Spanish Guitar-Man

Sitting on a bench between the two undergrad. library buildings, the sun is warm enough to be comfortable and the bees haven't arrived yet to pester. The birds are singing a cacophony of melodies and a man is playing Spanish guitar. Because the lawn mowers are humming the guitar is muted. I wish I could turn up the volume, and I wish I could ask this man to come everyday at this time and play, while I write. 

I shed my layers as the sun brings my winter-pale skin from hiding. A breeze kicks up and for a moment I am the heroine in a movie, the wind blowing the hair from my face as the camera closes in on pensive eyes. The guitar-man plays on. The sound of lawn mowers cut through the day, and the unique blended smell of cut-grass and gasoline brings memories of tire swings and climbing trees, cartwheels in the yard and bicycle trips to the swimming pool; the strong smell of chlorine, eating candy from the snack stand, the heat of the sun making it too hot to sit on the wooden picnic benches. 

The campus tower bell sounds on the half-hour, soon I will have to leave the wonder of the Spanish guitar, and singing birds, and warm sun for the drudgery of the basement, a cold cubicle and computer screen. 

I wonder how often guitar-man comes here. He doesn't seem to be busking, simply enjoying the beauty of this day, spilling his music out like he cannot keep it in or be silenced anymore. Like the birds that sing, or my skin soaking at last in sun-drenched happiness. 

Campus is quiet now-students gone home, some returning weeks from now, some going out in the triumph of blue robes and square caps, to move on into the world that I pray holds promise for them.

I love the summer quiet of campus. There is room, space to stretch out a little and breathe. There are nooks and crannies to hide in and write uninterrupted, and there are guitar-men playing Spanish tunes drifting on the breeze to a writer's ear, inspiring ink to spill onto the page in words, like notes spilling into the air as we each sing our song-make our own music. Not twenty yards is all that separates his song from mine. We both take to our instruments on this day expressing gratitude for its beauty. His stringed notes, my images in words. 
Can we two neither help nor control the art that begs escape? It seems not. As I cannot stop my pen no more than he can stop his plucking of the strings. Does he know what a pair we are making right now? Unknowingly bound together for just these moments? I must go and leave guitar-man to his melody. He plays me out across the paving stones and away, I leave with the hope that he will be here another day and I can write again, words set to the music of Spanish guitar.
(Photo taken by Kelly Kirchhoefer)

Mother's Day

Mother's day is difficult for so many, myself included. My mother passed away under tragic circumstances just over 4 years ago.  The african violet was hers. I found it almost dead in her office as we were cleaning out her things and somehow managed to bring it back to life. It has flourished and bloomed ever since and is a constant reminder to me of my mother and her beauty. Her name was Rebecca Jean, though she went by Jeannie and was Mom or Mama to me.

I have been "celebrating" mother's day with my husband's family the past few years and this year I turned to my wonderful husband and said, "I'm not doing mother's day this year." He looked at me, nodded his head and said "Okay". I wish I had said this sooner. I plan on spending part of mother's day honoring my mother, allowing myself to be angry at her and allowing myself to love her.   

I plan on watching all my favorite movies, especially ones my mom and I watched together. I plan on baking the chocolate chip cookies in her honor, as she was the one who taught me how as a little girl, standing on a step-stool at the kitchen counter shrouded in an enormous apron and yet still covered in flour. I would sneak tastes of the dough and catch mom sneaking tastes too. When the cookies came out of the oven we would eat a few right away, chocolatey and warm, sitting together at the table. I miss her, it is a simple truth and one that will never change.
It is bittersweet, mother's day. I smile at the memories and cry that she is no longer here. I know dear friends that this is a painful day for as well, and I am thinking of each of them, while we all endure/observe the day in our own ways.

Mother's day should become "National, love everyone who has loved and nurtured you-and love them every day not just on one day" day. Cherish every day with loved ones, you don't know if you get another day with them, or even another moment.

I also want to say that I know so many wonderful mothers. They are dear friends and family-members who do such a thankless and beautiful job of being mothers. You are beautiful women and beautiful mothers and deserve to be recognized for that. Enjoy your flowers and cards, breakfasts in bed and chocolates, and the love from your family, soak in each moment.
Though she is not my mother, my step-mother is a beautiful woman who has welcomed me with open arms and plenty of love. So I think of her too on this mother's day and am grateful for her in my life.

