Oh, faint heart
be now strong
with love of life
and joyous song!
Receive what's good
enlighten minds
expand my soul -
make it kind.
Bless my eyes to see
the beauty that abounds
in each life, the world -
my head be crowned!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Autumn
The slanting, golden light
ushers in
the beginning
of a chill in the air.
Leaves turn dry
and curled bark drops,
casting faint shadows
on the grass,
signaling an end
to warm, summer days -
beckoning longer twilights
and warm, winter nights.
ushers in
the beginning
of a chill in the air.
Leaves turn dry
and curled bark drops,
casting faint shadows
on the grass,
signaling an end
to warm, summer days -
beckoning longer twilights
and warm, winter nights.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Together or Apart
Two minus one
only yields null,
if we view
the cup half empty,
and not half full.
We are whole as we are,
not wanting, not spare -
for God made
woman and man
so fair.
only yields null,
if we view
the cup half empty,
and not half full.
We are whole as we are,
not wanting, not spare -
for God made
woman and man
so fair.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
A Long, Green Lawn
It began like any relationship - lunches out, talking on the phone, hanging out at each other's places. When going out to dinner, it was understood that most of the time they went Dutch. She drove a better car than him, a shiny new Accord compared with his beat-up, yellow Civic. They appeared to be equally matched in dress.
The first hint was the summer she was invited to join his family at Martha's Vineyard. Never having been to the Vineyard or even Cape Cod before, she wasn't sure what to expect. Trying to sense the tiny details, she noticed his luggage appeared modest and he wasn't packing fancy - just shorts, tee shirts, and a pair of boat shoes. Excited, she decided to go shopping and carefully chose a pair of white capris, a striped, bateau neck tee, and white sandals. The bathing suit presented a problem. Since it was meant to be a family get-together, she opted for a modest black tank, taking a little chance with the red trim.
All set to go, they boarded the plane together, eyeing the rear for their coach class seats.
His mother and father were waiting at the airport. Feeling keenly observed, she exerted energy to be polite, yet warm. He made simple introductions and the party clamored into in a rusty white station wagon, with bits of wood alongside. What are they called? Woodies? They drove slowly, for what seemed like a long time, with relaxed and friendly talk along the way. She looked out the window as they passed small, wooden houses with cedar shake roofs and other homes set back, too difficult to make out. When they pulled up to a stately white mansion perched atop a long, green lawn, it dawned on her what she had gotten into.
And she was right. There were golf lessons at the club in the morning, sailing and fishing for bluefish in the afternoon, boat rides to watch muted, watercolor sunsets, bike parties to pick wild berries, carefully packed picnics, special buckets set aside for digging clams. At night the talk was about politics, literature, and music - interjected with delicate probes into her family background. The brothers made up a trio and sang robustly, harmonizing salty-dog ballads for our amusement and pleasure.
Was it carefully orchestrated, this disguise of worn out tennis shoes, faded hats sporting frayed edges, not driving a showy car? What sort of people did this and why? She realized she was in the company of old money - solid, comfortable, and almost invisible. It didn't show up in the stuff of newer, less restrained wealth. Unfamiliar as it was to her, it was still such a pleasant place to be. Imagine living with such a long, green lawn.
The first hint was the summer she was invited to join his family at Martha's Vineyard. Never having been to the Vineyard or even Cape Cod before, she wasn't sure what to expect. Trying to sense the tiny details, she noticed his luggage appeared modest and he wasn't packing fancy - just shorts, tee shirts, and a pair of boat shoes. Excited, she decided to go shopping and carefully chose a pair of white capris, a striped, bateau neck tee, and white sandals. The bathing suit presented a problem. Since it was meant to be a family get-together, she opted for a modest black tank, taking a little chance with the red trim.
All set to go, they boarded the plane together, eyeing the rear for their coach class seats.
His mother and father were waiting at the airport. Feeling keenly observed, she exerted energy to be polite, yet warm. He made simple introductions and the party clamored into in a rusty white station wagon, with bits of wood alongside. What are they called? Woodies? They drove slowly, for what seemed like a long time, with relaxed and friendly talk along the way. She looked out the window as they passed small, wooden houses with cedar shake roofs and other homes set back, too difficult to make out. When they pulled up to a stately white mansion perched atop a long, green lawn, it dawned on her what she had gotten into.
And she was right. There were golf lessons at the club in the morning, sailing and fishing for bluefish in the afternoon, boat rides to watch muted, watercolor sunsets, bike parties to pick wild berries, carefully packed picnics, special buckets set aside for digging clams. At night the talk was about politics, literature, and music - interjected with delicate probes into her family background. The brothers made up a trio and sang robustly, harmonizing salty-dog ballads for our amusement and pleasure.
Was it carefully orchestrated, this disguise of worn out tennis shoes, faded hats sporting frayed edges, not driving a showy car? What sort of people did this and why? She realized she was in the company of old money - solid, comfortable, and almost invisible. It didn't show up in the stuff of newer, less restrained wealth. Unfamiliar as it was to her, it was still such a pleasant place to be. Imagine living with such a long, green lawn.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Inside Out
Gazing out the window
at the raw, urban wreckage
of a bygone apartment building
across the street
made her stop and think.
"Imagine," she said to him,
unzipping her skirt,
letting it fall to the floor.
"Imagine all the love that happened over there...
Imagine all the broken hearts."
at the raw, urban wreckage
of a bygone apartment building
across the street
made her stop and think.
"Imagine," she said to him,
unzipping her skirt,
letting it fall to the floor.
"Imagine all the love that happened over there...
Imagine all the broken hearts."
Night Sounds
The cool, dark woods
usher in an orchestrated medley,
a chorus
of glorious night sounds.
Throaty frog voices
rise up in swirling tones,
while the cicada's lengthy,
low-pitched call
ascends and falls.
Hear now the cracking
and snapping of twigs -
perhaps a lonely deer,
or a less benign creature?
A distant car rolls and hums,
while autumn beckons,
the sweeter scents of summer
fading to deep, dense, earthy smells.
