Sixty

60 feels burned out, so the pan is off the heat. Pressure is falling.

60 feels like empty mind, turtle mind. 
Mercury transformed into lead.

60 feels like yeah, still no room for bullshit but I’m not pushing
the great river forward. I’ll stay out of your way.
Time has become late summer river before the fall rains.

60 feels like I’ve settled firmly, sometimes peaceful

pretty passive, and is grieving the withering blossom

60 is grappling with illness, loss of energy, strength, smarts and passion.

60 is a solar system away from 30 and a different planet from 50

when vitality and smarts were at my beck and call.

60 feels like sexual love is a velvet lined jewelry box.
Its lid shut and collecting dust.
The treasure trove of Eros did its job and is on to other projects.

60 still feels a devotion to beauty is what keeps me Alive, sane
and connected  to this tragic, comic, beautiful world.

60 feels alien. I don’t recognize the woman In the mirror

or the one struggling to function.

60 feels like good enough for now is a blessing

Because it would be beyond me to change it.

60 feels like her old professional persona no longer matters,

really isn’t interested in any of that, any more.  It was a good run.

60 feels so regular its invisible on the outside and vaporizing
on the inside, unable to fully engage the outer world.
Both inner and outer selves are receding. 

60 feels like it’s OK that it has been what it was and is what it is

And it’s necessary to grieve or be glad for what wasn’t or isn’t

and after grieving,  I’m still glad to live and love as best I can.

60 feels like there are patterns that repeat over and over

In the great mystery of all everything and sees we are destined

to forget, repeat, remember, repeat, forget, repeat, remember repeat …

60 is learning new things in the dance with destiny And never
thought 60 would be like this. Thought 60 and 70 would be like 50.

60 is sitting out the dance and instead of watching from the sidelines,

Is looking out the window and has a softer view of consciousness

60 is grateful for friends who are still older and wiser

And now the younger friends are wiser too.

60 is still OK playing the fool but it’s all the time, not just now and then.

There is shame in my own disapproval, till self-kindness arrives.

60 hasn’t played much in the last couple of years. It takes energy.

So when she does,  It brings deep, great -  joy.

60 still feels that humans personify God and that that’s where mistakes

have been made. But our projections are the best and all we have
for evidence. Barring of course the innate intelligence of all nature,
the Universe

60 still feels the truth is recognizable but in the last 5 years saw
how long it took to see it. Even older and wiser we cling
to what we’d rather have

60 has been around but knows the revolution
Is slowing down. Only so many seasons left.

60 know that ego concerns made our life in the outer world
make sense, were necessary for survival and thriving.
They are “the clinging”.

60 still knows the body is only in this world briefly. A life –

whether well or horribly lived only remembered by the living
for a couple generations.  Lemmings over a cliff.

60 is realizing that this moment and day are what matter most.

Its where destiny and love intersect.  It’s the only time

when you can actually do anything and the only time you are as
fully alive as you are. There may not be better,
more fully alive days or hours

60 is grateful for the support of others, needs it more than she
ever did before. Knows full well, everything she has –
shelter, food, all of it, is a state of grace.

Some of it was hard earned and some of it a gift.

60 struggles with being robbed early of the resources t
he vitality to give back more.

60 remains hopeful that she can recover some or all to be
able to further my dear young ones better than I can right now.

60 would aspire to have a showy fall bloom and ample harvest
before eternal winter arrives. To celebrate all that has made my life
so incredible, in some creative, inspiring way.

60 has reasons to live and heal If it’s my fate, or God’s will.

Mine is all there.

