Look Away

10 December 2011

The pot boils,

the flower blooms,

the writing fades,

the light glooms.

We watch without blinking,

eyes watering, winking--

still, the child grows,

flourishes, goes

when we look away.

Comparative Literature

28 April 2011

The bright colors, crinkly fish

tails and floppy elephant ears

mark this book as hers, completely

safe and allowed

and, therefore, uninteresting

compared with my Kindle.

Up All Night

18 March 2011

Sometimes she sleeps--we think she's angelic.

Those hours fly by, then she wakes teething,

spends the night screaming.

In the morning someone asks

and we agree she's adorable

during the day or when she sleeps,

but wouldn't it be nice to close your eyes at 10 PM,

not open them until 5 or 6? Of course,

there are the moments when she wakes burning,

a cloth on her brow, cool just moments ago,

mopping up the fever. Those moments between

2 and 2:30 stretch out as if to ten mornings or more,

waiting for the fever to break. I've noticed

how precious she is in those moments,

whether or not she's sleeping.

White Christmas

20 December 2009

Madness infuses the everyday

rituals that help our home get through

the holidays, but now and then we manage

contentment--as near perfection

as we’ll ever get--as near the wishes,

hopes and dreams we’ve feared

we’d never realize as we can hope to come.

I am given to analysis,

though I could never manage to encapsulate

what makes these moments happen,

what gives me eyes to see this

brief window into Paradise. I’ll quit now,

while I’m ahead and my vision’s clear,

the children are here and ours

for a white Christmas.

Class project

I'm going blog crazy this week, huh?

My son's class is doing a geography project involving butterflies. They made butterflies out of tissue paper, hung them up around the classroom, and then left for spring break. When they came back *gasp* the butterflies had flown away. The idea was to have friends and family send postcards from around the country and the world telling the kids where their butterflies had been spotted.

My son has been bugging me to write a postcard to his class. He's totally on to the game, and wants me to participate. So I did, and here it is:

The dreadful intimacy of divorce

I am reminded often of how foreign the feelings which accompany divorce are to those who have not experienced it. Actually, I realize now and again that there are folks for whom those feelings are foreign in spite of the fact that they themselves have been through a divorce.

So a relatively new acquaintance learns that I don't have my children with me today, and the conversation very naturally, though very uncomfortably for me, veers to the fact that they are each with their respective Other Parent. And my family is evinced as blended, and my heart as broken, though I'm never quite sure if the person with whom I'm talking understands the depth of the wound.

Or someone who has known and been close with both me and my ex, either in the past or currently, admits curiosity about our circumstance. And the conversation ends up in the vein of asking about our time-sharing agreement, and what the person perceives as the pros and cons of it, or asking me what pros and cons I experience.

It's not offensive to me to talk about--it's my life and it's dreadfully intimate, but it's bound to come up. I carry it with me everywhere I go, whether by the conspicuous absence of my children, or by the fact that my daughter addresses me by my first name, and my son addresses my husband as Baba. But it hurts. My, how it hurts. And no, I don't consider my children's Other Parents to be built in baby-sitters. It's not a newlywed perk that my husband and I are without our kids every other weekend.

And it will never be over. This is reality not just for the foreseeable future, but forever. My children will always have two homes, and I will always be obliged to split their time with folks who are, at least at this point, relative strangers, and worse yet, people who hurt me, and whom I hurt, by the very fact of our respective existential realities.

I heard someone recently say that if they had to choose between the death of a parent and that parent walking out on their other parent, they would choose the walking out. That statement provoked profound ambivalence in me. Ten years ago, I might've said the same, but now it strikes me as short-sited. Granted, the person who said it had lost a parent--one he loved and missed dearly. I honestly don't know which I'd prefer. Death is final. Divorce is an ongoing wound, with ongoing perpetrators. Death is closure, and leaves room to grieve for the person we knewso well, for good or ill. Divorce leaves us wondering who they are, whether the years we spent with them were really a lie, and whether there was something we could have done differently--or better. Divorce is never truly over, and given my demonstrable need for closure, I tend to think I'd prefer to deal with something cut and dry, something honest that Time might could help to heal.

