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
I decided to take on the NaNoWriMo challenge.
Every day since November 1st I’ve written a little more of a first draft of my fist book. The only exception was the day of Joe’s funeral.
I finished today!
By the time I was wrapping up yesterday’s writing, I could see 50,000 words were too few. I closed my session by writing an outline. Today I picked up a few paragraphs where the outline left off, but again, I could see there were countless hours of writing left to tell the story. I outlined again, right up to the final scene.
True to my plan, I’m going to stop with what I have now and let my words sit unread by me or anyone else for the next month.
Come January, I’ll gather 29 days of thoughts and begin the next part of this process, taking my time to flesh out each scene, develop dialogue, see better who these people are living in black and white on the screen and vivid color in my mind.
I thought surely I’d do a happy dance as I saved the last pages. Instead, my inner conversation ceased and a wide space opened for a slow exhale and my eyes filled with tears of gratitude.
can you write a poem after midnight dark
hold each word in a haze of drifting
rhythm rocking you to sleep
can you call your poem home
form its letters on sunlit parchment
swaying hazy eyed
or does another poem
write itself beneath your pen
while you breathe in morning
Last Monday, a creeping unpleasant feeling worked it’s way behind my eyes. This wisp of foulness increased slowly but steadily until, by Wednesday, I was trying not be sour about the Holiday weekend.
In our home, traditional Holidays were ignored. We enjoyed other people’s hospitality, but we never hosted Thanksgiving. On years when we didn’t go to anyone’s house, my parents stayed in their pajamas all day and did nothing (as far as I could tell). The house was quiet. The phone didn’t ring off the hook like normal. Businesses were closed, streets empty. I wandered from room to room, gathering a cloud of self pity my parents completely ignored. Good for them too. They both worked and we had an active extra curricular life full of ice skating as a family and gymnastics for me.
As a parent now, I work hard to make Holidays fun for our family even though we don’t celebrate traditional Holidays either, at least not traditionally. For Thanksgiving, my mom and I often co-host a potluck for lone friends, families who want to join us and international students. We tell everyone to bring whatever they want. For years we’ve been eating spaghetti, Chinese dumplings and oatmeal crisp for Thanksgiving. Some years we have a game day too, or drumming or both or just a lot of laughing and telling stories. And we always go around the room giving thanks. We do about the same for Christmas.
This year threatened to be different. My husband was out of town for work, my mom was out of town with mimetalker (I hear they’re having an incredible time). I was dog sitting and keeping an eye on my dad and I failed to plan a definite get together.
Either we got lucky or the universe heard my pitiful inner conversation because a loose plan to cook and play with a family we’re like family with panned out for Thanksgiving day. While we cooked and visited, our children wreaked giggly havoc in the next room with a rope and a chair on wheels. When we parted ways at 5pm, all were full and happy.
Friday, we went to visit a dear family with four girls who are all grown. Three are well into their careers and life long relationships. One is in college. We miss them all. I figured we’d visit for a short while so not to impose on their family time, but we stayed for hours, meeting significant others whose pictures we see on facebook regularly, told stories and laughed. My boys were perfectly behaved, joining in the relaxed visiting as natural as water flows (they do grow up fast). We drove home with full hearts.
Saturday we went to the only definitely planned gathering with my husband’s family, a potluck with a traditional bent. We offered apple cider cake. Jigsaw puzzles were put together, bridge games roared, children played a game of hide and seek that sounded like a happily screaming elephant tromping up and down stairs and for a while, we played a series of youtube videos of classic musical scenes like, “Make em Laugh” from Singin’ in the Rain. When we left to go to our friends house and let the dog out, my skin was still tingling with the warmth of being loved and embraced by people I joyfully call family.
