Scene One
"I know too but I'm not telling," I answered when my mom's half grin faded.
"Maybe it's the same person. Come on, tell me and I'll tell you if you're right," she pleads, well aware I'm stubborn as whatever-is-most-mulish.
"No." I think the conversation is over but now I'm curious. I pause an extra second at the front door, stare at my mother. I've seen the trench coat in my dreams, that much coming back to me afternoons when I'd rather be feeling normal. I only know one man who wears a trench and I'm not sure he's someone I want to marry, but I'm getting to know him out of respect for a year of visions informing me I'm three steps from matrimony. Since I'm happily single, gave up on the possibility of sane dating two years earlier and shy away from any man who suggests I'm attractive, these visions stand alone in a mind otherwise taken up with staying solvent and sober around my relationship with money.
Several words and a minute later I'm back at her kitchen table, folding a little note with Mr. Trench Coat's name on it, and passing it to my mom as she passes me a small white folded secret she told herself not to tell until after our wedding.
She looks back up at me after reading the name I revealed, wags her head, clicking, "No no... really?"
I sit with her revealed secret, a knot forming in my stomach. The name she wrote, well, he's a nice guy and really we are getting to be friends. But marriage? I remember the weekend before when he and I spent the day together avoiding the official meeting room at an all day conference. Instead we sat in the halls reading story books in choppy accents to stray children bored with their own classes, visiting with older Baha'i's who also had trouble sitting through meetings and laughed almost continually. At one point, after returning from the conference book store, I found him in an empty class room looking at a lesson display. "He'd be attractive if he took care of himself," I thought, looking at his shaggy hair and faded jeans. "Too bad." At the time it was a fleeting thought followed by nothing. Now, looking at his name, knowing my mom thinks he and I will one day meet to share vows, well, that is too much.
Laughing, I exclaim, "Mom, I will never marry him!"I mean it too. Then I'm down the stairs and in my car, heading for a marriage preparation retreat being offered in a university town about two hours away (I know, Divine humor perfectly timed).
Scene Two
After the marriage preparation retreat's introduction session, as everyone heads out for dinner at a Chinese Buffet, I start to wonder if that guy from the halls of last weekend's conference will be attending. His older brother and fiance are the retreat's hosts, quite fitting as their wedding is next weekend. I don't know anyone here very well, having only moved downstate a couple months before. Long ago I was childhood friends with the bride to be, but now we're starting over, getting to know who we've each become. I like her fiance. He's easy to talk to, reminds me of Tigger (that will be his name from now on) and seems to be always smiling. Tigger's younger brother is The One in my mom's mind, but to me he's just a cool person I laughed with easily and I wonder why he isn't at the retreat yet. He's the right age, lives in the same town and all his friends are here.
I approach Tigger, "Hey, will your brother (that will now be his name) be joining us?" I think I'm simply inquiring after a new friend. He thinks I'm interested in his cute little brother (years would pass before I knew what Tigger was thinking as he joyfully trotted off to get his young sibling).
Scene Three
I'm surrounded by red, ornate woodwork, painted bowls and sizzling rice soup. I know the people I sit with by name but only faintly as the individuals they are. I'm happy they accept my presence though I'm new to the group and from out of town. Actually, I know them as a single entity, "the group of twenty-somethings from this university town."
"He doesn't have a phone or a car." says one.
"I could go without a car, but I need a phone." says another.
"Is it socially responsible to be so cut off?" ponders a third.
They're talking about Brother. "What?!" I think. "Socially responsible? This is a ridiculous conversation." Aside from those brief thoughts, I am simply there, another face at the round table, spooning egg foo young into my mouth.
A few minutes later, Tigger and Brother walk up.
Brother looks at me (that woman who lives two hours away) and asks, "What are you doing here?"
"Well you're here because I asked after you!" I think. But since my mouth is full, I raise an eyebrow, swallow, smile and state the obvious, "I'm here for the retreat."
Scene Four
Brother and I agree to go on a quick errand to buy ketchup for the next group meal. Now that we're over an irritating re-introduction from the night before and full swing into the study of marriage through The Baha'i Writings, he and I are laughing easily, probably annoying the facilitator. I see he's trying to be patient with us, but what can one do when the giggles take hold. No doubt he's relieved the two of us are out for a while.
There we are in the grocery store, ambling through produce, stopping every few feet, laughing too hard to walk straight, doubled over half the time. Finally into the land of boxes and bottles, I look up.
"What are we getting?"
"I thought you remembered?"
"I've been following you!"
"I've been following you!"
An hour later we walk into Tigger's house with a large bottle of ketchup.
Scene Five
Another quiet Sunday. No plans. I call a friend. "Want to go for a road trip? I feel like driving on the highway." Long drives help me think. I take day trips like this to visit out of town friends almost weekly, but today I don't want to travel alone.