Blaming Barbie

I've spent a good many years blaming Barbie, Bratz and the like for most of the problems so many young girls (and grown women) seem to have with self-image. I just read an article posted by Ruth that shook the foundation of all those arguments, and made me take a long hard look at my growing up, and at my dinner conversation.

I can't say I hadn't thought about my tendency to blame culture, or about the importance of my own attitude toward my own body and my ideas about beauty in general. I also cannot say, however, that I had ever connect these concepts, and realized that while Barbie, Bratz, and all the images with which we and our daughters are inundated on a daily basis mean nothing next to the influence a mother and a father weild in the mind of a child. My comfort with my own body, and my husband's unconditional love for me, will speak volumes more to my daughter in the long run than a ridiculously proportioned doll.

That said, I'm still not a fan. Why Barbie could have been made with smaller breasts and a tiny bit larger waist, I'll never understand. Oh, and flat feet. Who wears heels everyday? Srsly.

Chimera

12 December 2008
chimera: noun: a thing that is hoped or wished for but in fact is illusory or impossible to achieve.
inspired by The Weekend Wordsmith

This House is...
should have been built on Sanity,

but even a foothold is rare purchase.
At least the Cornerstone sits solidly
upon rock-hard, sound rationality--
he does not wander. The Little Ones go,
return again, find the House
in need of repair, but standing,
safe and warm, sheltering,
in her right mind.

Pancakes

29 September 2008, 10:55 PM

He asked me to make him pancakes,
and somewhere inside I sighed a deep,
exhausted sigh- I had wanted to sleep
until the last possible moment tomorrow.
Getting up in time for breakfast robs me
of fifteen minutes of comfort and home
in my warm bed that I won't ever get back.

But outwardly I smiled, said yes,
and my affirmation opened a door into
the broken heart of a little boy,
made a way in the wilderness for my son
to say the words I knew would come
the day his father left, the day I knew
we would never come back,
and we all were surely better for it.

My son told me a story with his eyes
and tears which, for now, did not fall
because while other places seem less so,
this house will always be home.
I make him pancakes, and by this simple
(if sometimes grudging) act, he knows.
He knows my love for him.

Right to Recompense

28 February 2008, 10:06 AM

The howling cry continues as I realize
that Paradise contains a measure of Hell,
and I cannot have what is goodness and light—
all that might have been the right,
given another set of circumstances,
a lesser set of needs— save I grant
that some darknesses must always remain.

My God, the raw and bleeding wound
that never ceases screaming for want
of the one thing I will never have,
the one thing I cannot give
to the ones who bear no culpability
and every right to recompense.

Snow Day

22 January 2008, 8:47 PM

A rubber band stretched
down the length of a meter stick-
poised at the peak of potential energy
and more than prepared to put an eye out.

They never did snap. Nor did I.
But at day’s end, it seems I may as well have,
emotions limp as an elastic loop in the corner
of a room where I anticipated hell
as the children laughed, played,
grew tired of each other,
and all went well.

Mandolin Rain

I rediscovered a song last night that I haven't really listened to since highschool. Bruce Hornsby & the Range had two songs that everyone knew, even if they didn't care for them. They were The Way It Is and Mandolin Rain.

I was always particularly fond of Mandolin Rain. I couldn't have said why back then other than the fact that I loved the way he played (piano), and I loved his voice, and his style, and and and... I guess those are reasons enough.