My love to all,

Jessica Denhart

Home

I work on a University campus and it is the Friday before graduation. Commencement is tomorrow and all around me as I walk through campus are the little reminders of the transient life of a student. Dorms are inside out as mini-fridges and microwaves, towels and hangers, laundry baskets and clothing are being pushed on carts to awaiting SUV's and mini-vans. It makes me sad sometimes, to watch this yearly ritual of departure/return. Parents, receiving their kids back into the nest. Sights set on home and possibly on summer jobs or reunions with friends. Perhaps a summer adventure of travel is ahead for them. Without realizing it, I'm sure, they have the comfort of a mother and/or a  father waiting for the next cartload of possessions-preparing to arrange them just-so into the vehicle so everything fits perfectly, with just the right amount of space left for each passenger.Then it's off for home and the familiarity of a house known by its every creak and scratched bits of paint, childhood bedrooms and old haunts from adolescence.
Even as an adult I have to admit the need for the comfort of a parent and the familiarity of home. About a year and a half ago my father sold the house I spent a large majority of my growing up years, from age 10 until I moved out for college, back for a brief stay then on to my own apartment, job and life.
There was something unsettling me, as the house was sold, and the possessions were being packed and stored and moved. I felt like a kite that had been let go of, the string dragging on the ground snagging on trees and branches nothing catching long enough to moor me in place. It was like I was losing the last connection to something that felt solid. At the time it had been just over two years since my mother died and watching the house go was like losing her again. No more walking through the familiar rooms echoing with her laughter, or drenched with her scent. The reminders of her presence stretching thin and fading away.
I had this moment, driving to work and pulling into the parking lot where I suddenly couldn't breathe. A moment of deep, unrelenting anguish. All I could do was pull back out of the parking lot and head home for the last time. I drove the 30 odd minutes, just trying to catch my breath and understand what was happening to me. When I got to the house and pulled in, my father was there. He wasn't supposed to be, but there he was. The minute I saw him I felt myself start to crumble inside. I followed him in the house where he was making lunch. I couldn't talk. He asked me if I was feeling blue and I began to cry, and my father held me. You are never too old to need your father to hold you. When I was done crying I explained that somehow, losing the house was making me unbelievably sad and surprisingly so. I didn't expect it, I thought I had processed the loss of my mother and I thought I was doing well, when out of nowhere, I wasn't. I knew that the house needed to sell and my father needed to move on with his life, yet I was crushed by the loss of my home, the one I had lived in when my entire family was together.
My father made lunch for both of us and we sat in the kitchen eating our sandwiches and talking. He talked me back to calm and my breath was coming much easier when lunch was finished. I felt safe and comforted, like I had been put back together again from the million pieces I had broken into on the drive home.
Later, when the last bit of furniture and small forgotten items were finally emptied from the house, I walked through it alone, saying goodbye, hearing the echo of my steps. I don't know if I was saying goodbye to my mother, or the house or the time spent in it, or the ghosts that live there, but I was saying goodbye to something; my past, my history...I wonder if the new owners will find my mother's lost diamond? Will they find the feather that I slipped between the cracks in the floorboards of my old closet? Just a tiny piece of me left behind to say-I was there. We were all there.

First Post

I am stealing the title of my blog from one of my favorite poets, Pablo Neruda. He wrote a poem known as "I Do Not Love You" but formally called Poem XVII. It is a beautiful and honest love poem. I will include it at the end of this post in its entirety with all necessary credit to both Mr. Neruda and the translator.
The line my title comes from is this, "I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul."
Whatever Mr. Neruda intended, I read the line "between the shadow and the soul" as something intimate and private and quiet. "in secret" It is the soft, dark velvet space, where you keep the sweet secrets of love and longing, of hurt and heartbreak, of pain which leaves wounds and scars. As a writer, that is the space that we write from. If we are to write anything that moves our readers, we must dive into that space between the shadow and the soul daily, exposing our wounds and scars and heartbreaks. We do this, in part, I do this, in part for my own catharsis. I also do this in order that I might reach other souls with my words, in hopes of connecting and allowing someone else out there to feel not so all alone.
It is not easy, always living between the shadow and the soul, but it is immensely rewarding and ultimately healing.
I suppose this blog will include themes of the writing life, but will also be a place where I dive into the space between shadow and soul and share thoughts. I hope they will be interesting, perhaps a little funny or entertaining, and hopefully thought provoking.
with my love,
Jessica Denhart

XVII (I do not love you...)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Pablo Neruda

Translated by Stephen Tapscott