"Let's go to university town two hours away."
"Okay, cool."
I decide visiting Brother sounds fun. I know where he lives since I gave him a ride home the week before at the end of the retreat.
We arrive at 1pm. Brother opens the door, still coming out of a nap we disturbed. Again, he looks at me like I have a third eye for showing up in a place he knows I don't live and at an unexpected time, only now he's smiling.
Seconds after he opens the door, I am overcome with a deja dream. I have experienced this moment before, when I was sound asleep: the cream colored carpet, him surrounded by the glow of track lighting, my friend beside me in the doorway. Only in the dream, Brother's face was blacked out. In the dream I'm aware that I'm visiting the The One I will marry. Now, I'm wide awake. For a brief second, everything goes silvery and my head feels light as a feather. I pull a deep breath into my abdomen, focus my eyes on a far wall and tell my face to act natural and smile.
In Case You Were Wondering
My mom had to wait until March, when we asked for consent, to get in a good, "I told you so!" What she actually said at that sacred moment was, "Well it's about time!"
Four seasons before we met, I knew us as an artist knows a painting before a single trace of color graces canvas. If this were not so, I would have been too afraid, let you slip away.
Arms outstretched, facing east, morning light dancing on my face, words I knew, like water, pouring from my lips, "...make of my prayer a fire that will burn away the veils..."* a mirage, you vanished just as I reached for you. I stopped trying to catch shadows, turned back to my prayer and waited as one does when the expected may never arrive, when one needs to let one foot follow the other, begins to keep a sense of maturity tucked in pockets, like bubble gum once stashed between denim and flesh inside a cotton pouch.
Body at rest, cloaked in darkness, eyes seeing only what spirit gives, we spent hours as we would someday. Velvet haze outlined scrolling scenes of more than I could imagine a marriage to be yet every cell demanded I was witnessing my own soon be life, to one day be unveiled from the sheath of night. When I found morning, undimmed was my knowing of us, our something I dare not simply call happiness, or any word as none I knew contained this midnight message.
Night after night, I began to see your form, one detail at a time, until only your face remained hidden. Months passing under such a spell wore on me, and when, in a year, I found myself moving through true space that once occupied my sleep, I couldn't breathe afternoons alone, knowing you must be near. I would pause mid step, hear each atom sing a familiar melody, catch my breath, gaze on an early autumn limb barely moving outside my bedroom window, balance a single tear, like an almost answered prayer, on black lashes.
Amid casual laughter, walking through reality, I finally saw you, face and all, nearly lost my balance, barely caught before anyone sensed a miracle unfold. Silence asked to be observed, wisdom called me to know for myself, pay attention, meditate, not hang my soul's decision on mystic allusions. I am known to be impatient, casting aside notions of careful consideration, but this time, I knew there was no other way.
When finally, amid practical dailiness, not under the spell of reliving, as I walked across my living room, I knew my waking wish for us, from conscious knowledge, time with you in flesh. I did not stop, sit where I stood, bow my head and cry. I continued to my destination, let the afternoon unfold, my whole being carried in certainty.
When, days later, you stood in my kitchen, looking for a way to manage words unexpected, unfamiliar with your life plans, when you tried to tell me what our friendship meant, I thanked God I had been given a year to prepare.
from the bedroom you trotted
big green
with satiny edges
trailing behind
right hand
pounding your breast
"nuss, nuss!"
auburn curls flying
in from the kitchen
i handed off tending
brown rice, tvp
(another small voice request)
we met
in grandma's lopsided recliner
up you climbed
never one to
settle quietly
gaze in my eyes
once latched
your feet began
to walk
along the chair
beside my head
until you were nearly
feet up vertical
holding you steady
down you eased
back into my arms
but only for a moment
small feet must rise
I thought
not knowing yet
how unique
the one I called son
every muscle within
your tiny frame
on assignment
given by a drive
we would later know
your need to create
in whatever sphere
of mundanity
you entered
when on first crawl
across our dining room
how you went
straight for the table
weaved your limbs
in and out
through low steadying bars
one chair
at a time
until the circuit was complete
I may have known
but mothers of the first
know anything
baby does is babies
until they meet
infant sibling
one who studies the air
he greets at dark morning
seconds after
his first breath
eyes looking first to east
then west
every inch of newly
emerged form
serene
cradled in mom's arms
then I knew again
when only one month new
your brother
studied faces so intently
from a nearly unmoving frame
others squirmed
tried to make light
feeling as if
their soul
had been inspected
by new gray eyes
I sensed their discomfort
awe and delight
all at once
when
as i held brother
my body barely
holding on
wondering how
one finds strength
to navigate
early years
up you jumped
a silly face
not for me
and earned
brother's first wide
toothless smile
I knew we were all
in love
From the age of seven to just before my 21st birthday I was under the impression that every time I sat down with pen and paper or word processor, I should be trying to write something good, deep, moving, complete. Fortunately, I was young and less critical. While I didn't think everything I wrote was great, I was content with the results enough to keep on. Unfortunately, I could tell my writing needed "something," but wasn't sure how to obtain the elusive creative "whatever it was."
