I buy the occasional lottery ticket. For the last year, I have been distributing the imagined winnings to help me fall asleep.
At night, I open my journal and, under the soft light, write down the names of people and organizations, recipients of my donations in case I win the lottery. After writing down names, I turn off the light and consider the order of the recipients and the amounts. Many nights the image of giving to others in this way has relaxed me, putting me to sleep.
My husband once said, after looking at a lottery ticket that I…
At the Museum of Modern Art, I walked into Matisse’s world of colored cut paper. Bedazzled, I moved through an array of vibrant colors and shapes that seemed to break loose from the paper on which they were glued. They circulated through the room, charging the air with a kind of transcendent energy. I was captivated.
And then, for the first time, I felt artistic possibilities stirring inside me, as if my hands were already holding scissors and cutting colored paper.
I had always been good with creating through words, not visual images. …
Yesterday, my thirty-five year old daughter entered our front door and headed to my arms. We were fully vaccinated and hadn’t touched each other for over a year. That touching her, her arms and back, her face and head, all mashed up against me, took me back to James Agee’s A Death in the Family. We were the lucky ones, celebrating that there had not been a death in the family. But that special touch — the one that breaks your heart — only Agee captures.
“Don’t you fret, Jay, don’t you fret. And before his time, before even he…
I memorized this poem as soon as I read it. I captures for me the vitality that a new love brings to one’s life even as it speaks to one’s vulnerability and the possibility of loss and decline. While colours do “vanish” over time, for me, their diminishment remains and comes to life with each new face — whether it be the literal face of a person or, more metaphorically, the “face” of an idea or work of art. The poem also reminds me to seek out new faces and not to let my fear overtake the coloured light.
In wintry Western Washington
Standing in rain-soaked soil,
Wearied by grey-drenched skies,
I gaze up at the tree in my backyard
And am heartened
By those yellow spindled flowers on its branches,
Becoming radiant whenever the sun
Sneaks out from dreary skies.
I long for the first pink blossoms
Of plum trees that will follow next.
Multitudinous, their tiny pink tongues reaching toward the sun
As if desperate for light.
Then primroses, too, and pansies will bloom in glory,
Row after row, in containers set out in front of stores —
Yellow, purple, red and white,
Sentinels of a new life singing out their songs.
I snip two twisted twigs, bringing the golden flowers inside
To remind me that the time will come when my tables
Will be adorned with branches, laden with pink blossoms
And my porches with primroses and pansies in a riot of colors.
“If you need a reason to unfriend me.” So began the flyer my friend re-posted: “I am pro Trump, pro military, pro law enforcement, pro gun, pro life, a Christian, and there is [sic] only two genders. P.S. All Lives Matter.”
No distance from Trump, even given January 6th: just a reposting of the flyer. I had to respond:
I have this picture of us from 2000, at our 40th high school reunion. We are laughing and swinging hula hoops on our 50-year old hips in a contest. The hoops are not labeled Republican and Democratic but are reminders of…
@DrJohnRose poetic tribute to Monet’s water lilies spurred me to consider how entering one of Monet’s paintings could lead one to sleep.
As a sleep struggler, I have been experimenting with sleep-inducing stories and images
Getting absorbed in a painting presented possibilities for me.
The National Sleep Foundation recommends Cognitive Behavior Therapy-Insomnia (CBT-I) as the first line of treatment for any sleep problems.