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Tag Archives: Dreams

Heartbeat

Heartbeat 

                 

                                                                                                                                         

This silence would be deafening

But for the thunder in my heart

My mind wanders through the stardust

To secure that elusive flickering port

I speak in desperation to my heart in undertones

But my insistent words of wisdom

It consistently bemoans

Sharon Lynn Van Meter

Copyright 2005


Silent Truth

Silent Truth

What can I say to him

that he doesn’t already know?

What can I give to him

that he doesn’t already own?

Who is he but a stranger?

Who is he but a man?

And I could have a dozen

Of them eating from my hand

Why am I calmed by his presence?

Yet so shaken by his hands?

For he’s not of my world

and would never understand

my many dreams and passions,

my hopes and all my fears,

why his skin’s so very tough

you couldn’t pierce it with a spear

I cannot find a weak spot

In that wall around his heart,

And he won’t feel my strength

when he sees me fall apart

Should I bring him up?

Should I pull him down?

Or just turn around and walk

On back to solid ground?

 

Would I not swallow him whole?

Would he not crush me like a bird?

And for the grace of my pride

I shall never utter a word

Sharon Lynn Van Meter

Copyright 2002


A Time for Reflection

A Time for Reflection

Women have a very difficult time saying no. We are pushed and pulled from every conceivable direction, from children to spouses, from friends to business acquaintances, from obligations to more obligations. We must be there for everyone and we must fulfill all of our obligations, after all it is our responsibility and we simply have no choice, or do we?

Anne Lindbergh penned her memoirs “Gift from the Sea” as a series of present-tense logs in a diary she kept during her visits to her home by the sea during the 1950’s. She used different types of shells or stones from the beach or sea to convey meaning in regard to different aspects of her life.

Anne Truitt, author of the journal/memoir “Daybook,” wrote her memoirs in first person, present-tense over a period of seven years, spanning from 1973 to 1981. Sbe focuses on her family, her art and writing and the combination of them all.

Both Lindbergh and Truitt were successful artists and loving, devoted mothers. They also enjoyed full social lives and stimulating friendships as well as the much needed rejuvenation, inspiration and peace afforded by self-imposed solitude. Intimacy and privacy was essential to them and both acknowledged that women thrive on it. Sensitivity was vital to them both as well and Anne Truitt eloquently surmises this in Daybook when she states; “Many of us [women] have been lonely too, deprived by our male peers of that sensitivity they had to brutalize out of themselves…” (200). But that which is crucial and speaks volumes regarding these accomplished women and their flourishing lives is the profound emphasis they placed on alone time; it was not a luxury to them; it was a source of survival. As Lindbergh says:

Actually these are among the most important times in one’s life-when one is

alone. Certain springs are tapped only when we are alone. The artist knows he must be alone to create; the writer, to work out his thoughts; the musician, to compose, the saint, to pray. But women need solitude in order to find again the true essence of themselves…” (Lindbergh, 44).

Lindberg elaborates on the essence of what it means to nourish the woman’s soul by articulating that Virginia Woolf’s thoughts in her classic work on the woman artist, A Room of One’s Own, which merely cracked the door for women to enter. Although Woolf acknowledges the financial security required for a woman to purchase the room, or the time, of her own, she stresses that “…even in poverty and obscurity, [to write] is worthwhile (125).” For instance, both Lindbergh and Truitt were both financially able to afford this time to rejuvenate and replenish their inner selves, however Lindbergh acknowledges that the “problem is not entirely in finding the room of one’s own, the time alone, difficult and necessary as this is. The problem is more how to still the soul in the midst of its activities. In fact the problem is how to feed the soul” (Lindbergh, 45).

According to Lindbergh, the demanding lives which most women lead are not ones of simplicity but of multiplicity “that the wise men warn us about” (20). It is interesting here to note that it is “men” who are presumed wise. Could this be because most men have no difficulty or reservations whatsoever in saying no, especially to something or someone which interferes with their plans or personal alone time? I must agree with Ms. Lindbergh in her hypothesis that this life of multiplicity which most women lead “does not bring grace; it destroys the soul” (20).

