A Little Bit of Poetry

I once wrote a post describing my childhood efforts at becoming a novelist. Even then I had the soul of a writer, hungering as I did for my words to impact the world around me by making a difference in someone's life. I had a voice which needed to be heard, if only I could find the right words to hook my potential readers.

I'd forgotten about my fizzled out attempts at publication with Impossible Pete until I began working on putting together (for a friend) a booklet of my body of poetry. The instant I held the first printed page in my hands I was flooded with emotion. For me there will always be a vast distinction between composing directly onto my computer (as most of these poems were conceived) and committing my work to paper. I need to hold my poems in my hands, as I deliberately slow down my reading to make the enjoyment last a bit longer. It's not that I'm in love with my own work, it's more that I've come to see that I'm beginning to evolve as a writer. After decades of skirting truth, of avoiding anything unpleasant in my work I'm digging beneath the surface and showing to the world what I've uncovered, whether it be pleasant or putrid. I'm not glossing things over by using trite words peppered with bland euphemisms.

I've a lifelong penchant for that which is a bit rough around the edges, dog-eared, if you will. Writing is no different:  I shy away from the slick and commercial and cherish that which lacks polish but speaks truth. This is one reason why holding my poetry pages touches me so deeply. I'll never get the same feeling from reading my words on a monitor--that's too impersonal for me. I've kept first drafts of stories and poems written 30 years ago. I haven't been able to toss them out no matter how crumpled their appearance or how many cross-outs or erasures they contain. There upon lined pages aged with time I once attempted to tell a truth. A little truth, or maybe a bigger truth. I wasn't very good at self-expression, but there was a writer in me dying to be heard. I don't know if visual artists keep their first efforts, I think my dad did but that may be simply from his bad habit of not throwing out anything. I'm doomed to cherish my rough drafts more than I ever could anything which finds its way into print. I like that this is so, for it tells me that at heart I'm a writer more concerned with truth than with appearances.

How I Spent My Monday

7:30 am:  Stumbled into kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Tripped over Midge who was meowing much too loudly for so early in the morning. Shushed her repeatedly all the way into the living room.

7:35 am:  Turned on computer, stared at it idiotically. Checked e-mail and blog, did some stumbling. Answered cell phone call from Tim, who's been calling a little earlier than I'd like. With no caffeine yet in my system, I couldn't trust myself to be patient with him.

7:45 am:  Ended phone call, padded into the kitchen for first cup of coffee. Startled myself by glancing at my vanity which now resides in the kitchen. I'd forgotten I did a little arranging this weekend. Stepped back to get a better look, decided I still love the idea of having an un-kitcheny item against what used to be a blank wall.

7:46 am:  Told myself to have a smoke, then get dressed. Had smoke, perched on tiny little porch table inherited from former neighbors. Sat wrapped up in bright fleece blanket, realized I'd forgotten to brush my hair, hoped it wouldn't be one of those mornings when the owner of the pub was out walking his dog. Tried to remember what I wanted to do with the rest of the day, drew a blank.

7:55 am:  Back inside, totally forgot about getting dressed. Plopped back down at computer, replied to emails, drank coffee. Wandered into bedroom, noticed the scrapbooking paper I'd received in the mail the other day, considered beginning the collage I'm making for a Christmas gift.

7:55-noon: Worked on collage. Talked to one of my sons (Maddy and Anna's dad) who told me how sick they all were, and that they were going to emergency if they didn't get better soon. Nibbled on the last of my pastrami and Swiss cheese (I'd tossed a loaf of moldy bread the day before), and thought about getting dressed.

12-2:00:  Worked on collage. Decided to take a break to get housework done. Forgot to do so. Burst out laughing, on the john, remembering how during the weekend when Sissyface and I took Maddy out to lunch, I'd written "Wash me, whore" in the dirt on her back bumper. Wondered again why that word always makes me crack up.

2:00-4:00 Worked on collage. I think. Lost all track of time and reality. Realized with a start I should get dressed, decided if I hadn't by now what did it matter? Also realized that my niece often borrows Sissyface's car so perhaps I should tell my sister what I wrote on her bumper before she loaned it out again.

4:00-6:00 Nibbled on Fritos and sour cream. Wished for cake. Answered 3 phone calls in a row from Maddy's mama; each time there was no one there. Took a call from my son who told me they were going to emergency, everyone throwing up and having the runs.

6:00 pm  Heard a woman outside weeping. Looked out living room window, nothing. Looked out kitchen window, nothing. Weeping increased. Decided I needed to throw my trash out anyhow, so while outside I walked down to the sidewalk and looked in both directions. Nothing. Not a soul in sight, but the weeping was real, I swear it. Felt something like fear snake its way up my spine.

6:05 pm:  Back inside I worked again on the collage. Ironed some material for an iron on transfer I'd printed out, and felt a strong impulse to plunge the iron into the sink full of water I should have drained a long time ago. Resisted the urge. Looked with a start at my kitchen clock. How had it gotten so late? Looked down at my pjs and robe in great shame. Who lives like this?