We may still lull and rest,
but hidden life beats strong,
for the woods ring out in a song
of glorious night sounds.
- Elisabeth
usher in an orchestrated medley,
a chorus
of glorious night sounds.
Throaty frog voices
rise up in swirling tones,
while the cicada's lengthy,
low-pitched call
ascends and falls.
Hear now the cracking
and snapping of twigs -
perhaps a lonely deer,
or a less benign creature?
A distant car rolls and hums,
while autumn beckons,
the sweeter scents of summer
fading to deep, dense, earthy smells.
We may still lull and rest,
but hidden life beats strong,
for the woods ring out in a song
of glorious night sounds.
- Elisabeth
Friday, July 17, 2009
Summer Pod
When I think of a pod I think of dried poppies, milkweed, or something related to Apple. Not this. A new definition arrived mid-July: a compact, transportable storage container delivered, in this case, alongside my sister's driveway. The pod sat alone and untouched until four siblings could mutually agree upon an "opening date," which happened to be a week following it's arrival.
That's where the real story begins. For me, it was an endlessly long week of imagining its contents, the selection process, and feelings amongst siblings once the pod was opened. I experienced a complex medley of emotions: apprehension, anticipation, and anxiety, while waiting for what would become a punctuation mark in my life - the day we'd open the pod to reveal 75+ years - a lifetime - of artwork, all done by our father.
Multiple emails were exchanged trying to negotiate a fair selection process, how long the meeting should last, exactly who should attend, and whether or not to bring food. Dreams, both real and imagined, flowed in and out of my consciousness all week long. Would the pod hold any of Dad's good work or would it birth castoffs - a podful of irrelevant stuff, cleared from his studio? I decided to bring watermelon.
The big day finally arrived. For once in our lives, everyone was on time including all four siblings, my mother, aunt, two small dogs, and the watermelon.
Underneath our surface of pleasantries there seemed to be tension. It occurred to me to hold a family prayer before we unlocked the pod door. Maybe it helped - the sun shone down on us as the dogs playfully romped and slurped from a bowl of cold water, broom straws were created in differing lengths and chosen randomly, camp chairs were set up in the shade, and a rippling of relief was felt as we commenced unloading our father's work.
I discovered my brother and I shared a similar taste for his cubist and abstract works. My two sisters opted for prettier, more peaceful watercolors and drawings. The first hour went smoothly, with each person obtaining something they liked and wanted. As time wore on and the more complex, even tormented art remained it became difficult. The sun beat down on the pod, making its steel casing hot to the touch. Inside, black drawings and moody works lay huddled against the pod walls, untouched. I sensed discomfort and confusion as we considered what to do with the remaining art.
Multi-faceted reflections of my father's life lay before us. All we knew of him: his university studies, teaching, travels to far corners of the world, photography, paintings, and writing reverberated inside and outside the pod. For reasons not understood by any of us, he had hoarded his creative works and kept them safely archived in his private studio. None of us ever had free access to it. I remember him giving me a watercolor when I married, but that's all. None of my siblings or our 85-year old mother had lived with the beauty of his art on their walls. The arrival of this body of work and its proper dissemination was truly a hallmark event. We celebrated his life as our eyes were opened to a fantastic range of work: organic pen and ink drawings, woodcuts, expansive oil paintings, watercolors, charcoal sketches, abstracts, mural-sized portraits, atomic-like washes.
After five hours of gleaning, we locked the pod door. Whatever confused or moved us to some indescribable, uncomfortable place remained inside the pod - to be dealt with later. Sleek, black portfolios of unframed charcoal drawings and organic squiggles were removed to my sister's basement. We decided to arrange another day and time to view them. After a relaxed supper of spaghetti and watermelon, the clan dispersed. Although unspoken, it was clear we were allowing ourselves the ambivalence of what to do next.
I went back a day later to look at what was left. Somehow, it didn't seem as dark or gloomy as before. An idea sprang to mind: perhaps a local gallery might be intrigued enough to purchase the remaining collection. I removed what might interest them and re-locked the pod door.
It was my older brother who rose to the occasion and offered to store Dad's remaining works. Truth is, those pieces are as much a collective expression of my father's subconscious and conscious mind and soul as the more accessible, visually pleasing ones. They were worthy of safekeeping, to further peruse and perhaps begin to understand the enormity of this man, our father, his life and work - distressing as they might be.
My living room is strewn with masses of framed art waiting for a home - a place to be viewed, understood, honored. I find myself going around and around, looking at them all. As soon as one is hung, another beckons. But, I will take my time. Each deserves consideration. I think I'll store them in the attic and retrieve them as my mind and heart can handle. The mixture of pain and pleasure I feel doing this is understandable - at least to me.
It saddens me that my father was incapable of letting go or giving his work away earlier - that, in fact, it took needing his studio for living space for him to part with it. I heard the struggle in his voice when I called to acknowledge his incredible contribution and thank him. He said shakily, "At least 15 of those pieces were shipped by mistake! The larger, mural-size oil paintings I wanted to sell!" Oh, the happiness I'd have felt to hear, "I'm glad you finally have this." Or "You're welcome."
I've learned how little I want to cling to things and how I value my relationships so much more. If my own children should want something of mine, I hope to part with things willingly, as a simple demonstration of love.
The company that manufactures, markets, and delivers these strange looking things called pods is picking ours up today. Goodbye, pod.
That's where the real story begins. For me, it was an endlessly long week of imagining its contents, the selection process, and feelings amongst siblings once the pod was opened. I experienced a complex medley of emotions: apprehension, anticipation, and anxiety, while waiting for what would become a punctuation mark in my life - the day we'd open the pod to reveal 75+ years - a lifetime - of artwork, all done by our father.
Multiple emails were exchanged trying to negotiate a fair selection process, how long the meeting should last, exactly who should attend, and whether or not to bring food. Dreams, both real and imagined, flowed in and out of my consciousness all week long. Would the pod hold any of Dad's good work or would it birth castoffs - a podful of irrelevant stuff, cleared from his studio? I decided to bring watermelon.
