She seemed lost or tired (or both, like me) the carpenter bee sitting in my driveway hot in the midday sun, and while she wasn’t too keen on being seen, or moved, for that matter, I shuttled her onto a notecard — Post Office, Library, Lettuce — and sat her down safely on the cool peaty mulch in the shade of shrubs in full purple bloom, left a small puddle of water in case she was thirsty, then said a little prayer so small and so large in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, Amen.
It’s been five years since my dear, sweet friend Mary Anne Siok died. I haven’t re-posted this — her eulogy — for a few years, so I thought this would be a good time. And a good reminder. I don’t say YES nearly enough, but I say it much more often because of her.
Mary Anne and I met in a freshman English class at UMass in 1984. We were just joking a few weeks ago about how it’s been 30 years since we graduated. I said “How the hell did that happen?” and she said “Because we’re old.”
But the MA I knew – the one we all knew – was never old. Very often her texts would go on and on about what she was doing and where. (Even her cousin Katherine couldn’t keep up!) The weekend before she died? On Friday, after a full day of work and a train commute home to Rhode Island, she went out for sushi with Billy. On Saturday, she and I spent an entire day walking around the mall, shopping, talking, toasting her birthday with bloody marys. On Sunday, she was with friends at Foxwoods to see the Hollywood Vampires, and then on Monday she celebrated a gorgeous spring day with a drive along the coast and lobster rolls.
THAT, in a big long-weekend nutshell was our Mary Anne.
MA was my best friend, my secret keeper, my sister, my person…and the most fabulous yin to my yang.
Me ever so cautious and worried, the introvert full of specific plans to her come what may, live life to its fullest, hell yeah we’re doing that extrovert with an absolute love of life.
She was inspiring.
So much so that in recent years, I’ve taken to asking myself WWMAD? As in: What Would Mary Anne Do?
What would Mary Anne do? Mary Anne would say Yes.
YES to the next concert, the Red Sox or Patriots game, the fireworks, the dive bar, the music festival, the movie night, the road trip, the matching tattoos, and one more Hallmark Christmas movie.
YES to the beach. Always.
YES to anything in black, the sales rack, the sparkly earrings, the extra glass of wine. And YES to Dunkin Donuts. Of course.
YES to dancing … anywhere, drinks at the Hard Rock Cafe, going to the symphony, enjoying a home cooked meal, taking a spinning class … or yoga, cheering on her boyfriend’s band.
YES to shopping at the outlets, seeing an art exhibit, wandering a museum, getting tickets to a play, or a long full day at the Big E.
Jump off a 3-foot ledge into the ocean while a crowd cheers? Yes. Help you check off something on your bucket list? Yes.
YES to coming to your BBQ, your daughter’s dance recital, your campaign event, your nephew’s first birthday, your sons’ soccer game, your girls’ weekend, your wedding, your holiday dinner. Probably all on the same day … usually with a gift … always with that big, sweet, joyful smile.
A smile that said YES, I’ll move in with you. YES I’ll meet you at the winery. YES I’ll be at the party. YES let’s go shopping.
YES, we have to do this again soon.
Not everyone can do that — be so wide open to life and love and friends and experiences. No holds barred. Fearless. Hell yeah, we’re doing that!
And so, in honor of the blessing that was our wonderful, bold and brazen, brave and beautiful Mary Anne Siok, I challenge you — all of you — to say YES a lot more often.
And I thought we could practice right now…ready?
In memory of Mary Anne Siok, May 31, 2018. Click here to read her full obituary.
Though I have come to quickly despise the seduction of Facebook’s force-fed Reels feature, if I play it right, I get a delicious sequence of recipes and food things in my (literal) feed.
One such reel was a recipe by social media favorite and recipe developer Justine Doiron — aka @Justine_Snacks — called Crispy Lime Cabbage & Turmeric White Bean Mash.
The video, not the recipe name, is what caught my eye. Because cabbage? Kinda ew…or so I usually think. Until I watched the recipe and considered the flavors.
Then a quick Instacart shop and I was ready to test it out. Lots of ingredients, lots of steps…but the result? OMG, sooooo good!
So good, I ate is all week. You might too. Check it out!
Taking center stage in the felt and fiber exhibit was a shrouded human-size figure, death wrapped in yellow — the color of butter and bees — but called Chrysalis to imply resilience
resilience in the face of everything
OMG, the everything we face sometimes feels like death — its foul smell invading even the simple pleasures
it’s hard to ignore the crises in woods that are dying it’s hard to ignore the crises in the violence of a Sunday drive it’s hard to ignore the crises when even my favorite characters are battling hate and headlines
every thing of the injustice
I long for the days when my favorite characters could just fall off ferry boats and have sex in on-call rooms.