6:10 pm:  Plopped down on couch, still mystified by the mysterious weeping woman. Tried to ground myself by watching a little TV but it didn't help. Thought of working on the scarf I'm knitting my grandson, but knitting seemed like something I'd only ever dreamed I could do. Called Sissyface, woke her from a nap. Tried to explain how ungrounded I felt, told her all about the eerie weeping and how I felt as if I was on a mild acid trip.

7:00 pm:  My son called to tell me they were testing the kids for Swine Flu. He didn't really know anything at that point, and won't get the test results for several days.

7:05 pm:  Began cleaning up mess from collage. Wondered if it was worth the bother to make myself a little meal. Decided it wasn't. Got back on the computer and found an email from someone on Freecycle responding to my wanted ad for a living room area rug (for Maddy's fam.) Sat wondering once more where the day had gone to, feeling as if the entire day was lost to me. And who was doing that weeping? I know I heard it, it wasn't my imagination.

I don't know how the rest of the evening unwound, except that my son stopped by around 11 pm (with his shirt up over his face to spare me his germs) to borrow the money needed for their prescriptions. Wandered into my room, saw that Midge had a little gift waiting for me so resigned myself to cleaning the litter box before climbing into bed. Finally got under the covers, checked my DVR to see what shows were waiting to be watched, wondered if I'd get sick too. Would I die from the Swine Flu, of all thing? I have a compromised immune system-- but I can't afford to worry about what might happen.

Lay in bed numbly staring at the TV and regretting the whole, weird day.

No Miracles Here?

One of the most relaxing things I do is watching Roseanne reruns. I've never understood my fascination with (the first few seasons of) this show, nor why I find it so comforting. The other night they aired the episode in which a tornado is expected to touch down in Lanford. As the family scrambles around trying to prepare as best they can for this disaster, Dan searches for the First Aid kit.

"Oh it's not a First Aid kit anymore," Becky tells him. "Darlene's been using it as a lunchbox."

"And what happened to the stuff in the First Aid kit?" he asks Darlene, only to learn she sold it to the football team.

This little snippet of the program grabbed my attention for the first time. I may have seen it about 100 times (or more), but this was the first time I realized what was going on inside of me as I took in the interaction between Dan and his daughter.

If that had been me, I'd have been grounded for 3 weeks. But first I would have been told in no uncertain terms how stupid I was, how I never do anything right, and I'd better start watching my step. Shame was my stepdad's favorite form of punishment. Oftentimes the threatened groundings or withheld allowances never materialized, but that's not to say I got off easy. One thing that he never forgot to do, or changed his mind about doing halfway through, was shaming me.

I watched nearly spellbound as Dan and Roseanne let Darlene know she'd had no business selling their First Aid kit to the football team--and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, they went on to other things. There was no dwelling on her screw-up, no name calling, no shaming, no bringing it up every few minutes. Though I've seen this episode countless times, I think I was half expecting a different outcome this time: Dan goes into a rage and locks Darlene out of the house, tornado warning and all. Roseanne laughs as Dan shames her (as my mother did with me every time), while Becky and DJ stand around snickering and scoffing--clearly relieved it's Darlene and not one of them who did such a dumb thing. Of course the plot never varied (thank goodness.) As it unwound I began reflecting on why it had such a powerful affect on me. The only word I could come up with in conclusion was grace. The Conners may not be perfect but they know a little something about grace. They don't expect perfection in themselves or their children. They aren't concerned with what others will think. They are who they are, and they and their kids have a wide margin for error.

Grace.

What an odd concept! I thought back to my sour suburban childhood home, trying to come up with even one instance of grace in action. I couldn't scrounge up even one such memory. My mom and stepdad existed in a grace-free environment. There were to be no foul-ups, no human failings, no second chances. And most certainly they cared very much what the neighbors thought. My mother would rather my stepdad rape me (as long as it was done in secret where she wouldn't have to hear the neighbors talking about it) than to be mortified by our front lawn not getting mowed in time, or one of her children roaming about the block with dirty fingernails or unkempt hair.

It was as if my stepdad and mother announced, upon joining together in unholy wedlock, There will be no miracles here.

No miracles, no grace. Toe the line or suffer the consequences, just don't expect sympathy or compassion.

Oh but didn't grace sneak in anyway, despite their efforts to live in a grace free atmosphere? Love, grace: call it what you will, I see instances of it creeping in when least expected. Not from my mother or stepdad, to be sure. George MacDonald, the Scottish preacher, once said, "Love surrounds us, seeking the smallest crack by which it may rush in." Had I realized back then how often love found its way in through the dinkiest crack, I would have laughed up my sleeve. For there I was, this shamed redheaded stepchild, losing myself in one wonderful book after another, feeling that deep down sense of delicious comfort, pleasure and lack of self-consciousness which I found only within the pages of fiction. And there I was with my best friend Bec, sauntering or running all about the block having the time of our lives. This was grace, this friendship with which I'd been so blessed. There is no other way to look at it. The delight of books? Pure grace. My best friendship? Grace all the way through. My backyard fort: oh God may as well have rapped his knuckles on my parents' foreheads and said, "Hello, anybody in there?" I mean, what an obvious show of grace was the fort which provided me with so many hours of respite (as well as a safe haven) from my family's lunacy. My abusers were too blind to see this fort for what it represented to me, in the same way that they were blinded to anything which didn't touch them directly.