The big day finally arrived. For once in our lives, everyone was on time including all four siblings, my mother, aunt, two small dogs, and the watermelon.
Underneath our surface of pleasantries there seemed to be tension. It occurred to me to hold a family prayer before we unlocked the pod door. Maybe it helped - the sun shone down on us as the dogs playfully romped and slurped from a bowl of cold water, broom straws were created in differing lengths and chosen randomly, camp chairs were set up in the shade, and a rippling of relief was felt as we commenced unloading our father's work.
I discovered my brother and I shared a similar taste for his cubist and abstract works. My two sisters opted for prettier, more peaceful watercolors and drawings. The first hour went smoothly, with each person obtaining something they liked and wanted. As time wore on and the more complex, even tormented art remained it became difficult. The sun beat down on the pod, making its steel casing hot to the touch. Inside, black drawings and moody works lay huddled against the pod walls, untouched. I sensed discomfort and confusion as we considered what to do with the remaining art.
Multi-faceted reflections of my father's life lay before us. All we knew of him: his university studies, teaching, travels to far corners of the world, photography, paintings, and writing reverberated inside and outside the pod. For reasons not understood by any of us, he had hoarded his creative works and kept them safely archived in his private studio. None of us ever had free access to it. I remember him giving me a watercolor when I married, but that's all. None of my siblings or our 85-year old mother had lived with the beauty of his art on their walls. The arrival of this body of work and its proper dissemination was truly a hallmark event. We celebrated his life as our eyes were opened to a fantastic range of work: organic pen and ink drawings, woodcuts, expansive oil paintings, watercolors, charcoal sketches, abstracts, mural-sized portraits, atomic-like washes.
After five hours of gleaning, we locked the pod door. Whatever confused or moved us to some indescribable, uncomfortable place remained inside the pod - to be dealt with later. Sleek, black portfolios of unframed charcoal drawings and organic squiggles were removed to my sister's basement. We decided to arrange another day and time to view them. After a relaxed supper of spaghetti and watermelon, the clan dispersed. Although unspoken, it was clear we were allowing ourselves the ambivalence of what to do next.
I went back a day later to look at what was left. Somehow, it didn't seem as dark or gloomy as before. An idea sprang to mind: perhaps a local gallery might be intrigued enough to purchase the remaining collection. I removed what might interest them and re-locked the pod door.
It was my older brother who rose to the occasion and offered to store Dad's remaining works. Truth is, those pieces are as much a collective expression of my father's subconscious and conscious mind and soul as the more accessible, visually pleasing ones. They were worthy of safekeeping, to further peruse and perhaps begin to understand the enormity of this man, our father, his life and work - distressing as they might be.
My living room is strewn with masses of framed art waiting for a home - a place to be viewed, understood, honored. I find myself going around and around, looking at them all. As soon as one is hung, another beckons. But, I will take my time. Each deserves consideration. I think I'll store them in the attic and retrieve them as my mind and heart can handle. The mixture of pain and pleasure I feel doing this is understandable - at least to me.
It saddens me that my father was incapable of letting go or giving his work away earlier - that, in fact, it took needing his studio for living space for him to part with it. I heard the struggle in his voice when I called to acknowledge his incredible contribution and thank him. He said shakily, "At least 15 of those pieces were shipped by mistake! The larger, mural-size oil paintings I wanted to sell!" Oh, the happiness I'd have felt to hear, "I'm glad you finally have this." Or "You're welcome."
I've learned how little I want to cling to things and how I value my relationships so much more. If my own children should want something of mine, I hope to part with things willingly, as a simple demonstration of love.
The company that manufactures, markets, and delivers these strange looking things called pods is picking ours up today. Goodbye, pod.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Creativity
I guess you could say I'm a philosopher, who likes to think a lot about ordinary things, then express what I think by writing, speaking, or painting.
- Robert Fulghum, cowboy, folksinger, artist, minister, teacher and author of Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten
- Robert Fulghum, cowboy, folksinger, artist, minister, teacher and author of Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Good Enough
Summertime beckons gardening. Over the years I've dedicated my energy to growing perennials, but this year two friends inspired me to try my hand at vegetables. One has several acres of vegetables and the other, a master gardener, has innumerable varieties of heirloom tomatoes, exotic vegetables, and herbs.
The first part of summer my mind was busy thinking about vegetables, while my body was actively planting and pruning flowers. Soon it was mid-June and I'd done nothing. A serendipitous castoff jump-started the project: driving through my neighborhood I noticed a handmade sign offering free yellow pear tomato plants. A few small pots perched hopefully by the side of the road; I snatched one up, never having seen or tasted yellow pear tomatoes before.
The universe had assisted by transforming thought into action! At the farmer's market that week a vendor had flats of colorful, mixed lettuces for a dollar apiece. Purchasing two packages I plopped them next to the tomatoes, still unplanted. A couple of days later, I noticed fresh basil for sale at a garden supply store - four plants made it home to the growing pile of waiting pots. My father sent a herb basket for a special occasion - soon tarragon and parsley were added to the fray.
A week went by and my easy luck was arrested. I fretted - what next? What to buy, where to plant? I had no plan and summer was marching on. Frustrated, I resorted to digging up two beautiful mounding evergreens from a narrow spot at the rear of the house. Shaking each tiny plant and herb free, I mindlessly dug holes in the ground and planted them. There - all in. Stepping back to view my work, I smiled. My vegetable garden amounted to a total of about two square feet!
I felt defeated. What sort of a garden was this? What could I cook with this mish-mash of items anyway? My mind shifted, remembering the yellow pear tomatoes: a gift, a gentle push to just start somewhere. Mine was clearly a work in progress: a messy, random, evolving vegetable garden. I sensed heaviness lifting from my shoulders, a new freedom to appreciate my tiny garden. Small and imperfect, it was good enough.
