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| Merry Christmas from our family to yours! |
6 Ollies 'Til Christmas
Thursday, December 19, 2019
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| Ollie the Adventurer With the Delay of Game Penalty |
7 Ollies 'Til Christmas
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
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| Ollie the Adventurer with Snow Flakes on His Snout |
8 Ollies 'Til Christmas
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
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| Ollie the (Unwilling) Adventurer Without His Snow Boots |
9 Ollies 'Til Christmas
Monday, December 16, 2019
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| Ollie the Adventurer With Mountain Tops on His Mind |
15 Ollies 'Til Christmas
Tuesday, December 10, 2019
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| Ollie and friends: Tiny Human Helen Jane (and baby) |
24 Ollies 'Til Christmas
Sunday, December 1, 2019
Here we go again. Christmas is right around the corner and in a time-honored tradition here at Merwin and Merwin, we count down its arrival with daily posts of the hound. Actually, this will be our ninth year ringing in the season this way. Cool. Not at all weird or whacked out or bizarre or crazy. Just totally normal and cool. Yup. Anyway, without further chatter, happy December 1st.
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| Best friend, dogerpillar, part one. |
A Poem For A Friday
Friday, October 18, 2019
Tess Gallagher
I go to the mountain side
of the house to cut saplings,
and clear a view to snow
on the mountain. But when I look up,
saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in
the uppermost branches.
I don't cut that one.
I don't cut the others either.
Suddenly, in every tree,
an unseen nest
where a mountain
would be.
I've always loved little poems. This one is so short, so simple, and so effective (and actually kind of looks like a mountain come to think of it). I love how everything in the first two-thirds of the poem is literal and clear. Not a lot of descriptive language or glaring emotion. It makes the closing lines that much more impactful. "In every tree an unseen nest where a mountain would be." I think we often walk through life this way - making changes in pursuit of a specific goal or vision without necessarily pausing to realize the situation we're in is beautiful in a way we didn't recognize. Hmm.
A Poem For A Birthday
Monday, September 30, 2019
To the Light of September
W.S. Merwin
When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not
and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
endless summer
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
shadows across the cracked ground
but they all know
that you have come
the seed heads of the sage
the whispering birds
with nowhere to hide you
to keep you for later
you
who fly with them
you who are neither
before nor after
you who arrive
with blue plums
that have fallen through the night
perfect in the dew
W.S. Merwin
When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not
and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
endless summer
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
shadows across the cracked ground
but they all know
that you have come
the seed heads of the sage
the whispering birds
with nowhere to hide you
to keep you for later
you
who fly with them
you who are neither
before nor after
you who arrive
with blue plums
that have fallen through the night
perfect in the dew
Going To The Birds
Friday, September 20, 2019
I was laying (or is it "lying?") in bed last night when I indulged my bad habit of scrolling through Twitter before falling asleep. Bad idea. It's always a bad idea, but I read an article that truly alarmed me. Of all the things, of all the horrific stories in the news (especially on Twitter), this one won't leave my brain.
Maybe that doesn't seem so bad upon first glance, but the stat is truly terrifying. Nearly one-third (one-third! 30%!) of North American birds have just disappeared over the last 50 years. Gone. Vanished.
I really love birds. I've noticed that my interest in birds has steadily increased, mostly since being at the lake in a setting where they flit, chirp, and nest right outside our windows. When I'm on the deck and there are no whirring boat engines, target practice gun shots, or early morning chain saws, their twittering creates the most pleasing and peaceful background noise. Combined with the light breeze through the oak leaves, glittering sun on the lake, and water lapping at the shore, it's my idea of utter tranquility.
So there is the layer of trying to imagine places without that sound that is alarming, sure, but it's also a bit more concerning than that. How does this massive shift in bird populations affect other species? What happens if other species start dying off too (fyi, humans are a species...)? What does their disappearance say about the state of the earth? What the heck is wrong with us that we don't realize that something is seriously wrong and that our trajectory is troubling to say the least? All of those horrific, dystopian, apocalyptic books that I spent nearly a decade consuming will move from the fiction to the non-fiction shelf.