Then in college I found and devoured "Writing Down the Bones," Natalie Goldberg. Finally, I was freed to just write. From then on until my first son started crawling (about 6 years later), if I wasn't working, I was usually filling a notebook, listening to my "voice," inspecting the corners of my mind, learning to open channels beyond myself and translate what I found into visible words.
I took to heart two of Natalie's rules of writing practice. First, don't stop your pen to edit or think. I often wrote, "I don't know what words to write next so blah diddy blah, how long until I get an idea that goes somewhere, blah, blah, blah, argh!!! I wonder what my mom meant when she said...." and I'd be off and running again. Second, when you come to "heat," - which I took to mean an intensity you almost want to run from - don't try to stay with the direction of what you were hoping to write, rather follow the heat as far as you can. In the same spirit, if you're in a ten minute timed exercise, don't stop at ten minutes if you're still swimming in a great intensity.
When my son started to crawl - and by that I mean he sped around on his hands and knees faster than his older cousin ran - I let go of physical writing temporarily. Being familiar with the idea of mental composting and the benefits (for a writer's writing) of being in the moment, I often reminded myself that while my kids were small, I was gathering life I would later introduce to paper or as it turned out, a lighted screen.
At the end of 20o9, writing asked for space again. Little by little, mostly on my first blog, I shared insights, ideas, memories, whatever my heart offered in the moment. In January 2010, inspired by a friend who is an amazing water color artist, I accepted the challenge to write 30 "finished" pieces of writing in 30 days. I made my intention public on facebook then got to work. This was different than letting words fly everywhere unconcerned with result. I was entering a new level of creativity.
Every day I wrote. Everyday I shared a link on facebook. The feedback was encouraging. When 30 days were spent, I felt like flying, much like a gymnast who learns a new skill on the uneven bars or an ice skater who finally rotates once around in the air between take off and landing.
Over the winter, spring and summer I was unexpectedly occupied with other things that, while exciting and interesting, didn't allow for much time to write. Then came free time, the approach of autumn and a desire to write... a lot! That's when I remembered my friend Sharon, aka mimetalker, and her blog with a built in audience?? Could it be? Yes!
On September 2nd at 12:36am, I hit publish on Open Salon for the first time. Over the next few days, I had fun writing and especially reading work from some obviosly very intelligent, thoughtful people. The fun lasted less than two weeks before I was completely intimidated and experiencing writers block for the first time in my life. In the face of such extraordinary talent, knowing my words would be read and probably compared to such well crafted work, I almost quit.
Luckily, Alysa Salzberg had already made contact. Her encouragement, kind comments and friendship were critical. One afternoon, mired in funk and self pity, I went for a bike ride. I hoped, but did not really believe, I might find an answer or at least a way out of the trap I had placed myself in.
Wind on my face, leaves crackling beneath my tires, close up faces of school children in finger snapping clusters, freed me enough to hear a small voiceless suggestion. "Write another 30 in 30 and don't worry about the results." I made a personal commitment right then. Bingo! I can't say the posts were amazing - most were lumpy and difficult to manage - but by October 13th, my hands and mind were free to work together once more.
So how do I cerebrate when the tank runs dry? Years ago, I watched smoke dance and mostly did whatever I wanted whenever I felt like, but since I kicked the nicotine habit over 13 years ago and am now blessed with beautiful children whose care and upbringing dictates most of my actions in a day, I try to enjoy my family, stay present, experience my neighborhood without a destination and write without intention. Then, when I do sit down with a specific idea, or to work on an existing project, my mind is happy to focus.
I rearranged furniture, making a new nest, one where my kids can easily curl up beside me, one away from the picture window and winter's wisps. When I move the recliner to the east wall where our futon was, I sweep up months of hidden life. Lost lego pieces nestled in hairy dust bunnies, a Playmobil sword gouged in the crack where we haven't yet installed edging for our new laminate and half of a red bead are placed back in proper bins in a room full of youthful disorder. The boys wisely keep distance. Devyn is on top of a four foot snow mound created by an efficient plow. Matthew is cross legged on his floor, engaged in a world of play foreign to me even when I was his age. I was often found with a pen in a sea of paper.
My boys can spend hours spinning an adventure with super heroes they've created. Magic boy plays a prominent role. He has no weakness. Matthew created him. Devyn, try as he might, cannot convince his normally pliable sibling that Magic boy needs a weakness. He sighs at the injustice of trying to battle Magic boy, but usually manages to play along.