When their soundtrack was mine on a Sunday drive that didn’t require white knuckles and a prayer.
When the woods were lush and fertile, the promise of the butterfly born from the Chrysalis, color and light and HOPE.
It makes you want to lie down, wrap covers around your tired body, and sleep a deep and dreamless sleep,
because these days even the dreams are pockmarked and ravaged
and you wake gasping for breath, the bile of it all burning your throat,
a burn that nothing will assuage…except the last Jiffy corn muffin dripping with butter and drizzled with honey,
a final gift from the bees, who swoop and swarm en masse, before leaving for good.
If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gif
Preparing herself for the inevitable, the sandpiper — usually found along the coast makes her home now by a small pond in the woods three miles from shore. It’s quiet here, most days, except when the wind carries clamor from the south, and she’s been welcomed graciously by the turtles and frogs, the heron and wood ducks. They’ve come here, too, this protected space with ample shade and shallows to share with anyone who needs asylum from the rising conflict. You might say we are refugees, displaced from the familiar by forces not of our making finding exile here, making life despite the storm, saying grace for the bounty
The moon all but a ghost this morning faces the sun with eyes tilted and welcomes the day. From the trail below I watch them greet each other in the sky and at once I am celestial, nothing but atoms and poetry in a cosmic breeze, whirling in space, witness to miracles.
This morning at 4, a tiny gray mouse looked up at me, somewhat frightened, and said “I-I-I think I took a wrong turn. I-I-I was supposed to go left but I went right and wha-wha-what is that orange creature scowling at me through the window?” “Shhhhh. It’s OK,” I whispered. “Please don’t be scared. Just turn around slowly and go back the way you came. That’s always best when you get a bit lost. Look for something familiar and hold on a while, take a nap, then try again when you’re back to feeling brave. It always works for me.”
Today’s warm breeze is not the first sign, of course, it started weeks ago when the clocks moved forward and the sun shifted, when I folded my favorite sweater for the last time and the wide windows welcomed the cacophony of spring sounds — motorbikes, lawnmowers, chainsaws, barking dogs, the hammering, hammering, hammering — soon the shimmery waves of heat will rise from the pavement, the mass throngs of people will congest on sidewalks, beaches, street corners, town parks, the hallowed trail I call Heaven, and the endless days will unfold hour by hot, humid, buggy hour while I stock up on iced things, hoard stacks of library books, move to the cooler part of the house, give praise to the window machine beneath which I’ll spend the months dreaming of those long and silent winter days, their fertile ground for contemplation and undisturbed peace.
I may as well be invisible in this library of ghosts only the manager sees me tells me I am early motions to the chairs by sunlit windows where flowers bloom my shadow cast long against the dusty floor it, the only other notice of my presence… conversations collide around me old friends embrace offer bouquets of smiles brush past without excuse so I step back, meditate on book spines pretend they are company enough until the show begins and I listen to stories and laughter my chair rocking slow — I bet they think its haunted.
I sit on a Noble bench in the woods it’s barely 7 — the shy ones’ hour we come early to this place the humming bird at the apple bough the rabbit among her clover the timid turtle poking its head from the pond to see who and what is about so I respond with a whisper We’re safe to float in Eden a little longer as two herons fly overhead and it’s so quiet we hear wings beat, heartbeats even this morning before the fray.
It’s been a long time, love — my inspiration — since we’ve enjoyed such leisure, these moments before the sun and you, noting birdsong, the call of waves, our morning folklore or you, calling me to the yard, to feel its damp grass underfoot, stare into the night’s stars while you run your finger along the moon, those cloud myths etched in dreams transcribed and holy, somehow, these long, sweet days of April, and I am more grateful than you can know.
I have lived in this house they called New Eden for 25 years on a quarter acre lot around the corner from Long Island Sound.
There’s a claggy pond out back, and a nature preserve just a stone’s throw away.
It’s Heaven, really, never mind the state road on the other side of the eight foot privet that keeps the peace.
The day I moved in, two bright green parakeets landed on a branch of the great old Maple in the back corner of the yard.
They seemed as auspicious as the lilac, beloved since first sight, blooming at the edge of the driveway.
Every year, I pray the lilac will bloom again, that the Maple will survive another storm to keep company with her resident squirrels and raccoons. And me.
She and I wept together when the grand Oak came down, and we still laugh at dusk when the rabbits come out to play.
