Where've You Been?

To borrow a title from Kathy Mattea, I'm sure those who read me are wondering what the heck happened. Well, perhaps after reading the last post about Goddard and my entrance into graduate school they might have a clue, but still. I have been bad about sitting down to blog. I have missed it and most of my writing terribly. Holding down a part-time job, running a pet sitting business, painting commissioned works, and freelance writing all four was a bit too much. The part-time job had to go. I worked my last days there just last week. That gives me twenty hours of my life back. It may not seem like much, but you'd be surprised. Lately, whenever I have a moment free, I find myself up on the parkway taking photos of the monarch migration and wishing them a safe journey and a safe haven to return to in Mexico, knowing full well both are improbable at best, but it never hurts to put the positive energy forward. The photos included are from these forays onto the Blue Ridge Parkway. The two below are called Coexistence One and Coexistence Two.

I love my pet sitting gig, most of the time, but after this summer, I have to admit I'm glad the traveling season is slowing down a bit now, for others anyway. It will be picking up for me. I have booked a trip to DC and to NYC both to look at the galleries and museum shows. It's such a hardship having to travel to the city to look at art. I don't know how I'll survive this graduate school gig. As a result, I will spend my fortieth birthday in one of my favorite cities on earth, New York. Mom got us a hotel five miles from Manhatten, basically across one of the bridges and several blocks from MOMA. To all you Shakori Hills peeps, never fear, my actual birthday is the week after the festival, so I WILL be celebrating at both locations this year. After forty years, I think I deserve a double whammy. This promises to be a great birthday.

Anyhow, that sums up most of the news for me, oh except I forgot to mention one tiny little thing. My poems have now been published. One in a book called Watermarks that is for sale by the Maier Museum of Art, and the other by Hip Pocket Press in the Canary. You can read that one here, and feel free to pass the link along to your friends. I hope you enjoy and promise to try and return to the regularly scheduled blogging program.

Finding Grace

Tonight, I stepped out onto my back porch to let my dogs out one last time. The night was still and silent, except for the chirping of insects and the rustle of leaves from the constant warm breeze blowing. The flash of what my family calls heat lightening occasionally lit up the mountain ridges in the distance and the huge round bails of hay still waiting in our fields to be taken as feed for the local cows. All at once, in that moment, quite out of the blue, I found Grace again. She visits me every so often, washing a kind of happy peace over my being. It's the kind of feeling you only get when you aren't seeking it, the kind of feeling that leaves you a little giddy, a little breathless, and most of all a whole lot alive.

Once, a while ago, how long I don't even remember, Grace visited me during a mighty hurricane and allowed me to find peaceful sleep while the winds blew loud and long, making the sound of an oncoming train. One moment, I was close to panic with fear all alone with my dogs in a house with far too many windows, and the next moment, I just had the overwhelming understanding that I was safe and everything was going to be fine. The next morning, I sat down to write the beginnings of the following poem. I thought tonight it was time to share it.

Grace in the Face of Fear

Will you rise up to form the still waters,
turn your head to the oncoming storm,
track the clouds building walls pushing toward you,
know the winds that will blow them along?

When the darkness comes down with a fury,
angry words seem to rasp in your ear, hear
the groaning whipped limbs of the forest
and the roar when rain pelts the parched fields.

When the water runs off raging rivers,
soil eroding where earth seems to drown,
will you stay, stretch your arms to the tempest,
lift your face to the sky, stand your ground?

For the one who accepts what is coming,
calmly gathers her strength, bides her time,
breathes a sigh for the change that’s upon her,
casts off doubts, sets aspersions aside, she

finds Grace where so many will miss it,
in the quiet, cool lake of her mind,
where a voice calmly sings of the wonders
and the peace that the seekers shall find.

The Monarchs Return

The fabulous orange and black beauties are back, flitting around our zinnia patch as I type. Although I can't explain why they first fascinated me, since my interest in them well predated my knowledge of their amazing migrations to Mexico, I have always felt a kind of joy at their return each year. Now that joy is mingled with relief each spring, since the year may come in my lifetime when they are gone, extinct due to habitat destruction and the use of chemical pesticides. These little pollinators are in grave danger.

I am hard at work crafting an article on a recent interview with Dr. Lincoln Brower, one of the world's top experts on monarchs and their migration. The article will make an appearance in the Got2BeGreen online journal very soon. I'll be sure to send out the link when it's done, but let me just tell you the news for the monarchs is not good if things both in Mexico and here in the states don't change. I don't want to give too much away before the article is published, so with monarchs on my mind, I thought I would share with you some of the artwork they have inspired. In the meantime, if you want to help the monarch survive, the very best thing you can do right now is to STOP the use of herbicides and pesticides in your yard this year. For more on alternative methods of pest control, those not harmful to butterflies, (and all the other creatures living in your gardens, ditches, and yards) go here. More on monarchs from Dr. Brower very soon, but in the meantime, enjoy some monarch magic.


Mariposas Return

Wafting on the breeze, each puff of wind sends
luminous lantern-thin wings fluttering. Golden-
orange kites patterned with black drift higher,
spiral back, flutter forward in a whirling dance.

Watching from wrought-iron windows over dusty
courtyards, families wait with golden-orange candle
flames flickering. They weave floral wreathes,
harvest the red soil, working to gather gifts
while they wait for the return of the dead.

Winging across summits, millions flit and fly
through aquamarine skies, sip flowers, cover
streams, swarm and swoop, fill the sky, shrouding
deep forests in communal comforters, their woven
warmth against winter’s chill.