When I call Devyn in, I put him to work, wet and dry swiffering. I'm lucky. He doesn't balk but he has no interest in going over the floor twice. I know this because he asks with tilted head, "Why do I need a wet cloth out here?" I tell him he'll know when the floors are done. Fifteen minutes later, he proudly shows me a damp gray sheet before adding it to the garbage.
I move our life around now similar to how I used to change my life when the lure of financial chaos still had me by the throat. Instead of looking for new living rooms, I make ours new.
For a couple days I have been followed by shadows of disbelief. I move and speak as if all is well, but my muscles tighten against thoughts of my own irrelevance, incompetence, uselessness. These are not dominating notions anymore. Rather, they are a film over my efforts, a sickening green slime of lies masquerading as reality. These days I can look at them the way one glances sideways at a man yelling nonsensical syllables in a corner of the subway station. But I hear and feel them as if they know me.
When I was first married, this shadow of gloom crept up on my back after every warm gathering we hosted, which was often as we both love spontaneous company and a home filled with laughter. It crept up after every experience that had once been merely a hope on my list of visions and dreams for my life. Though during these episodes of darkness I knew what was real and what was knee jerk defense from that part of me determined to keep a low profile lest others see the real me, I was no less desirous of escape from the discomfort, still very susceptible to weakening and a sense that I was a failure (evidence be damned!).
Over time, I've been granted weeks, even months at a time full of wonderful experiences followed by rational delight and reasonable feelings of serenity.
Then one day, with no logical trigger, I find myself dodging darts of futility, having inner conversations with an inconsiderate critic, measuring my breathing to relax out of a faceless mounting tension. In response, I pray longer, let a list of gratitudes scroll through my inner hearing, sing into sadness in hopes of shedding the kind of tears that wash away pain and I reach for order. Yesterday I took a damp cloth to the floorboards in the bathroom, moved up to the walls, and every other surface. Soon I was looking around at a brighter place to take care of business. I made an important decision in the process. If ever we build our own house, the bathroom will be large and round. The toilet, tub and sink will be in the center. This way, I don't have to reach around a lovely porcelain chair to clean all sides and clearing corners of wet dust won't require special tools.
I say no logical trigger, but there always is one, whether I recognize it or not. Last night, I finally got to arranging money for the week. When I checked on two of our accounts, I discovered the bank thought we had less money than I had recorded in our savings log. Maybe this wouldn't send most other people into fits of panic and anxiety, cold sweats and near terror but I was a mess. The shadows I had been trying to manage materialized, gathered in too close. I knew I had to say something to David and I was sure he would be angry, sure he would tell me how stupid I am. No matter that the scenario I feared does not occur in our marriage, early conditioning presets were lit up, and I could not see today, only a lifetime ago existed.
Davidasked questions until he understood my concern. Then he looked at our recent bank statements. In a short time, we knew what happened. No big deal. During a particularly busy time, I had failed to record certain transactions anywhere besides our main checking account. Because we did find them recorded in at least one place, he wasn't alarmed and I was able to clam down, look up and stop acting like Chicken Little.
Moving furniture this afternoon gave me closure to last night's finale, provided a sense of freshness and possibility, a new view.
So now our home is cleaner, more logically arranged, we have clarity about our finances and I'm serene. Maybe I should have waited on sorting out money until after tackling the cabinet below the kitchen sink. Too late. I'm happy to sit here now, listen to folk music and weave words to tell a tale of life.
Between dawn and daylight I move through a river of sacred moments as thoughts I ache to keep move like beautiful, slow, vanishing butterflies.
That's when I visit Sasha.
Barely after dark lifts, snowy sky a mist gray, I'm standing in Bernice's living room, alone, listening to her heater, listening to silence. I'm waiting for Sasha. She's outside, paws sinking into crunchy snow with each step. I watch her for a few seconds, then turn my back to an empty room. I have no face, no voice.
When I left home, my husband and boys were sound asleep.
My first words to Bernice spoken two years ago, "You bought my house!" were met with a smile and a "Well alright then!" I told her I'm her Helen's daughter, that we changed our mind only a few hours before making an offer on the house she's just moved in to. For months after we chose a smaller one story a couple miles south, my younger son would sigh, "I wanted the two story." He listened a few seconds as Bernice and I moved through proper introductions, walked past us and right through her front door. I'm lucky. She smiled at his back, called out, "Go ahead, Joshua is inside." Josh is her 11 year old son. Bernice is my mom's neighbor and, after an introduction that we both recognized as meeting a sister, one of my closest friends.
Now I'm in her living room at first light on Christmas eve, sharing space with an ornately lit pine, a shadow in its holy glow.