Seasons come and go here at a predictable pace,
the sublime hush of winter steps aside for spring birds who sing in sparks of poetry usually lost in the busy buzz of summer
before the breeze of autumn shivers the knotweed and startles the monarchs who make no tracks, but the field mice do
tiny footprints criss-cross with bird notes and the straight firm steps of the coyote
turtles come and go, too, snakes, hawks, owls, and once a frog so big I thought he might be a prince!
this sweet spot has revealed its secrets for ages — snowdrops bloom where never planted, a robin’s nest appears beside a window, and salamanders tuck in by the bird feeder
just last week I discovered a small sliver of ocean just to the south, in between some saplings, hidden from view until now
No wonder the ospreys fly so low, and waves sometimes wake me from dreams.
There’s an archnemesis on the playground and devils at the pulpit, people are afraid of words words! ideas, thoughts, stories
the holy rage through traffic to get to their entertainment complex
pass by the street beggar praying he’s not gay or trans or black or blue or whatever their god teaches them to hate this week, this century
and history repeats
I had an archnemesis once she threw rocks at my face and called me a whore but names will never hurt me
it’s the rage I worry about the everything-that’s-old-is-new-again-rage fueled by the mouths of demons and poor pages of books tossed in the street, there next to the beggar who picks one up and reads
“He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.”
In my next life, I want to live here in this crazy loud city where everything feels iconic and ordinary all at once, where pavement steps aside for flowers and small spots of cool grass, and trees carry the sound of musicians and pigeons, where the ordinary walk side-by-side with the out-of-this-world and I, anonymous, don’t care about reflections in buildings made of glass, where everyone arrives at the park by noon and it doesn’t matter who or what you are, because you leave soon, for a few bucks careen through the underworld, arrive somewhere else entirely, like magic, knowing where you were, and every place else, goes on without you.
I promised you a diamond he says of our courtship, but never a ring — and he laughs with that smile, like I’m in on the joke. We make a contract — verbal, never signed, then I invite them in and tell them my stories.
I’m charming and kind, in just the right ways, endearing and fun everything they want, until it’s time for me to leave. That’s the hardest part, as they forget the agreement, so I do it slow to start.
I pack up my interesting bits, then take back my affection, I pull at the threads of what’s left until there’s nothing to hold onto. That’s when they leave — THEY end it and the contracts breaks by default.
He sees me crying then and shapeshifts to the one I remember, pulls me to his chest and holds on as tight as that first embrace years ago, the perfect fit, the smell of old books and cedar, then a devilish laugh and I wake to the sound of tears pouring down, midnight thunder and wicked, wicked lightning.
This is to be expected. I don’t come with a pedigree or a PH.D. I don’t wear laurels or titles well I haven’t kissed ass (or any of you), and I know, I know I should have bowed low and deep before the queen but I’ve never been one to follow the rules or jump through hoops of anyone’s making but my own.
You’ve got a bit of hate there stuck between your teeth
cover up that weak mind, it’s embarrassing
not cool dude more wrong side of history than team spirit or patriotism, even
maybe patriarchy
kinda red car nuclear missile escalation compensation
if you ask me
which you didn’t
and wouldn’t
because you know already everything I didn’t say
and you’re gonna wear it like a badge of honor proud and defiant full of fear and lockstep down a path towards an epitaph that dogma won’t ever resolve
and the people went thirsty and the animals died and the viruses spread and the innocent suffered and the kids were slaughtered and the fires raged and the books were burned and the idols were worshipped and the empires crumbled
and the people argued and the people took sides and the people hated and the people judged and the people fought and the people cried
My path along the ridge this morning gives the impression of sky walking the fog heavy in branches that burst in cumulous tufts of the palest spring green like clouds, to be expected here meeting eye level with birds who suggest I should be singing
Val-deri, val-dera Val-deri, val-dera Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha
It was New Hampshire for God’s sake and I hoped it would imprint us how could it not? those ridiculous mountains their shock of snow and sharp air so fresh your lungs get greedy — But you were miles away ghosts on your lead line climbing summits of regret a backpack full of memories bitter and sweet stuck to the roof of your mouth — which explains the dead silence yours and mine as we watched the snow fall covering over our footprints on the path outside.
