Carya

I am a tree in the wind
Roots planted
Firmly
In the earth
Gripping
Sinking
Steadying
Myself
And others
As they rest
At my feet

I brace myself
Arms akimbo
Eyes squinting
As Aeolus
Dances
Ruffling my feathers
Bending branches
Testing
My strength
My resolve

Pretty though the leaf may be
Light
Unfettered
Now here
Now gone
Red and gold
Must yield
To dust
Where I
Stand constant
Still here
Shaken
Unmoved
Today
And Tomorrow

Empty Nest

There is nothing worse
Than waking
In the middle of the night
To use the loo
And seeing
Her door
Flung open
Moonlight streaming
Through sticker-covered glass
So I rush
To shut the light
Block the blight
Close the door
On empty air
Then stop
And walk in
To Daisy
and Snoopy
and Belle
Frozen mid-dance
And remember
Today is just a taste
Of life to come
What once came through me
Flesh from flesh
Is mine no more

Altar Boy

And there he was
This man
Kneeling at his supper
Penitent
Anticipating
Each morsel
Carved carefully
By white
And weathered
Fingers

An altar boy
Flesh and soul
Incongruent
His secret
Betrayed
By the shifting eye
In an otherwise
Angelic face

And so he stayed
Sharing
A bit of this
A bit of that
Unburdening himself
Recomposing
Free-composing
His self
Before eyes
That watched
In prayer

And I
I paused
And wondered
What
Must make
Him so

Influence

If I say
so much
as a word
or cast
a doubt
they fold
crumple
spiral
away
from their
unmet
destinies
as if
I were
the hand
of God
smiting
wiggling
a frowning
finger
at their
bubble-fragile
selves

Again
I am
silenced
this time
by love
saddened
that I
must speak
my truth
in whispers
as I did
at seven
when
the emperor
had
no clothes

Farmers Market

What
simple pleasure
patting
plump tomatoes
sifting
through stacks
of corn
husks
shut tight
only
their silken
tresses
tempting
my touch
as I nibble
18-month cheddar
and sip honey
from a straw
sealed
at both ends

The basket
in my arms
trails
carrot fronds
and leeks
listing starboard
as summer citrus
huddle
for comfort
so far
from home

The image
drifts slowly
soundlessly
as in
home movies
from the 50s
memories
fill in
the gaps
the sounds
of sun
and leaves
and sky
singing
three-part
harmony
God’s day
is here.

Mashup

Have you ever
shared a memory
as if it were
your own
tasted
a papaya
sweeter
for having
shinned up
the tree
yourself
only
to look down
and see
unskinned knees

Who was that girl
with
baby-soft belly
and
swinging plait
a Cuticura cloud
following
her
every step
if not you?

Water Lilies

It’s as if
the substance
of my life
interrupts
the music
in his head
piccolo pinpricks
amid
the claxon
of his soul
pleasing, for sure
but trifling, nevertheless
details
on a Monet canvas
jarring
superfluous
orange
in a
periwinkle world.

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Process

Try as I might, I can never subvert my writing process. No matter how darkly a deadline looms, no matter how inconsequential or easy the task, no matter how lettered or practiced I might be, I simply cannot just “jump in” and “bang out” a piece of writing.

No.

Not for me the pleasures of stream-of-consciousness prose or the rewards of divine inspiration. No, I must first submit to the vagaries of my process, then eke out each thought, each word per its bidding.

Exhausting.  

The only consolation is that after who-knows-how-many years of fighting this inevitability, of swearing at the writing Gods, I have finally learned to relax into it, trust it, even.

My process begins with extreme avoidance. This usually takes the form of studiously walking around piles of books waiting to be read, avoiding eye contact with any and all who might ask about my writing (however casually), crafting bogus proposals that will never come to fruition for well-meaning professors, blocking out time and space . . . oh, is it December already . . . .

This, I have found, primes the adrenal pump to such an extent that by the time I round that final curve to the finish line, flesh gives way to instinct, and I “Doc” (Back to the Future allusion) myself into an alternate universe where thought and word and sign and syntax align in ways they refused to on terra firma.

I read.

Feverishly. Pen moving emphatically across page. At this time, I cannot see the pulsar for the nebula, the kernel thought for the many ideas swirling about it . . . but I know it’s there! This is what my process has taught me. Persist. The clouds will clear, even if for a moment, to reveal that one thought around which all others will gather. It never fails.