It's infuriating to read an article like this, and there are countless others about the scientific evidence of climate change's impacts, and have that juxtaposed with leadership that denies, ignores, and actively works against strategies and policies that would at least give the earth a fighting chance. All to bolster their power and financial position while ensuring that the rest of us (oh yes, all of the rest of us but mostly those most at-risk) will undoubtedly suffer. It makes me sick. Disgusted and absolutely disillusioned about the current state of the world, much less the future. Sure, I'm a pessimist, but I don't see a way back from this. And if one is miraculously found amidst the turmoil, chaos, and declining state of democracy, it's going to be too late for us anyway.
Have a great weekend. Live it up while you can.
Just A Little Moment
Monday, September 9, 2019
Did some yoga this morning then cozied up under a blanket on the deck to watch the fog drift across the lake and the clouds swim along the sky. A perfect little moment of pause and reflection to start the week.
Reflecting On Brightspot
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
A year ago today, two other NH women and I officially launched Brightspot Consultants, a collaborative specializing in strategy and fundraising consulting for nonprofits. To say I'm blown away by this entire thing is an understatement. I constantly find myself a little shocked that 1) I am a business owner 2) I did this with two other amazingly strong, fierce, and kind women 3) we are successful and 4) we have worked together to define success on our own terms, terms that are true to who we each are and how we want to work.
Beyond those surprises, I also realize that I still have A LOT to learn. I know a lot about nonprofits and fundraising, perhaps enough to be considered an "expert" on those subjects, but that is not always the most important element of being a consultant. Sure, nonprofits want how-to tips, content, and advice, but they also want someone to help them navigate the sticky dynamics of human nature inherent in their work. The nuances of communicating, of helping lead people to the solutions, of facilitating important conversations. That's the expertise I desperately want and am so enormously thankful to have in the form of my two partners. Without them, this would've been a failed enterprise.
The power of collaborating is more clear than ever to me after year one. We each bring our own strengths, experiences, and personalities to the table, hopefully producing a collaborative that is full of knowledge but also full of genuine interest in supporting the sector, improving the work these organizations do, and in turn, making life a little better for our communities. And doing it all kindly and authentically.
I had rejected the idea of being a consultant so many times in my head, dismissing my weaknesses as too critical to be effective in this kind of role. And yes, I'm a work in progress (who isn't still learning after one year on the job?) but I am so happy to be engaged in this work. It's truly a bright spot.
Life Lately
Tuesday, August 27, 2019
I'm coming at you from the midst of my favorite season. It wasn't always that way. I distinctly recall despising summer with the wrath of a thousand suns when we lived in New York. Must've been the shoulder to shoulder sweaty subway platforms, stench of sizzling street garbage, pulsing heat radiating off the sidewalks, or hours of traffic blockading an escape to greener pastures.
But now summer is simply sublime. We typically hightail it north on Thursday evenings returning with the setting sun on Sundays. We snuck in an extra day off yesterday, lingering lakeside for more sunning on the raft, canoeing, badminton, cards on the deck, and a long walk along the Cotton Valley Rail Trail. My only complaint is that the season is winding down. The "Pointers" as I refer to the family with the cabin on the point across from us, pulled their raft in yesterday, a tell-tale sign that we're fading into fall.
But now summer is simply sublime. We typically hightail it north on Thursday evenings returning with the setting sun on Sundays. We snuck in an extra day off yesterday, lingering lakeside for more sunning on the raft, canoeing, badminton, cards on the deck, and a long walk along the Cotton Valley Rail Trail. My only complaint is that the season is winding down. The "Pointers" as I refer to the family with the cabin on the point across from us, pulled their raft in yesterday, a tell-tale sign that we're fading into fall.