The half-life of Uranium is either 4.5 billion years, 700 million years, or 250 thousand years depending on how you examine its primordial isotopes, that which remains of its interstellar medium its stardust — like us, formed inside of stars when stars collide so what then is the half-life of love? its biochemical chain of events a Big Bang complex interplay of pheromones, dopamine, and oxytocin elemental does it decay more or less quickly than that which lights up the sky? does it leave traces? its luminescence still seen sometimes its volatility, too rapid and unpredictable change just another reaction, expected meltdown, its core damage
I love these places of waiting this quite axis of the world a point around which things spin he on his way there and she on hers there they, together, embrace and part or run, race, return and I, here, silent silent and of no consequence to their what-comes-next nor to my own, really I am here-and-now, a great pause a smudge of time a nothingness into which pours everything peace, poetry, god
before the painted parking lines and engineered bridges before the pervasive blazes that welcomed every one before the storm that created a war zone there was a trail in the woods a simple trail that wound from an unpaved lot up a long, slow incline and down, slowly, into Eden or Shangri-La or Paradise or whatever you call the place that brings you back to yourself without contortions without effort except for moving and breathing and letting go and paying attention to the song of white pines, and the path of the pileated, to the fetal curl of spring ferns and the sweet Spring Beauty so small but significant you get down on your knees like a prayer whisper your apologies for the trespass weep at the loss of her secret spot, there at the base the Oak now fallen, our heavy footfall her sure demise
He makes headlines now and then one book and then another false tears and faulty claims a prophet for profit. How do you know for sure, a friend asked. It’s posture, I explained. No, not how he sits — though his aggressive leaning and pointing are tells, for sure it’s how he postures his point twists his words like he twists his face pushes his prophecies and perversions like he pushes the energy in a room hand gestures feign truth like magicians or priests at the pulpit, predator preaching his Rules, his black and white dogma with a heavy fist to the table so it must be true, and you must believe God Damn It.
From the fascia that constricts — wants my body fetal some days — I cannot extract the kamikaze pilot, tweeze him from his destructive path save those who drowned or the family of survivors who struggle, still, some days, to keep their heads above water.
I cannot extract the boy in the photo unawares and smiling while sea battles raged and mothers wept eyes blind to the the hard fist of the drunk who pounded on doors and broke happy spirits.
Some things float, you see, carry on despite the damage.
A most graceful dense mounding shrub with broadly spreading branches that create a weeping effect with the deep green, finely textured foliage.
What would the old tree say of her current predicament — wedged between the state road and the utility substation, her circadian rhythm forever disrupted by the flashing traffic light, her water source, runoff from the nearby shopping plaza
More than a century ago, she lived here on farmland acres, and they named her Weeping despite her attributes — a vernal fountain of perpetual joy — she, a specimen, divine fated to become more beautiful a champion of time
But the hour is cruel marches against the Sargent’s desire changes our perception of beauty sephos, Sepphōra, Sephora®
Her graceful curves and fountain sprays of green have grayed, and she is deaf to the song of her breeze
She is not long for this world — and probably for the best — we insist ourselves so loudly now even the bees are grieving.
It is certainly not quiet this morning… 5am and the spring peepers are already singing their songs, a chorus of them proclaims April! bright and loud and just an hour ago, the coyotes joined in rejoicing in triumph, that soulful sound as seasons change
and now the rain begins no surprise
April showers bring May flowers
besides thunder in the east was fair warning a storm approaches
quick or wicked we never know except soon the birds will wake shake off their damp wings call out to the dawn again another day for the lucky ones
“Launched by the Academy of American Poets in April 1996, National Poetry Month is a special occasion that celebrates poets’ integral role in our culture and that poetry matters. Over the years, it has become the largest literary celebration in the world, with tens of millions of readers, students, K–12 teachers, librarians, booksellers, literary events curators, publishers, families, and—of course—poets, marking poetry’s important place in our lives.”
My favorite way to celebrate is to join with the thousands of poets participating in NaPoWriMo — NATIONAL POETRY WRITING MONTH —in which we write a poem a day for the month of April.
While NaPoWriMo is celebrating 20 years this year, I’m happy to say this will be my 9th year attempting to write 30 poems in 30 days! Here we go!
It was Rockport, North Shore right before the fall that humid, hot July,
the slow seduction of an afternoon, swimming and showers that enticed hours of love making,
our voracious sprint for sustenance — four courses and wine, Garth and The Dance played at the bar there on Bearskin Neck.
