Silly me

It's 12:52 a.m. I'll bet getting up in about 3 hours.

I've been working on a poem because I told my friend Robert I would write and send to our poetry list *something* new before Monday morning. It's late Monday afternoon where he is already, but I'm a proud woman. Stupid, but proud.

The weekend was birthday parties, and my sister in town. Family, friends, and 20 little kids high on cake. The week ahead will also be very full. Sleep is in order.

A Familiar Name on Verse Daily

Check out this link to Dancing Bear's poem Gacela of Animal Theory.

Bear edits the American Poetry Journal (APJ). Three APJ issues have included my poems, so I guess in a not-so-round-about way, mentioning him like this is shameless self-promotion. But besides being kind enough to publish my work, Dancing Bear is also an all-around good guy, and I'm truly happy to see his poetry grow in its depth and reputation.

Mary Oliver

I'm reading Blue Pastures by Mary Oliver. Billy Collins was right. She's good. She's really good - in that deceptively simple way. Here's something Robert Haas references in the Washington Post (original link here):

Little Summer Poem Touching the Subject of Faith

Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun's brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can't hear

anything, I can't see anything --
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker --
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing --
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet --
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.

Summoning, and smells

In the last week, there have been no fewer than 5 times that I've thought about a person, or needed to speak to a person, or had just left a voicemail for a person (all different people, mind you), and I literally ran into that person - in person - "at random" out and about in town.

Maybe it's because I live in a small(ish) community.

Maybe it's The Secret at work, even though I've yet to read the book or listen to the tape or watch the movie.

It's both uncanny and downright convenient.

***

This morning I woke up to hit my snooze button for the second time at 4:00 and I thought I smelled something burning. As I dragged myself out of bed, trying to figure out what the smell could be, I thought:

Oh, yeah.

Me.
Candle.
Both ends.

It was the only explanation.

I think sometimes the Universe hits you with metaphors whose obviousness are proportionate to your thickness of comprehension.

There was nothing else burning in the house.

A word to the wise

One of my novelist friends recently shared a Buddhist-inspired quote with me. It's a way to pre-qualify what you say, along the lines of something I once saw from an advice columnist. The advice columnist had suggested that before speaking, we ask ourselves, "Is it true? Is it kind?" My friend had also read that one should ask, "Is it useful?"

Is it true?
Is it kind?
Is it useful?

Golly.

If I consistently asked myself these questions before speaking, I would be a much, MUCH quieter person.

Less likely to amuse, perhaps. But also less likely to harm. And more likely to appear wise or even mysterious (as opposed to just shrew-like or flippant). Hmm. It's worth trying, I think. And it fits right in to my stumbling attempts to become a better listener.

The Real Thing

I am so uninspired by my own recent trivial blog posts.
Hence the dearth of entries.

After reading K's recent blog posts, I am excruciatingly aware that there are more valuable things to express, or ways to express them, than I've even come anywhere near lately. I mean, it's like - I'm here, and the things that warrant my honest time and attention are somewhere on the far side of Alpha Centauri. Little blinking specs of light sending out Morse code to say, "this is what matters, this is what counts."

And even though Blogger's digital storage space is cheap (what is cheaper than free?), it doesn't mean I should continue to squander the chance to explore - semi-publicly, and for my own later reference - what I'm doing on this chunk of rock and why, and instead make everything a "had tea with the Smith's" log. It just feels too much like a waste.

I recycle the paper wrappers around sticks of gum. I hate waste.

I self-edit a lot before scribbling in this blog. I try to keep it honest and kind. I am aware that some of the people who might read my entries do so just to stay caught up in my life, and I really appreciate that. I've felt like there's no need to be deep - just thorough and pleasant. And yet, so much has happened (like always, nothing & everything) that I haven't recorded anyway, I feel like I've failed even that simple mission.

But here. I'm dropping the "not living up to my potential" baggage at this station with a "please look after this bear" note.

WHATever. Letting it go, sir....
Whew. That feels better already.

