Eight days ago, I gave birth to Elise Marguerite. She was 6 lbs 3 oz and about 20 inches long. She's lovely and healthy and content, and we are enjoying her in the extreme.
To say that I gave birth to her feels a bit like short-changing my husband. He left only once early in the process, before it became unbearable, to get himself and our older daughter something to eat, but he was present and working hard with me for every moment of active labor. Several people offered him breaks, including myself. I think I was the only one in the room who realized, after having offered the break, that he really, truly didn't want one. He was tired, but so was I, and I didn't have the option of a break. He stayed right beside me as I labored in the pool, let me squeeze the hell out of his hand while reading Dandelion Wine to me between, and sometimes during, contractions. When I had to get out of the pool for them to monitor the baby again, he lifted me out of the tub as I cried that I was afraid to stand up. He applied counter-pressure to my back for what seemed like hours (probably was minutes) while I endured transition. He never allowed the doula even to take *that* job so that he could sit down and just hold my hand for a while.
When it came down to pushing, he sat beside me, held both my hands, [turned off his hearing aid, I'm sure], and let me moan and scream in his face. There's no more intense moment with him in my memory than staring into his face, aware only of the pain and the color of his eyes, between the last few contractions. How frightening that must have been for him. I think it's probably normal for a woman to have thoughts of death in those moments, wondering if she can live through that pain. I know I said to him once that I felt as if the contractions would kill me. Did he believe me? Did he fear the same? If he did, he only let it come through in his voice once or twice. The rest of the time he was calm, reassuring, adoring, gentle. I have no idea how he maintained such a demeanor in the midst of so much of my emotional chaos, but I think that, in light of the experience, he will always be my hero.
So now we have this amazing little girl at home with us, often lying between us on the bed because at 3 AM, I really don't have the energy to get up off the floor (we don't have a bed frame) and put her back in her bassinet. I feared during the pregnancy that her presence might cause tension or resentment for one or both of us. We both liked our life very much the way it was. Contrarily, I think we're both experiencing that she belongs here, and her existence is just a natural extension of our love for each other.
Everything is changing. Everything is already different. But it's not a change to mourn--not entirely. There's an aspect for each of us of having lost something--I, my independence (I simply cannot do for myself in the aftermath of the delivery), Richard, his freedom, and both of us our spontaneity. But there's something here to replace those things, and eventually to exist right alongside them, that is so very precious and beautiful and sweet that I'm really not sure what we were doing before. I loved my husband. He was already my best friend. But now the ideas of Protector and Provider mean so much more than they did before as I am forced to rely on him for fulfillment of some very basic needs. As difficult as it can be to need him to fill those roles, he does so graciously and without resentment, even lovingly and, dare I say, joyfully. This is his contribution to the process of her birth. Mine was nourishing her for 9 (well, ok, 8) months, and then going through the pain of labor and delivery, and now healing from that process as I continue to make small sacrifices to provide her nourishment.
It seems my husband never forgets those things. I wish very much that I could be as relationally, psychologically, and emotionally constant as he is. Unfortunately, I'm tossed about rather violently by the biological realities of pregnancy and of the post-partum period. Who am I kidding? My emotional stability is questionable on the best of days, pregnant or not. I suppose that's why there are two of us, and why we're wired so differently. I'm certain my mode of existence serves us in some way. Apparent to me, however, is the fact that it does not provide stability. I guess that's my husband's job.
Showing posts with label Maria's Favorites. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Maria's Favorites. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Recovering Gifts
A Piece of Her
5 June 2010
I bought a chinois just like Grandmother's--
Ebay has its uses. She never called it that--
it was just a colander with a wooden pestle,
and she couldn't have told you where or when she got it.
She was always so elusive about the recipe--some flour,
a bit of baking powder, a pinch of salt (I'm fairly certain
it was Bisquick), and the dewberries, of course,
which I always thought were just blackberries.
Turns out I was wrong--and right.
Dewberries and blackberries are related,
and the name is legitimate. That makes me smile
as I press pestle against colander, juicing the blackberries;
coming one step closer to the mind of Bernice.
She's been gone for years now,
and I thought her cobbler was gone with her,
but I've found a piece of it, by trial and error--
a piece of her.
It wasn't perfect, but it was very close. It's definitely close enough to satisfy my memory. The taste of it brought tears to my eyes. I think I'll try it again this weekend. Although The Boy wants me to make a strawberry one. That feels like blasphemy. :-) But I guess I can alter tradition a bit here and there for the sake of my children's preferences. But the *norm* will be blackberry--and I'll probably call them dewberries. I'm going to try to find someone who sells berry bushes and plant them in the back yard. I'm very excited about the prospect of having the berries in the backyard like grandmother did.