We were finished, even then and we knew it, held tight and played pretend that one last weekend, love and loss and relief writhing, Goodbyes consummated beneath summer cotton, The End a visible blur on the horizon
We blurred the shape of time, bent it forwards and back, twisted it enough to find common ground there in those early fairy tale days when I was so astonished by Us I wept
Our movements so in sync it seemed we were cut from one bolt of cloth only one stored for a decade or more in a castle full of favorite old books and songs and endless stories — his and mine and the ones we tell ourselves about Love and who we are IN Love
But I never thought to look up see the turrets and towers along the wall, pay note to the bunker safely guarded, the pock marks in that common ground, the mortally wounded specters who watched their watches betting on our time our precious, precious time
I thought the enemy was age that Loss would come as natural cause and effect, expected a well-roundedness to its execution but I was wrong
Loss seeped slowly between the cracks I didn’t know at first were there forced itself into the weakest places of Us the way ivy overtakes mortar in a wall until all that was left was the evidence of time we call Memory.
Issue #1 – There’s No Such Thing as the Poop Fairy: 5 Things to Remember When You Walk in the Woods
People love the nature preserve where I often walk. Who wouldn’t? Its wide, criss-crossing trails offer welcome views of the woods and ponds and wildlife. It’s easy to forget that the busiest highway on the east coast is less than a mile away. It’s easy to forget the busy-ness of life in general — work and the To Do list and all the other mind clutter fade away when we spend time outdoors.
Unfortunately, as much as people love being out in nature, it’s hard to overlook the general disrespect many show for our protected natural spaces.
Just last week, on a brisk mile walk along my favorite trail, I spotted twelve discarded bags of dog poop. Twelve. That’s a poop bag about every 300 steps.
Some are tossed high and land on branches, like decorations. Some are tucked into hidey holes — knots in trees, crevices between rocks. But most of them are just set down along the side of the trail — as if someone is going to come by later and pick them all up. Abracadabra!
It makes me want to scream!
The thing is, once you start paying attention to them — once you start being angry about them — you start to see other things. The coffee cups, the nip bottles, the COVID masks, the dental flossers. The orange peels and apple cores. The Christmas ornaments and painted rocks, and similar garbage and graffiti.
There’s No Such Thing as the Poop Fairy: 5 Things to Remember When You Walk in the Woods was inspired by all of that. It’s a response that offers simple solutions: don’t litter, respect nature and wildlife, don’t leave your poop on the side of the trail.
At the end of the day, there is no magical creature — winged, wand waving, or white bearded — who is going to take care of the mess we keep leaving. It’s up to us.
Get your copy of the mini-zine There’s No Such Thing as the Poop Fairy: 5 Things to Remember When You Walk in the Woods today! $3.00 includes shipping.
You can pay through PayPal using a PayPal account or any standard credit card. If you prefer the old school approach, please send your check, made payable to Jen Payne, P.O. Box 453, Branford, CT 06405.
Last night I dreamt of my grandmother. She was sitting next to my dad toasting champagne in a luncheonette on Broad Street. You know, the kind with leather stools spinning around a counter and formica tables? I knew she’d be waiting, but the front door was locked, so I found a back entrance, pushed past the steel workers having lunch and ran to her. My heart was so full it felt like I was drowning, swallowing air and love; racing towards that hug that almost knocked us off our feet, her arms as tight as mine, holding on ‘til morning.
JANUARY 11 Their eyes never lost touch. They sat and talked and laughed for hours. He reached for her hand as if he had done so every day since they last saw each other. That familiar feeling surprised them long into the night. They kissed. There was lightning in the January sky.
It’s been more than 15 years since that fateful night that changed everything. How did they get there? And what happens next? Find out in WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE: A SORT-OF LOVE STORY, an epistolary novel told through a series of emails, written by Connecticut author and poet Jen Payne.
It’s a conversation, a memoir, a love story…
WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE: A SORT-OF LOVE STORY
by Jennifer A. Payne Memoir / Creative Non-Fiction 5 x 7, Paperback, 130 pages ISBN: 978-0-9905651-5-4 $16.00 (plus tax + shipping)
You can pay through PayPal using a PayPal account or any standard credit card. If you prefer the old school approach, please send your check, made payable to Jen Payne, P.O. Box 453, Branford, CT 06405.
Not that long ago, at mile marker 86.5 near East Lyme’s Pattagansett River, you could pull off the highway into a small dirt turnout, grab a container from your trunk, and fill it to the brim with cold, fresh water pouring from a natural spring. The spring was pretty popular. You’d always see a car or two parked precariously on the side of the road — traffic slowing more for the incline of the hill ahead than the waterseekers themselves. It’s gone now, save for the old turnout, replaced by a cement culvert, its condo complex runoff too foul for thirst.