I type.

Furiously. Pages and pages of notes. He said. She said. Mouthing their words that I might make sense of my own.

I print.

Fretfully, I wonder how to make sense of all this data. I sit in a sea of paper and sort and label and group and reject and . . . doubt.

Am I up to this task?

The clock reproaches.

No time for such self-indulgences, so I quickly genuflect at the altar of Process and plod on.

Sort, sift, weed.

Categorize.

Triangulate.

Juxtapose.

Numbers and arrows criss-cross the page. Some ideas make the grade; some do not ( Eizer you’re in, or you’re out! Aufweidersehn!).

I cut and paste.

Quickly, I move like ideas under the same subheading. Time is running out, and I still have not committed a single original word to paper. But I am helpless to defy the hegemony of my process, so I carry on paring and prioritizing, working my way slowly to an outline of notes. Yes, I must first arrange (and rearrange ad infinitum *sigh*) my notes into an outline (multiple indented headings and all!) before . . .

I write.

The title. The title always comes first. Sorry, no title, no paper—that’s just how it works. Then, I just work my way systematically down my notes, sewing together the pieces of my already-patterned argument, checking off each bullet point (so satisfying!) as I incorporate it into my piece.

I proof.

I print.

I wonder at how it all came together in the end.

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Firefly

I have
this way
of shining
bright
delighting
where
there’s dark
and night

I make
them wish
for love
and dreams
upon
the star
of my
behind

But when
the flash
begins
to fade
and morning
snuffs
my little
light

They see
 the bug
that still
remains
and with
a foot
swiftly
indict

Diana

And here she was
this beautiful woman
opening herself up
like a flower
to a flock
of careless birds
“Come,” she says
“I have something
for you”
Only to be torn,
ripped
by indifference

She blames herself
maybe I shone
too bright
maybe I didn’t
get it right
so she opens up
wider
deeper
appealing to our
sisterhood
and we met her
with stony glares
silences
embarrassment

Who was this beauty
this dignity
who showed us
grace
and wisdom
and vulnerability
who showed us
womanhood
in all its complexity?
Comadre
I hear this stranger’s voice
call me home.

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Can I still be a Catholic if . . . ?

Each week, my 14 year old leaves her religious education confirmation class massively pissed off.  First, it was the extant chauvinism in the bible, then it was Roe v. Wade, and last week it was Prop. 8 and the ban on gay marriage that finally put her over the edge.

Can I still be a Catholic if I don’t believe what they say???

I . . . think . . . so . . .

I believe so.

As a pagan raising Catholic children, I can only share with them my outsider understanding of Christ–my unschooled, naive, hopeful understanding of the “Lord of Mercy” and the “Prince of Peace.”  So it came as a great relief to read the following article:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/christine-wicker/the-victorious-jesus_b_141701.html

On Grief and Food

Last Saturday, one of my colleagues lost his wife to lung cancer.  I don’t know this man very well (he seems nice enough), yet I, like many others, have been bringing him food the past few days.  I know he doesn’t eat it.  He hasn’t eaten in months.  I can tell by the gathers at his waist where too-big pants meet belt cinched-ever- tighter, flesh falling away in grief.  Yet we bring him casseroles and bagged salad and paper-plate-covered cookies, hoping our food will fill his empty, that our gestures caress away the pain.  We cannot say, do, be what he needs, so we bring food instead . . . a distraction . . . an annoyance . . . what on earth am I going to do with all this food!  Perhaps he won’t notice she’s gone.

Footprints

Tread lightly; dance true
for the steps you take now leave
footprints on the soul

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  I love the idea of taking a whole day out to give thanks for all that we have, for all that we are.  It seems less corrupt, somehow, than Christmas, which has become a day of getting rather than giving, or Halloween, which is about being (dressing up as) someone other than ourselves.  Even Easter and Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day have all been co-opted by the retail industry.  But not Thanksgiving.  We don’t expect presents or cards or roses on Thanksgiving day—just the company of our family and friends, our loved ones . . . and sometimes even those we do not love as well. 

Thanksgiving always feels like a time of reconciliation to me, a time of putting the past to bed and looking forward to the New Year, to a new beginning.  I remember our first Thanksgiving in America.  We were fresh off the boat and didn’t know anyone then, so we spent it together, just he and I, newlyweds, happy and grateful to be united at long last, at Denny’s over a plate of thin gravy and mashed potatoes.  Strange food in a strange land.  New food in a new land. Home.