What the heck!? It seems like just yesterday we were airing out the bunkhouse, inflating the pizza float, and dusting off the deck furniture. This always happens and I always struggle with it. I guess it's not a bad thing since really what it means is that I love the lake and the peace it brings so dearly, so incredibly much, that it is just super hard to let it go.
But let it go we must and let it go we will. But not just yet.
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A Poem For A Friday
Friday, June 14, 2019
The Chorus
Craig Michael Teicher
Craig Michael Teicher
1.
It's, you know, the part that repeats,
the bit you're supposed
to remember, the bit that bears
repeating, the part that means
something new
each time, something different,
and the same thing, too,
the thing you can't forget,
that gets stuck in your head.
So, like, childhood
is endless and over
almost as soon as it begins?
Yeah, like that. Ten years
shrinks like the pages
of a water-damaged book.
No, the pages don't really shrink
or shrivel, they crinkle, get kinda
crisp and brittle, but
time's like that, a wrinkle,
and suddenly you've been
married as long as
you were ever a kid,
ever awash in the interminable
Thursday of your first ten years, when
three months was an aeon, when,
like, childhood was endless
and over as soon as it began.
See what I did there? Shifted
the refrain into the middle.
Yeah, time is like that, and
2.
suddenly your newborn
is ten and your wife
is celebrating the birthday
only grownups do,
and you must be older
than your mom was
It's, you know, the part that repeats,
the bit you're supposed
to remember, the bit that bears
repeating, the part that means
something new
each time, something different,
and the same thing, too,
the thing you can't forget,
that gets stuck in your head.
So, like, childhood
is endless and over
almost as soon as it begins?
Yeah, like that. Ten years
shrinks like the pages
of a water-damaged book.
No, the pages don't really shrink
or shrivel, they crinkle, get kinda
crisp and brittle, but
time's like that, a wrinkle,
and suddenly you've been
married as long as
you were ever a kid,
ever awash in the interminable
Thursday of your first ten years, when
three months was an aeon, when,
like, childhood was endless
and over as soon as it began.
See what I did there? Shifted
the refrain into the middle.
Yeah, time is like that, and
2.
suddenly your newborn
is ten and your wife
is celebrating the birthday
only grownups do,
and you must be older
than your mom was
at your
age, and it's not
Thursday -- was it ever? And the two
pills you have to take every night.
How is it Sunday, I mean
Monday, this morning, your alarm,
your coffee grumbling, thunder,
and the kids (two of them,
suddenly) are out the door, and
their childhood is
endless and and already over
as soon as it begins, and
you're on the bus to work. See what
I did there? I don't. The four
pills you have to take three
times every day, you might
3.
as well be already
at your desk, your deathbed,
holding your daughter's
grownup hand, you
hope, the hospital calm and
clean, like the one your mother
died in, and there's hopefully
money somewhere to take care
of everything, and this
is like childhood, endless
and over as soon as it begins,
or as close as you'll ever get
again -- see what I did
there? Did you
see? Did anyone?
Thursday -- was it ever? And the two
pills you have to take every night.
How is it Sunday, I mean
Monday, this morning, your alarm,
your coffee grumbling, thunder,
and the kids (two of them,
suddenly) are out the door, and
their childhood is
endless and and already over
as soon as it begins, and
you're on the bus to work. See what
I did there? I don't. The four
pills you have to take three
times every day, you might
3.
as well be already
at your desk, your deathbed,
holding your daughter's
grownup hand, you
hope, the hospital calm and
clean, like the one your mother
died in, and there's hopefully
money somewhere to take care
of everything, and this
is like childhood, endless
and over as soon as it begins,
or as close as you'll ever get
again -- see what I did
there? Did you
see? Did anyone?