Apologies in advance to those who are not interested in what Mr. Archer might call "philosophical musings," but I'm headed more in that direction again, (re)stretching my writerly wings. The relatives who read to see what the kids are up to, the co-workers who read out of an (inexplicable) interest in the day-to-day workings of my life - forgive me if I start to wax wordy and eclectic.

I had a friend in college who described another friend's highly Latinate writing as "gratuitously polysyllabic." Yeah. That's what I'm talking about.

Maybe it's just a mood. I hope not. Maybe it's me adjusting the poet cap on my head so it sits at a jaunty angle. Hey, whatever works. I've had it with trivial.

I had a dream last night that someone was reading new poems I'd written, comparing them to other, more recent work. The newer stuff was, we both agreed, better. Raw, rough, but real.

Here's to that sentiment.

(With great thanks to K and the other phenomenal bloggers I link to on this site, for inspiring me with the quality of their prose, the depth of their thinking, and the strength of their character. Diolch yn fawr.)

Hitting the Road

...Off to Las Vegas for a 4-day business trip, after the traditional up-all-night compulsive laundry folding. Because of course, that's somehow more important than packing...

I'm hoping to blog while away from home. After all, what else would I do in Vegas?

One Down, Four to Go

In February when my writers group met Billy Collins, I was so inspired that I pretty much announced that when I grow up I want to be just like him (but with more hair). See Julia's or Suzanne's blogs for their write-ups on the evening.

That night, I specifically vowed to get more of my poetry published. Julia is holding me to having 5 poems published by next February.

One down.

The Things That Start With One Loose Rock (a slightly modified version from the one previously posted here) will come out in a local anthology later this year.

Time to write and send out more!

Good news, bad news

Never underestimate the power of positive thinking, prayer, fretting and friends. Whatever the cosmic combination that did the trick, R. did get accepted into the school we so dearly wanted her to be in.

And there was much sighing of relief, grinning, and jumping up and down for joy.

We've met the teacher, who is (get this) an award-winning poet and otherwise awesome woman, one of those true firm-but-fair lovers of learning and teaching and the arts. She already - after a brief introduction and a longer interview - has had a positive affect on R's attitude. Yes, this is the honeymoon. But I'm starting to understand how sometimes it's the second or even the third marriage that works, once one applies experience to the selection process.

Thanks to everyone who was pulling for us.

Now comes the very uncomfortable part - hearing that other students in the class did NOT make it in. I've already had a phone call from one inconsolable mother who had been really counting on her daughter going to that school. She's at her wit's end about what she's going to do now, after being so sure that they would take her child. Let me tell you, there's nothing like hearing "well, congratulations" through someone else's sobs to give you a case of survivor's guilt.

This is obviously one of those Life Lessons - like Patience and Being a Friend - that I am meant to work out this time around (whether this is the only time around or not). I have a history of being fortunate in certain circumstances that spawn resentment - teacher's pet, dad's favorite, lead in the 8th grade play - things I didn't really ask for (well, maybe I did want to be Maria von Trapp, a little) - things that mean I am happy at the expense of someone else's happiness.

Yes, I know that I am not responsible for other people's happiness. But it's when I'm inadvertently involved in circumstances that lead to someone else's unhappiness that I question my own.

I'm trying to figure out what to do with this sense that I've done something wrong because I've come out ahead. And how strange is that?

It's a good thing I'm an accomplished fretter

...it means I've had practice in anxiety and the constant cow-chewing-cud worrying that goes with it.

Waiting to hear whether R. might make it into the new school of choice - knowing that there are no more than 2 openings and as many as 8 applicants, some of whom are friends - is maddening.

I'm a control freak. Maybe most worriers are. And when it comes down to something like this - over which I probably have no control - but might have some control, if only I knew - it's almost more than I can bear.

Now would be a good time to practice Detachment, because it's so clear and distinct from what I'm *not* doing, it's easier to recognize. Oh, yeah. Detachment. That thing way over there, so remote (ironically, so detached) from what I'm doing.

It's the second-guessing, and the second-guessing about who else is second-guessing, that makes my brain chase its tail all day. So to speak. I mean, ostensibly, this is an objective process. A lottery. But in reality, given the situation, one cannot help but wonder. (One? I mean, I and the other parents who are equally anxious for this placement for their children.)

