Sunday, January 15, 2012
enjoy . . . nry
Friday, January 13, 2012
Maybe over the next few days I will try to write up some short posts on highlights of the trip, for now I am just happy to be reunited with Atlas after his adventures with Ma and Pa Young. The poor pup was un-invited from the trip after we realized that most of the national parks prefer that dogs don't go into the backcountry. He is in good spirits and ready to go home tomorrow.
I hope everyone is doing well and enjoying the weather.
mike y nat
I get fascinated with the web and how stories spread, but in deference to my wife won't go through and talk about where the story has popped up except to mention that it got picked up by a blogger who appears to be located in Malaysia.
Thank you all for your interest in our life and the kind words of support we have gotten from everyone. The neatest part of the whole experience for me is seeing how many friends in distant places have stumbled upon the story and contacted us. We love you all.
peace love and old buses
m y n
Monday, January 9, 2012
Steven Wilbur is a slam poet, teacher, and musician in Seattle Washington. He is also a longtime friend of one Natalie R.W. Young and consequently now one of my favorite people. This is most relevent to the blog because he gave a toast at our wedding in the slam poetry style that blew me away. Luckily for everyone, we got to have lunch with him last week in Seattle and subsequently got a copy of the poem. So, without further adieu, Mr. Steven Wilbur...
a wedding poem by: Steven Wilbur
"Love is a rusty red school bus named Rosie.
At first glance, you doubt a commercial drivers license
could prepare anyone to drive this colossus.
It’s scorn for tight corners and parking garages
cased in loudest forty feet in the county, and while you could turn back,
you’ve always been homesick
for wide open spaces,
Michael, in the morning light, Natalie is a refined silver key,
blinding you with hope of her years.
Natalie, Michael is a gallon of gas, which is to say,
potential waiting for a spark, waiting
and together you say to the knowing wind, let’s see how far we can go.
The door folds open like a page,
The furniture knows your names,
The steering wheel speaks in a tongue you barely understand.
Rosie says allons-y, which, in English, means, go.
The bold brazen way
a bus opens its throttle,
sings the highway’s songs,
and raindrops leave home,
oak seeds dare to become - this
is the way you love.
which is reassuring to you, because if love were a bus,
that bus would certainly write haiku poems about love.
Your hands folded in an allegory for aspen groves
around the wheel, you will drive
to Maine in the fall,
to Ketchikan (which is impossible)
And you will wake up
in Kansas beneath electric skies,
in Austin to seven hundred pedestrians.
You will take them to God. You will take them to their fathers.
You will wake up in towns you never intended, knowing
this means that you are in Rosie, which is to say,
you will plant a seed in the ground,
hold each other like home
within the infinite symmetry of your rings.
You will drive across three state lines on empty,
write rivers into the desert.
You will learn cacti pour themselves out
for anyone brave enough;
you are brave enough.
On the days you’re not, you know a
Mechanic who splits his time between Jupiter
and Abilene and where you are
and you may wake up to envy scrawled in paint cans. You might have to
push-start Rosie when the engine is tired,
and it might take all your friends.
You may find yourself West-Texas-stranded twenty miles from the nearest gas,
cooled in the shadow of your love before you walk
400,000 steps with the best definition of beauty you’ve found.
Trial may disintegrate the tires into flames, rocketing both of you
through those windows like the eyes of your youth.
There on the pavement, blood-and-gravel-toothed, you
will stand and stare down that axle, shouting,
I have come this far.
Not even death could make me look back.
But after that moment
you might ask, Do I have something in my teeth?
because you do, and the pavement peppering
your smile is the fabric of songs
sweeter than any engine hum or cicada symphony or pine
after the rain.
O the magnificent songs you’ll sing
with gravel in your mouths."
. . . thank you, steven
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
having the honor of hosting two thanksgivings in our mere year of being together has most certainly contributed to my deep appreciation of the dynamics and richness of the crew and how well they function as one even if they don't always see it. my mother fit in perfectly, as she always does, and pie and music were had well into the night. with life overflowing and bellies almost as full, we are grateful beyond words
this next week will find us dehydrating food, sorting gear and wrapping up life in rosie until mid january. the youngsters3 are headed to washington to scope out possibilities for the future - by way of big bend, red rocks and joshua tree, ca.
- warmth, spice and dreams run wild-
blessings from our home to yours,