Harry Anderson saved my life. At least that’s what my wide-eyed younger self remembers. The man had a gun, after all. I saw it as he paid for his coffee, hitched up under his arm. I was working the overnight, back when a girl could do that on her own. And besides, the cops watched out for me. That’s why I called them. Harry was there in minutes. Dragged the man to the parking lot. Discharged the gun in a moment of midlife bravado that almost got him fired. I never forgot it — overfilled his apple fritters every time thereafter.
The mourning doves are here for the winter, eight by this morning’s count at the feeder before
eight by their count now on the slight-sagged branch where they wait out the starlings with hope there is something left
that galaxy of stars like a black hole devours everything leaves morsels for small sparrows at least who will sneak back later to peck out their gratitude in code on the frost
I read it sometimes, their code of thanks, wonder if they know I timed it — spread seeds as soon as the doves arrived, before the stars descended with the moon
made myself large by the side door a warning, a warrior
let them have their take, those eight grief is a hungry thing even the weeping is enough to lay a table bare
MANIFEST (zine) Consider a Gift Subscription. It’s a one-of-a-kind gift idea for the holidays!
Imagine a magazine that’s like a mini art installation. Each issue is filled with unexpected images and creative rabbit holes, poetry, quotes, a curated Spotify playlist, and so much more!
$25.00
Gift subscriptions include a custom holiday greeting/gift acknowledgement and four printed issues of MANIFEST (zine) starting with the Winter 2023 issue, Great & Small.
On Friday, with only three weeks left to go before Christmas, I stopped at my local CVS for laser paper. It’s a little more expensive there than at Staples, but it’s a shorter walk, and I like to save my steps for walking in the woods and not the big box stores.
Standing in line with my laser paper and a mini Panettone — it’s the holidays after all — I realized I was going to be waiting a while. There was a long line, one open register, and a family having a serious discussion with the cashier: Can we use this coupon? (No.)
How about this one? (No.)
Is this eye pencil sharpener on sale? (No, it’s the other one, with the case.)
Can’t you apply the sale to this one? (No.) (Did you want the lip balm that’s on sale?)
Oh yes. Hold on. Let me run back and get that.
The laser paper was getting heavy, and I almost dropped the mini Panettone. Plus I was hot now — and a little annoyed — and since the only other cashier was busy putting out the Valentine’s Day candy, I decided to leave.
Not huffy leave. Or angry leave. Just put down my things and move on to the next errand leave, practicing my best versions of Surrender and Acceptance.
Truth be told, I ended up having to do the same thing at the post office 10 minutes later. No big deal. I wasn’t in desperate need of laser paper (or that Panettone), and the letter I was mailing could post on Monday.
Since I’d saved all of that time not waiting in lines, I headed across town to one of my favorite places to walk. A trail that winds across a marsh, and up through the woods to an overlook with views of Long Island Sound and a monument to poet Jennie Vedder that reminds:
I would be one with Earth again, and grieve not as the seasons pass, but joyous in the pulse of grass, exultant with the beat of rain. I would be one with Earth again, one with her joy, one with her pain.
It was such a pretty almost-winter day. Sunny with a nice chilly breeze. Quiet except for some lingering gulls and the Amtrak heading to New York. Perfect…marred only by the Festering I was still doing about the holidays, the lines, the people at the register back at CVS.
Then a little inner voice yelled: STOP!
You went to all that effort finding your Zen spot; you made decisions to leave the things that were not serving you; and here you are full-up with thoughts about those same things. STOP!
The thing is, we all have that choice every day. Do we sit in the muck of thoughts about this or that, or do we move on about our business? Get our shoes stuck down in the mud or walk around the edge and move forward?
But I’m not perfect, and mind-control is not my forte whatsoever…so I found that Festering’s thoughts kept trying to find their way back in again. You know, sort of in that same way your thoughts push through your moments of Meditation? Zen then Me! Me! Me! Zen then Think Over Here! Think Over Here!
So we all sort of walked together for a while—me, my thoughts, the folks in line at the post office, and the family at CVS. Until I lost site of the family, and the post office line dissipated. My thoughts wandered off about a new writing project, and there I was — alone at last! Me and my Zen, again.
There is nothing like a walk in the woods to chase away the pesky thoughts. To reconnect you with Here and Now. To show you the way to Grace and Gratitude. And Zen.
A Gift Subscription to MANIFEST (zine) is a one-of-a-kind gift idea for the holidays!