Dawn is slow in winter. I'm standing nowhere, surprised when Sasha's at the back door after having inspected most of the yard. She's ready to eat breakfast, which takes less than thirty seconds, then she wants love. I've been informed I spoiled her over Thanksgiving when they went north. Now her small, shaggy face is turned up to mine, her body wagging. I sit on the floor in front of the couch, pat my legs. All the while I pet her she looks at me adoringly. I've never owned a dog but I understand now.
Soon she's snuggled along my leg. I plan to get up soon, head back to my family, my bed, when I notice she's shivering. Plans change. We sit together, me giving her scritches and pets. I wait until her body doesn't shake, until she makes her own way back to the doggy bed.
Home again, I crawl back under our king size comforter, snuggle up to my husband and drift back to sleep, the full light of new day settling over an early magic... until the dawn of Christmas morning, when Sasha and I start the day together once more.
unwritten words visit
we sit for coffee
chocolate cake
we spin a slice
of mystery
a word or two
between
casual remarks
to children weaving
worlds nearby
a moment arrives
i recognize
its mesmerizing
gaze
lean in to hear
tuck my legs
beneath me
bow before a lighted altar
i breathe
into
each syllable
sweat
in silent exertion
minutes fly
hours
alone again
i stretch up
pull my arms
together
breathe out
a heavy sigh
gaze past winter
outside my window
listen for a telling
time here spent
i
climb
through
a
small
opening
back
into
my
life
Devyn is 2. We've only just moved into our RV. He and I are alone after dark for the first time. Nothing is the same. We're not in a neighborhood with head lights dragging shadows along our walls, but in a campground 10 miles out of town. Our home is foreign. I'm the foreigner. Devyn is at home anywhere with anyone. He's alone with mommy. We've eaten and there's no plan but to wait for daddy. Outside, darkness. Inside, paneled walls, late 70's orange and green furniture, ghosts of hope and visions of what may come, but at this moment, there is only us and time loses meaning, refuses to inch forward. Nothing else to clean, nothing else to read, nothing else to distract myself and I don't even know that's what I've been doing.
Devyn sees none of this. He sees me slowing down. He knows what he likes, what we always do when mom sits down. First he nurses, then we read. Only this time, grandma isn't in the next recliner sipping hot tea and David isn't telling jokes from the couch. There is only me and a magnificent spirit, a spirit in my care and I'm ready to break apart, ready to climb straight out of my skin. Instead I breathe into the moment. I have no choice. Devyn's brought a book of Mother Goose nursery rhymes to my lap, a book we haven't read before. Were sitting in a fake-velvet chair. My feet are up on a low round table covered with yellow shag carpet. To my left is a small square of safety glass and brown wall. Ahead I see a two inch painted, porcelain kitten with a ball of yarn stuck with Velcro atop the mini cabinet containing every key we may use and a few brittle packages of fuses.
I'm not struck by the immensity of our next adventure or how we'll afford to take off before winter. I'm hovering on the brink of anxiety mixed with sadness and a warmth I've never felt. This small living space makes us two souls floating as if in a night dream. I'm the big one, the one who is supposed to love and keep safe the small, fragile one. I am the one who is supposed to help the other be kind, happy, well adjusted. Somewhere in a yet unseen cavern of my being I wonder how one so broken and awkward can ever succeed at being his mother.
Devyn is so tiny for his age, when he sits in my lap, even my 5'4, 125lb frame contains all but his legs that hang just barely over the chair. "Mommy, read," he says, handing me his little book of pastel drawings.
As I sing each word, we rock in time.
I begin to wonder about writing every day, or rather posting. Then I tell myself to take a day off, do something else with my free time. But I don't want to. Writing, hitting publish, reading other blogs, commenting, reading comments to my posts and sometimes commenting back, often adding a link to facebook and enjoying a conversation there... all these bits of communication nourish me.
Today I've baked a chocolate mint cake with chocolate mint icing, rotated laundry, walked four miles, made friends with an acquaintance, spent the afternoon at an indoor play area enjoying the smiles on my boys as they sprinted past, drove us home accompanied by a steady click of hailsnowsleet bouncing off our van roof and a third child. Lego, Playmobil, Pokemon cards and wiggly boys adorn my floor.
Last night I was feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. Writing and sharing helps this helpless feeling fade. On my way to sleep at nearly 6am, sad and determined, I mapped out the "next" day: wake in a few short hours, break routine, let a telephone ACA meeting and writing a poem to/about my inner child be my morning prayers, pray later while getting ready for the social part of the day, meet friends where our kids can run and we can walk.
That's how things went except I baked a cake early and opted to write later, which is now, in the company of children wrapped in make-believe.
I'm writing to Wailin' Jennys, repeating words frequently, my fingers moving slow, the sadness of healing settling in once more. I don't mind the sadness. I like tears better than apathy, heaviness over nothing. None of them are continual, more like waves, carrying my heart on a journey I can't experience through senses but through remembering a sense of what I almost knew before I grew up.