The first part of summer my mind was busy thinking about vegetables, while my body was actively planting and pruning flowers. Soon it was mid-June and I'd done nothing. A serendipitous castoff jump-started the project: driving through my neighborhood I noticed a handmade sign offering free yellow pear tomato plants. A few small pots perched hopefully by the side of the road; I snatched one up, never having seen or tasted yellow pear tomatoes before.
The universe had assisted by transforming thought into action! At the farmer's market that week a vendor had flats of colorful, mixed lettuces for a dollar apiece. Purchasing two packages I plopped them next to the tomatoes, still unplanted. A couple of days later, I noticed fresh basil for sale at a garden supply store - four plants made it home to the growing pile of waiting pots. My father sent a herb basket for a special occasion - soon tarragon and parsley were added to the fray.
A week went by and my easy luck was arrested. I fretted - what next? What to buy, where to plant? I had no plan and summer was marching on. Frustrated, I resorted to digging up two beautiful mounding evergreens from a narrow spot at the rear of the house. Shaking each tiny plant and herb free, I mindlessly dug holes in the ground and planted them. There - all in. Stepping back to view my work, I smiled. My vegetable garden amounted to a total of about two square feet!
I felt defeated. What sort of a garden was this? What could I cook with this mish-mash of items anyway? My mind shifted, remembering the yellow pear tomatoes: a gift, a gentle push to just start somewhere. Mine was clearly a work in progress: a messy, random, evolving vegetable garden. I sensed heaviness lifting from my shoulders, a new freedom to appreciate my tiny garden. Small and imperfect, it was good enough.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Garden Tour
The bus was alive and rumbling loudly when I arrived at 6:30 a.m. - a monolithic thing, worthy of shame. Smiling, dried-apple lady faces were handing out paper bags packed with fresh bagels, cream cheese, bananas, homemade oatmeal cookies, and bottled water for breakfast. In a blur of sleepiness I took my bag and boarded the bus, shyly greeting watchful eyes as I veered toward the back. I was the newcomer, youngest of the group by at least 15 years and not a member of the Garden Club.
I felt lucky to land a seat by myself, in the rear! Organizing my travel bag, looking for the poetry book a friend sent me, stowing away my garden hat, and shifting into a comfortable position, I couldn't help but notice the eyes on me. Interested eyes, friendly eyes, welcoming eyes. I nestled down, burying myself into obscure and ethereal poems, head leaning against the plate glass window.
About an hour into my trip I glanced up; the others were napping, chatting, looking out the window at the rapids of the Susquehanna River. Sleepily, I allowed my eyes to close and take in the sounds. The start and stop of the engine heaving forward, the hum of polite chatter, rustling paper bags, the click-click of the bathroom door lock. It was all so innocuous, so pleasant. I allowed myself to fall asleep.
Heightened voices and the bus grinding into a parking spot woke me. We'd traveled over two hours for the garden tour: thirteen beautiful homes, all spruced up for seeing, shiny new planters burgeoning with rare grasses and flowers in compositions only seen in expensive architectural magazines.
What impressed me most vividly was not the lavish outdoor living spaces, extravagant ponds, magnificent fountains spilling into streams and pools, walled gardens, pine straw-laden wooded paths, original sculptures, and every flower known to mankind - but the people. The extraordinary wealth, privilege, position, and what that meant in the lives of the homes and gardens we had paid to tour. Photos of well-bred racehorses standing next to famous men and women, one-of-a-kind paintings and prized oriental rugs, the uppermost elite of our society poised with blonde-haired sons and daughters at wedding parties, hushed servants stockpiling dining tables with silver-trayed tea cookies and freshly squeezed lemonade.
By contrast, I noticed my group of elderly tourists reverently taking in the smallest of details, making notes into tiny, well-worn notebooks, dutifully donning the pale blue booties over dirty street shoes, sharing grateful exchanges and transparent smiles with our hostesses - with simple compliance, a gentle acceptance of what was. Throughout the day of well-paid for glimpses into the private lives of the privileged few, they solemnly pushed themselves to stumble up and down hills and cobbled walkways hour after hour, bodies moving slowly, with determination, feet sore, mouths parched from our supply of bottled water running out - all without the slightest murmur or complaint. At the end of the tour, finally comfortable atop our cheaply upholstered bus seats, they gaily exchanged notes and remembrances. Beads of sweat streamed down their calm faces, the large windows sealed shut in mid-June, for the air conditioner was broken and we were consigned to suffer the long trip home in unbearable heat.
I learned something this day. It wasn't the privileged few I admired most, but the aged, seasoned group I had traveled with. These people were the best small-town America had to offer. They were everything our modern society has forgotten: kind, patient, genteel, yielding, gracious, wise, and nearing the end of long, well-lived lives. What had begun as a carefully orchestrated, solo garden tour ended with unexpected insights into the very group I'd carefully avoided at the start. I charged myself guilty of sidelining, marginalizing, and pretending the elderly didn't really matter. Yet, at the end of the day, truth is I was humbled and proud to be amongst them.
I felt lucky to land a seat by myself, in the rear! Organizing my travel bag, looking for the poetry book a friend sent me, stowing away my garden hat, and shifting into a comfortable position, I couldn't help but notice the eyes on me. Interested eyes, friendly eyes, welcoming eyes. I nestled down, burying myself into obscure and ethereal poems, head leaning against the plate glass window.
About an hour into my trip I glanced up; the others were napping, chatting, looking out the window at the rapids of the Susquehanna River. Sleepily, I allowed my eyes to close and take in the sounds. The start and stop of the engine heaving forward, the hum of polite chatter, rustling paper bags, the click-click of the bathroom door lock. It was all so innocuous, so pleasant. I allowed myself to fall asleep.
Heightened voices and the bus grinding into a parking spot woke me. We'd traveled over two hours for the garden tour: thirteen beautiful homes, all spruced up for seeing, shiny new planters burgeoning with rare grasses and flowers in compositions only seen in expensive architectural magazines.