It's always such a joy to find some small gift that has been passed on to me from my family members. Mother's quilting, Grandmother's cobbler, Vovo's chorizo & eggs (eaten in moderation--whew!). None of these gifts was ever handed down directly--I'm learning them now by consulting the poignant memories I have of the smells, the sights and the sounds associated with watching these women create beautiful things. And now I create beautiful things, both theirs and my own. I feel more whole every time I recover one of these treasures in myself.
Today, I should quilt. Of course, when I say that to myself, and especially when I say it out loud to someone else, I always pay for it later. The Boy wants to go to Gamestop, The Gril wants me to fix her hair, or I find housekeeping tasks that need to be done, and I feel badly sitting down to something "non-necessary" until those things are done. The trouble is there will always be a household task to complete. If I don't *make* the time for these small but very important creative tasks, I will always find reasons why it's not a good time to get to them now. I'm learning as I recover well-hidden gifts inside myself, though, that it's important to pull those to the surface, and to give them to my children.
5 June 2010
I bought a chinois just like Grandmother's--
Ebay has its uses. She never called it that--
it was just a colander with a wooden pestle,
and she couldn't have told you where or when she got it.
She was always so elusive about the recipe--some flour,
a bit of baking powder, a pinch of salt (I'm fairly certain
it was Bisquick), and the dewberries, of course,
which I always thought were just blackberries.
Turns out I was wrong--and right.
Dewberries and blackberries are related,
and the name is legitimate. That makes me smile
as I press pestle against colander, juicing the blackberries;
coming one step closer to the mind of Bernice.
She's been gone for years now,
and I thought her cobbler was gone with her,
but I've found a piece of it, by trial and error--
a piece of her.
It wasn't perfect, but it was very close. It's definitely close enough to satisfy my memory. The taste of it brought tears to my eyes. I think I'll try it again this weekend. Although The Boy wants me to make a strawberry one. That feels like blasphemy. :-) But I guess I can alter tradition a bit here and there for the sake of my children's preferences. But the *norm* will be blackberry--and I'll probably call them dewberries. I'm going to try to find someone who sells berry bushes and plant them in the back yard. I'm very excited about the prospect of having the berries in the backyard like grandmother did.
It's always such a joy to find some small gift that has been passed on to me from my family members. Mother's quilting, Grandmother's cobbler, Vovo's chorizo & eggs (eaten in moderation--whew!). None of these gifts was ever handed down directly--I'm learning them now by consulting the poignant memories I have of the smells, the sights and the sounds associated with watching these women create beautiful things. And now I create beautiful things, both theirs and my own. I feel more whole every time I recover one of these treasures in myself.
Today, I should quilt. Of course, when I say that to myself, and especially when I say it out loud to someone else, I always pay for it later. The Boy wants to go to Gamestop, The Gril wants me to fix her hair, or I find housekeeping tasks that need to be done, and I feel badly sitting down to something "non-necessary" until those things are done. The trouble is there will always be a household task to complete. If I don't *make* the time for these small but very important creative tasks, I will always find reasons why it's not a good time to get to them now. I'm learning as I recover well-hidden gifts inside myself, though, that it's important to pull those to the surface, and to give them to my children.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
The Man Who Was Thursday
This book by G.K. Chesterton really is tremendous. I'm not sure if I got it the first time around, or the second, or the third, even with the very competent help of my Western Classics professor, Dr. Strait.
However, I finished rereading it just yesterday, and it became so very obvious to me what it was that Chesterton was getting at-- that God is so very big that one rarely gets a full view of Him, and most times what one sees most clearly is the back of Him, which is to say we see Him indirectly, through nature and through human relationships. And sometimes that reality is so difficult to look at, so suffused with suffering and pain, that we begin to believe that's all there is, and goodness must be an illusion.
But at the same time, when we do finally get around to the Front, and we look into the face of God, He is so very good, so very loving, so wonderfully beyond any dream we could have created in our finite minds, that the evil that exists in the world comes to the point of seeming, just for a moment, illusory, or like a cruel game that we have no choice but to watch play out before our eyes.
The difficulty is that both the Good and the Evil are very real and very present. Somewhere in our gut, we know this, and in our desperate attempts to work against the Evil, we often end up fighting each other, seeing devils everywhere, and nowhere. We find when we get right down to Reality, though, that God is not only at the beginning, commissioning and exhorting us to fight whatever evil we can, whensoever we can, by whatever means we can, but He is also in the middle of it, and cannot be ravaged by it as we are. And so He can lead us on through it, by whatever magnificent or ridiculous path He chooses, out the other side, further up and further in to His Goodness which is Paradise.
I found myself on the point of tears listening as Syme, the hero, says, "When I see the horrible back, I am sure the noble face is but a mask. When I see the face but for an instant, I know the back is only a jest. Bad is so bad that we cannot but think good an accident; good is so good that we feel certain that evil could be explained... Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front--"
Dear God, yes. If we could only get around front.