As an adult I know facts, I know reason, hold too fast to logic. As a child I knew what I knew fiercely, felt like a freight train barreling through life, but had no inner permission to hang onto sadness, even when all around me crumbled.
So now? Now I'm a statue when a wave rises. Don't want to whistle past. No rush. Now I wait, listen to her song. Knowing she can sing helps my heart.
I'm not familiar with Final Fantasy. I just love this song. The images are beautiful too.
A few months after Kori moved more than a thousand miles southwest, I learned algebra with my sixteen year old traveling babysitter (brother of a fellow skater), all the way to her new house, above clickety-clack, clickety-clack, one whole night and day.
One night, after dinner, we drove past luminarias, one after another for miles, resting on red stucco. We sang Away in a Manger, words never heard before. Sweetness gave me tears. We sang when I asked, please, I need to hear our voices rise again.
A tree I expected, gifts too, piled beneath. Each day before Christmas morning we wandered store aisles, seeking perfect generosity. I could not have known there would be so many on the awaited morning, or how they would appear to be bathed in magic.
Each night, a new adventure. Taco eating contest, singing along magic lights, skating on Los Alamos. I didn't see the moon that trip, tall as a ten story, sitting at the end of their block, but now I know, if I had looked at just the right moment, I would see an enormous ball of light, one I might have walked to.
Children play wild. Most memories fade, grow hazy on the edges, file themselves deep in time gone. I slept in my friend's room, ate with her family, won the taco eating contest, raced Kori in our scuffed white skates, jumping and spinning with floppy arms. Only a picture of luminarias, Jesus without a bed, my sadness for Him, my adoration of our mingled voices telling so two thousand years later, and waking to presents washed in a ray of dawn, many more than I remembered from the night before, my name written over and over beneath those pine needles, remain outlined in their reality.
Going home two weeks later, clickety-clack, with my first companions eighteen year old sister. Up all night in the dining car with a table full of barely adults. Intellectual debate for the first time, like only can happen with those on the brink, ready to tip out of childhood. I kept up, drinking in easy laughter as it gave way again and again to weighty matters, but always back to joy. We returned to our seat long after dawn.
Last night as I meditated on J D Smith's courage witnessed poetry challenge, I thought of my parents journey that started when I was 15. I was too tired to start writing then, but words, images and something similar to music regarding their courage lulled me to sleep. When I sat down to write today, two poems began to form. I can't seem to merge or separate them completely. The first is general, a flash look at what I've witnessed over the years in the lives of so many. The second is specific to my family.
Part 1
we want a glorious recovery from addiction
one everyone will applaud
recognize for what it is
a Herculean effort to be normal
functional
not destroy our life one day at a time
watching it wither and fade
yellow roses from a funeral
grow moldy at the stem in dirty water
remember a life that could have been something great
not gone down the drain
yet those near us have often stopped watching
our decline
we don't want to be one of those stories on the nightly news
that man who went crazy
woman who ran into a child and father
on her way home
from the bar
we don't want to be the family that implodes
doesn't make the nightly news
homeless people only hit the press in batches
over Holidays when sympathy brings advertisers
addiction day by day
a decline into hell
a soft bed of excuses
easy
comfortable
oversights
indulgences
avoiding responsibility
no one incident seeming foul enough to drown the ship
until one nearly does
the whole family dangles over a cliff
attached to the abuser
waiting to see
if daddy will survive this time
if mom paid the mortgage
light bill
will all the food in the fridge go bad
again
this time
no one is around to help
they've been around
in the past
waiting as friends and loved ones will
ready to lend a hand
offer support
an ear
a dollar
but that time has spent itself
wasted on emergencies created by
addiction
to alcohol
narcotics
sex
food
debt
poverty
or nothingness
an addiction to failure
not trying
when trying would nearly ensure success
success would be so foreign as to feel criminal
the children
life as usual
not what they want
all they know
easily carried for generations
blind and broken
until one person wakes up
lets up
gives up the mirage
instant comfort given
another bottle
deal
line
chance
injection
eating binge
one night stand
until one person lets go
a ghost of control
dares to look
face to face at their deadly chaos
into the faces of their children
husband
wife
sister
brother
mother
father
finally falls on their knees before... before... at least a bone deep knowing their way will only destroy and just maybe
before God
and begins to
climb
When I was 15, my parents embarked on a path of recovery that started by lifting the veil on generational insanity (through various programs) which later led to recovery from addiction to compulsive debting, fear, co-dependence and dry alcoholism (manifesting as a string of lost jobs and destructive rages).