Is there anything to be done to sway the school's selection committee towards us, apart from what we have already done? Has someone else already beat us to it and won them over? Am I hoping for the wrong thing? - since I've misplaced my crystal ball and so can't confirm that just because I want this, it's a good thing...

It's unlike me to want anything this strongly. And that desire alone scares me. I usually keep my expectations in life REALLY low - and thus avoid disappointment in particulars while living a narrowed life in general, probably. So I'm frightened by the passion I'm feeling, here.

It's probably good for me, except that I'm also worried (surprise!!) that if I pin my hopes on this school and things don't work out, some evil part of my brain will say, "See? You shouldn't be so attached or greedy. It'll bite you in the end if you desire anything too much. I told ya so."

*Sigh*

As I said, we shall see.


But soon, I hope!!

Diamonds and stones

Another mixed day.
The good news: my sister is engaged! We are all rejoicing. She and her fiance are so wonderful together.

The bad news: the school we'd been told had room for all the kids in R's class told us all last night at a meeting that this was misinformation. They have room for maybe 1 or 2 kids. ARRRRGH!

Never a dull moment!

Whoa, bath

My mother used to tell this story about me. When I was about two years old, my family went to the ocean. It was the first time I had seen the sea, having spent the previous months of my life in Colorado. Apparently, when I was shown the great Pacific, my eyes widened and I said, "Big bath." My comment when the waves rolled into shore? "Whoa, bath!"

That's my plea to the Tricky Parts of Life right now, too. Hang on a minute, here. Where's the pause button? Let me catch my breath. I need time to think, to take it all in.

As Eliot says, "April is the cruellest month." No kidding. And a component of its cruelty lies in the vibrant but mortal beauty of the natural world this time of year. The irises and roses are blooming in the backyard. We have our annual nest of house finches just outside our front door, in the box D. custom made to fit in the eaves last year. The rain has stopped (for now, anyway), and green things are screaming "Spring" all over the place. There's this abundance of life and beauty, and then there's this whirlwind of other stuff going on. Iraq. Virginia. Melted Freeways. And all the personal ups and downs.

Two weeks ago Friday, one of my half-sisters and her husband came into town, which was wonderful. But they were only able to stay overnight and until the morning, which was a shame (but understandable, since the drive back to Moab isn't too quick from our neck of the woods, and Monday mornings, and work, come whether we want them to or not.)

That same night, we had a call with the news that D's mother had had emergency surgery. They'd removed her appendix, but the real reason for the sudden pain that sent her to the hospital was a tumor in her colon.

Saturday, we took turns visiting her. She was an ideal patient - great attitude, careful with herself and good at following the care giver's instructions, but also obviously determined to heal quickly and be discharged quickly. (By Sunday morning, she was not only taking walks around the halls but also made her own bed.) The tumor was sent to the lab for tests, but I've never seen anyone look so healthy less than 24 hours after surgery.

Saturday night, we went to an 80th birthday party for friends of the family. This, too, was an emotional event - there were dozens of close friends of the hosts, some of whom we hadn't seen for about twenty years. I tell you what, when I reach 80, I'd consider myself abundantly blessed to have half as many friends as Mr. L. has. It seems key, in the way that love and crossword puzzles and a glass of red wine a day for some are apparently all key to a long and happy life. (I know all these things intellectually, it's actually *feeling* them and living them that I have trouble with.)