Love really does sneak in through the cracks, it must be so. I've experienced this time and again myself. It's as if there isn't a force in the world stronger than Love. When we least expect it Love, and its twin, Grace, trickle in and give us that extra shot of hope we need to face another day.

Holiday Guilt

It's beginning, as it does every year about this time. I can feel a building anxiety brought on by the annual holiday season and all it entails. Each year I vow to do things differently. What does my family need, really? We are broken, we are flawed, we are simple, not terrible things to be if one desires to reach out to those who are poor in spirit. Who knows what use can be made from the likes of us? None of us are homeless or hungry or desperate beyond measure. I long to rouse myself into some form of useful community service, such as making huge pots of soup to feed the hungry.

Whatever you've done to the least of these, you've done to me.

Ah, who said that? I know who said that. I know what he meant. The truth is, my kids and grandkids aren't exactly "the least of these." They go to bed with full tummies and with sturdy roofs to protect them from the elements. Should I begrudge them the expression of my affection in the form of gifts? No, I don't think that's exactly the point. But still my heart burns within for something more, something beyond this small circle of influence.

Growing up as a member of the Seventh-day Adventist church, I participated in handing out baskets of food during the Thanksgiving and Christmas season. I can honestly say that the look of stunned appreciation on the faces of the poor pleased me more than the shiny new radios or record players awaiting me under our beautifully lighted tree. It's not that I didn't appreciate my gifts, it's more that their newness soon wore off as they became mere possessions for which I was responsible. The thrill wore off because I knew there would always be more where those came from. I would never be lacking in such things, and so I couldn't rightly value them. By contrast, the touching scenes I witnessed in the humble homes of those who had nothing beyond the bare necessities of life gave me a gift which was slow to fade: the wonderful memory of having played a small part in alleviating human suffering.

I'm no angel of mercy, no Mother Theresa. Just a tired nana who feels plenty of guilt this time of year as, without intending to, I again take that stroll down memory lane to a time when I knew there was something sacred about feeding the poor, and something profane about enjoying my own wealth without rousing myself enough to do something about the needs of others.

Time for a Chuckle or Two

I don't know about everyone else, but I'm in the mood for something humorous for a change. The following are real classified errors which were published in a small-town daily:

• (Monday) FORE SALE -RD Jones has one sewing machine for sale. Phone 555-0707 after 7 pm and ask for Mrs Kelly who lives with him cheap.
• (Tuesday) NOTICE-We regret having erred in RD Jones's ad yesterday. It should have read: One sewing machine for sale. Cheap. 555-0707 and ask for Mrs Kelly who lives with him after 7 pm.
• (Wednesday) NOTICE-RD Jones has informed us that he has received several annoying telephone calls because of the error we made in his classified ad yesterday. His ad stands corrected as follows: FOR SALE-RD Jones has one sewing machine for sale. Cheap. Phone 555-0707 and ask forMrs Kelly who loves with him.
• (Thursday) NOTICE-I, RD Jones, have NO sewing machine for sale. I SMASHED IT. Don't call 555-0707, as the telephone has been disconnected. I have NOT been carrying on with Mrs Kelly. Until yesterday she was my housekeeper, but she quit.

And here's some real news headlines which are bound to give you a chuckle or two:

• Squad Helps Dog Bite Victim
• Enraged Cow Injures Farmer With Axe
• Plane Too Close to Ground, Crash Probe Told
• Miners Refuse to Work After Death
• Juvenile Court to Try Shooting Defendant
• Stolen Painting Found by Tree
• Two Sisters Reunited After 18 Years in Checkout Counter

And last but not least, here are some funny signs and notices:

• Sign in a Laundromat: Automatic washing machines: Please remove all your clothes when the light goes out.
• Sign in a London department store: Bargain Basement Upstairs
• In an office: After tea break staff should empty the teapot and stand upside down on the draining board.
• On a church door: This is the gate of Heaven. Enter ye all by this door (this door is kept locked because of the draft. Please use side door.)
• Outside a secondhand shop: We exchange anything---bicycles, washing machines, etc. Why not bring your wife along and get a wonderful bargain?
• Sign in a cafeteria: Shoes are required to eat in the cafeteria. In pencil beneath the sign: Socks can eat anyplace they want.
• Sign on a music library's door: Bach in a minuet.
• Sign in a restaurant window: T-bone steak, $1. Then, in fine print underneath: With meat, $12.
• A hardware store in Oregon has a sign that reads: Today's special. Below it says, So's tomorrow.