Worshipers gather, jubilant, watching the celestial
flights of ancestors returned home. Gifts of warm
remembrance promenade through winding roads,
placed on graves to flash in firelight. Natives walk up
winding paths, showing reverence to these protectors
whose winged beauty cloaks winter and wakens
once more with the wealth of spring.

The following works were either taken during or inspired by my trip to Mexico to see the monarch wintering grounds. We were there just as they began to wake up and prepare for their return to my back yard here in Central Virginia. It was magical, literally, a world shrouded in butterflies. I highly recommend experiencing the magic at least once in your life.






All paintings and photographs provided by me, Amanda C. Sandos. For works for sale, visit The ARTiculates.

Poem for the Polar Bears

Well, after receiving the fabulous news that my poetry, including the Nene Poem, and one of my earlier essays called "Animality" from this blog are getting published in The Canary, a literary journal by Hip Pocket Press, I am finally feeling like my new career as an environmental artist is taking off. Strange how this milestone seems to make such a difference, after already publishing articles in journals and magazines.

Shameless Plug - Read my interview with the award winning directors of the upcoming Disney movie Earth at Got2BeGreen to find out how you can help the rainforest in Brazil.

Anyway, I love writing the environmental, journalistic style articles, but the creative works like my poems and essays are somehow different, somehow deeper. They take more of me and give more back, I guess. They are, after all, often the culmination of years of work and numerous drafts. Most have changed drastically from their youths into these adult versions, and finally seem old enough to leave home, to make their way out into the world. This must be what it feels like to send your child off to college.

I've been reluctant to share the poetry, feeling like an exposed nerve ending every time I put one out there in the world where I can no longer keep it safe. But, I guess it's time, and so in light of the situation the polar bears find themselves facing these days, I thought I would share my favorite of my most recent poetry series with you.

Polar Bear, (Ursus maritimus)

Transparent hairs soak ultra violet
rays through hallow shafts, transferring
heat into a black hide for her insulation
against the frozen mass she floats on.
Trapped by melting tundra, she lies
conserving energy, growing thin, adrift
on this burg on the midnight sea, no prey
to hunt, no seals who once denned
under the ice.

Deep groans belch up from the belly
of the ice. She wakes with a shifting
tremble, stands to peer over the ledge
at wakes rippling out from her perch.
Her white reflection blurs. Another
shudder staggers her, and boulder-size
ice breaks free to slide down the wet
mountain towards her. She leaps
over building waves, plunges
into the sea.

Swimming hard toward a shelf
once only a mile from here, sluggish
limbs fight the churning surf. The ice
burg behind her splits, half its giant mass
plummeting, raising a cresting
tidal wave that rolls towards her, over her,
pulling her under, spinning her thousand-pound
body like a drift of powdery snow. She peddles
once-powerful legs, each swipe slower,
never finding the surface she seeks
until at last she rises and floats
face down.

A Poem for the Nenes

I have been remiss about posting. This is about to change. Up until now, posts have been limited to full-fledged essays, rather than any kind of regular chat or blog. This has lost its excitement for me and does not allow me the time to post with any kind of regularity. So, I figure it's time to start inserting more of me into the mix, although I plan to keep the essays coming for those who have been enjoying them. Thanks again to all who have been reading and sending me notes. It means so much to every writer, no matter how big or small, that someone is out there reading what they have to say. Anyway, it already feels like I will enjoy coming here and writing again now that I've allowed myself the freedom to be less structured, instead of imposing deadlines and making the whole thing into some kind of a job. Who wants to return to that? Life is sweeter when we can keep the feeling of work to a minimum and fan up the fun.

So in the interest of fun fanning, I have decided to share with you a little bit of my poetry today. Now, the subject matter is a bit sad, I admit, but it's poetry, the writing I do for fun. Poetry for me is that fabulous stuff I know will probably never make me the first dime, and I don't really care because I love doing it. Regardless of the tone of the work, the fun of this is in sharing it with you.


The poem I chose is a tribute to the Nene Goose, state bird of Hawaii, and one of the fabulous species I had the great honor to care for during my time at Keauhou Bird Conservation Center on the Big Island, just outside of Hawaii Volcano National Park. These highly endangered geese now make their home at the tops of the volcanos. On the Big Island they stay mostly on the open rocks and grassy fields near the national park. You've already guessed that the top of an active volcano isn't really the best place for a goose, but alas, it's the home they are stuck with and they are making a slow but steady come back. The park rangers and conservationists have had quite a time in the ongoing effort to protect them from the introduced species of the islands (humans included). Anyway, an entry in one of my guide books to the island inspired this poem...

Nene Goose (Branta sandvicensis)
Volcano National Park, Big Island, Hawaii

She builds their nest under sparse scrubs, lines bare rock
with down, guards her mate while he incubates, moos soft
warning calls. Together, they hatch three chicks; survive
mongoose, black rats, dogs, cats, tourists, scientists. Together,
they find ohelo berries or dry fruits on stiff
pukiawes, always feeding
their young first.

The guidebook says: “This endangered goose has evolved;
prefers land to water.” Such strength in this state
bird, frame stunted like a miniature Canada,
only partial webbing between short, black toes.
Today, she stands beneath her own silhouette
on the yellow sign,

here on barren lava flows, along Chain of Craters Road
under pioneers; woody shrubs that first emerge from porous,
black rocks. Here, beside rerouted drives rebuilt each time lava
seeps out of fissures, buries asphalt. Here, where rain collects
in crevices heated by liquid rock, steams to scalding clouds,
miles above the sea.

Today, she guards his silent remains, hissing
with her three chicks in the middle of the desolate
road, under the Nene Crossing sign, goose
silhouette above, “Drive Slow”
in black letters below.