Cynthia Hennard,  June 18, 2017

Today's uploads

It's been almost 2 years since I've posted any writing here. Says a lot about my life or the lack there of lately. All the writing uploaded today was written in 2009 and typed today. I had just never gotten around to typing it up. It all lives here, good and bad as my archive. Peruse at your own risk. I hope to continue to pull from my hand written work over the past 7 years and gather the drafts and final versions to date here over the coming weeks.
Blessings ~

Body Cry

She lays on the table face up

Covered only by a thick towel

Skin oiled limb by limb

Legs longer now, hips rotated

Ankles stretched, toes pulled

Breathing deeply through tension

Breathing quietly, peacefully, finally relaxed

Arms and fingers kneaded, wrung

Then the lung points held at the corners

The first and second ribs

Between the shoulder and collar bone

Gently just held there

And the tears come gently rolling

The breath catches

The choice point of opening to it

or closing it down presents itself

keep breathing

open the throat

loosen the jaw

noticing the crying sound

breathing with the crying breath

then the diaphragm compresses

the belly pulls hard then pushes

out old deep tears

the tears of years and years

of hurt beyond words

beyond knowing why or what

the belly pushes out the deep crying sound

the throat closes around it tuning it to keening

and each breath brings it like this for awhile

tears flowing, neck and hair wet behind the ears

points still gently held 

by hands listening to shifting

depths, pulses, receptivity,

refilling of the point

reregulation of qi

after a while keening quieter

breathing smoother, full

exhaling through mouth

then breathing very quietly

tears have stopped

then a palm rests gently

on sternum over heart

and a palm on forehead

dipping down through

into dreaming body time

as magic happens and all shifts

to peace, acceptance, self-empathy

then hands go to feet

then light brushing head to toe

energy clearing

“we’re done for now, take all

the time you need before getting up”

alone now

there is a big stretch

a hug to self

all the time you need

is not here in this room

or in this lifetime

but it’s a nice thought

and it means

no rushing out of this moment

no rushing

just respect and moving forward,

moving on

  

5/26/09

Late

Late arriving, late leaving

Late waking, late sleeping,

late monthly reports, late evaluations

Late for dinner, late for meetings

Late growing up but precocious

Late driving, driving everyone off the road

Late is how adrenaline

Pulls fuzzy into focus

Autopilot stimulation

Neocortex riding a little higher

Hedonic tone more in tune

Thanks to a little late urgency

The check is in the mail – late

Late because I hesitate?

No late because there is too much

life to live In too little time

late because I underestimate

Always underestimate

How long it takes to do anything

Not just of late but all of my life

How long to brush teeth

To make toast and coffee

To go to the store and the bank

More than I thought

More than I can imagine

More than I know

I don’t live in your time

My moments expand

but the ticking time holds firm

Body chasing, world turning

Late or not

  

5/26/09

Early For Once

Mid-May in the late day

Sun still a little too cool

Waiting in the car

Listening to tunes

Windows open

Unitarians coming and going

For fellow writers to arrive

And unlock the door

That opens the channel

To the void from which

We draw our breath

And fashion words

Weave memory shards

Into stories and revisited

Uncertainties prompted

Ceremoniously

5/12/09

Only Love, No Magic

Insomnia resolves

Crying in my sleep

Don’t know why

Thoughts coming by

Visiting my heart

Sleeping limbo mind

Begs forgiveness

For the unforgivable

Which is the position

Of strength?

To love does mean

To pursue

and maintain connection

At times, one shares

A bunker

With the previous enemy

To survive

A mutual threat

Are we kidding ourselves?

We détente in times of death

Fear of dying alone

And the lesser arcana

Being motherless

Fatherless, childless

There is no magic man

Who will save you from

 This life – he says

No husband

No Buddha

No Jesus

The waters are still troubled

Stormy misconceptions

Assumptions

Craving

Love and forgiveness

4/11/09

Now I Lay Me

It’s very late

And I can’t wait

To quiet my head

In my cozy bed

And stop thinking

And start sinking

Into Akashic dreams

Where life stories

Stream strange

but true

4/6/09

Taxed

Taxed tired

Traded time

Told tall tales

Tackled troubles

Tough teams

Triumphed today

I am behind

By a full day

And have to stretch

For the good

Unexpected company

The taped assessment

The monthly note

The signed billing

The dual diagnosis course

And writing the presentation

Will all just have to wait

Yes, it is late

And I am taxed and tired

4/5/09

Night Travelers

Night driving blinded

Spring snow showers

Lights too bright

Road too dark

Disappearing

in blackening wetness

especially when oncoming

lights approach

pray there are no

baby raccoon siblings

making their first

crossing tonight

pray if they are

we’ll see them

in time

pray they will

for some reason

wait till the safety

of darkness returns

to go from here

to the next great beyond

4/4/09

Buck up. You just gotta.

