When I glance out my office window (in which is three floors up from my living room) it takes me back to a day when I was a small girl. The rainfall, the look of outdoors, and the scents all place my mind back to Sonoma, Ca.
I was about 7, I think. It was very foggy that morning as I walked out of my Grandma’s home and through a small path in the redwoods. Up on the knoll was a Shetland pony - he was so beautiful. His name was, Dusty.
It started to rain. I wanted to ride so bad, so I climbed up on him and instead of going for a ride; I bent forward and rested my head on his. We sat there in the rain for what seemed like hours. I recall singing to him. (I was such a ding dong.) I sang Puff the Magic Dragon over and over. It was a song my Grandma would sing to me. I recall I would get very sad when she got to the close of the song, but I did not that day - I felt peaceful. And of course, I loved the rain then as much as I do today.
So now, I look out my window and I see that little girl, see the long curls, the skin that seemed to live in calamine lotion, the curious 7 yr old who wore poison oak like a second skin every year. I see the pony and all the dreams that I had and I wonder if I am doing what I had planned then. She wanted to be an oceanographer - and now settles for medicine. She lived to be beside the ocean and still does, but seems when we grow up, we rarely have time for those sorts of things.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Babbled by Cher Ferroggiaro at 6:15 PM
Monday, May 25, 2009
Babbled by Cher Ferroggiaro at 7:26 PM
Babbled by Cher Ferroggiaro at 1:48 PM
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Babbled by Cher Ferroggiaro at 1:41 PM
Babbled by Cher Ferroggiaro at 1:35 PM
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
(An image I shot in Carmel, California.)
This beauty is soft -- as if music and wood,
agate, cloth, wheat, peaches the light shines through
had made an ephemeral statue.
And now she sends her freshness out, against the waves.
The sea dabbles at those tanned feet, repeating
their shape, just imprinted in the sand.
And now she is the womanly fire of a rose,
the only bubble the sun and the sea contend against.
Oh, may nothing touch you but the chilly salt!
May not even love disturb that unbroken springtime!
Beautiful woman, echo of the endless foam,
may your statuesque hips in the water make
a new measure -- a swan, a lily --, as you float
your form through that eternal crystal.
Babbled by Cher Ferroggiaro at 8:16 AM
His voice, a concerto that runs through my veins.
It is a subtle rainfall caressing lashes tenderly,
until it has strung a stretch of silver clouds
that shiver above the wondrous sea.
During these hours,
I release tension, carry myself towards
the humility that illuminates within his warm
eyes, follow graciously, and slip with pleasure,
perennial into his open and alluring hands.
There, in minimalism, we develop into the devotion
that contains us—an open field of fragrant fiori,
a cordial sanctuary, where spring has left its kiss,
where apprehension and uncertainty subside.
Babbled by Cher Ferroggiaro at 8:01 AM