As I listened last night, though, we were sending our daughter- my step-daughter, I call her Epona- back to her mom after a short visit here with us- me, my husband and my son (the Yob). Something in the song struck a chord with the situation- the joy the kids bring with them, a portion of which walks out the door with them every time they leave, the bittersweet sadness that's a part of daily life in a blended family, the irrevocability of all the little broken pieces that led us to this place where we get to redeem as much as we can, and learn to live with what can't be borne. The joys come and go, and we always know in the back of our minds, or very much in the forefront, that what we have will never quite feel whole, but you'd have to wrench it from our cold, dead hands if you wanted to take it away from us.

MANDOLIN RAIN
Bruce Hornsby & the Range

The song came and went
Like the times that we spent
Hiding out from the rain under the carnival tent
I laughed and she'd smile
It would last for awhile
You don't know what you've got 'til you lose it all again

Listen to the mandolin rain
Listen to the music on the lake
Listen to my heart break every time she runs away
Listen to the banjo wind
A sad song drifting low
Listen to the tears roll
Down my face as she turns to go

A cool evening dance
Listening to the bluegrass band
Takes the chill from the air till they play the last song
I'll do my time keeping you off my mind
but there's moments that I find, I'm not feeling so strong

Listen to the mandolin rain
Listen to the music on the lake
Listen to my heart break every time she runs away
Listen to the banjo wind
A sad song drifting low
Listen to the tears roll
Down my face as she turns to go

Running down by the lakeshore
She did love the sound of a summer storm
It played on the lake like a mandolin
Now its washing her away once again

Listen to the mandolin rain
Listen to the music on the lake
Listen to my heart break every time she runs away
Listen to the banjo wind
A sad song drifting low
Listen to the tears roll
Down my face as she turns to go

The boat's steaming in
I watch the sidewheel spin
And I think about her when I hear that whistle blow
I can't change my mind
I knew all the time that she'd go
But that's a choice I made long ago

Listen to the mandolin rain
Listen to the music on the lake
Listen to my heart break every time she runs away
Listen to the banjo wind
A sad song drifting low
Listen to the tears roll
Down my face as she turns to go

While They're Away

26 December 2007, 5:17
Upon reading Wendell Berry’s The Clearing.

Mr. Berry,

You have a way of taking the most noble
and daily responsibilities of a lover of the earth;
casting them in a light of profundity
which makes me wish I also walked The Farm
with you and pondered such meaning-filled subjects
as politics, religion, and care of the earth.

I forget our craft can be bent upon
the commonest of life’s comings and goings-
those tasks which you and I must do,
regardless of our level of environmental sophistication
and our preference for or against politics-
that there is laundry to be folded
which does not fold itself, and dishes
in the kitchen which require my attention.

The world will turn, but this home will not live
of its own accord. I must help it breathe
and pulse and love. The children
who live within my care will not thrive
without a deliberate sort of care-
a tilling, a sowing, a watering of sorts,
a nurturing of their loves, their wants
and their needs which only I can tend to,
assuming they are with me on any given day.

Even when they’re not, it is my willful
diligence which sets their feet on solid ground
when they return. I will be waiting- this house
will still be home to them because I make it so;
because I am faithful to the fields
while they’re away.

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.

My daughter's artwork...

The gril told me, "You can post it on your website, if you want..." Hehehe... If you look at my avatar, you'll see some similarities.

Loosening My Grip

13 August 2007, 8:20 AM
IRW

I held your hand as we walked
into the school today. You seemed
so confident, for a moment I thought
you'd prefer to walk not so close.

I loosened my grip.

You tightened yours,
so I didn't let go. I never will really
understand what makes me fear
for you. I know you're ready.

Everything was perfect.

I saved my tears for the hallway
and walked away with a boy-sized ache
in my heart, realizing all the precious
time that's gone- the time I missed
when you might have come home
mid-day, and we would have
sat in the dining room together
eating cookies, drinking milk
and talking about finger-painting
projects, incomplete, but soon to be
proudly displayed on refrigerator doors.