Mind numb with fatigue

Starts the weekend

Of taxes, monthly report

A three-hour assessment

Taped then written

And I hate it

so I’m whining

it should be MY TIME

now – yet years ago

I read – guess what?

It is all your time

There is no my time

Your time

No it is the only time

you will ever have

it’s this one life

and THIS is how

you’re living it

spending days, weeks,

months doing

things that are dry

boring, deadly and

necessary.

Oh dear

The hippie in me

Wants to drop

In and out

Resist the madness

But you gotta

get out of debt first

sell your soul just a little longer

so nourish your soul now

and be a little stronger

4/3/09

Birthday Love

Son says sky dive

Feel alive and free

With me    Mom

Let’s take it on

You and me

Punch the walls out

On fear

Too much to ask?

Maybe so

But what I really want

For my 26^th birthday

Is not a bunch of presents

I want a great shared experience

With you

If not skydiving

Then maybe a tattoo

Something big and special

That we share

That we dare

That we care

That we are

4/1/09

What You Take With You

We arrive early and are milling around someone’s life holdings, viewing the offerings collected since the 1930’s, that three generations held from the old country till now, to be sold at auction. It’ll all be over in a few hours. Reduced to cash as prized collections and sets are broken up, sold to different people, driving away in trucks, vans and Volvos. The family photo albums, scrap books and sometimes journals and handed down recipe collections usually left behind with the old Reader’s Digest books.

When it’s time to start, we sit in lawn chairs a little over heated under a tent on a perfect Vermont summer day, bees landing on the sausage and pepper sandwich that is irresistible after smelling it waft from the food truck for an hour. We are in an altered state here, frozen in suspension as the auctioneer’s hypnotic patter keeps us reeled in, the auction field pulling us all en masse to want and need things we’d otherwise never bother with at a yard sale. We are fascinated by the bidding styles everyone has: always start at half of whatever the auctioneer throws out and go from there. Offer a dollar when no hands are up to make friends with the Auctioneer. Poker faces and animated bidding wars, applause at the really big sales, everyone attentive even for the weird little collectable spoons they don’t care about but are keen to see what they sell for. For what it is worth, today. It could be worth a lot less at your shop tomorrow or way more than you paid.  

It starts an hour earlier, while wandering the house, an 1800’s stone beauty with stone floors and remarkably high ceilings. The rooms a circular flow, so around we go, examining fine and mismatched china, exquisite gold, silver, gems and costume jewelry, old and newer books, the collection of Indian prints and tchotchkes, straight worn old oak furniture, new pressed board storage warped by gravity, dark crawl spaces under eaves where it all goes till somebody needs it someday but no one ever does. Broken frames, old newspapers, sometimes history has a value and sometimes not. The first floor is laid out staging the best. The second floor will be sold as is on a walk through at the end of the auction. The beds, bathroom cabinets, the mundane dressers and closets of clothes, along with the tools, battery chargers, lawn mowers, snow blowers and hoses in the garage, the old paint and workshop jars of nuts and bolts, specialty tools and old rusty saws in the damp basement. The pickers get in each other’s way looking for hidden deals in the minutiae of the mundane. Barely making a living at this, they power through the dusty, detritus, trading glory stories of the few times they made a real killing, like the time they found fifty dollar bills between the pages of all the black books in a room after the picker who bought it was done with it and offered the dusty remains to them for free.