However, I finished rereading it just yesterday, and it became so very obvious to me what it was that Chesterton was getting at-- that God is so very big that one rarely gets a full view of Him, and most times what one sees most clearly is the back of Him, which is to say we see Him indirectly, through nature and through human relationships. And sometimes that reality is so difficult to look at, so suffused with suffering and pain, that we begin to believe that's all there is, and goodness must be an illusion.
But at the same time, when we do finally get around to the Front, and we look into the face of God, He is so very good, so very loving, so wonderfully beyond any dream we could have created in our finite minds, that the evil that exists in the world comes to the point of seeming, just for a moment, illusory, or like a cruel game that we have no choice but to watch play out before our eyes.
The difficulty is that both the Good and the Evil are very real and very present. Somewhere in our gut, we know this, and in our desperate attempts to work against the Evil, we often end up fighting each other, seeing devils everywhere, and nowhere. We find when we get right down to Reality, though, that God is not only at the beginning, commissioning and exhorting us to fight whatever evil we can, whensoever we can, by whatever means we can, but He is also in the middle of it, and cannot be ravaged by it as we are. And so He can lead us on through it, by whatever magnificent or ridiculous path He chooses, out the other side, further up and further in to His Goodness which is Paradise.
I found myself on the point of tears listening as Syme, the hero, says, "When I see the horrible back, I am sure the noble face is but a mask. When I see the face but for an instant, I know the back is only a jest. Bad is so bad that we cannot but think good an accident; good is so good that we feel certain that evil could be explained... Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front--"
Dear God, yes. If we could only get around front.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Good Gifts
My husband bought me the BEST t-shirt EVAR. It's brown, and across the chest in yellow letters is written:
Hehehe. Hahaha. Hohoho. MMMMWAAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! Included with the shirt was a packing list containing the following message:
"2 mai favrit pometrist. kluvubai."
If you've never heard of lolspeak, you really must google it.
Hehehe. Hahaha. Hohoho. MMMMWAAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! Included with the shirt was a packing list containing the following message:
"2 mai favrit pometrist. kluvubai."
If you've never heard of lolspeak, you really must google it.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
White-Robed Sorrow
I wrote once about George MacDonald's book, _Phantastes_. My life was a chaotic whirlpool of grief and throbbing wounds at the time, and being the non-linear, analytical thinker that I am, MacDonald's fantastic worlds and seemingly random images of beauty, love, grief and the like touched me so deeply. Today I ran across one of the passages which meant the most to me, and I wrote the following about it to my husband:
"There's this scene where [the narrator and main character of the story] is floating along in a boat, making his way down river, and he catches a glimpse of a woman in white running through the woods alongside him. She stays with him right up to the castle. It was, for me, an image of the wounds we receive being faithful to lead us on to something else if we let them- to redemption I guess, cliche though that may sound. But one certainly cannot see it as such when the wounds are fresh and throbbing.
That scene in the book is a gift to me, because the character, and therefore the reader, is given a moment to stand back from the pain and view it somewhat objectively. To see the very thing that wounds us running along beside us in white, weeping for us, leading us on to redemption, is so very beautiful. I remember, though, that it made my heart ache for the woman in the woods. She was just a metaphor for other things, but I guess I think of her as almost a part of ourselves- the part that is wounded and has been lost in so many ways, and cannot completely enter into the joy of the present."
I need to go back and read that book again.
"As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy. Cometh white-robed Sorrow, stooping and wan, and flingeth wide the doors she may not enter. Almost we linger with Sorrow for very love."
George MacDonald, Phantastes
"There's this scene where [the narrator and main character of the story] is floating along in a boat, making his way down river, and he catches a glimpse of a woman in white running through the woods alongside him. She stays with him right up to the castle. It was, for me, an image of the wounds we receive being faithful to lead us on to something else if we let them- to redemption I guess, cliche though that may sound. But one certainly cannot see it as such when the wounds are fresh and throbbing.
That scene in the book is a gift to me, because the character, and therefore the reader, is given a moment to stand back from the pain and view it somewhat objectively. To see the very thing that wounds us running along beside us in white, weeping for us, leading us on to redemption, is so very beautiful. I remember, though, that it made my heart ache for the woman in the woods. She was just a metaphor for other things, but I guess I think of her as almost a part of ourselves- the part that is wounded and has been lost in so many ways, and cannot completely enter into the joy of the present."
I need to go back and read that book again.
"As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy. Cometh white-robed Sorrow, stooping and wan, and flingeth wide the doors she may not enter. Almost we linger with Sorrow for very love."
George MacDonald, Phantastes
Monday, December 17, 2007
Snowballs with Baba
17 December 2007, 11:26 AM
I watched my African put on
his warm against the bitterness
of a belated Kentucky cold snap. There are
few things he hates more than winter,
and there’s not enough snow on the porch
to justify the donning of his gloves,
his scarf, his hat, his lined winter coat,
yet he dons, and I smile,
because I know why he goes
to the purported tundra. For my little boy
is out there in his too-big snow gloves,
clumsily shoveling the paltry powder
into a plastic bag. He wants to be
the only kid with a snowball next summer,
and this man-not-his-father
won’t let our precious boy
gather his dreams alone.