What impressed me most vividly was not the lavish outdoor living spaces, extravagant ponds, magnificent fountains spilling into streams and pools, walled gardens, pine straw-laden wooded paths, original sculptures, and every flower known to mankind - but the people. The extraordinary wealth, privilege, position, and what that meant in the lives of the homes and gardens we had paid to tour. Photos of well-bred racehorses standing next to famous men and women, one-of-a-kind paintings and prized oriental rugs, the uppermost elite of our society poised with blonde-haired sons and daughters at wedding parties, hushed servants stockpiling dining tables with silver-trayed tea cookies and freshly squeezed lemonade.
By contrast, I noticed my group of elderly tourists reverently taking in the smallest of details, making notes into tiny, well-worn notebooks, dutifully donning the pale blue booties over dirty street shoes, sharing grateful exchanges and transparent smiles with our hostesses - with simple compliance, a gentle acceptance of what was. Throughout the day of well-paid for glimpses into the private lives of the privileged few, they solemnly pushed themselves to stumble up and down hills and cobbled walkways hour after hour, bodies moving slowly, with determination, feet sore, mouths parched from our supply of bottled water running out - all without the slightest murmur or complaint. At the end of the tour, finally comfortable atop our cheaply upholstered bus seats, they gaily exchanged notes and remembrances. Beads of sweat streamed down their calm faces, the large windows sealed shut in mid-June, for the air conditioner was broken and we were consigned to suffer the long trip home in unbearable heat.
I learned something this day. It wasn't the privileged few I admired most, but the aged, seasoned group I had traveled with. These people were the best small-town America had to offer. They were everything our modern society has forgotten: kind, patient, genteel, yielding, gracious, wise, and nearing the end of long, well-lived lives. What had begun as a carefully orchestrated, solo garden tour ended with unexpected insights into the very group I'd carefully avoided at the start. I charged myself guilty of sidelining, marginalizing, and pretending the elderly didn't really matter. Yet, at the end of the day, truth is I was humbled and proud to be amongst them.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Freedom
Leading a family life, with a dog and two cats to boot, can be overwhelming. The demands on my time are endless: cooking, shopping, clean-up, laundry, bills, homework help, driving to marching band, baseball, voice lessons, football, playdates, Scouts, yard work - it's not an original list, by any means. But, on any given day I can get lost in responsibility.
Last Saturday I had an idea. I thought, "What if I just let everything go and take off?" It's not as if the children will die from starvation or the house will burn down! Feeling giddy that's exactly what I did, entreating my husband to join me.
We rooted a couple of helmets out of storage and hopped on his motorcycle. In our part of the world, it doesn't take long to get out in the countryside. Before long we were riding on back roads, surrounded by cornfields, alfalfa fields, apple orchards, dairy farms - we even discovered a buffalo farm. Sweet-smelling air, the wind at our backs, me holding onto his middle like a teenager in love; it was just the two of us - not talking, resolving problems, or seeking a destination. A spree it was, and we found ourselves completely surrendered to the moment.
About an hour later, thighs chaffed and stiff, we headed for home. And when we got there, everything was just as before: messes waiting to be cleaned up, bills to be paid strewn on the kitchen table, hungry children waiting for supper, the telephone ringing.
But, something had changed. Everything looked the same, but felt different. We'd given ourselves a gift: some breathing room, a refueling of weary spirits, a delicious slice of freedom. Transformed from our time away we felt younger, refreshed, sporting a spring in our step. I need to remember to do that more often.
Last Saturday I had an idea. I thought, "What if I just let everything go and take off?" It's not as if the children will die from starvation or the house will burn down! Feeling giddy that's exactly what I did, entreating my husband to join me.
We rooted a couple of helmets out of storage and hopped on his motorcycle. In our part of the world, it doesn't take long to get out in the countryside. Before long we were riding on back roads, surrounded by cornfields, alfalfa fields, apple orchards, dairy farms - we even discovered a buffalo farm. Sweet-smelling air, the wind at our backs, me holding onto his middle like a teenager in love; it was just the two of us - not talking, resolving problems, or seeking a destination. A spree it was, and we found ourselves completely surrendered to the moment.
About an hour later, thighs chaffed and stiff, we headed for home. And when we got there, everything was just as before: messes waiting to be cleaned up, bills to be paid strewn on the kitchen table, hungry children waiting for supper, the telephone ringing.
But, something had changed. Everything looked the same, but felt different. We'd given ourselves a gift: some breathing room, a refueling of weary spirits, a delicious slice of freedom. Transformed from our time away we felt younger, refreshed, sporting a spring in our step. I need to remember to do that more often.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Creativity
We write to heighten our own awareness of life...We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection...We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it, to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth...to expand our world, when we feel strangled, constricted, lonely. When I don't write I feel my world shrinking. I feel I lose my fire, my color.
- Anais Nin, The Diary of Anais Nin
We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.
- C. Day Lewis, The Poetic Image
- Anais Nin, The Diary of Anais Nin
We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.
- C. Day Lewis, The Poetic Image
Monday, June 1, 2009
Heroes, Large and Small
Maybe it's been nearly half a century since it happened, but I remember it like it was yesterday. It's like a touchstone, since earlier memories have faded from consciousness. Eight years old and diagnosed with rhabdomyosarcoma which, translated, means cancer of the soft tissue. I never heard my parents speak the word "cancer" out loud - never. They simply said, "You have a growth that needs to be removed." What I didn't know was what that meant, what lay ahead.
The oncology specialists at All Children's Hospital were grave and pointed: "She'll won't survive three months; the disease is rare; there are only two documented cases in medical history and both died; there's no cure." I can only imagine the devastation my parents felt hearing this news. Even so, not one of the children in our family of seven would've guessed it.
Much later, I learned that privately they argued over practicing faith healing vs. traditional medicine. But outwardly, they projected brave faces and hopeful hearts. They agreed to pursue both avenues of healing, in tandem. Doctors were permitted to do what they must - multiple surgeries, experimental chemotherapy, a bone marrow transplant - while they fearlessly petitioned every church, denomination, and minister in our small community, asking my name be held up in prayer.
