I went out to greet the morning…

…and found that she had laid for me, a dew-studded carpet…

…She wore the sweet fragrance of lavender and orange-blossoms…

…intoxicating my senses as I meandered down a forgotten path.

I passed by a well-tended garden, fresh produce at the ready…

…and paused inside an enchanted glen to sit upon a mossy rock…
and there I met my oldest friends, Wonder and Awe…

I gazed upon the brightening Morn, clothed in spider’s silk and lilies…

…She kissed my face with sunlight and blessed my day with dew drops…
Oh how I delight in a country Morning!

This week I got a shocking, adrenaline-pumping, reality check about gardening.

One morning after I watered all the pots and the flower bed (which I now realize I have not ever mentioned before…so look for that post coming soon!) I saw a large pile of weeds had sprung up…almost overnight.  So I was happily tending my little piece of Eden humming a contented little tune when I reached under some foliage to get at the base of some of the weeds.

When I did the aforementioned deed, I felt something move then saw something slither-crawl away.  I let out a yelp that I tried to contain given the hour of the morning and my desire to not make enemies out of my neighbors.  I tentatively stepped back and away from my little secret garden–formerly known as paradise–never once turning my back on the *THING*!  I looked around to see if *IT* was still there so I could get a closer-yet-at-quite-a-good-distance-away look.  I ran inside to get my camera and snapped this:

Yeah...gross.

I won’t make the picture too big because its pretty nasty…and apparently some of my friends have been experiencing VRT (vicarious reptilian trauma)* as a result of my pictures; I’ll try to save you from that horror.

So all day I was a fluster with flash-backs to Fergison’s surprise appearance.  I was sad that my once blissful flowering haven had been marred by such a scaly nemesis.  I was also curious about what the heck the thing was.  I’m telling you, this was no cute little gecko or friendly little salamander.  Friends, this lizard-snake thing was at least 8 inches long with a very not cute face.  So I did some searching and found this site (**Warning** clicking on this link will take you to lots of pictures of reptiles; do not click on it if this will give you nightmares.  This Front Porch is not responsible for how your subconscious may torture you in your sleep state!) concluding that Fergison was an Alligator Lizard.

Awesome.

Totally made my day.

‘Cause Alligator Lizard makes it all sooOOOOoooo much better!

Well, I decided to name him Fergison.  I thought if I named him, I might be just a wee bit less likely to loathe him entirely.  He is after all just doing his lizard thing and I guess I could take it as a compliment that he chose my lush little garden nook to call his home…Yay *she said waving her mini-flag utterly without enthusiasm.

*VRT is not an actual phenomenon.

While I was driving home from work, I noticed something quite feathery on my windshield; I thought maybe a butterfly had gotten stuck on my wipers.  When I got home, I found this little bebe quivering all in a fright:

Seriously, I got all teary.  I mean nasty bugs on the windshield is one thing, but a teeny beautiful bird is something totally else.  I was parked on the street in full sun with a black car, so I wanted to get this little birdie out of the sun and off my baking hood.  She was super weak so I dashed inside and whipped up some sugar water.  I fed her droplets of sugar water off my finger and she started buzzing back to life!  Hallelujah!  Gently as I could I scooped her up and brought her over to the shade of my little secret garden nook where I often hear the delightful thrum of hummingbirds.  I continued to offer sugar water and the buzz of her wings became stronger and stronger!  Her tiny wisp of a tongue lapping up the sugar water tickled against my finger.  I was spell-bound with awe and wonder!

When she seemed to be making positive strides toward recovery, I went inside to quickly look up what to do with an injured wild bird.  I found several really helpful sites:

• Hummingbird Rescue Los Angeles: For hummingbird rescues in the Southern California area
• Southeastern Outdoors: General wildlife rescue directory; can search resource centers by state
• Project Wildlife: I found an article providing specific instructions for how to respond to a hummingbird needing rescue
• The Bird Rescue Center:  This resource has all kinds of helpful information including a reminder that it is against the law to keep any wild animal as a pet; if found, you should take said animal to a shelter or rescue center immediately
• Humane Society:  Look up your local Humane Society and find out if they can take rescued wildlife.

I made several calls to area hummingbird rescuers and got a call back from a helpful woman.  She said that she was hours away so the best thing would be to take her to my local Humane Society.  I called the local Humane Society and they confirmed that they accept wildlife rescues so I nestled sweet birdie in a hole-punctured shoe-box liked with tissues.  Throughout the car-ride to the Humane Society I heard her vibrant buzz and thrum of her wings giving me hope that she would survive.

I felt a certain joy and exhilaration having had such a close moment with one of my favorite little creatures; I mean, its not every day you get to hold something like this in your hands!

It was a divine little moment to be sure and I hope that she is healthy, strong, and buzzing about enjoying the fullness of spring.  Every time I hear the happy thrum of a hummingbird outside my window, I smile and hope it’s her

Italian herb-encrusted focaccia roll; vine ripe tomato; fresh mozzarella; own-yard basil

I’m certain little else needs to be said.