Sunday, after visiting my mother-in-law in the hospital again, the girls and I came home to find our next door neighbors having a huge birthday party for a 3-year old in the family. There were about 30 people in their Sunday best, and a Jumpy ("El Chapulin" or grasshopper) full of kids. We waived hello & went into the house, but within minutes, the mother of the birthday girl had come over to invite us to the party. And so the girls wrapped up a "new" stuffed horse of R's with a chocolate bunny in a box as a present, and we stepped into the Great Unknown Mexican Village next-door. It was such a fantastic experience, too. We were welcomed like we were royalty. We practiced our Spanish (the English speakers among the group humored us), and much authentic food was brought to us at the table they'd cleared in our honor. When I explained that I didn't eat red meat, one of the hosts dashed off and came back bearing a big bowl of fruit for me instead. People who have been living next to me for a year and who have said no more than two words to me were suddenly opening up like they'd just been waiting for the right moment to become friendly. As maybe they had. We heard I don't know how many repetitions of the traditional Mexican piñata song "Dale, dale dale" before we finally took our leave, carrying plates of home-made tomales for D. and confetti-covered candy in wrappers covered with alien logos and mysterious Spanish names for refined sugar. And even after we'd retreated to our comparatively stilted, silent and under-populated anglo-saxon home, the neighbors came to the door one more time to give us party favors - hand-made basket (the medium was pastel pipe-cleaners) filled with more Mexican sweets and even a dollar bill for each girl.

Do you know what it felt like? It felt like the whole weekend was about opening myself up to feeling Love for other people and then getting it back ten-fold. That's what it felt like.

The following Tuesday, we learned that the tumor they'd removed from D's mom was malignant. I got the news 10 minutes before rushing off to a meeting at the girls' school where the Administration showed up to tell the 6th grade parents (surprise!) that they (the Administration) had serious concerns about the "viability" of the class for 7th grade. There were, they suggested, too few students for a healthy Junior High group. They wanted to get feedback from the parents about this. About 2/3rds of the class parents, myself included, voiced strong support for continuing in spite of the smaller size. A few other parents talked about the value of moving to a larger school. We were to meet again in a week for the decision from the Administration.

Within a week, the news was official. And so we've been looking into Plans B, C and D for the next two years of R's education.

And did I mention that D's current remodel ran into a complication? This particular wrinkle required that he dig through the foundation in the garage - and no, it is not a good sign when there are salamanders living between your slab and the ground - and make a 6' pit in the adobe under a corner of the room, weld a rebar spiral (actually a very cool-looking sculpture) and put it in the pit, and then fill the pit with about 20 bags of concrete. I don't know what the neighbors (who, as of the party, had been our new-found friends) thought about us hauling wheelbarrows of dirt out of our garage. They might have suspected that there was a body being hidden, but the truth is, D and I were kind of hoping we'd find a body so that the authorities would come and do the digging for us.

Then April 23rd came. The anniversary of Mom's death.
The girls and I drove out to the beach. We got there late in the day, thanks to my tendency to just hop in the car after a quick glance at a map and with a vague idea of where I'm going. At least it was scenic, being lost that half hour... At the beach, the girls ran through, and rolled and slid down, the soft sand dunes, giggling and yelling at each other to try this, try that. At the ocean, their wildest manic moods and loudest screams just dissipated in the salty air without bruising my psyche.

We walked along the shore, looking for treasures. I found a piece of shell with a snake-skin pattern to its white surface. I thought of Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea. It's been so long since I read it, it would be like a new person reading the book for the first time. I thought about Mom. We wrote messages in the sand to her. I wrote her full name, the date she was born, the date she died. In memoriam. We faced West and sang "You Are My Sunshine" loudly and out of tune into the wind. The girls used rocks and shells to spell out greetings, X's and O's, we miss you, we love you. I think R wrote a private "please get in touch with me," request. Officially, I didn't see it. We had barely finished our scribbling when an incongruously huge wave rolled up out of nowhere. We raced for higher ground as it rolled over the words, smoothed the sand, and sucked our letters into the water.

Five days later, in a toy store in the country, I picked a "free fortune" out of a basket. At random. It read, "You are the beautiful Mother, washing waves of love across sand."

Exercising the Brain

For the last 4 days (including today, this is me on a lunch break), I've been in training classes about 2 hours from home, commuting each day. This means that I leave home nearly two hours later than usual and I get home nearly 4 hours later than usual. It's amazing how quickly I can form habits - arriving at the same time, parking in the same place in the same lot, going to the same extremely up-scale grocery store for a coffee and a few minutes before class, leaving at the same time. It is a creature that likes its routine, Precious.

(posting this now, 2 weeks later, for posterity, I suppose...)