I watched my African put on
his warm against the bitterness
of a belated Kentucky cold snap. There are
few things he hates more than winter,
and there’s not enough snow on the porch
to justify the donning of his gloves,
his scarf, his hat, his lined winter coat,
yet he dons, and I smile,
because I know why he goes
to the purported tundra. For my little boy
is out there in his too-big snow gloves,
clumsily shoveling the paltry powder
into a plastic bag. He wants to be
the only kid with a snowball next summer,
and this man-not-his-father
won’t let our precious boy
gather his dreams alone.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Another Glimpse
7 December 2007, 2 PM
I slept beside sharper skies
than ever I imagined on my own;
his dreams bled into mine, revealed
sunset skies I’d never known,
fading into diamond-scattered midnight
cerulean, so deep and dark and bright.
I couldn’t catch my breath amidst
the beauty of a thing so brutally
gentle; in the wake of brushing up
against a sea of so much tenderness,
all within me bruised and raw-
aching for another glimpse of Paradise.
I slept beside sharper skies
than ever I imagined on my own;
his dreams bled into mine, revealed
sunset skies I’d never known,
fading into diamond-scattered midnight
cerulean, so deep and dark and bright.
I couldn’t catch my breath amidst
the beauty of a thing so brutally
gentle; in the wake of brushing up
against a sea of so much tenderness,
all within me bruised and raw-
aching for another glimpse of Paradise.
Monday, November 05, 2007
True Colors
I rediscovered an old song today- a favorite from highschool. I haven't heard it in at least ten years, or at least I haven't listened to it in that long. The words struck me profoundly after a long absence, and a decade of life not being what I thought it would be.
TRUE COLORS
You with the sad eyes
Don't be discouraged
Oh I realize
It's hard to take courage
In a world full of people
You can lose sight of it all
And the darkness inside you
Can make you feel so small
But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
Your true colors are beautiful,
Like a rainbow
Show me a smile then,
Don't be unhappy, can't remember
When I last saw you laughing
If this world makes you crazy
And you've taken all you can bear
You call me up
Because you know I'll be there
And I'll see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
Your true colors are beautiful,
Like a rainbow
TRUE COLORS
You with the sad eyes
Don't be discouraged
Oh I realize
It's hard to take courage
In a world full of people
You can lose sight of it all
And the darkness inside you
Can make you feel so small
But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
Your true colors are beautiful,
Like a rainbow
Show me a smile then,
Don't be unhappy, can't remember
When I last saw you laughing
If this world makes you crazy
And you've taken all you can bear
You call me up
Because you know I'll be there
And I'll see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colors
Your true colors are beautiful,
Like a rainbow
Friday, October 05, 2007
Sidewalk Chalk
5 October 2007, 9:12 AM
Rain falls softly, washing
the concrete as efficiently
as a pounding storm. Sidewalk chalk
is a messy medium- crumbles and smears
skin and clothing with little or no pressure
or provocation. But the rain,
the wild and wonderful rain sends colors
running like tears down the driveway.
I watch them go, lingering with Sorrow
for very love.
"As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy. Cometh white-robed Sorrow, stooping and wan, and flingeth wide the doors she may not enter. Almost we linger with Sorrow for very love." George MacDonald, Phantastes
Rain falls softly, washing
the concrete as efficiently
as a pounding storm. Sidewalk chalk
is a messy medium- crumbles and smears
skin and clothing with little or no pressure
or provocation. But the rain,
the wild and wonderful rain sends colors
running like tears down the driveway.
I watch them go, lingering with Sorrow
for very love.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Where I Left My Coffee
21 September 2007, 7:06 AM
You’re there typing, and I
stand here watching, wondering
where you came from. I don’t know
if there’s anything I could have done
to deserve this solace,
if deserving even falls within
the calculation, or if life unfolds this way
for each of us, revealing
what we’ve longed for most only
when we cease to search so madly.
But I’ll take this quiet moment,
when the day has only just begun and you
are too absorbed in writing to notice
that I’m watching, admiring, loving you
from the kitchen counter, wondering
where on earth I’ve left my coffee.
You’re there typing, and I
stand here watching, wondering
where you came from. I don’t know
if there’s anything I could have done
to deserve this solace,
if deserving even falls within
the calculation, or if life unfolds this way
for each of us, revealing
what we’ve longed for most only
when we cease to search so madly.
But I’ll take this quiet moment,
when the day has only just begun and you
are too absorbed in writing to notice
that I’m watching, admiring, loving you
from the kitchen counter, wondering
where on earth I’ve left my coffee.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Turn of Night
6 September 2004
An older piece, one of my favorites that never made it to the blog.
Sit alone, embracing sounds of night:
cicada buzz and cold moonlight.
Ruminate on moment's bliss,
weep once more for innocence;
tender, rocking lullaby,
waving eves of yore good-bye.