If this is so, then why do women continue to allow themselves to be pushed to the absolute breaking point? There are many possible reasons, from the archetypal female ideal, which society has placed upon a pedestal for all women to emulate, to the biological roles assigned to women in motherhood, to the women’s liberation movement which theoretically delivered equal rights for women.  But these rights failed to get past the front door of the living room. Women could bring home the bacon and cook it up in a pan, whereas until just recently (and still it appears to be rarely), men were only expected to bring the bacon home but not step a foot into the kitchen. That was women’s territory, along with the nursery, the laundry room, entertaining, shopping, the list is endless. To an alarming degree, this idea that women must not only conquer the outside world but remain in control of all domestic responsibilities, especially that of rearing children, remains prevalent even in modern society.

It is somewhat disconcerting that a strong, independent and self-reliant woman such as Truitt says of her domestic responsibilities, “I could lower my standards but in doing so would sink with them, taking my children with me” (Daybook, 63.) However she swiftly defends this statement, by stressing the importance of structured mealtimes to nurture children through stimulating conversation. Ms. Truitt must be commended for her unswerving devotion and untiring dedication to her family and her artistic craft.  Although she steadily pushes herself to the limit time and time again, she not only takes time for her children, friends and social life, but also for herself.

The profound insight found in Anne Lindbergh’s compelling questions is a revelation and assertion regarding her hypothesis that a life of multiplicity destroys the soul. She asks; “Can one actually find oneself in someone else? In someone else’s love? Or even in the mirror someone else holds up for one” (60)?  She echoes her answer by quoting Eckhart, the German born spiritual teacher and author of The Power of Now; “going into one’s own ground and knowing oneself” is the only way to find one’s true identity (Eckhart qtd in Lindbergh, 60). She further expands on the dilemma of the overwhelming demands faced by women, especially by loved ones, by saying “My life cannot implement in action the demands of all the people to whom my heart responds” (Lindbergh, 116) and with understated grace and timeless eloquence, Ms. Lindbergh instructs all women how seemingly simple it is to feed one’s soul: “The past is so far away and the near past is so horrible and the future is so perilous, that the present has a chance to expand into a golden eternity of here and now” (Lindbergh, 118).

So if we as women can beg, borrow, buy or steal the time and place to be alone, how do we nourish our depleted bodies, minds, hearts and souls once we are alone? Anne Truitt dreams. She dreams a repetitive dream about the sea (which seems to be a milieu for the creative process.) She dreams of a man whom she is deeply in love with, indeed she is “one with (84)” Stating that their “bodies are the same texture (83)” and she and this man “love one another so closely that each other is only as much as we are other than the sea (84).” In the dream, Truitt and her lover are carried into a crescendo of surging and crashing waves and once more, as in the other dreams, they survive. However, the end of her dream is crucial to the nature of the male /female relationship in context with the fierce, lonely, elated independence of woman as artist and individual; “The magic begins to recede. The color is draining from the rocks, the water, and our bodies. We are separating. We are conscious of each other. We are separate. I begin to feel ‘I’ ” (Truitt, 84, 85).

According to Truitt, the man in her dreams is her animus, the masculine aspect of her personality which affords her the strength and, dare I say-selfishness- to become an independent and successful artist. She learns to “create” the ability to “create” by recognizing and nurturing what her soul needs and how to feed it.  All women must follow this example and create the time, place, state of mind needed, to seek out the people who nourish our souls and to discard those who deplete our dreams and who hamper our inner peace. In essence, we must do what likely appears brutally selfish and insensitive to women who have long accepted the roles of socially appointed caretaker and self-inflicted martyr, and ask ourselves the candid and philosophical question: What do I want?

Works Cited

Lindbergh, Anne Morrow. Gift from the Sea. New York: Pantheon Books, 1955.

Tolle, Eckhart. The Power of Now. Canada: New World Library, 1999.

Truitt, Anne. Daybook: The Journal of an Artist. New York: Penguin Putnam, Inc., 1982.

