away and come back, noticing how different your own voice and insight can feel. I had written an entry about the difficulties faced in finding/creating intriguing sound scores to compliment physical vocabulary. And then later I stumbled upon this video and had to share. If only I'd known about Vimeo when I was a Freshman. One can only imagine how many more hours I would have spent locked in a studio on a Friday night.


http://www.vimeo.com/18929809

"so yes."

I’d pull down the moon for you if I could.

I’d unravel the ribbon you’ve wrapped around my heart, lasso and anchor the moon.

I’d bottle up the seemingly simple pieces of delight throughout a day, so that I might share with you an inch more of my happiness.

And in a mason jar I’d leave:

earmarked corners of a coffee stained Jane Austen paperback

sun soaked jeans left to dry on a porch’s ledge

the smell of fresh laundry and vanilla and the hollow of your neck

melodies of cheesy pop songs hummed under streaming water

proper cups of tea sipped in pajamas while snuggled up in couch corners

ink stained sheets of graph paper and recycled receipts and edges of napkins

I’d leave a Patty Griffin sound score to cookie baking in a candlelit kitchen

words and tangents and nibbling sunflower seeds in a tree’s shade on a Friday afternoon

permission to simply be

Christmas mugs of coffee and the New York Time’s Art Section

Harry Potter at midnight

I’d leave my blue butterfly pin
I’d leave a family dinner on Charles Street
I’d leave the sound of your voice in the dark
And the blush in my cheeks, the tingling of fingertips, the glow of contentment

I’d draw you a map with the lines of my face to better help navigate.

I’d connect these freckles to every breath of a word if it meant steering you closer.

And I’d take a cue from George Bailey if it meant offering you a hatful of wishes so that I’d have but a dozen more chances to be the something desired in the shattered glass of the old Granville House.

I Don't Know

Remember that time I said I would stop posting music and videos and actually get back to writing? Well, I kind of fibbed. But it's a beautiful Friday morning and I absolutely had to share this with you! So for now, sink into the beautiful melodies and perfectly crafted paper architecture of Lisa Hannigan. And know that more superfluous wordy posts are on their way. Soon.