My mother begged the chief surgeon, C. Everett Koop (who, much later, became Surgeon General of the U.S.) say a prayer before operating. He agreed. I was a guinea pig, a literal experiment, a race against odds as a team of doctors attempted to remove the tumor, along with my lymph system up to the aorta. Next came trial levels of chemotherapy.
Photos reveal me shrinking to the size of a bony, frail bird and losing my strawberry blonde hair. I remember the arduous five hour drive to the hospital on a bumpy turnpike, feeling the rise of anxiety and nausea over the impending uncertainty of what was ahead, balling up my little fists to fight off the sickening ether mask, the sour smell of my hospital room, and the sheer white curtains, always pulled shut. Visitors never came, except the hospital priest - we were so far from home.
Yet, out of the horror an angel miraculously emerged. A young nurse, wearing a beautiful, intricately pleated and starched white cap, took special interest in me. As twilight set in, she would take me in her arms and rock and sing to me, occupying the sole rocking chair in the pediatric ward. I remembered her name for years and years. Now it's faded from my memory.
At the end of three months, I was still alive. Three years later, I was beginning to thrive. At the five year mark, the doctors pronounced me cured.
I think about the people who are the obvious heroes in my story: the doctors, who made such careful, calculated decisions and fearlessly executed them; my parents, who symbiotically imparted the ambient message that I was okay. But, it was the nurse who carved time out of her hectic schedule to hold, rock, and sing to me - in a place where every baby and child rightfully held equal claim on her attentions - she's the quiet hero I remember most.
The oncology specialists at All Children's Hospital were grave and pointed: "She'll won't survive three months; the disease is rare; there are only two documented cases in medical history and both died; there's no cure." I can only imagine the devastation my parents felt hearing this news. Even so, not one of the children in our family of seven would've guessed it.
Much later, I learned that privately they argued over practicing faith healing vs. traditional medicine. But outwardly, they projected brave faces and hopeful hearts. They agreed to pursue both avenues of healing, in tandem. Doctors were permitted to do what they must - multiple surgeries, experimental chemotherapy, a bone marrow transplant - while they fearlessly petitioned every church, denomination, and minister in our small community, asking my name be held up in prayer.
My mother begged the chief surgeon, C. Everett Koop (who, much later, became Surgeon General of the U.S.) say a prayer before operating. He agreed. I was a guinea pig, a literal experiment, a race against odds as a team of doctors attempted to remove the tumor, along with my lymph system up to the aorta. Next came trial levels of chemotherapy.
Photos reveal me shrinking to the size of a bony, frail bird and losing my strawberry blonde hair. I remember the arduous five hour drive to the hospital on a bumpy turnpike, feeling the rise of anxiety and nausea over the impending uncertainty of what was ahead, balling up my little fists to fight off the sickening ether mask, the sour smell of my hospital room, and the sheer white curtains, always pulled shut. Visitors never came, except the hospital priest - we were so far from home.
Yet, out of the horror an angel miraculously emerged. A young nurse, wearing a beautiful, intricately pleated and starched white cap, took special interest in me. As twilight set in, she would take me in her arms and rock and sing to me, occupying the sole rocking chair in the pediatric ward. I remembered her name for years and years. Now it's faded from my memory.
At the end of three months, I was still alive. Three years later, I was beginning to thrive. At the five year mark, the doctors pronounced me cured.
I think about the people who are the obvious heroes in my story: the doctors, who made such careful, calculated decisions and fearlessly executed them; my parents, who symbiotically imparted the ambient message that I was okay. But, it was the nurse who carved time out of her hectic schedule to hold, rock, and sing to me - in a place where every baby and child rightfully held equal claim on her attentions - she's the quiet hero I remember most.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Luke's Garden
April 1, 1997, first thing in the morning and the phone is ringing. "Hello?" I answered. "Are you sitting down?" asked our adoption coordinator. "You've been chosen for a baby." Missing a heartbeat, I sunk to the floor. "You better not be kidding me - this isn't an April Fool's joke, is it?" I asked pathetically. "Absolutely not!" he reassured me warmly. "She's having a boy in 5 days."
FIVE DAYS! There was so much to do: get a nursery organized, orchestrate leave from work, prepare our 3-year old daughter, find a place to stay in D.C., get kitty-care...
And we did. We had baby in arms by April 7, nestled into a Marriott, and began the task of phoning family to make our incredible announcement. Pencils in hand, multiple lists later, we agreed on a name: Lucas Matthew. Piles of legal paperwork had to be rushed here and there in the city before we could go home. Hold ups, snafus, road blocks, obstacles, delays, confusion - days passed and the hotel bill was mounting. We sought aide from our Bishop, who contacted a local member of our church: we could stay in their home 'till the paperwork cleared!
One large bed was available, giving us the perfect excuse for the hip practice of a family bed. "A perfect way to increase bonding," we thought. Our daughter slept holding Luke in her arms until feeding time. It was sleepless, beautiful, and made-up as we went along.
Once home, life fell into place. Daddy went back to work. Days were simultaneously busy and quiet, not doing much of anything except caring for Lucas, our daughter, and with energy leftover, each other. Friends flocked in with gifts, casseroles, homemade rolls. We continued the family bed.
A day before finalization, the phone rang. On the other end was my husband, weeping. "The agency called - the birthmother wants the baby back!" he choked. My grip on Lucas tightened as I descended into a tunnel-like darkness. Frantic calls to attorneys and our adoption counselor later, I learned she was perfectly within her legal rights. In the District of Columbia birthparents are allowed 30 days to rescind once the baby is placed. And so she did - on day 29. A hysterical sickness settled in when we were told it was our responsibility to drive the baby back. Once again we pleaded with our Bishop for help: he found a couple willing to drive the baby back to D.C. The birthmother would be flying in from the Midwest to pick him up - on Mother's Day.