Then… my husband arrived home earlier this afternoon. Our conversation did it’s usual meandering between joking around and practical speak. Our younger guy shows dad his left over dressing (a first in his young life) and now dad knows there might be more at his mom’s house. Fast forward an hour and we’ve made plans to spend the evening together with his brother and sister and their families, his mom and maybe grandma and possibly two other families we’re close to for a potluck/game night so my husband can partake of Holiday spirit.
So I’m off to make cream cheese frosting for an apple cider cake I made this afternoon and then onto the festivities!
walking sideways
baking apple cider cake/writing because I have to
messing up knock knock jokes
dog sitting/grandpa checking/too much just this moment/okay before and after now
precious boy follows me around the kitchen, standing still in my path
my smile forms in half between prayers I forgot to offer when I woke
lego starwars commentary wafts in, between syllables
cake in the oven, I sit on the edge of my bed, hear quiet for the first time in days, when I open my heart to pray, I sing each word
“Is there any Remover of difficulties save God? Say: Praised be God! He is God! All are His servants, and all abide by His bidding!”*
for one friend, for another, a third is given, my smile opens whole
I remember
if we are late to the afternoon party, our sky will stay put/not fall into our eyes/how often do I tell my son to calm him
no longer holding my shoulders too high, moving in freed space, I breathe
when a song about poopy heads wafts by, I even giggle
grouchy momma lingers still, snapping for spilled water, forgotten instructions
but she’s more vulnerable to a boy who tip toes into the kitchen with mismatched socks, asking that we pretend the house is made of magic fire lights (huh?)
*a Baha’i Prayer
SEXISM 1. discriminatory or abusive behavior towards members of the opposite sex
I was 26 and independent, sitting on a curb outside Whole Foods on a cool summer night, chatting on my cell, sipping an iced cappuccino.
Shaun was talking about the moments of awakening participants experienced at a conference he’d recently attended, “The Equality of Men and Women.” He told about honest dialogue between men and women in the main room, how grown men cried, apologizing for their mistake of thoughtlessly seeing women were less important and treating them accordingly. I stopped listening for a second. Next came tears, then for the first time, I realized sexism was real and had touched my life. Before this night, I was convinced I had out maneuvered the brand of evil that marked me as an object, as a lesser human being, soley based on showing up in the world female.
At the corner store below our apartment I was the only customer again. The new owner, and Indian man, came around from behind the counter into the aisle behind where I stood deciding which soft drink to spend my allowance on. He reached both hands up and started rubbing my shoulders. I shook him off. He smiled, gave a slight grunting laugh and walked away. Any time I was alone in the store he did this, for months, so I gave it no thought. He walked away after all. Until the day he didn’t. That day he bent low and kissed my neck. I am strong and have always been praised for it. He had crossed the line and I knew it. I reached back with a sideways fist and hit him where my hand landed, as hard as I could. With injured pride he raised his voice angrily asking why did I do that! Did I answer? He walked back behind the counter. I walked to the cash register, paid for my snack and left. He no longer come around from behind the counter though I continued to shop there for 3 more years. He never spoke to me again. Was this to punish me or wisdom on his part? I was 12.
Shaun told me how women were pouring out stories of discrimination and abuse to their haunted but loving audience of men they knew intimately, as friends or as acquaintances. How had I missed the elephant? I heard myself telling Shaun I was unaware of what most women experience as I have so few female friends. “Women are…annoying.” As the words fell off my lips I trembled in shame and recognition.
Until 5th grade when one boy shot up a head above everyone else and confidently challenged me to a match he knew he could win, I was arm wrestling champion of my school class and of my neighborhood. Kids lined up on a metal train at the park hoping to beat my record. At camp summer before 8th grade, I rode that 48 bike trail coming in ahead of everyone at each rest area, which wasn’t easy since a pack of threatened, though good-natured, boys determined to beat me to each “finish” after I “won” coming in to our first stop.
Shaun laughed slightly in recognition at my verbal fumble (he faced his own shame at the conference), at my sad realization that I thought I was better than most women, that I chose to judge a group of people based on one factor and so avoid most of them.