An older piece, one of my favorites that never made it to the blog.
Sit alone, embracing sounds of night:
cicada buzz and cold moonlight.
Ruminate on moment's bliss,
weep once more for innocence;
tender, rocking lullaby,
waving eves of yore good-bye.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
I Don't Want to Forget
28 March 2007, 8:39 PM
I don’t want to forget how it feels
not to know if you want me; to wish you did;
to fear our first meeting, and yet long for it
with every fiber of my carefully assembled
person, outside and in- curious if this is the place
where Love might grow again.
I don’t want to forget the rush of hearing
words I never thought that I would hear,
after watching as you fumbled with your fears,
your dignity and confidence, wondering
what you really meant by coming here today;
to wish you wouldn’t leave before you bring yourself to say
you’d like to see me again, because I so enjoyed the time.
I don’t want to forget a single syllable
of Edward, James or William,
and I want to remember When Africa Was Home.
I’d very much like to taste that Port
just one more time before the memory gets past me,
and you become so familiar I can’t remember
what it’s like to wonder what you’re thinking,
if you’re wanting, when and if you’ll see me,
how long it’s been since I’ve been in the presence
of a man who wasn’t focused on the Goal-
had I ever known a man who wasn’t fixed upon
some distant point he’d never actually see
if he refused to move his eye from it to look at me…
I don’t want to forget sharing Indian food,
plans gone awry, and mystical encounters
in chaotic spaces; finding Home in unfamiliar faces;
faces we would barely have noticed a year ago;
faces we could not live without today.
I don’t want to forget how it feels
not to know if you want me; to wish you did;
to fear our first meeting, and yet long for it
with every fiber of my carefully assembled
person, outside and in- curious if this is the place
where Love might grow again.
I don’t want to forget the rush of hearing
words I never thought that I would hear,
after watching as you fumbled with your fears,
your dignity and confidence, wondering
what you really meant by coming here today;
to wish you wouldn’t leave before you bring yourself to say
you’d like to see me again, because I so enjoyed the time.
I don’t want to forget a single syllable
of Edward, James or William,
and I want to remember When Africa Was Home.
I’d very much like to taste that Port
just one more time before the memory gets past me,
and you become so familiar I can’t remember
what it’s like to wonder what you’re thinking,
if you’re wanting, when and if you’ll see me,
how long it’s been since I’ve been in the presence
of a man who wasn’t focused on the Goal-
had I ever known a man who wasn’t fixed upon
some distant point he’d never actually see
if he refused to move his eye from it to look at me…
I don’t want to forget sharing Indian food,
plans gone awry, and mystical encounters
in chaotic spaces; finding Home in unfamiliar faces;
faces we would barely have noticed a year ago;
faces we could not live without today.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
What's Your Story
16 May 2007, 8:37 PM
What’s your story?
Surely you didn’t plan this random
rendezvous at McDonald’s, where I wonder
as our eyes hold for a moment,
brief, then falter as I knew they would-
because a mostly white woman my age, ordering
burgers and fries to go cannot hold the eyes
of a middle-aged Mexican man working assembly
in a not-quite-restaurant without breaking
something hidden not-so-deep inside herself-
what’s your story?
How did you manage to get to this country,
much less this dead-end town, even less
this dying franchise, where you shuffle fries
and burgers into boxes for the walking-dead,
most of whom never even notice or look up at you,
much less wonder who you are, who you were
when your laugh lines formed. Did they form
from laughing or from years of troubled grief?
What’s your story?
What’s your name- are you Diego, who lost
his family and his fortune? Luis, who sought
a better life somewhere, anywhere north
of Chihuahua? Are you Tovito, who’s family
is happier here, despite the seeming lack
of dignity, for work is honor, and honor is life,
and life is precious, even here at McDonald’s.
And I walk away still wondering and aching to know,
what's your story?
What’s your story?
Surely you didn’t plan this random
rendezvous at McDonald’s, where I wonder
as our eyes hold for a moment,
brief, then falter as I knew they would-
because a mostly white woman my age, ordering
burgers and fries to go cannot hold the eyes
of a middle-aged Mexican man working assembly
in a not-quite-restaurant without breaking
something hidden not-so-deep inside herself-
what’s your story?
How did you manage to get to this country,
much less this dead-end town, even less
this dying franchise, where you shuffle fries
and burgers into boxes for the walking-dead,
most of whom never even notice or look up at you,
much less wonder who you are, who you were
when your laugh lines formed. Did they form
from laughing or from years of troubled grief?
What’s your story?
What’s your name- are you Diego, who lost
his family and his fortune? Luis, who sought
a better life somewhere, anywhere north
of Chihuahua? Are you Tovito, who’s family
is happier here, despite the seeming lack
of dignity, for work is honor, and honor is life,
and life is precious, even here at McDonald’s.
And I walk away still wondering and aching to know,
what's your story?