It’s all in the timing, variation of what is up next, a fifteen dollar floor lamp, a forty dollar yellow ware bowl, a twenty dollar train set, a bidding war for a twelve hundred dollar Chippendale chair, a thirty-five dollar set of chipped flow blue plates, a ninety dollar cardboard box of mildewed vintage linens, the three hundred-forty dollar lot of handcrafted silver and turquoise jewelry from the 40’s, the ten dollar microwave, the one hundred-fifteen dollar Georgia Balch painting I bought, the twenty dollar box of cranberry glass, the two hundred fifty dollar leather jingle bell horse harness, the five dollar giant box of Christmas decorations and the forty dollar box of a dozen vintage glass ornaments. And on it goes like this for three or four hours.

You wait all day for that one thing you secretly really want but would never tell, hoping everyone else will be asleep when the time comes or that no one would care or want that prized thing, that slender little mirror with the Indian on horseback meeting the sun or the four matching chairs that are not antiques but would work for Mom’s kitchen and the few commodes that fit anywhere including your little car on the way home. You end up with maybe one thing you had intended to win and a car full of random things that were too good to pass up. All of which will require you to honor that deal that you made with yourself about acquiring more stuff. Anything you buy from now on has to replace something you sell or give away. It has to be something you like better than what you have or will trade something for because you have downsized your life and are no longer acquiring. Sometimes, you know you can sell it, so that’s ok too. 

It was a time out of normal time. If you go often enough, you get to know all the dealers, collectors, pickers, and Ebay sellers in your area. A little community exists there. You learn over and over that when you die, your family and friends will have to wonder about the worth of your life’s collections, will have to decide, what is sentimental and what is just clutter and junk, will have to sort through the detritus that you couldn’t sort through and bravely part with yourself, will have to figure out how to move it out. They’ll have to fight the guilt of getting rid of what isn’t meaningful to them but that you kept as yours all these years. They may have coveted a few favorite things and know just where it will go and for all the maybe’s and shoulds they keep, will have to figure out where to put and how to integrate it in their already full lives.  Their home to will become and alter of things that will remind them of you or their grandmother, grandfather or great grandmother. After many surrenders and yard sales, they too will whittle it down to those most essential things because they have a preference for their own lives and their own things, as it should be because to them, you were never really what you had. You were how well you loved them or failed to.

5/24/09,  revised 2/28/16

Fast Pitch 1

Sitting in the box seats

for my first major league game

with my three year old son - too young?

For baseball?  For box seats?  Not possible...

We were right there

between home plate and first base

and for the first time

we watched every pitch.

Each pitch consistent yet different

and most clocking over 90 mph.

It was mesmerizing.

I found myself entranced

with the steady rhythm

of the pitcher's pattern

of feet roughing up the mound

chewing and spitting

looking to first and third

the throw to second to hold

the intrepid runner at first.

Hypnotic dynamics, the roaring organ

and the high volume announcers

shifting to talking low

during the feet roughing, chewing, spitting

coolly reporting the count of each pitch

trading stats and gossip up in the box

keeping up the background chatter.

Then, suddenly the volume explodes

the announcers, the crowd, loud

emotional and on the edge of sanity

during the scoring plays and errors

highlighting and replaying

the player’s record breaking skill

respectable hard earned athleticism

shameful loss of control

or poor sportsmanship.

The announcer, the classic organ

and ready to go band sound bites

the baseball anthems

and pulsing visuals

on the score board

guiding the full stadium

to ecstasy or let down

depending on which side

you are loyal to. 

Sometimes the play is so beautifully

executed and the team work so tight

you well up for the other side too.

By the second inning

nothing else in life matters.

It's all in the pitch.

I wonder if the pitcher's shoulders

look different under his shirt

if one is bionically muscled

and the other just regular

looking dwarfed in comparison.

It’s all the posturing out there

the nervous tics,  jaw tight, constantly chewing

and tongue packing his cheek,

hand adjusting brim backed hat

eyes moving with head not turning

suddenly between pitches

ball thrown to first

to hold back pandemonium

and this time he nails

that base stealer on the run.