I think I could quite contentedly eat this every day of the summer

I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, she is a wonderfully talented artist–both on and off the canvas!  I first encountered Kristy as an incredibly gifted and inspiring spoken word artist at one of the Open Mics I attend in East Los Angeles.  Since our first meeting, I’ve come to know and appreciate her visual artistry as well.  She is a woman full of relentless courage and vision who uses her abundant compassion and creativity to foster healing, transformation, and reconciliation in her community.  Here’s a little teaser from her bio:

Its All a Risk

My life has been defined by an innate tendency to take risks. As a child I was known for asking too many questions, touching things that weren’t meant to be touched, or taking things apart just to see how they worked. This air of inquisitive defiance was coupled with a natural creativity and I spent much of my time as a kid creating art, writing plays and poems, and building things. I grew up with my mother and sisters in the San Fernando Valley and the story of our struggle to survive is likened to that of many single-parent, working class families striving for their version of an American Dream. My dream always included art and creative writing and I was even able to envision myself as an art student, building a powerful career that would propel me out of financial instability and into the vast diversity of art, culture, and travel.

~Kristy Lovich

So check out her site and peruse her gallery; she has several prints and original pieces for sale–with more being added soon–at very reasonable prices. The proceeds from her art go to fund both her education and her vital work within the community.  Support grass roots artists and community efforts!  This is where the real change happens!

she found her dance once more!
and there
she found
a piece of her soul was healed
a piece of her self returned

her dance was there—it was always there—
in her heart,
but
she had lost it for a time
for a time there in the dark

she had trouble finding it
behind the pain
underneath the broken
in the midst of that dark night

but it was always there
and when she found it
and took it out
she wept

sweet tears of joy
then
bitter tears of sorrow—

tears
for all the dances
she never danced
tears
for all the poems
she never wrote
tears
for all dreams
she never brought to life

she grieved the loss
of these pieces of herself that never were…

and while she knew that
such captivating beauty
and
such exquisite being
were only born out of such dark night,
she weeps for what had to be lost—
weeps for what had to be forgotten
for what had to be broken
what had to be torn apart
had to be extinguished

lost,
so that
new rhythms might be danced
forgotten,
so that
new poems might be written
broken,
so that
new laughter might erupt
torn apart,
so that
new dreams might be woven
extinguished,
so that
new passion might ignite

and there she rejoiced
for that rhythm
for those words
for that joy
for those dreams
for that fire
that gave life to her soul once more

for she was made
to laugh
to dance
to thrive–
this was woven into the very
tapestry of her self as she was spun into being
inside that womb long ago

and so with courage as her rhythm
and with hope as her melody
she finds her dance once more!

I have decided to start a project called Poetic Polaroids.  Much like those classic photos, these poems are instant snap- shots of moments in time.  Raw.  Unposed.  Entirely candid.  Unedited.

I want to bleed for you
Tear my clothes and grieve for you
Pull my hair and scream for you

I am the listener of your nightmares
I am the keeper of your pain
I am the gatherer of broken pieces

You who have no voice
You who are locked inside your body
You who are forgotten

I hear you
I have the key
I call you by name

I guess I was out sick that day in kindergarten when they taught the whole, “actions speak louder than words,” lesson because throughout my whole life I have grappled with–and have been burned by–the difference that exists between peoples’ words and their actions.

Maybe it is because I am a writer and a poet that I take words so seriously.  I mean, I looooOOOOOooove words!  I love to play with them and bend their meanings; I love to string several together in a deliriously delightful delivery of alliteration; I love the feel of them as they roll off my tongue; I love the taste of them as I savor their meaning; I love the sound of them as they echo through my ears.  I put a lot of stock into words.  I honor their ability to ignite passion, to elicit emotion, to quicken a pulse, to beckon tears, to foster hope, to stop time.    My friends, words.are.power.

And then there is the reality that not everyone holds my same belief about words.  And the reality that even those who do, or claim to do, still toss words around carelessly and thoughtlessly.

The most frequent occurrence of this phenomenon is evidenced in the interactions between men and womyn.  I myself have been a sucker time and time again because I have placed a higher value on a man’s word than I have on his actions; this mistake has cost me my heart several times and caused me great confoundation and frustration many other times.

Maybe it is that I am a single woman and I’m super stoked about non-singleness someday.  Maybe it is that I’m too hopeful.   Maybe it is because I’ve finally come to realize and embrace the fullness of my awesomeness as a  woman and I get really excited when someone else seems to get it too.  In the end, I don’t really know what it is that keeps me making the same mistakes, but I’m pretty disappointed that I have to re-train myself not to necessarily take a man at his word.

The thing is that I’ve been told incredibly wonderful things by straight, single men, who apparently are just not that into me.  Now, I’m not saying that a guy can’t offer an honest word of affirmation without having to ask a girl out.   But I am asking that men…and womyn chose our words wisely.  If we want to be affirming and offer a kind word or a compliment, pause and consider how it may be interpreted and decide if a change in wording would more clearly make your point.  Communication between men and womyn can be difficult to translate anyway so do yourself, and the person with whom you’re speaking a favor and think about how what you say may be interpreted.