It was early spring, bright and sunny, but I couldn't move. Anger, bewilderment, and an unending well of grief overtook me. I couldn't play with my daughter. I couldn't prepare dinner, do the laundry, pay bills, talk with friends. I'd been hit by a truck and left for dead.
One day my little girl begged me to watch her dance outdoors. She dressed up elaborately, as if to get my attention. Weakly slumped on a lawn chair, my mind wandered as my eyes tried to focus: oh, she's dancing - look at those horrible yews - God, the sun feels good - why is she singing so loudly - I hate being alive - maybe I could plant a garden. There it was. The smallest breath of life surging up in the form of wanting to do something.
The rest of spring and summer she and I were together, outside: she dancing, me shoveling limestone rocks out of the earth, cathartically flinging them into heaps, preparing the soil, and contemplating the perfect balance of color, form, and texture in every perennial. Perennials, not annuals. Something I could count on being there again and again, every year.
It was my daughter's idea to name it "Luke's Garden." She said it would be something beautiful to look forward to year after year - life springing up from a wintry earth. It was then I realized teachers come in many forms. This time it was my 3-year old.
FIVE DAYS! There was so much to do: get a nursery organized, orchestrate leave from work, prepare our 3-year old daughter, find a place to stay in D.C., get kitty-care...
And we did. We had baby in arms by April 7, nestled into a Marriott, and began the task of phoning family to make our incredible announcement. Pencils in hand, multiple lists later, we agreed on a name: Lucas Matthew. Piles of legal paperwork had to be rushed here and there in the city before we could go home. Hold ups, snafus, road blocks, obstacles, delays, confusion - days passed and the hotel bill was mounting. We sought aide from our Bishop, who contacted a local member of our church: we could stay in their home 'till the paperwork cleared!
One large bed was available, giving us the perfect excuse for the hip practice of a family bed. "A perfect way to increase bonding," we thought. Our daughter slept holding Luke in her arms until feeding time. It was sleepless, beautiful, and made-up as we went along.
Once home, life fell into place. Daddy went back to work. Days were simultaneously busy and quiet, not doing much of anything except caring for Lucas, our daughter, and with energy leftover, each other. Friends flocked in with gifts, casseroles, homemade rolls. We continued the family bed.
A day before finalization, the phone rang. On the other end was my husband, weeping. "The agency called - the birthmother wants the baby back!" he choked. My grip on Lucas tightened as I descended into a tunnel-like darkness. Frantic calls to attorneys and our adoption counselor later, I learned she was perfectly within her legal rights. In the District of Columbia birthparents are allowed 30 days to rescind once the baby is placed. And so she did - on day 29. A hysterical sickness settled in when we were told it was our responsibility to drive the baby back. Once again we pleaded with our Bishop for help: he found a couple willing to drive the baby back to D.C. The birthmother would be flying in from the Midwest to pick him up - on Mother's Day.
It was early spring, bright and sunny, but I couldn't move. Anger, bewilderment, and an unending well of grief overtook me. I couldn't play with my daughter. I couldn't prepare dinner, do the laundry, pay bills, talk with friends. I'd been hit by a truck and left for dead.
One day my little girl begged me to watch her dance outdoors. She dressed up elaborately, as if to get my attention. Weakly slumped on a lawn chair, my mind wandered as my eyes tried to focus: oh, she's dancing - look at those horrible yews - God, the sun feels good - why is she singing so loudly - I hate being alive - maybe I could plant a garden. There it was. The smallest breath of life surging up in the form of wanting to do something.
The rest of spring and summer she and I were together, outside: she dancing, me shoveling limestone rocks out of the earth, cathartically flinging them into heaps, preparing the soil, and contemplating the perfect balance of color, form, and texture in every perennial. Perennials, not annuals. Something I could count on being there again and again, every year.
It was my daughter's idea to name it "Luke's Garden." She said it would be something beautiful to look forward to year after year - life springing up from a wintry earth. It was then I realized teachers come in many forms. This time it was my 3-year old.
Losing Her
Prius was her car of choice. I drove an SUV. When she needed groceries, she'd hook a small trailer to her bicycle and ride the 8 miles round trip to get stocked up; I'd drive my car or better yet, send my husband. A well-read subscription to The New York Times was carelessly strewn about her living room, while I neatly stacked my coffee table art books. She was completely smitten with Hillary Clinton, while I struggled with my schizophrenic intrigue for both Mitt Romney and Barrack Obama. Hers was an efficient, functioning vegetable garden. My hours were spent preening English daisies and Icelandic poppies for gazing on contemplative afternoons. While she sipped water from a Nalgene bottle, I was sucking down Diet Coke.
But, I'm ahead of myself. We met while each was walking her Pembroke Welsh Corgi: hers the classic warm butterscotch and vanilla brand, mine a more messy tri-color. We bonded instantly. The next year and a half was a series of long dog walks, cycling to our local gym, rediscovering yoga, attending and discussing films, dinner parties - even an afternoon spent baking the Barefoot Contessa's gourmet chocolate cake as a love gift to our husbands one Valentine's Day. We had each discovered a new friend and we were giddy with our explorative honeymoon.
The change was slow, over a few months, and barely perceptible at first. I might say something and notice a slight downward turn of her mouth. A couple of times, an air of disapproval. Longer pauses between phone calls.
A war had started - and it was in my neighborhood. Nothing was said, of course, but it was there nonetheless. A grating and grinding of differences, the rise of intolerance, judgement insidiously seeping in. My stomach knotted up: I was feeling misunderstood, alienated, and worst of all, unloved.
We felt things we either couldn't or wouldn't talk about. And then, one day, the silent chasm grew so large it was uncrossable. We had lost each other to perceived or imagined oh-so-important ideals. The war culminated in each retreating to her territory. It was over.
But, I'm ahead of myself. We met while each was walking her Pembroke Welsh Corgi: hers the classic warm butterscotch and vanilla brand, mine a more messy tri-color. We bonded instantly. The next year and a half was a series of long dog walks, cycling to our local gym, rediscovering yoga, attending and discussing films, dinner parties - even an afternoon spent baking the Barefoot Contessa's gourmet chocolate cake as a love gift to our husbands one Valentine's Day. We had each discovered a new friend and we were giddy with our explorative honeymoon.