My best friend Mary was gang raped by two 21 year old men that hung around fountain square hoping to buy young women alcohol (I didn’t realize their intention until years later). We knew them as familiar and weren’t threatened. They came around for months before that disgusting helpless afternoon. Then they disappeared. I get sick in my throat as I bring them to mind enough to write a simple description. They both had strained speech, smiled to one side revealing teeth yellow from smoke. I walked to my friends house the way I did most afternoons and found our mutual friend Jenny hysterical, pacing in the front yard. She told me what was going on in the north bedroom. Sadly, neither of us, both latch key children, had been prepared to see this as an emergency, or we might have called the police. Truthfully we were stuck, since our friend was drunk, having stolen the alcohol from her parents and now too drunk to say yes or no for herself. We had no idea how to navigate the next right move without stepping on one land mine or another. My memory of that day goes blank after a desperate expression crosses Jenny’s face. We were 15.
Shaun continued to paint a beautiful picture of lives renewed, couples grown closer, friendships mended and forged. I listened quietly letting tears drop off my face. I was still on the curb. People walked by as if they hadn’t noticed the earth shift.
Images of friends I had not talked to or seen in years flooded my mind. Like a terrible dance I witnessed what I previously missed. Women, girls, making themselves less to catch a man if only for a night, if only so he would stay in the conversation and not think her intimidating. I replayed the day I decided not to try out for cheer leading. I was at the home of a girl I only knew by sight at school, practicing for tryouts. Every other word from her mouth insulted a friend who wasn’t there to defend herself. Do men do this?? I have no idea. Our crowd wasn’t perfect, but we did respect each other most of the time and if we did have a problem it was usually laid out somewhat thoughtfully with hope for solutions.
I waited tables at a diner on State Street. I often went out back to have a cigarette and look at small patches of sky between gray sky scrapers. Occasionally, too often, the night busboy would come up behind me, push my braid over and try to rub my back. Every time I said no and shook him off. Since he’d always stop I never reported it to the owner who was like a father to me. After months of this stubborn failure to be respectful he may have figured he should move faster, that maybe I wouldn’t brush him off if he could get me close enough for me to enjoy his touch. One evening, outside the back door, he pulled my braid aside, pressed close to my body and kissed my back. I am strong and have always been praised for it. He had crossed the line and I knew it. I reached back with a sideways fist and hit him where my hand landed, as hard as I could. With injured pride but otherwise intact, he raised his voice angrily asking why did I do that! Did I answer? We walked back to the dining room. I went back to quietly filling salt shakers. He pulled the white towel from the side of his apron and cleaned a table the night’s last customers had just left. He never spoke to me again. Was this to punish me or wisdom on his part? I was 22.
Even in a family that focuses on gender equality, sexism can live. How can one stay dry in the ocean? When I was first married, I noticed my dad ask my husband to do things he used to ask me to do, things typically thought of as man’s work. I wish I could remember specific examples. At the time I was amused. My husband noticed too. We both knew it on purpose or because my dad thought I was weak. I could say my father was simply pleased to have another man around, interested in helping David feel a part of things. Maybe this is all it was. But I think it was an automatic reaction to years of societal training that taught him a woman should be called on to assist in certain matters only when a man can not be found.
Like that classic song, “I Was Gonna Be an Engineer.”
I changed some names for obvious reasons.
I only chose a few examples that came to mind as I wrote this. Unfortunately, I could have added several paragraphs.
This is a revision of one of my first posts on OS.
unaware
I am
breathing
sun dust
placeless
invisible
free
of me
no reflection
time sleeps
ash hangs
beneath billows
ringlet rainbow descends
cities
storms
windmills
palace of swirls
I fly
see nothing
save purple
teal
sky streaks
pinwheels
dance
splashing down
awake
dusk settles
heavy inhale
soft sigh
I alight
witness to
creativity