If you tell a woman she is an angel, the most incredible person you’ve ever met, and that you still believe this even taking into consideration all of her flaws and faults, I guarantee you she will believe that you are just that into her.  So if you are not saying that to preface asking her out, then simply close your mouth and think of another way to verbalize your appreciation for her.  Because while it is quite a lovely compliment and an amazing thing to be told, no one really wants to hear, “you’re an angel…you know, in a you’re-totally-like-my-sister kind of way.”  BOOOOOOOO!

Furthermore, if you think she is an angel and the most incredible person you’ve ever met and you are not asking her out on a date, then you should most likely get your head checked because you are LETTING HER GO and her amazingness is not gonna sit around waiting for you to finally get it about her.  But that’s a blog for another day I suppose.

The older I get, the stronger I become, the more excited I am about who I’m becoming and what I am doing in the world, the less patience I have for men whose words and actions do not align.  I also have less tolerance for the games of dating.  If a guy tells me amazing things and I think he’s interesting, I’m gonna hold him accountable for his words.  And I’m learning how to get clarification and move along BEFORE I get my heart all involved an attached–yay for healthy heart habits!!

So here’s to meaning what we say, and saying what we mean.  I promise, a moment of heart-pounding honesty is totally worth a lifetime of authentic, genuine communication!

One of my goals for this year is to become proficient in using/riding the train and bus system where I live.  I think the bulk of my trepidation regarding this venture comes from a rather miserable mishap I had years ago in college.

One of my dear friends and I worked for an afterschool daycare program about 7miles from our college.  Neither of us had a car but we relished the exhilarating bike rides to and from work.  There is certain freedom felt in getting on a bike and breezing through the fresh spring-flower scented streets and neighborhoods surrounding our school.  The not so dreamy reality was that, while spring was a delicious and captivating time, we did live in Michigan which meant that for 6 or so months out of the year, there would be no jubilant jaunts on our bikes in the snow, sleet, and muck that is a northern winter.

As a result, we decided to try using public transportation.  We decided that this would be a fun and inexpensive alternative to trying to rent a flex car and seemed much easier and dependable than trying to arrange to borrow a friend’s car every afternoon.  We poured over bus schedules and routes and, convinced we had a brilliant plan, we set off to work riding the bus.

We got to work without a hitch and enjoyed a short brisk walk from the stop to the daycare.  We worked all afternoon and when the last child was picked up we headed home feeling pleased with our new public transit savvy selves.  We schlepped through some freshly fallen snow to our bus stop and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

We some how managed to find out that our particular bus stopped running already but that we could catch another bus if we just walked to that stop a few blocks away.  So once again we slogged through the slush and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Ultimately we realized that for whatever reason things had gone horribly wrong and we would now need to get ourselves home before hypothermia began to set in as it was well past dark on a cold winter night.  And mind you, this was before the universe had cell phones!

We walked and walked trying to keep up conversation so as to distract ourselves from the misery of the cold and the damp seeping into our very marrow.  Just when we thought we might not be able to take another step–probably about two miles from campus–we spotted one of our peers at a gas station across the street.  We ran over to him and begged him to take us home.  He was on his way out for the evening but obliged considering our wretched state.

We finally made it home thawing out over some hot drinks and cozed down under warm blankets.  Needless to say, we never attempted bus-riding again.  We made do with borrowing friends’ and roommates’ cars and rejoiced when winter melted into spring and we could ride our bikes once more.

Now that I live in Southern California the possibility of getting stranded and having to schlep home in the snow is no longer a threat.  But I do still have thoughts of getting lost, getting on the wrong bus, getting stuck some random place where the bus no longer runs.  So my goal this year is getting over my fears and learning to love the freedom of catching a bus or a train and adventuring out into the world; I am to accomplish this by taking at least one bus/rail field trip a month.  I figure this outting will also afford me the chance to return to one of my loves, photography.

I’m pleased to say that I met my goal for January by taking the train and the bus to Venice with some friends last weekend.  We started out at the train station in my town; we missed the train and had to wait an hour for the next one.  The station felt like some movie set ghost town train station.  There was a security guard but he apparently had no concern whatsoever about us playing on the tracks, climbing on old train-cars, and generally running amuck for an hour.  I think we had more fun and took more photos at this empty train station than we did the whole rest of the day!

I did enjoy seeing a bit of Venice–after all, its Venice!  In the end, I loved the freedom to savor the journey as an adventure just as much as the destination was.  Here are some of my favorite photos from that day:

I cannot quite convey how *thrilled* I am to announce the birth of a new blog: In the Words of Womyn.  You can read all about the vision of this new blog and what inspired me to start it here.  This blog serves as a kind of virtual open mic for womyn to give sound to her story and volume to her voice.  So I invite any of you who are womyn and who are writers to submit your work to: inthewordsofwomyn [at] gmail [dot] com, and I will publish it therein for you.  I hope you will stop by and check it out!

Write on, womyn!