Goshen Summer 2007 #1

Cottonwood seeds drift through the air on their parachutes of fluff. Gravity tugs them down, but they are light enough that the air currents bat them about on their way down, sometimes sending them up again for a spin. Large, dry, warm-weather snowflakes.

It's been 2 weeks since I've returned home from Soul Mountain, still holding onto the determination to make writing space here amidst the family, which also means space for contemplation, and permission to enter contemplative realities without feeling like I should always be doing a hundred thousand other things first. I've found a good perch in an upstairs bedroom, used by Jonathan when he's home from college, and gradually I'm taking over this room, shifting his bedroom/guest room to my smaller, darker study downstairs, which is good for sleeping, but not very good for writing. At Soul Mountain I realized how important a morning view of the day and the world outside was to my writing and meditation. Otherwise, I'd never pause to see the cottonwood seeds, or the dark green shadows in the fully-leafed trees. And this upstairs bedroom has a view of sky and trees and lawn, and the neighbor's house, which does not suggest more work to be done, as a view of our yard would.

I fear disorientation, drift, as yesterday I misplaced my journal--my faithful companion at Soul Mountain. The cottonwoods seeds, aimless and graceful as they appear, sooner or later reach or don't reach their target soil--only one in a thousand will actually take root and produce a new tree. So I am driven back to this blog and a search, again, for a lost space, some fertile ground in which to root daily words, some of which may eventually grow into something more.

Lilacs in May at Soul Mountain

Soul Mountain # 20

Woke early to watch the sky through an eastern window, a drama of dark clouds sweeping across a pale gray background. I opened my eyes again to streaks of rose, then to patches of celestial blue. Time to rise and pack, carry home memories of this time and place.

At mid-morning rain spatters the pond outside my writing window. I'm nearly packed and am just putting a few finishing touches on this blog before I leave, knowing that another world will engulf me when I return. But I hope to remember the co-ordinates of this soul place in soul space.

Soul Mountain # 19

One of Connecticut's most mysterious phenomena is the "Moodus Noises," seismic tremors that occure near the place in East Haddam where the Salmon and Moodus Rivers flow together. The Pequot, Mohegan and Narragansett inhabitants of this region considered these noises to originated from the god Hobomoko, who sat below Mount Tom. The Indian word for the noises was "Matchemadoset" or "Matchitmoodus," which means "Place of Bad Noises," and the local tribe had special interpreters for the noises.

Of course, when the Puritans came to the area in the mid-1600s, they attributed the Moodus noises to Satan. Connecticut at the time was also very active in Witch Hunting. There must have been a lot of cultural chaos, and natural phenomena seemed to be interpreted in terms of the settlers' and the Indians' fears. Today, it seems to me that these noises are far more benign--especially for those listeners who wish to hear the rumblings of mother earth.

This afternoon Tonya drove us to Moodus, and we searched for the place where we might hear the spirit voices. We stopped in the town of Moodus at a gas station, and I asked people about the noises until I found a woman who seemed to know something. She said that they were all around the area, but that there was no one place where we could go to hear them. She directed me down the hill, to a boat landing, and we set out in the car to follow her directions. We wound down a long, curvy road towards the water. Finally we found the entry point labeled "Salmon River," and drove into a huge clearing ringed by cottonwoods next to the wide mouth of the Connecticut River where we found a few fishermen. We all agreed that there was something special about the place, and felt a tingle in our bellies. My imagination heard whistling noises, but then again, it's impossible to tell, with the background hum of airplanes and vehicle motors from the highway exactly what is a moodus noise and what is noise pollution. The river view was broad and full and lovely, and the cottonwoods whispered tales from times past, when they were deemed sacred, lodge poles for an invisible tent above us.

As of tonight, Ching-In and I have completed our reading of each others' work. Her reading of my essay was so helpful last night, that I finished another one this morning, and then went back and wrote a new, stronger ending for "A River Tale." I finished critiquing her poetry manuscript this afternoon, and she responded to mine this evening. It is affirming to be read and understood by another. Both of us are writing about women characters/speakers who strive to break through the myths and stories and losses they've allow to define them in order to become creators of themselves, at peace and poised for deeper adventures as an integrated person. It will be a thrill to see each others' books in print.

Soul Mountain # 18

Sunday Morning. Woke from a long deep sleep to bright sun, a clear blue sky, the pond's eye open, everything in clear focus. Last night I finished a typed first draft of my story, now called "A River Tale." It took a long time to type it, basically because I was still writing as I typed, adding whole new passages. My motivation now at the end of the residency was a deadline that Ching-In, the other resident, and I had given each other to finish drafts of our work so that we could read each others' writing and give feedback. I'm really looking forward to both reading and being read. A fitting finale.

If mind is the residue of incomplete thoughts, perhaps this story I've come back to numerous times in my writing life is a very large, incomplete, undigested thought, and working it through will remove the "carbuncle" from the passage of my creativity, the deep underground reservoir from which the voices emerge. (Metaphor borrowed freely from a legend about the Moodus, a place of underground voice, near where I am staying.) Listening to the spirits.

Soul Mountain # 17

The week of fragrances is in full bloom. Apple blossoms and lilacs have opened and the air is full of their scent. It's a heady time, when the body wants to step out, break into blossom.

Every day as I look into the trees around the pond I see and recognize more birds. It feels as though my eyes are growing sharper, that soon I'd be able to gaze up into the green and see into the life of birds without binoculars. The pond is a bird's playground in spring, as full of courting, pairing, and mating as any college campus in the same season. Geese, ducks, a pair of red-tailed hawks, catbirds, warblers, robins, sparros, finches, swallows. The hawks and snapping turtles add an edge of drama to the scene of nesting, bringing out the protective behaviors of the parent birds. A few days ago I sat at my computer before the pond window and looked up every so often to see two Canada Geese strolling with their fluffy little gosling as it learned to peck in the soft earth around the pond for food. One would stand tall and keep a look-out, while the other pecked at the grass, and the baby toddled after it, imitating every move.

Today we saw a whole flock of turkey vultures roosting in the trees on the road to Soul Mountain. They are the clean-up crew. After something nasty and predatory happens, they come around to clean up the leftovers. Tanya stopped the car in the middle of the road and called up to them, but they stayed in the trees, shy of us and our big shiny white bird of a vehicle.

Soul Mountain # 16

A relief to be back in the writing groove at Soul Mountain. Every day I walk out to the river and then return to my room, take out my computer kayak and paddle by myself through the rapids of thought. The writing is beginning to accumulate, the shape of the imagination emerging in language.