Once Upon a Time...

...I came into the world a very lucky baby--with a very unlucky set of food allergies. My mom became a quick study in all matter of ingredients and recipes. She taught me how to navigate the world safely, yet without fixating on my allergies as what defined me. She inspires me every day with her own artistry, not just on the canvas but in how she approaches everyday matters, with grace and balance. And when the time came for me to share my story, she gave her blessing so I could write what I needed to write. 


Happy Mother's Day, Mom! You're the best.

This Pilgrim Soul Turns 31

WHEN YOU ARE OLD


When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;


How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;


And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


~William Butler Yeats


Source: The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats (1989)

Swoon

I was third in line. Third! I'm never third in line at the signings for Library of Congress readings--I always get waylaid by a friend, or a glass of wine, or those perfect baby carrots they serve with the fresh fringed tops. But this time, there I was, in front of W.S. Merwin while the official cameras were still clicking away. I introduced myself, and as I said my last name his eyes brightened.

"Yes," he said. "Sandra Beasley. I've read your poems."

I was the one thing I never am: speechless. I shyly handed him my copy of The Folding Cliffs, which he read from tonight. I stuttered out a few sentences about the time I'd spent on Maui, on Kauai, the importance of telling the stories that live in Hawaii's soil. I thanked him. "We are so lucky to have you here," I said, and I'm not sure if I meant tonight, or in DC, or on this earth--probably all three.

He signed it to me by name, with all good wishes, and dated it. Looking at what he'd written, he said, "That can't be right. It's the 24th, surely," and then he added a 2 before the May date.

For few seconds I stayed quiet, not wanting to embarrass him. Then I imagined the embarrassment that would accumulate if he signed everyone's book that way.

"Um," I said, "it IS the fourth. You just transported us forward in time by 20 days."

"Oh?"

Gesturing at the line that stretched behind me, I said, "But you can't. We need all the days we can get."

The 83-year-old poet looked up at me and smiled. "Indeed," he said.