I’m in awe, that nobody ever

misses the catch and has to go

running for it while the stealer

gets to 3rd or scores

like back in 5^th  grade softball.

The pitcher and catcher speak volumes

silently, in sign, in front of their balls

or their faces where nothing registers

while each batter is sized up

and strategies are set between them

such that the batter may or may not know

what's coming at him.

And so it goes

inning after inning

the patterns, tics, talks

practiced perfections and errors

the lone batter up against

the pitcher’s team machine

and it’s all him no hers.

It's still a man's world

and it all rides on a fast pitch.

Lily's Pad

Lily’s pad floats freely

tucked in neatly, flanked

by friend’s pads en-mass

circular, shiny, sun catching

dragon fly acrobats aeriel

tourmaline teal toast grey not shy

visit Lily’s pad in couplets

Lily’s pad a reliable oasis where

the brilliant meet and hang out.

That lily pad green much

like those first bell bottoms

big bold crisp green leaves on white

worn too many days of the week

the only ones I had

with desert boots way to big

to give me growing room

I would never need that much of,

often alone as a kid,

wading in silent reverie

in the tannic stream of life

but in good company.

Naturally, as it must always happen

brilliance fades in the summer dusk

grassy fields of darkening greens

disappear as the dewy night descends

and yes! Out pops our fire fly friends

beep beep beaming little green lights

reachable stars kids trap in jars

tangible first miracles

take us through

those early darkest nights

till morning’s light

calls for new adventures

ducking the neighborhood kids

slipping silently across the green fields

with her fresh spider webs and bee busy clovers

to be dazzled by my pals at Lily’s pad.

February 2011

Blue Spruce

Blue spruce blue Christmas

Pine, beer and turkey juices simmering

atmospheric steam building

Nana’s hot kitchen

only for the hard core

blue smoke twists off the end

of three cigarettes gathering in layers.

It pays to be short if breathing is necessary

while stealing date nut bread

and its cool cream cheese spread.

Black and blues neatly concealed

special cut glass sparkles, table shines

lifting porcelain reflections

to the sublime laid to rest for us on

crisp pure white table clothes.

Don’t fear spilled gravy

or deep red cranberry sauce

we eat to live here and live to eat

and afterward

black and blues disappear

as red knuckles wring out years

of excess pain

bleaching and rinsing,

starching and ironing

the linens, all of them

layered in tissue paper flat

put away in dark drawers

that smell of freshness.

Sitting around with coffee, cigarettes and cards

the women argue over what really happened

none of the men could handle it

my uncle, the youngest son

in his 68 blue corvette

drove me to the pines of Mount Grace

showed me things pure and true

like spruce seedlings starting themselves

in the cool moist safe place of his refuge

just before he moved out West for good.

February 23, 2011

Bittersweet Blindside

Overhead dim heaviness

hunkers handsomely draped

around hilly shoulders

all the land white wedding

ready, sparkling and pristine

no sharp edges today

all rounded corners

all dampened and silenced

no point in fighting it

something seeps into

soul system and weeping

would be right at a time like this

but all is static and dry

silently falling hope fleeing

like the dwindling woodpile

unnamable everything both

OK and all wrong

not OK and not all wrong

what does this blindside see

that lies without form or distinction

so silently covered in this

beautiful bittersweet moment

that lingers in the atmosphere

like the sultry wood smoke layering

its dusky hues in the

sparkling relief?

February 2, 2011

Extravagant

Extravagant is what gifts should be

Those lovely extras beyond the usual

functional necessaries

of a lean self-allowance.

The special chocolate or hand made salt from afar

the golden bees wax candles that smell of the hive

the fine design, the greatest of the small satisfactions

of still being alive

the catapulted sensory lift 

from the impacts of time, gravity

wear and tear

and mostly, of the mundane

In a world of plastic and polyester resin basics

extravagance is anything natural, elemental

non-composite, non-genetically modified

unprocessed, unfortified, unadulterated

In my world of paycheck to paycheck 

and hey, I’m grateful to have one,

extravagant is anything beyond my monthly bills.