My brain is in an allergy-induced haze, but I saw this poem a few weeks ago and can't stop thinking about it. This idea of aging, that feeling that your childhood feels interminable when you're in it, then it suddenly rushes by along with your children's childhoods and then, before you know it, your life. You constantly believe you're too young to be in this place, you're "older than your mom was at your age," and then bam, you're at the end, and it's over as soon as it began.
It's also an example of a poem's structure working wondrously to emphasize its theme. I love the way the poet utilizes line breaks, short little stanzas, and commas to make it all a bit jerky like the narrator is being tugged back and forth between youth and age, sort of how I imagine we all feel as we go through the constant, inevitable plod toward the end.
On that uplifting note, have a happy weekend, hahaha!!!!
Pupdate
Thursday, May 16, 2019
I suppose he's not really a puppy anymore since he is likely a full year old now. Where did that time go? I still feel slight shudders of horror when I think about how difficult that early puppy time was for me. He was cute, but egads, puppy life was challenging. But he's growing up. Literally. Lankier and lankier these days with his long scrawny legs and his seemingly longer tail. Oddball mystery mix of breeds, but a little love bug too, still trying to curl up in our laps whenever he has the opportunity. He's loving lake life too, observing everything from the deck and settling into that relaxing feeling as summer creeps closer. He's a good boy!
W.S. Merwin
Monday, March 18, 2019
As it turns out, one of my all-time favorite
individuals, the poet W.S. Merwin, passed away in his sleep early that morning around the same time I woke from my dream.
The oddities of that juxtaposition aside, the devastation
came flooding back when I learned of W.S. Merwin’s death. I am hard pressed to
put into words what his work has meant for the world, for poetry, for me.
Arguably, he is one of the most decorated contemporary poets, having gathered
almost all the prominent accolades and awards during his long career.
But beyond the awards and acclaim, I think that he
likely had an uncelebrated and possibly unknown profound impact on hundreds of
thousands of individual little humans. Me, for one.
I purchased his book, The
Rain in the Trees, because it was required reading for a writing workshop
at Hamilton College. With the guidance of great professors, his was some of the
first poetry I worked to comprehend in any depth. He was the launch pad for a life-long pursuit. I hated
that feeling of not grasping exactly what was going on in his poems, but also luxuriated
in that same ambiguity. I loved the idea that each word could be dissected,
analyzed, listened to, and savored. Every word was enormously meaningful in a
poem - they were all placed there for a specific reason or, more likely,
hundreds of specific reasons.
As part of my Creative Writing major, I spent hours writing
poetry, always with a pencil and always the evening before the poem had to be
submitted for review by my classmates. The best part about the process was deliberating
over the “right” word. Those moments poring through the thesaurus, writing
down, crossing out, hemming, hawing and then finally feeling that tiny thrill
when the word “stuck.” Those moments were truly some of my favorite memories of
creating anything.
This isn’t a story of Merwin inspiring me to become a poet.
It’s a story of him inspiring everything. Of him being this beautiful thread in
my life, one that started in college, carried me through New York, accompanied
me through love and loss, and stuck with me so profoundly that we gave his name
to our dog, who was, as absolutely ridiculous as it sounds, one of the most
significant loves of my life. I used Merwin’s work and my love for the dog Merwin
to start this blog, a context for reestablishing the thrill of creating that I
hadn’t realized I had missed so dreadfully. I have never read another poet’s
work and had the same reactions, feelings, or utter awe and admiration for what he could do on a
page. I have never met so many of one poet’s works that absolutely just sang to
me.
I realized this past year, first with Paul Taylor’s passing
then with Mary Oliver’s that I hadn’t yet truly acknowledged the impact my artistic
icons have had on me. As silly as it may sound, I feel such a profound loss now
that this trifecta has moved on. These people shaped my interest in dance, in
poetry, in understanding people, in creating, and in savoring how words or
movement can brilliantly illuminate nature or grief or injustice or death in
ways that evoke such compelling feeling around what it means to see this world
and to be in this world. How amazing they were to share
this beauty with us and how utterly sad there will be no more of it from their great minds.