Now, nineteen years later, strange is familiar and what was once new has become tradition—cozy, well-worn, predictable tradition. There will still be turkey and mashed potatoes and, yes, gravy—a little thicker now than then . . . just like me.  There will be friends (Christina and Martin) and forgiveness (Carla) and of course my family (you know who you are).  Thank you God for everything.

Hausfrau

What is it we do all day, we wives and mothers and homemakers? What capital do we bring to this economy of goods and services and innovation? I wonder. Do hand-knitted scarves and gingerbread houses count as “goods?” Is the pre-dawn ride to a discount airport considered a “service” to a grateful neighbor?  And what of the many clever things we women accomplish with a ball of twine and spit—could we list them on the NASDAQ? I wonder.

What we have to offer the world may be intangible—goodwill, thoughtfulness, cooperation—but is it really worthless? This culture tells us so.

When my children were younger, I couldn’t always be home right when they got out of school, but I could always count on my neighbor friend to pick them up for me, offer them an after-school cookie and a warm lap in which to eat it. Let me see now . . . a babysitter at ten bucks an hour, five days a week . . . that’s $200 a month (warm lap not included).

Then last year, I needed a pair of snow boots for my 6^th grader to take to outdoor ed., so I picked up the phone, and by the end of the day, I had several pairs in varying sizes delivered to my doorstep. I wonder what those would have cost at REI or even Wal-Mart . . . hmm . . .

And what of the many cups of sugar you borrow and never return, or the gas you save when your friend picks up the loaf of bread for you since “she’s there anyway,” or the bananas/grapes/salmon/toilet rolls/fill-in-the-blank you inherit because there’s no possible way one family could go through those impossibly large portions they sell at Costco at impossibly low prices . . . what of that?

And who thanks the former-regional-director-of-sales-for-blue-chip-company-now-turned-parent-volunteer for teaching their children long division, or the part-time professor for marching on Sacramento to lobby for equal funding, or the retired attorney for keeping the books straight for the PTO?

Nobody.

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A New Year

I’m no good at resolutions. It seems as if no sooner have I made one, than I break it, and feel guilty and disappointed in myself for the next three hundred and sixty four. One year, feeling especially inspired by a terrific homily at church (and as yet unwilling to forgo my morning doughnut) I resolved to give up negativity for Lent. I didn’t make it past the parking lot. I tried to tell my children that unbridled fury at being summarily cut off (at church, no less!) didn’t count as “negativity,” as it was a justifiable response to incredible rudeness. They weren’t buying it. Or maybe they were, but I couldn’t tell as they had both promptly ducked down behind the seat.

Then there is the annual lip service many of us pay to exercising more, getting healthy, yadda, yadda, yadda . . . . This one, actually, is not a dead loss. Some years (like this one where New Year’s Day fell on a Thursday), I get a good 2-3 days of exercise in before back-to-work-Monday arrives and all bets (and resolutions) are off!

So why am I so crap at keeping resolutions? Some say it’s because I do not make “reasonable” resolutions—ones that I can actually keep. Others suggest that the resolutions I make are in “deep conflict with my subconscious desires” (huh?). Still others just shake their heads and silently sneer at my “lack of will power.” Really? Is this really about will power? You mean the same will power that allowed me (a certified slug) to finish a marathon and (on another occasion) to survive water-rescue training even though I didn’t know how to swim? Maybe so.

I think it’s because I can’t be bothered.

Most of the resolutions we make this one time in the year are things we can’t be bothered with the rest of the year—diet, exercise, abstinence . . . and in the case of the jerk who cut me off in church, politeness . . . . Maybe we should resolve to do things we can absolutely, positively be bothered to do like eating a piece of chocolate every night before going to bed, or meeting a friend for drinks once a week, or writing a blog . . . even if it isn’t very good.

I think I could do that.

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Transcending: Words on Women and Strength by Kelly Corrigan

This was sent to me in response (I think) to an earlier post:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u_4qwVLqt9Q

Rapunzel

It used to be
that you and I
were about
Goodnight Moon
and Peter Rabbit

First I would read
and you would listen
then you would read
and I would listen
we both enjoyed the story.