Sharon Lynn Van Meter

Copyright 2008


LOVES PASSAGES

LOVES PASSAGES

Lovers Dreams

So rich and bittersweet,

Are interludes

Until the destined

Souls

Shall

Meet

Yearning

Such an empty, hollow depravation

Behooves

The need for sheer,

Unnerving

Searing

Declaration

Passion

A deep, tempestuous desire

Ensues

A flame of raging,

Reckless

Blazing

Fire

Fantasies

Such blissful, aching lust

Preludes

For the consuming,

Breathless

Trembling

Thrust

Our Love

White and pure as newborn bliss

Moves the heart

To beseech and flounder

For a tender,

Soft

Ripe

Kiss

Sharon Lynn Van Meter

Copyright 2004

 

 


spoon-feed me whispers

…you come to me and sit on my bed and you spoon-feed me whispers and there was something you said

 which went straight through my core and lives in my head …and I prayed for another time

and place, an alternate universe suspended in space where judgment didn’t rise in haste

and I could eloquently trace those virtuous lips and that chiseled face with my fingertips…

and not curse the year you were born on my lips but instead brush them gently across  your own

but you’re so forbidden… and Sara sang; “Adia, I do believe I failed you” and “I will remember you”

…and I don’t know if I did and you can bet your sweet life I still do…

the night I led you to my bed I couldn’t avert my eyes from you…the essence of your schoolboy- manhood

your predacious innocent wisdom seized my passions …outstretched, unspoken… mutely understood

meticulously penetrating all I ever knew of life and yearning and pain so that I would never ever be the same …

I gaze into tranquil words as they hang in the air; the silence speaks volumes in the ethereal night

your breath… softer than a whisper, so new, so wrong, so unequivocally right…on my skin

your hands on my face, my fingers in your hair, those curls on my breast… those eyes…damn those eyes

your musky fragrance wed my perfume  as your lips met mine and you came… into my soul

 I know the curve of that face, I remember… May to December, oh God I remember… I know

your mouth drank in my pain and your fingers spread out my ache and  worked it like a sculpture through and through

we fashioned one another into smooth liquid silk… so soft and so hard… do you want me to?  oh yes you know I do…

but forever was a promise we could not afford to keep….and were we but in that other

alternate universe where our presence dominated the judgments made on us…and if time

were on our side and honor among thieves could be believed, that night you were mine…

you were explicitly mine, you stoked the fever of my soul, and I stroked the burning of your dreams

And I’m still deaf from my silent screams

and I’ll never be who I was in those shadows and shades and in my perception…. In me you undulate…

and I don’t know what to believe in and you don’t know who I am…except that kiss was the sweetest, fervent timeless bliss

unequaled in my life…  I did not care if we both burned in hell… all I wanted was you in my bed, my soul, my head

and that wicked, consecrated, illicit, righteous all-consuming kiss… you sucked me in and I devoured you,

 warm and pure and smooth, a fragrant bouquet of sweet red wine… I am daunted by my musing of the life-force that is you

you leisurely rushed through me; you possessed that hidden forbidden measure of me, fumbling, caressing, exploring, possessing

we owned the night in those precious hours of  you and me in that dark sea of dreams… riding the waves of passion’s seas

in the safe haven of heaven in each other’s arms we savoured and swallowed the pain, bittersweet, transient, deliciously free

brushing my lips on those freckled shoulders, fingers caught in the hair of your chest…and we intertwined

in complete cerebral intercourse… your soul, it made the hole much deeper…the lennon-yoko kind…

a meeting of the minds…and more, yes so much more and as I gaze into yesterday

i understand the hands of time cannot erase that night, that face, that kiss

and passion’s purity could never be replayed… it is my perception and likely yours is nothing close

 to what I see,  your reality may deem my dream as just that… and that alone

but I care not, for I treasure those hours, days, minutes…and what is love but a connection, a feeling, a passion, a need?

it may last a moment, a day, an eternity or… a few perfect hours… it can unite two, be all encompassing, or live only in one…

but that can never diminish its value or my memories … you come to me…you sit on my bed, spoon-feed me whispers…

and there was something you said, and it burns hot in my veins and goes straight to my head…

Sharon Lynn van Meter

Copyright 2012


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