Moving Mountains

6 August 2007, 4:54 PM

Anger is my worst enemy
in this fight- leaves me weak
and wondering from which part of me
I’ve responded, if I’ve even responded.
Perhaps I’ve knee-jerked once again,
made life more difficult than
necessary to prove a point.

I’m angered by the lessons learned
before I ever entered this circumstance,
muddied now by irrelevant emotions.
I must learn to validate but contextualize;
pass judgment regarding relevance
to issues at hand- a lesson
whose importance cannot be overstated.

This is no game. These are the lives
of children who look to us for sanity,
whether they know it or not. They look to us
to make life what it ought to be.

Though I would have it be so,
there are only so many mountains I can move
in a lifetime- so few I have mastered
at this point, and so many who work against
what I see as light and life.

That's My Kid

14 October 2006, 10:50 AM

If you'd told me ten years ago I'd be
a soccer mom today, complete with minivan,
extra coats and snacks-in-tow-

I suppose far-fetched is an overstatement.
I'd have believed you.

What I didn't count on was the sense of pride
and joy at watching the little ones-

GOAL!!! Way to go Isaiah!

That's my kid- my kid made a goal!
It's a shame his father wasn't here to see
another first. Ah well, there'll always be
the second, perhaps even before next season-

GOAL!!! GO ISAIAH!!!

My GOD, THAT was my kid too! Did you SEE that?
That was my KID- MERCY, but he's good at this!
Why am I surprised? The little ones don't know
they can't- they only know they'll try.

GOAL!!! Good job, Kelly!

Their delight outstrips my own by far, perhaps
because their joy is by doubt unadulterated-
they do not know ambition nor self-conscious
anxiety as big folks more often do than not.

GOAL!!! Way to put it in, Quin!

Neither do they know the rules of the game,
but sakes alive, they surely know to play!

GOAL!!!

My back was turned- I didn't see the shot,
but the aftermath is unmistakable- someone scored.
High-fives all around, and victory goes to the Storm.

My little one, from allstar transformed
to weepy puddle of hunger and exhaustion,
and I apologize to coach for his off-the-field
attitude toward the game. Coach smiles,
assures me that he earned his keep.
He plays hard, and one can hardly fault
the kid who scored three goals for the team.
Three? Three goals, coach? Are you sure?

That last one I missed- my kid made that shot.
Did you see it? That was my kid.

Redemption

10 April 2006, 12:10 AM

I’m not self-flagellating

I’m soberly looking at what I’ve handed you
and my heart is broken for you
even at your tender age of five
when you really can’t comprehend
what you will never have

But someday you will

And when you do I want you to know
you can tell me and you can be angry
You can wish out loud that things had been different

God knows I have

I never wanted to hand you two homes
one with a mother, one with a father
two distinct remnants of a family
and all the wounds you may someday discover
in your person, the deficit you may experience
in your sense of self and safety and belonging

I have great hope for redemption

If God can make good of the evils I’ve seen
if He can turn my heart
so that I am bent on loving you rightly
first and foremost
with or without my husband

if He can redeem my sin as I’ve seen Him do

perhaps He can protect you, heal you
guide you toward redemption in His time
for His glory
and for our salvation

Fisher Boy

5 April 2006, 11:29 PM

Sweet little fisher boy
you had the time of your life today
being a boy with a man who could stand
for those moments
in the place of a father or grandfather
baiting and tricking fish
into thinking your hook was a feast

You’re such a clever little fisher boy

and I can just see that moment
when the first one bit
that moment when your joy was too much to contain
within your sweet little five-year-old frame
and I wish I could have seen your face
Though I’ll never take a father’s place
I wanted to be there

The best I could do was give you the moment
arrange for the circumstance
where you’d find a new voice
a smile too big for your five-year-old cheeks
and soppy wet tennis shoes
you’ll never wear to school again

Sweet little five-year-old fisher boy
mommy loves you more than you can know
as I kiss your sweet, unconscious brow
and you drift off to sleep and dream
of your day in five-year-old fisher boy Paradise