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Redemption & the Sun
10 February 2007, 11:31 PM
It's been a while since someone made me
want to write a poem about happy things,
lovely things, things that make those on the outside
cringe to hear them said, because it's been so long
since music was so sweet; since thoughts were so
like honey; since feet upon the mountain of despair
had been so beautiful, bearing news of things
unheard of, the joy of which could never be
believed if not for hands which bear the truth
in upturned, open palms- a heart as lost as mine,
as near the letting go of hope as I have ever been,
a love as close to giving up the yearning to be known;
its God-image, branded so upon the flesh
that one ought sooner die than let it cease to long
for what should have been so very long ago;
what it still might know, given the chance,
given the hope,
given the moment to say yes,
yes,
oh God, please let it come- redemption, and the sun.
It's been a while since someone made me
want to write a poem about happy things,
lovely things, things that make those on the outside
cringe to hear them said, because it's been so long
since music was so sweet; since thoughts were so
like honey; since feet upon the mountain of despair
had been so beautiful, bearing news of things
unheard of, the joy of which could never be
believed if not for hands which bear the truth
in upturned, open palms- a heart as lost as mine,
as near the letting go of hope as I have ever been,
a love as close to giving up the yearning to be known;
its God-image, branded so upon the flesh
that one ought sooner die than let it cease to long
for what should have been so very long ago;
what it still might know, given the chance,
given the hope,
given the moment to say yes,
yes,
oh God, please let it come- redemption, and the sun.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Armageddon Meets Cloud Nine
27 November 2006, 9:56 AM
Cerulean and silvered white
against a faithful azure sky
lean down to trace my lips
with sunset’s pastel orange hue.
The deeper shades of fiery red,
Cerise and coral in my head
encroach upon a perfect autumn breeze,
a sky as deep as it is wide,
and eyes without a hint of guile.
Armageddon draws nigh-
the muted shades of early evening
deepen to impending doom,
and I wait for it.
The warring sky engulfs Cloud Nine,
meets deepening color as this evening
permeates my own,
and I find I am still alive; at home
as these too long whitened clouds
turn all the colors of the sky
of me
and my heart ambles along its beat,
the only certain part of me,
even as the Truth unfolds
and I am not alone.
Cerulean and silvered white
against a faithful azure sky
lean down to trace my lips
with sunset’s pastel orange hue.
The deeper shades of fiery red,
Cerise and coral in my head
encroach upon a perfect autumn breeze,
a sky as deep as it is wide,
and eyes without a hint of guile.
Armageddon draws nigh-
the muted shades of early evening
deepen to impending doom,
and I wait for it.
The warring sky engulfs Cloud Nine,
meets deepening color as this evening
permeates my own,
and I find I am still alive; at home
as these too long whitened clouds
turn all the colors of the sky
of me
and my heart ambles along its beat,
the only certain part of me,
even as the Truth unfolds
and I am not alone.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
A Grander Moldau
July 7, 2005
Still looking back at old favorites. I love Smetana's "Moldau." And I love the Reservoir.
The bank clock proclaimed ninety-two degrees.
The air was so stifling as I left my apartment,
I did not doubt its integrity for a moment.
I’m here now at the reservoir;
the breeze upon my skin is cool,
so cool that I begin to question my perception.
Behind gray and glowing clouds,
I hear Your power thunder;
source is veiled, but not sound.
I wonder at reverberations
transforming earth into a timpani;
rain falls like a piccolo,
a recital of Smetana’s Moldau, only grander;
this music he could only imitate,
which no one yet has, nor ever shall
manage to duplicate.
I wonder what strange language
rain speaks to leaves in my beloved Sycamore?
I wish I could sing like that.
If only I could speak pure truth
the way these thousands of droplets
slap against the pavilion’s roof, the grass,
the thirsty ground, the once-still waters,
alive and rippling, reflecting naught except grace
sent to slake creation’s thirst.
I thirst, yet not for rain,
though something in this torrential
stillness of the mind,
where I find myself content to listen to the
praise of the sky and single-minded wisdom of rain,
brings me to deeper stillness yet.
Even as I wrap this shawl around my shoulders,
the wind bites through, reminds me of mortality,
and also of eternity.
Mystery becomes You…
And somehow,
this finitude reveals, conceals,
instructs and astounds;
leaves me speechless in divinity.
Still looking back at old favorites. I love Smetana's "Moldau." And I love the Reservoir.
The bank clock proclaimed ninety-two degrees.
The air was so stifling as I left my apartment,
I did not doubt its integrity for a moment.
I’m here now at the reservoir;
the breeze upon my skin is cool,
so cool that I begin to question my perception.
Behind gray and glowing clouds,
I hear Your power thunder;
source is veiled, but not sound.
I wonder at reverberations
transforming earth into a timpani;
rain falls like a piccolo,
a recital of Smetana’s Moldau, only grander;
this music he could only imitate,
which no one yet has, nor ever shall
manage to duplicate.