It’s like sending a mini art installation that features interesting images and creative rabbit holes, quotes, poetry, a curated Spotify playlist. Layered with colors, textures, meanings (and music), the result is a thought-full, tactile journey with nooks and crannies to discover along the way. Gift subscriptions cost $25.00 include a custom holiday greeting/gift acknowledgement and four printed issues of MANIFEST (zine) starting with our upcoming winter issue, Great & Small.
Visit our Etsy Shop to order individual issues as gifts or stocking stuffers. Each costs $8.00, which includes some cool extras and shipping. (Each Etsy listing includes a sneak preview video.)
Perfect for the book lover in your life, consider giving a book from Three Chairs Publishing. Each comes signed by the author with a few creative extras.
Looking for a festive shopping experience? Then be sure to visit the Holiday Expo at Guilford Art Center (411 Church Street, Guilford). You’ll find many of our Three Chairs Publishing creations on display, along with ceramics, pottery, glass, jewelry, homewares, fiber art, ornaments, accessories, toys, specialty foods, stationery, leather goods and more. More than 200 American artists, makers and designers are featured in this year’s event. Click here for more information.
Thank you for your support!
Just like shopping local during the holidays, shopping at Three Chairs Publishing’s online shop has ripple effects. Your purchases help to support the women-owned printing company that prints our books, the locally-owned print shops that print our marketing materials, and the U.S. Postal Service which reliably delivers our products to your doorstep. You also help the self-employed editors, proofreaders, typesetters, artists, and tech support folks who help turn my ideas into things I can put into your hands to enjoy.
For all of that, and your continued support of my creative work, thank you. Happy Holidays! — JEN PAYNE
When sleeping with a bear it is critical to pay attention to the breath — his and yours.
His will tell you when it is safe to muck about in dreams and when it is time to curl up and play dead.
Death in this case: to feign sleep is a practiced thing
slow deep breath in
slow deep breath out
slow deep breath in
slow deep breath out
Most nights, he’ll forget his hunger and roll over — you pray hands clasped around your knees making yourself small a burr in the blanket and of far less importance than himself and his sleep.
There are tractor marks in the rabbit warren, that sweet spot on the path where the bittersweet and grapevines arbored the trail, where the sounds of commerce faded just enough to hear the rabbits waiting for you to pass.
It’s bulldozed wide, now four-persons across nevermind the rabbits or the winter sparrows who found refuge there or the jays who loved the grapes or the pileated whose only recourse is to tap out an S.O.S. on a nearby dying ash
They’re building infrastructure in the woods, you see plowing back desperate saplings, piling debris where the wild asters grew flattening out the turtles’ fertile slopes
laying instead their misplaced traprock paths and sweet-smelling lumbered bridges giving us more room to tramp about another ingress marked by colored flags nailed deep into the skins of trees
Tell me please… Will the rabbits find sanctuary before the snow? Were the turtles buried alive? Do the trees weep before the hammer strikes?
Last night, while I slept in the just-right bed, my feet pressed against the tower wall, the Bears came and ate what was left of the wise Scribe’s apples. His favorites, he told me, bewitchingly red and wild, but rare these late fall days.
It’s quiet enough here to hear the wings of the Crow King as he flies through the stars, but not — apparently — the sound of Bears crossing the meadow in Moonlight. It seems they ate the Mountains too, or so the Fog might tell. Tell if it could speak that is, but all I hear is birdsong.
I am always inspired by those life moments that move us most — love and loss, joy and disappointment, milestones and turning points. When I’m not exploring our connections with one another, I enjoy writing about our relationships with nature, creativity, and mindfulness, and how these offer the clearest path to finding balance in our frenetic, spinning world.
Very often, my writing is accompanied by photography and artwork. As both a graphic designer and writer, I think partnering visuals and words layers the intentions of my work, and makes the communication more palpable. I hope you will agree!
“I have lived with several Zen masters — all of them cats,” writes Eckhart Tolle in his book The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment. “Watch any plant or animal and let it teach you acceptance of what is, surrender to the Now. Let it teach you Being. Let it teach you integrity —which means to be one, to be yourself, to be real. Let it teach you how to live and how to die, and how not to make living and dying into a problem.”
THE LOLA POEMS is a limited edition, memorial issue of MANIFEST (zine) that honors the passing of my own little Zen master, Lola, by considering the lessons she taught me in our time together.
16-page, 4.25 x 5.5 booklet, Cost: $8.00or subscribe and get 4 issues for $25.00.
You can pay through PayPal using a PayPal account or any standard credit card. If you prefer the old school approach, please send your check, made payable to Jen Payne, P.O. Box 453, Branford, CT 06405.