There is so much more to say about W.S. Merwin, likely so many more important things to thank him for and to relay around his life's work, but for now, it just feels like the Merwins' "absence has gone through me / like thread through a needle / everything I do is stitched with its color."
Pushing The Boundaries
Monday, January 7, 2019
Ollie came in from going outside this morning, dashed down the hall, and immediately leapt onto the bed. With the exception of one time when he was invited up, he has never been on a human bed before, so needless to say, I was shocked. I was also still in the bed so when he began freaking out and running circles on said bed, I was even more shocked. He also kept running away from us as we tried to get him off the bed. I finally got him down, he zoomed around like a freak, then jumped back up! They say pups are especially spirited and rambunctious (read: disobedient and out of control) as they enter adolescence at around 6 months. Ollie is 8 months. He's testing the waters. Yay.
But he's cute. And he still likes to sit on our laps. Aside from putting my feet to sleep faster than he did when he was 20 pounds lighter, I love those little moments when he snuggles up. He's a keeper.
A Poem For Aging
Saturday, January 5, 2019
Ted Kooser
In musty light, in the thin brown air
of damp carpet, doll heads and rust,
beneath long rows of sharp footfalls
like nails in a lid, an old man stands
trying on glasses, lifting each pair
from the box like a glittering fish
and holding it up to the light
of a dirty bulb. Near him, a heap
of enameled pans as white as skulls
looms in the catacomb shadows,
and old toilets with dry red throats
cough up bouquets of curtain rods.
You've seen him somewhere before.
He's wearing the green leisure suit
you threw out with the garbage,
and the Christmas tie you hated,
and the ventilated wingtip shoes
you found in your father's closet
and wore as a joke. And the glasses
which finally fit him, through which
he looks to see you looking back --
two mirrors which flash and glance--
are those through which one day
you too will look down over the years,
when you have grown old and thin
and no longer particular,
and the things you once thought
you were rid of forever
have taken you back in their arms.
I was just talking with my sister-in-law about poetry this weekend. We commented on how each word in a poem is so crucial, obviously much more so than in fiction or other prose. I talked about how much I loved that process when writing - the often hours-long search for the exact right word - the one that sounded sharp or soft, the one that alluded to a specific feeling without naming the feeling, the one that had the correct number of syllables, the one that told a larger story than just the word itself. The pursuit of the perfect word is what I remember really treasuring about poetry writing.
This poem exhibits that idea so perfectly. Musty, nails in a lid, skulls, catacomb, old, cough. Little nods to age. Then we switch to the second stanza and that language recedes, becoming more reflective. The narrator finds bits of himself, both literally and figuratively, in this man, a look up the road at what was and down the road at what is to come. The mirrored glasses reinforce this perspective, a literal reflection and also a tool for looking, for seeing better, both the past and the future.
As usual, I can't properly describe what I love about this poem and how amazed I am by the poet's expertise. Maybe that's part of what makes it so good. It's nearly impossible for bodies to do some of the things ballerinas do, but it appears graceful and effortless to the observer. This poem seems effortless. I love it.
Aging
Friday, January 4, 2019
I've had trouble with my birthday the past few years. Maybe it's the steady creep towards 40 or feeling unsettled in various aspects of life, but turning 37 and 38 were both a struggle. So I was a little trepidatious when 39 loomed at the end of December's calendar.
It was great! We spent the extended weekend at the lake, our first time up north since early November. Pete and Sille joined us, we adventured to Portland for a visit to the art museum, played a bunch of games, ate delicious food (omg, Simon made sticky toffee pudding and it was spectacular), walked along the Cotton Valley Rail Trail, and took some tentative steps onto what we think was a solidly frozen Round Pond. It was relaxing, refreshing, fun, and peaceful. Getting old ain't so bad after all.
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