Part 2
I wish I could say recovery was beautiful
a cinema climax
ultimate victory
following
scenes through time made
joyful
by musical accompaniment
I cannot
my parents faced their
demons of destruction
one day at a time
though the damage was done
our lives continued to outwardly crumble
the next four years
they would lose
their house
car
marriage
eventually
their lives made sense
were made whole
a beacon of light to countless others
but only after
years
painful lessons
laced with victories
few could see
years would pass before I understood
As my parents dug out
from the rubble
addiction left behind
day by day
year by year
I watched
12 years later
after finally landing
on my own
adult knees
face covered in shame
I would begin
struggle through
the same work
different details
only then would I know
because of them
I witness courage
every time
another human being
begins
to
recover
If I were to write today
I would say
outside our front door
cold winds blow
below zero
inside our house
dusty towels snuggle against our front and back doors
keeping out brother winds skinny fingers
I would share a long
incomplete
grateful for sentence
hot decaf with eggnog, children playing legos, three people in pajamas, one mom under a blanket, Kodo blessing us from a desk top computer, hazelnut chocolate, potato chips, homemade dip, facebook
Open Salon
and how
Monday can
look
just this way for us
I would want to write a poem with no form
then I'd get back to working on a short story that's been keeping me company night and day, whether I'm sitting with it's physical being or not
As another departs
when I must say goodbye
until my cage opens
someday
I pray
Aunt Alma, will you hold her hand
show him around
love her like a mother
tell them stories
of how you made your way
Denise, your smile a radiant glow
I dreamed rainbow robes
flowed beneath your outstretched arms
inviting us to celebrate
your homecoming
when morning looks in
my cross legged form
head bent remembering
through an inner vision
dance all of you
grandmas, grandpas, friends
mentors I never met in flesh
always more tears for guides
who held my brokenness
never wavered
Each one glides into forever
inside my soul earth splits open
atoms shift
make room for all you can do now
beyond imaginings I entertain
In faint whisperings
I hear you
feel you
a tickling breeze
on my face
I see you
when butterflies land
on my shoulder
after I've ached
for one more minute with you
When no flowers are near
yet a scent of roses
comes and comes
across a gray city scape
I know you are giving again
Years from now
when everyone I know gathers
beyond the veil
when I dance one among
I pray we will only know each of us be
Family
I stayed up until 4am with you
enchanted by your melodious voice
hanging on every word
I sat so still in your glow
when I dared move, slowly
I uncoiled one limb at a time
I did not wish to say good night
to you my dear
when sleepiness closed my eyes
I should have worried not
for you accompanied me
even in slumber
whispering in my thoughts
between dreams
greeting me at daybreak
When I have typed
the final word
will you still come for tea
You
My first
short story
My mom knew I would love a gamer (D&D type) before I did. She sent herself a letter with his name on it to prove out the timing of her Aha! moment to any doubters. That letter is in our wedding album, unopened, next to the news print announcement.
I knew the moment he sleepily (surprised to see his new friend) opened his front door one Sunday afternoon in October. A night dream, where I was aware I would marry the main character, came rushing back in full color, only this time, his face wasn't blacked out. I nearly passed out! I didn't tell a soul for weeks. Not until I told him.
We sing together, like yesterday, (trying to) harmonize through "The Gambler." He tells bed time stories with commendable dramatics. He dances like a goose to make me laugh. He collects interesting bits of news to keep me entertained when I call him at work needing a mental break. He succeeds in preparing food like an artist aiming for perfect flavor.
He takes fatherhood seriously. Right now? He's with our boys, making sure this first opportunity to make snow forts and tunnels is seized. Many nights he can be found on the laminate across from a Pokemon board, playing "just one more game." Minor house repairs can wait because little boys grow up fast. He takes motherhood seriously too.
He believes one of his responsibilities is to make sure I get ample breaks from being full time teacher/homemaker. He believes I have important work to do out in the world (much of it unpaid, like Soul Miners) and one of his jobs is provide support. He believes he has important work to do so he's always in the process of learning.
a poem about you love?
never thought to
since poetry's not your thing
not even a smidgen
I can tell by your crinkled nose
lost look
trying not to giggle
as you try to catch words
running
down
the
page
in
no
particular
order?
I smile
your heart is enough
you laughter like a wind chime
even now
after 11 years
I wait for it
a poem?
no
words can not yet hold you
I do
"The education and training of children is among the most meritorious acts of humankind..." - Abdu'l-Baha
In honor of my friend Rebecca's dedication to her countless children and because the efforts of teachers are so often overlooked, I'm suggesting each of us write about a teacher who changed our life for the better that their dedication to education be honored publicly. I'm writing about teachers I had as a child. Many of us have also had teachers change our lives positively as adults in unexpected ways. Every one of them is important.