I slept on a cot near my grandmother’s bed in a room that smelled like eucalyptus. The aluminum frame squeaked when I moved, despite my small size and efforts to keep quiet. My grandfather slept in the adjoining room, his presence as unnerving as the Jesus portrait on the wall. The story goes he woke her once with a pitcher of water, threw it on the bed so she’d make his breakfast. I wonder if the train whistle ever disturbed him, pulled him down the tracks to the steel mill, back to the stacks and hot slag where he belonged.
Taking its theme from the William Butler Yeats poem “A Crazed Girl,” HEROICALLY FOUND considers how we improvise as we go along “no matter what disaster occurred,” finding balance, like the crazed girl, in “her music, her poetry, dancing upon the shore.” Quoting from a variety of spiritual and creative sources, HEROICALLY FOUND posits that the way to find equilibrium in these challenging times is through mindful presence — a meditation that opens our hearts and minds to art, to poetry, and to unexpected blessings. For writer Jen Payne, those blessings often include creativity, inspiration, and beautiful rays of insight revealed during her walking meditations in the woods and along the shore. Come along and see what you can find yourself!
INGREDIENTS: appropriation art, collaged elements, color copies, color scans, colored markers, digital art, ephemera, essays, found art, found objects, found poetry, hand-drawn fonts, handmade rubber stamp art, ink jet copies, land art, laser prints, original photographs, poetry, and quotes. With gratitude to Keri Smith and guest appearances by Dale Carlson, Joseph Cornell, Ami McKay, Charles Simic, William Butler Yeats, and more!
MANIFEST (zine): Heroically Found is part of THE EXCHANGE, a statewide Connecticut Artist Treasure Hunt on view, August 15 – November 1, 2022 (rain or sun). It includes GPS-tracking, QR codes, and adventuring to 15 unique public art installations by 23 participating artists. The designated sites can be accessed through a map with GPS coordinates found at www.SomethingProjects.net.
You can pay through PayPal using a PayPal account or any standard credit card. If you prefer the old school approach, please send your check, made payable to Jen Payne, P.O. Box 453, Branford, CT 06405.
I am psyched to be part of THE EXCHANGE, a statewide artist treasure hunt happening in Connecticut from now until November 1! CLICK HERE for an interactive map, GPS coordinates, and video clues from all of the artists!
SomethingProjects is launching its first project, a statewide Connecticut Artist Treasure Hunt called THE EXCHANGE, on view daily, August 15 – November 1, 2022 (rain or sun). It includes GPS-tracking, QR codes, and adventuring to 15 unique public art installations. The designated sites can be accessed through a map with GPS coordinates found at SomethingProjects.net beginning August 15.
Get ready for an adventure! Plan your outing to visit the many exciting projects in which the public is invited to engage in fun and meaningful ways in the towns of: Beacon Falls, Branford, Bridgeport, Darien, Easton, Fairfield, Hamden, Hartford, Meriden, New Haven, North Haven, Washington Depot, and Waterbury. Learn about these artists selected from your community by participating in the act of discovering what they have created to exchange with you.
THE EXCHANGE ARTISTS
Jeff Becker, Easton Meg Bloom, New Haven David Borawski, Hartford Susan Breen, Bridgeport Joy Bush, Hamden Susan Clinard, New Haven Jennifer Davies, Branford Sierra Dennehy, New Haven Ellen Hackl Fagan, Darien Crystal Heiden, Milford Allison Hornak, New Haven Fritz Horstman, Bethany Joe Bun Keo, Vernon/Rockville Judith Kruger, New Haven Susan McCaslin, New Haven Bailey Murphy, Meriden Adam Niklewicz, North Haven Jen Payne, Branford Roxy Savage, Fairfield Max Schmidt, Meriden Rosanne Shea, Waterbury Kim Van Aelst, Hamden Jo Yarrington, Fairfield
ABOUT SOMETHINGPROJECTS In 2022, longtime friends and artists, Howard el-Yasin and Suzan Shutan decided to partner and launched SomethingProjects: a nomadic and provisional space providing short-term exhibitions that dually highlight artists as well as introducing communities to new viewpoints and practices by state, regional, national and international artists. As an incubator for ideas it encourages artists to step outside their boundaries and experiment with the intersection of materials, production, presentation and means of engagement with audience and space. Their locations will change, and offer site-specific opportunities. For more information about SomethingProjects and THE EXCHANGE, visit www.SomethingProjects.net.
Supported by the Connecticut Department of Economic and Community Development, Connecticut Office of the Arts, which also receives support from the federal ARPA.
randomactsofwriting.net 