I wonder what strange language
rain speaks to leaves in my beloved Sycamore?
I wish I could sing like that.
If only I could speak pure truth
the way these thousands of droplets
slap against the pavilion’s roof, the grass,
the thirsty ground, the once-still waters,
alive and rippling, reflecting naught except grace
sent to slake creation’s thirst.
I thirst, yet not for rain,
though something in this torrential
stillness of the mind,
where I find myself content to listen to the
praise of the sky and single-minded wisdom of rain,
brings me to deeper stillness yet.
Even as I wrap this shawl around my shoulders,
the wind bites through, reminds me of mortality,
and also of eternity.
Mystery becomes You…
And somehow,
this finitude reveals, conceals,
instructs and astounds;
leaves me speechless in divinity.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Blackjack
June 23, 2005
for Ada
Have been reading through old stuff, remembering where I've been, how I've healed, how I am still so very broken. I am particularly fond of this poem. It describes a moment in time of learning to trust someone outside of self- a prerequisite, it seems, for learning to trust self.
I cut and pass my deck of daisies
across the table to the dealer.
One up, one down.
The Queen of Spades is showing.
"Hit me."
You stare at me,
as if I just said the sky is purple.
"HIT me."
English must not be your forte,
or perhaps Blackjack is not your game.
"Goddamnit, HIT ME!"
I have the urge to jump across the table
and wrench your hands from your pockets;
force you to deal the cards I've handed you,
like everyone else has done.
If you're going to sit at the Blackjack table,
don't twiddle your thumbs...
Hit me or leave.
You do not vacate your chair.
You simply eye the card in front of me,
the one neither you nor I have seen,
and it occurs to me
that I have gambled my life
with half the knowledge it takes
to win.
You place a single finger atop the deck
and slide the long awaited card toward me,
then you slowly turn it over to reveal
the King of Hearts...
And my heart cracks,
cries, screams, kicks and pleads,
begs me to retract my words.
But too late.
A tear escapes my eye
as reluctantly it finds
the card which I've neglected.
My trembling hand extends,
touches lightly on the lovely white daisy
gracing the back of the card.
I close my eyes, grasp the card,
slowly turn it over;
breathe relief-
indeed, the first breath of a lifetime...
An ace.
for Ada
Have been reading through old stuff, remembering where I've been, how I've healed, how I am still so very broken. I am particularly fond of this poem. It describes a moment in time of learning to trust someone outside of self- a prerequisite, it seems, for learning to trust self.
I cut and pass my deck of daisies
across the table to the dealer.
One up, one down.
The Queen of Spades is showing.
"Hit me."
You stare at me,
as if I just said the sky is purple.
"HIT me."
English must not be your forte,
or perhaps Blackjack is not your game.
"Goddamnit, HIT ME!"
I have the urge to jump across the table
and wrench your hands from your pockets;
force you to deal the cards I've handed you,
like everyone else has done.
If you're going to sit at the Blackjack table,
don't twiddle your thumbs...
Hit me or leave.
You do not vacate your chair.
You simply eye the card in front of me,
the one neither you nor I have seen,
and it occurs to me
that I have gambled my life
with half the knowledge it takes
to win.
You place a single finger atop the deck
and slide the long awaited card toward me,
then you slowly turn it over to reveal
the King of Hearts...
And my heart cracks,
cries, screams, kicks and pleads,
begs me to retract my words.
But too late.
A tear escapes my eye
as reluctantly it finds
the card which I've neglected.
My trembling hand extends,
touches lightly on the lovely white daisy
gracing the back of the card.
I close my eyes, grasp the card,
slowly turn it over;
breathe relief-
indeed, the first breath of a lifetime...
An ace.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Finding North Wind
It occured to me tonight to take a look back at where I was in my writing a year ago. I'm glad I did.
I was originally introduced to the writings of George MacDonald, and specifically to _At the Back of the North Wind_, by an online poetry buddy by the handle of Mahlonovich. Many thanks and much affection still go to him for bringing me face to face with my dear North Wind.
Many thanks also to George MacDonald for the gift of North Wind. She has come to mean something other to me than MacDonald may have originally intended. But that's the beauty of great literature, and an illustration of George MacDonald's singular ability to create a character whose impact is so striking, one cannot help but love her and own her meaning long after finishing the book.
FINDING NORTH WIND
17 November 2005, 8:59 PM
Edited 19 November 2006, 6:51 PM
I sat beside North Wind,
and she told me of the lands of magic
beyond the periphery of her sight.
She is full of paradox,
my dear North Wind,
for my vision is made clearer
by all she cannot see.
She comes to me as I sit
within this seeming-stagnant pool,
Yet in her presence all becomes
a living, breathing being;
bankless river ever flowing,
tripping over mossy rock and down
the sharp incline of mountain
toward emerald grass of valleys below.
I've never heard her chuckle
nor stifle a giggle,
for her laugh is thunder,
toppling the mountain whence she came.
