Marcia Meier's Blog, in which she writes about writing, publishing, memoir, poetry, and just about any other aspect of life.
Posted in: Photography
I'm delighted to announce my latest book of poetry and photography—Heart on a Fence! The book is named after an original painting by my daughter, Kendall, which graces the cover. I am thrilled to offer this new book to my friends and acquaintances. If you would like to order a copy, please email me. They are $20 a piece. Here are some of the images and poems from the book.
Avila Beach is one of my favorite writing haunts, a place my Santa Barbara writing buddies and I escape to twice a year, usually for a week of writing bliss. This month I could only come up for a couple of days since we're in the middle of a move (I've been awash in boxes--packing and unpacking--for two weeks), but I am grateful nonetheless for the little space it allowed me. Above and below are some photos I took as I walked the beach yesterday.
I woke up early—5 a.m.—to driving rain and pounding winds, and lost power. For a fraction of a moment I panicked, but then remembered I had my flashlight, my cell phone, and a wood stove to keep me warm.
I stayed in bed for another hour or so, and when the power returned, I sprinted downstairs to start water for coffee.
I wrote for a little bit, then showered and went out for a walk in the sunny but blustery morning. It was gorgeous and ominous. Trees and branches down everywhere. But I loved my walk out to the sound. Here are some photos of lovely Whidbey Island and Hedgebrook.
Until two years ago, I had never been out of the United States beyond a sojourn to Ensenada, Mexico, and to parts of Canada, which in my mind don't really count. In 2012 I went to Costa Rica and stayed at my cousin's beautiful home on the northern Costa Rican coast for a month. It was there that I finished the first draft of my memoir, which I've been excerpting in posts on my blog (here is Part One, if you've missed them).
So I was literally giddy last fall when Rob and I traveled to London and then to Ireland for three weeks. Our transAtlantic flight felt like Christmas Eve to me, and the stewardesses and stewards must have sensed it because they presented us with a bottle of champagne upon our arrival at Heathrow. Everything seemed magical to me. I loved London. Loved its energy, its people, the Tube, the lovely little boutique hotel in which we stayed, the vintage double-decker bus tour we took, the theater district play we saw, the vast historical sweep of the buildings and monuments everywhere one looked. In just the few days we were there we shopped at Harrods, saw a Shakespearean play at the Globe Theatre, took a boat trip up the Thames, and visited the new Tate Museum. And it didn't rain a single time, despite all the rain gear we took along. We were in Europe from late September through mid-October; the weather was cooler, but the crowds were almost nonexistent. I would go back to London in a heartbeat, because there was so much we didn't get to see. But the purpose of our trip was to see Ireland.
The London Eye
The Cheesegrater
When we flew to Dublin on the fourth day, it was sunny and in the low 60s, a harbinger of the weather we encountered throughout our time there. Dublin is much smaller than London, but has its own charms. Our hotel was on the edge of the Temple District, which is the hot nighttime place brimming with bars and music venues.
The most impressive thing about Ireland is every corner has a pub, and every pub (almost) has a live band singing traditional music. We LOVED the immersion into Irish culture and music, and relished it as we traveled south and then up the west coast of the country.
St. Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin.
At a pub listening to traditional Irish music.
On the Jameson whiskey tour.
Next, Waterford and Kinsale.
In the orchard, beyond the creek
broken tree limbs strewn
the clouds danced above
white light from your fingers
daughter, do not cry
after during now never
memories not remembered
a coffin of memory buried
in desire, a lost child
sometimes there is hope
In the voice, beyond the creek
blue tree limbs strewn
the river danced above
white silence from your fingers
mother, do not cry
until now during after
memories not singing
a window of distance buried
in grief, a lost child
there is always hope
Near the Sea Ranch Lodge
I've just returned from a week up at Sea Ranch, north of San Francisco on the rugged Mendocino coast. It's stunningly beautiful there, and a balm for the soul. For the past three years a group of women writer friends and I have decamped together for a writing retreat, and two of those years have been at Sea Ranch.
It was once a sprawling working ranch, but was developed in the sixties with homes on vast plots with weathered siding and surrounded by natural grasses. The ranch stretches for about 13 miles along the coast, with homes scattered from the coastal bluffs and up to the hills across Highway 1. We stayed in two houses near each other, and walked on the beach and hiked through the tree-studded property. We wrote and talked and read each others' work. It was just what the doctor ordered, and I came home refreshed and relaxed and ready to tackle all the work I had left behind.
I also dropped my daughter off at her friend's tiny studio in Oakland. The two of them have plans to work and pursue their music and art, with a brief break to go to Burning Man in August. It is the first time she has struck out on her own when I have felt that she is prepared and ready to create a new life. I am very proud of her. For those of you who know about her blind kitty, little Maya-Roo is with her and Anna in their tiny place. So far all is well and they are happy. And so am I.
Deer outside our front windows. They visited us every day. This couple had two babies with them.
We had several days of fog, but mostly it was sunny and warm.