The change was slow, over a few months, and barely perceptible at first. I might say something and notice a slight downward turn of her mouth. A couple of times, an air of disapproval. Longer pauses between phone calls.
A war had started - and it was in my neighborhood. Nothing was said, of course, but it was there nonetheless. A grating and grinding of differences, the rise of intolerance, judgement insidiously seeping in. My stomach knotted up: I was feeling misunderstood, alienated, and worst of all, unloved.
We felt things we either couldn't or wouldn't talk about. And then, one day, the silent chasm grew so large it was uncrossable. We had lost each other to perceived or imagined oh-so-important ideals. The war culminated in each retreating to her territory. It was over.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Cycling, Chaos, and Success
I rounded up the family for a rare bike ride on a spectacular Spring day. Not without protestations, mind you! It's not easy coordinating the interests of a 15-year old girl with a younger brother, an overworked professor, and underwhelmed homemaker.
Where to go? We didn't know - I figured it best to just get moving. Meandering through our historic neighborhood, one wild wipeout and bloody shin later, we made it onto a sidewalk alongside the busiest road in town. Blithely in the lead I veered to the right, onto a promising looking dirt road. Hearing a rise of complaints behind me which I chose to ignore, I plowed ahead. The dirt road led to some muddy potholes, then into a farmer's cornfield.
Along the edge of the field there appeared to be a narrow trail, maybe for the farmer to walk on. Rocks, deer gnawed corn cobs, branches, and what appeared to be poison ivy cluttered the trail. "Just more of an adventure!" I thought, promptly crashing down on a pile of natural debris, a nearby bush scraping my face. Soon we were all walking our bikes, the terrain far too difficult to navigate.
Around the corner, high rise office buildings came into view. "Ugh, not at all what I want to see," I said. We rode on, miserably looking down at what became a macadam road, surrounded by civilization. One twisted ankle, a bloody leg, scarcely any water, and muffled tears later a segment of our group threatened to turn back. "No, we're not giving up!" I commanded, angrily cycling on.
Another dirt path came into view and my husband took the lead. This time, the trail was even and gradually approached a forest. Oddly, the path continued long into the woods and was even somewhat manicured. A silence fell on us as we cycled amongst large oaks and maples, wild jasmine, flox, and fiddle-head fern with the sounds of scurrying bunnies, squirrels, and a distant woodpecker serenading us - all the way home.
It occurred to me how much like life our trip was: not always being sure where you're going - but, setting forth, bravely meeting uncertainty, discomfort, and even danger along the way. And while moving forward, we may catch glimpses of order, beauty, and unusual peace. Once home - a bit weary, perhaps even shaken - we're find ourselves richer and, if lucky, wiser for having made the journey.
Where to go? We didn't know - I figured it best to just get moving. Meandering through our historic neighborhood, one wild wipeout and bloody shin later, we made it onto a sidewalk alongside the busiest road in town. Blithely in the lead I veered to the right, onto a promising looking dirt road. Hearing a rise of complaints behind me which I chose to ignore, I plowed ahead. The dirt road led to some muddy potholes, then into a farmer's cornfield.
Along the edge of the field there appeared to be a narrow trail, maybe for the farmer to walk on. Rocks, deer gnawed corn cobs, branches, and what appeared to be poison ivy cluttered the trail. "Just more of an adventure!" I thought, promptly crashing down on a pile of natural debris, a nearby bush scraping my face. Soon we were all walking our bikes, the terrain far too difficult to navigate.
Around the corner, high rise office buildings came into view. "Ugh, not at all what I want to see," I said. We rode on, miserably looking down at what became a macadam road, surrounded by civilization. One twisted ankle, a bloody leg, scarcely any water, and muffled tears later a segment of our group threatened to turn back. "No, we're not giving up!" I commanded, angrily cycling on.
Another dirt path came into view and my husband took the lead. This time, the trail was even and gradually approached a forest. Oddly, the path continued long into the woods and was even somewhat manicured. A silence fell on us as we cycled amongst large oaks and maples, wild jasmine, flox, and fiddle-head fern with the sounds of scurrying bunnies, squirrels, and a distant woodpecker serenading us - all the way home.
It occurred to me how much like life our trip was: not always being sure where you're going - but, setting forth, bravely meeting uncertainty, discomfort, and even danger along the way. And while moving forward, we may catch glimpses of order, beauty, and unusual peace. Once home - a bit weary, perhaps even shaken - we're find ourselves richer and, if lucky, wiser for having made the journey.
A Ladies Luncheon
The moxie of my 88-year old aunt amazes me. She recently relocated to our tiny, East coast town - all the way from Texas. Why? To live with her 85-year old sister, my mother. We moved her into their new digs last week, out in a country cottage with a beautiful view of verdant green mountains.
Our first outing together: rally the ladies' walkers and wind our way up a hill to the main building for lunch at the progressive care facility's lovely dining room. After all, lunch is included in the cost of their independent-living cottage.
All dressed up, make-up carefully checked, we began our stroll. Not an easy one, given my aunt's hip replacement and Mom's degenerative spine. I got to the top of the hill first, thinking I'd hold the door open and help park the strollers (as I call them).
But, nothing prepared me for what I saw: a hearse, motor running and coldly waiting, while staff rolled a blue cloth-covered body out the door. I glanced down the hill - good, they were both still a ways off. Sobered, I quietly watched the ritual: open the hatch door, roll the gurney to the edge, slide the lifeless body in, carefully maintain the thoughtful cover. Quickly, the hearse drove off and the staff walked briskly inside just as my mother and aunt's smiling faces appeared at the top of the knoll.
My private experience reminds me of how closely life/anticipation/joy coexist with death/dread/sorrow. They always have and they always will.
With renewed appreciation for my lovely ladies, I held the door open and we headed toward our free lunch.
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