Nor have I ever seen her
just a little cross: Beneath her rage
the very earth is set trembling.
She sets ablaze the firmament
with naught but her indignant gaze.
I've never seen a single tear
drop from her eye,
for when she weeps
the rushing river which is she
becomes a mighty torrent
overwhelming me.
I've never heard her whistle
but she ended in a song
which was as deep as it was long,
nor any smaller nor less strong
for having found its birth
within the breast of one
so small at once,
and yet again so very large!
To quantify such majesty
is far too great a task,
beyond my reach.
And quite pointless besides.
For once I had her pegged,
she simply would be off again,
tripping over hill and stone,
laughing,
weeping,
alone or in the company of princes.
It matters not to her.
She simply is,
and will not long abide
my notions of what is needful.
North Wind and some imagery taken from and inspired by George MacDonald's "At the Back of the North Wind."
I was originally introduced to the writings of George MacDonald, and specifically to _At the Back of the North Wind_, by an online poetry buddy by the handle of Mahlonovich. Many thanks and much affection still go to him for bringing me face to face with my dear North Wind.
Many thanks also to George MacDonald for the gift of North Wind. She has come to mean something other to me than MacDonald may have originally intended. But that's the beauty of great literature, and an illustration of George MacDonald's singular ability to create a character whose impact is so striking, one cannot help but love her and own her meaning long after finishing the book.
FINDING NORTH WIND
17 November 2005, 8:59 PM
Edited 19 November 2006, 6:51 PM
I sat beside North Wind,
and she told me of the lands of magic
beyond the periphery of her sight.
She is full of paradox,
my dear North Wind,
for my vision is made clearer
by all she cannot see.
She comes to me as I sit
within this seeming-stagnant pool,
Yet in her presence all becomes
a living, breathing being;
bankless river ever flowing,
tripping over mossy rock and down
the sharp incline of mountain
toward emerald grass of valleys below.
I've never heard her chuckle
nor stifle a giggle,
for her laugh is thunder,
toppling the mountain whence she came.
Nor have I ever seen her
just a little cross: Beneath her rage
the very earth is set trembling.
She sets ablaze the firmament
with naught but her indignant gaze.
I've never seen a single tear
drop from her eye,
for when she weeps
the rushing river which is she
becomes a mighty torrent
overwhelming me.
I've never heard her whistle
but she ended in a song
which was as deep as it was long,
nor any smaller nor less strong
for having found its birth
within the breast of one
so small at once,
and yet again so very large!
To quantify such majesty
is far too great a task,
beyond my reach.
And quite pointless besides.
For once I had her pegged,
she simply would be off again,
tripping over hill and stone,
laughing,
weeping,
alone or in the company of princes.
It matters not to her.
She simply is,
and will not long abide
my notions of what is needful.
North Wind and some imagery taken from and inspired by George MacDonald's "At the Back of the North Wind."
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
A Bottle
27 June 2006, 1:27 PM
A younger wine, fruity and sweet,
has obvious virtues to the untrained palate;
is easy to enjoy with no investment nor interest
in the fine art of fermentation.
The more discerning tongue cannot delight
in a brew intended for the masses.
Unwittingly (or perhaps quite intentionally),
I have learned to prefer more sophisticated
flavors, less obviously sweet, patiently
alluring, gently drawing me toward spices;
composition and complexity;
a longer finish; pleasure which lasts
beyond a bottle.
A younger wine, fruity and sweet,
has obvious virtues to the untrained palate;
is easy to enjoy with no investment nor interest
in the fine art of fermentation.
The more discerning tongue cannot delight
in a brew intended for the masses.
Unwittingly (or perhaps quite intentionally),
I have learned to prefer more sophisticated
flavors, less obviously sweet, patiently
alluring, gently drawing me toward spices;
composition and complexity;
a longer finish; pleasure which lasts
beyond a bottle.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
KY 169
4 October 2006, 7:15 AM
Kentucky is beautiful to me,
especially when I find myself
her only witness, or one among few,
as the foaling barns and mowing sheds
are lit with a warmth that only comes
from an up-before-dawn vigilance
to the privilege of caring for the earth
and her children.
Misty not-quite-morning rests
lazily, enshrouding rusty remains
of tractors long since left to pasture,
silhouetted against a morning slow to rise-
he hovers lightly, loathe to leave
his originate earth, this blue-green cradle,
soon to be his resting place again.
Kentucky is beautiful to me,
especially when I find myself
her only witness, or one among few,
as the foaling barns and mowing sheds
are lit with a warmth that only comes
from an up-before-dawn vigilance
to the privilege of caring for the earth
and her children.
Misty not-quite-morning rests
lazily, enshrouding rusty remains
of tractors long since left to pasture,
silhouetted against a morning slow to rise-
he hovers lightly, loathe to leave
his originate earth, this blue-green cradle,
soon to be his resting place again.
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