David Bromige and other poetic stuff

I'm working on a poem but it needs more time to rise at room temperature, so I won't post it yet. And I didn't enlighten the world yesterday with my witty blog-banter either.

But tonight I am inspired, first because I went to see David Bromige read. The evening began with several of his greatest admirers and other fine poets read his work in homage to him. Bromige is a frighteningly brilliant man and at the same time so completely humble and accessible, he might as well be canonized now, for all he's apparently an atheist. I can't say I always follow all of his work, but he's the real deal.

The second source of my inspiration is the latest Richard Shindell CD I got. I'm trying to think of how to describe him - a John Denver with no sentimentality and ten times the talent? A modern-day Don McLean, maybe?

At any rate, the poetry & music had me all worked up, and driving home I felt pretty moved. Moved to get lost writing in particular. (What!? Is it really after 11pm? How did that happen!?)

It's bound to be an emotional time for me anyway. D. is tearing apart the garage - our pantry is now on sturdy (function, not form) shelves in the kitchen, my [adjectives deleted] mother-in-law and her husband are coming for lunch tomorrow, and Easter marks the one-year anniversary (the holiday, not the date) of the last time I saw my mother alive. Yeah, that last thing just might explain the vulnerability. Bear with me, folks.

Observation made at 1st grade pickup

A child was swinging in the playground behind the school building.
I couldn't see the swing, but I could hear its shrill creaking,
like a seagull rhythmically crying out again and again in a rusty voice,
screaming in defiance against the rule of the sea.

Moon poem #2 (informal)

Forget About the Moon

The moon is a slut. I mean,
everyone loves her at one time or another,
and she plays us all the same-
spares no one her studied wiles.
The tramp draws you in, full of smiles
and smooth magic, pulls rabbits from a hat.
She builds you a house. She promises greatness,
then behind your back, she turns
into nothing more than a thin fickle
scythe of a whore. She cuts you down.
She lays you low, then she goes
missing for a night or two, the bitch.
You start out with your heart
beating its moth wings lighter than air,
un-scorched to the shore of her light.
But in the end her kisses are glass-sharp dust,
her hands are the siren's rocks. She is
distant. She does not need
you. She is cold. In the end
she is oh so cold.


c. rbp 07

Moon poem #1 (formal)

I'm working my way through form poems by writing a poem in each form I can find. Because I feel I need to be familiar with them all, and this is the best way I can think of to do that. Besides, sometimes things come out of the structure and stricture that wouldn't emerge otherwise. Here's a moon poem that came out of that about a month ago (can you guess the form?). I'll post the less formal (and less polite) one tomorrow. Have to pace myself if I'm to last the month.


I Want to Forget The Moon Was My Lover

I want to forget the moon was my lover,
the grand chiaroscuro curves she'd wind
around me, and how her charms would over-
come me when her smile lit the faceted rind
of the sea. I want to forget the might
of us, or how, eclipsed, I felt completed.
I'm done with tilting my face up at night
or scanning afternoon skies, defeated
if I miss her changeable shape. Instead,
I'll let the force of fusion rub my feet,
I want an x-class flare to kiss my head
and burn my tidal trysts away with heat.
I want thirteen million kelvins at my core:
the sun's molten fire. No less, no more.


c.rbp 07

It's that Month again

National Poetry Month has arrived. This is the day of the year when I ponder the irony of identifying a time specifically for poetry. Why is it necessary? Because its value will be lost, forgotten, otherwise? Because 30 days a year is all we can stand of it? It feels like an endangered species act to me.

But then again, there are lots of other important things being honored in April which are not necessarily endangered. I have researched and learned that this is also (apparently) Alcohol Awareness Month, Emotional Overeating Awareness Month, Learn Thai Month, National DNA & Genomics & Stem Cell Education & Awareness month, National Pet First Aid Awareness Month, Prevent Lyme in Dogs Month (which seems a little redundant to me), Soy Foods Month, Stress Awareness Month, and Workplace Conflict Awareness Month (especially important for those times when one worker has had it with another worker's insistence on reciting poetry in April).