Its the quality upgrade or the handmade, homemade

of extravagant hours submerged in creative productivity.

Extravagant will be that row of garlic next summer

bending in the breeze long after frozen fingers

and stiff joints packed them into their little graves

covering them for the long winter’s night

with their blankets of leaves.

Extravagant is the sensory world

when attention is grounded

the deep cleansing breath

the long sighing stretch

the simple life well attended.

The extravagant life is the antithesis

of mental poverty and superficial wealth.

It is what is fine, sublime, beautiful, comfortable, natural.

It is the luxury of time and presence

and the richest of it inherent in simply seeing, hearing, feeling 

and smelling the natural world and making something of it.

November 22, 2010

Personals

Websites for hunting and fishing

for lovers, for love

faces, images brought forward

self projections, protections,

multiple exposures

Who, what are you really

behind the shimmering

mirage of distance

Silicone valley of love

lies just further than here

Monsters can be blocked

profiles pulled for invisibility

but you have to show

yours to see theirs

available for everyone

to view, imagine, compare, capture, save

In order to be introduced, seen, picked, loved

a virtual promenade – alone and out of context

no proud mother walking by your side

helping you pick, unabashedly telling of your excellencies

allowing you to prance proudly or humbly

in the dress that smells of cotton that has hung on the line

sweet breeze wrapped round you

displaying a hint of your true nature

No, now it means settling for two dimensions

and a lot of imagination

a conversation begins

lots of reading between the lines

without the reptilian wisdom

of reading body language, eye contact,

without checking the chemistry

without the mystery of divine intervention

We tell ourselves we’re free

to make more conscious choices

intellect over sex appeal

What kind of love comes

of the small minded self-will

that would feed someone

all of your best lines

all of your needs and vulnerabilities

so they can exquisitely tell you

what you have needed to hear

all of your life

words to fill the vacuum

of your soul

fill the deep abyss

of a heart with cracks

where love leaks out like a sieve

and beneath it lies

an ocean desert mountain

of longing, longing, longing

even while you are telling them

that you’re cool and have a great full life

and don’t really need anyone

The love void, soul hunger

only really filled by loving

self and others when trying to get by

during the inevitable lapses

of forgetfulness that we are always embedded

inseparable from Divine love.

Cyberwords important yes

but like drugs – no replacement for real life

or the love of family, friends,

fools and mysterious strangers

on line hunting and fishing

hoping to get caught hook line and sinker

netted by a great love

as each hopeful soul leers out

like cruising an adoption registry

from an animal rescue

yes there’s a few bad habits

but ultimately still loveable...

lonely late night hours spent

nauseated by the lecherous dirt bags

or titillated by the peacock like display

of all those great catches, trophy lovers

and wondering which of these am I...

For fifty-nine dollars for three months

Hope flickers and disappointment looms

in the potential for delivery by the great universe

from beyond the little circle that I live in

of that next great love

that isn’t meant to be this way.

9/19/2010

and again...

What is it that we really want?

...besides to be held and touched
in a way that anchors soul to earth
and not to be sabotaged, betrayed again
in the pursuit of a love life, a loving life,

no love knife flick of the wrist
casting off the dingy in the big rough waters
while you with your motor that always starts
or a perfect wind are already miles under way

and me, an expert by now in negotiating choppy seas
with only my own sheer will for oars will make
the best of being set free

totally free again to rebuild, redirect, resurrect
the holy mast of humble new beginnings.
Ever the beginning student of love - life...

October 2011

Pieced Together

So many years of driving
winding roads through
moose country blinding snow
storm squalls every
Wednesday night
only the guardrails
to keep you centered
nevermind the lines
these faded boundaries
invisible now.

All those years of weekly visits
followed by weekly phone calls
weekend workshops, week long conferences,
after years of graduate school,
years on the table breathing into feelings
phantom possessions
inviting the furies
to unleash their bitter tongues
then surprising them with healing
heart melting words and tones
and welcoming them back home.
Finally free.

June 2011