To Honor a Teacher (or two) -Sandy and Alanzo Coleman
I got lucky. I can look back and identify several teachers who made a significant positive impact on my life. For now, I choose two to honor. In all my years as a student, they stand out as the brightest lights. They were a young married couple who taught together. Every summer for three years, from eight to ten years old, I spent weekday mornings at their temporarily housed Baha'i school. They gave us cool projects, like building a model of the Baha'i House of Worship in Wilmette out of Popsicle sticks. Somewhere on earth is a Polaroid of eight year old me, hair a choppy mess, smiling bright, kneeling beside my amateur model. They challenged and encouraged me to memorize prayers. Under their loving care, I memorized a 654 word prayer. I appreciated the momma bear soft reading corner under a window, especially on sunny days. That's where Shel Silverstein and I played with words for hours. In my last year in Sandy and Alanzo's summer class room, we spent a while every day rehearsing songs they wrote. At summer's end, we piled into a recording studio and gave our best for a two tape set called, "A Teacher's Gift." A few months later, I received a copy in the mail.
I still listen to our beautiful child voices and sing along while I do dishes and my children build Lego mega ships (or any number of amazing structures). There's one song where Sandy's voice rings out like an angel. Whenever I'm about to hear her voice, I stop what I'm doing, close my eyes and make a space in my being for a magic that always arrives. On the inside of the jacket, there's a special note of thanks to two students. I'm one of them. Being able to see my name in black and white associated with my best memories often carried me through dark days as a struggling teen. To me, those 2 tapes are more precious than the most breath taking sunrise.
I've just described tangible evidence of their work as teachers. That's not where their magic lived though. They had my heart because I was important to them. I could tell each of us were. Rather than feel jealous, I felt like I was part of a family.
One day at lunch, we went to the park near Noyes street El Stop. While I ate bologna and mayo on Wonder bread, they ate trail mix and fresh peaches. Food was the topic of on the table. Alanzo mentioned an unusually talented group called breatharians. They had the seemingly miraculous ability to walk into any building where food was being prepared and sniff just so to obtain sufficient nutrition to sustain them on nothing but a steady diet of tasty aromas. I wanted to believe him so badly! For fun, I carried the joke one step further, demonstrating their technique. Soon we were all doubled over, extrapolating all sorts of possibilities for how these breatharians worked. This scene was like so many others with these teachers of life and happiness.
I was ten. They were in their early twenties. Yet... there was no distinction between us. Joy was joy, sharable by anyone who chooses to and these radiant souls who dedicated their lives to the education of children, emitted love, joy and respect with a knowing that, of course every child is a jewel just waiting to shine.
I found them years later. They're still teaching. We're still in touch. If they didn't live across the country, I would love my boys to be their students, fully trusting their judgment in every way every day.
God Bless you dear friends. One day, I'll take the journey out west with my family, just to thank you in person.
it's not much, this slow motion dance after first snow
under blankets, letting Wailin' Jenny's wrap around my shoulders
daddy asleep or reading quiet in our bedroom
let me sleep four hours earlier
I sit, listening to children braille late evening, put away clothes
replay movies around the house made on dad's phone
I hear giggles from a little one who loves his family
wants to hug us all the time
vaguely I desire chocolate
prayer
another nap
to work on a piece about living in a hotel
when I gave birth to our second son
hot decaf with eggnog
it's none and all of this I want
D's theater teacher spent the afternoon here
going over lines and singing songs
(I love hearing their voices together)
tasting cheese cake batter, eating cookies, playing Pokemon
I want a clean house
every corner swept, dish put away, cloth managed
every piece in it's place
a meditation carrying me on velvet wings of half knowing, not probing
letting be
life should be as beautiful as my vision for it
or nearly so
a steady trot of effort brings us closer even now
I am patient
their harmony settle like morning dew on my eyelashes
I want to wait to write
until my mind will give what my heart offers
still I call aloud
when I reach for you, we're passing by as strangers
who've known each other since eternity began
when you smile in return
I wonder if you know too
every one of us
I've written notes
in my mind
for weeks
I was going to tell a story
like children do
compose it for breakfast
like grown ups do
with morning coffee
I was going to write a dance
then you might know how much I love her
how she lived in our bedroom at twilight
every bed time for a fortnight
almost a hundred years since her death
tramping brush
wading muddy rivers
full of heart ache
full of God's grace
I hold her memory in my soul
tell you how I cried for her when she lay motionless
in a pool of her own blood
how I held my breath each time she disappeared in plain sight
cried with her
when another woman answered her husband's door
cried in grateful praise of her
when she freed captives
held soldiers nearly dying/drifting away
and a thousand other miracles of love
I was going to tell you how my son
his heart like silver glass, rippling at dawn
loves Moses too
cried beside me
when she sang
Swing Low Sweet Chariot
and was carried home
but I don't know how to begin
Harriet Tumban died on March 10th, 1913