At any rate, in honor of the label assigned to the month, and because I just saw her read 9 days ago, here's an Ellen Bass poem. It's from her new book, due out in June.

DON'T EXPECT APPLAUSE
-Tibetan Buddhist maxim

And yet, wouldn't it be welcome
at the end of each ordinary day?
The audience could be small,
the theater modest. Folding chairs
in a church basement would do.
Just a short earnest burst of applause
that you got up that morning
and, one way or another,
made it through the day.

You soaped up in the steaming
shower, drank your Starbucks
in the car, and let the guy with the
Windex wipe your windshield
during the long red light at Broad Street.
Or maybe you were that guy,
not daring to light up
while you stood there because
everyone's so down on smoke these days.

Or you kissed your wife
as she hurried out the door, even though
you were pretty sure she was
meeting her lover at the Flamingo Motel,
even though you wanted to grab her
by a hank of her sleek hair.

Maybe your son's in jail.
Your daughter's stopped eating.
And your husband's still dead
this morning, just like he was
yesterday and the day before that.
And yet you put on your shoes
and take a walk, and when a neighbor
says Good morning, you say
Good morning back.

Would a round of applause be amiss?
Even if you weren't good.
If you yelled at your kid,
poisoned the ants, drank too much
and said that really stupid thing
you promised yourself you wouldn't say.
Even if you don't deserve it.

by Ellen Bass

Yes, I'm still here

In case you were wondering.

Perhaps after I finish preparing our tax information for the accountant we're seeing tonight, I can write about going to San Francisco with friends, about the school Knighting Ceremony, the shoji screens in our bedroom, about the MEPS survey and Snow White.

Until then, there are SO MANY other blogs worth reading. I suggest jumping into one of the ones I list and going from there. Have fun, kids.

Saint David's Day and other news

I celebrated at work with scones and wiki links for my coworkers. They're so kind to humor me.

In addition to it being St. David's Day, a few other things of note happened today: R. announced that she and her "boyfriend" had broken up (note the lack of quotation marks around broken up, thereby denoting my desire that the breakup be real where I was hoping the "boyfriend" concept was not).

She said that she just felt tied down and stressed out by having a boyfriend, and she agreed that I was right (I love this kid) that she was too young for all that.

I have learned over the years to hide great happiness when it's necessary. I played it casual.

"How do you feel now?" I asked.

"I feel great."

"Oh. That's good, then. How did he take it?"

"Fine, I guess," she said. "Later, I heard he borrowed someone's cell phone and called another girl asking her to be his girlfriend."

Now I wonder about this boy (whom I do like): if you start rebounding at 12, does that establish the pattern more fully? Is it like cigarette smoking in that way?

Also, yesterday I had a long talk with my 93-year old paternal grandmother. She went to the doctor at the beginning of the week for problems she's been having with her hip, and while she was there, they had a hard time finding her pulse. One thing led to another, and although her doctor for her hip says she's got a few more miles in her, another doctor is talking about by-pass surgery to address serious issues with her heart. She says the cardiologist is such a nice man, and he's done so much to help her, she's sorry she's going to end up turning down his surgery suggestion. "I hate to disappoint him," she told me. But she says she can't see dealing with the recovery at her age, and really just wants to spend the rest of her life peacefully on her farm in remote northeastern Colorado. I agreed that not disappointing your doctor is probably not the best motivation for having open heart surgery, but it's hard to think of her body winding down when she's always been so amazingly tough.

The other thing of note from yesterday was that I submitted 4 poems for possible inclusion in a local anthology. One was oldish, one was new, and two were pieces from quite a while ago that I reworked extensively in the last few days. I also have two other brand new ones in the works, and as long as my family and friends can handle me being vague and distracted - even more than usual! - I feel like I can really only grow as a poet. It's been a long time since I sealed up manila envelopes with cover letters and SASEs, but it's a little like riding a bike. It's just that now I'm less interested in a Sunday ride and am more interested in training for the Tour de France. I haven't bought the little black pants or funky shoes, but I've got a hat that will do, and I'm starting to pedal, baby.