But now we share
another interest
your hair
and cannot agree
if it should be washed
once a week
or thrice,
blow-dried from above
or below
straightened
curled
teased
cajoled
worn up
or down

It has become
a tower
from which
the view
beckons
and one of us
must surely leave.

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Where Back-fat meets Hip

At the juncture
of “Who am I?” and “What happened?”
where back-fat meets hip
lies a little part of me
a waist

Once envied
now buried
in folds of worry and haste
it languishes
a waste

Of youth
and joy
and giddy reminisces
of floaty white dresses
and tick-tock heels

The trifles
of girlhood
eventually submit
to gravity
and ghosts
and unrequited life

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Age

At what point does one go from being a “girl” to a “woman,” or in my case, from being a graduate student to being a “mature” student? What is that dividing line that separates us temporally advantaged folk from everyone else?  And when does “mature” become simply “old?” Hmm.

Age is a funny thing. I cannot tell if it’s about time (teens), situation (Miss vs. Mrs.), lifespan (midlife), lifestyle (retired), or culture (40 is the new 30). Luckily for me, I come from a place where age and aging hold no great stigma, so it amuses me to watch people  scamper around as they at once (unconsciously) acknowledge my age, yet (overtly) rush to couch it in socially acceptable terms—“mature” being one such jewel.

I feel the passage of time more acutely in my feet than either my heart or my soul. The latter seem to blossom as a result of the very experiences that defeat the former—children, heartache, struggle . . . bending to pick up that pebble at the river’s edge . . . .

I notice my age in my handwriting—once plump and sure, now leaning and feeble . . . illegible to most, even myself. I don’t know if it’s because the weight of my thoughts (somewhat more substantial now) burden the words, so they must lean into the page to get more traction, a Sisyphean task. Or maybe it’s urgency that short circuits the neuro-digital connection—fingers must fly to keep up with thought. Either way, I care less now about dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s than I once did.

The bad news about age is death; the good news is wisdom.

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Mother

Today my mother was presented with the Hirwai Sanman award by her old alma mater, Seth G. S. Medical College, for “excelling in a vocational area while pursuing a medical career.” About bloody time, I thought. Did it really take them 47 years to figure out the caliber of this woman? Or maybe they were waiting for her to croak before they would acknowledge and appreciate her many contributions to this world. Then again, maybe she was simply not ambitious enough, not “squeaky” enough to get the “wheel.” That is the way of the world.

Those who raise their chins to the stars bask in the sun’s glory; those who roll up their sleeves and get to work have only the earth’s steadying force to guide their feet.

My mother had no time for the sun and the stars or even the earth, for that matter. She just woke up each morning and attended to what was at hand—shoes that needed polishing, lunches that needed packing, eggs that needed soft-boiling (I’ll never forgive her for that one!) . . . one by one she dispatched them all, only to move on to other matters—children that needed healing, doctors and nurses that needed leading, grassroots that needed organizing . . . she did it all.

For them.

For herself, she kept just one (guilty) pleasure—music.

Almost every early memory of my mother is accompanied by the soundtrack of her life—the Andrew Sisters when she was cooking, Captain and Tennille when she was ironing, and, of course, Satchmo at midnight.
But the most vivid memories of my mother are when she was up there on stage singing her heart out, pulling our hearts in to share what was so important to her—music.

And it is for this music that she made with such abandon that she is getting the award today.

Not for her intelligence (even though she was courted by some of the top medical researchers when she graduated medical school).

Not for her knack (the big-shot practitioners wanted her on their team, too).

Nor her dedication (35 years in the BMC!)

Or activism (HIV Aids)

But for her “vocational area,” her music.

How fitting is that!!?!

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Alone

Sometimes it’s nice
to be alone
and read a book
in the far corner
of a Denny’s booth
and stay all night
or wander home
to a bath
with unlocked doors
and silence

Sometimes it’s nice
to go to the movies
and enjoy
the subtitles
just you
and your popcorn
no grubby hands
reaching
for the saltiest
stickiest bits

Sometimes it’s nice
to worry
about nothing
and no one
needing anything
at 2:00 am
when the eyes refuse
to open
not even to the slam
of her boyfriend’s car

Sometimes it’s nice
but only for a day.

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Grandfather

I remember him
as an old man
a kind man
a man of few words
scribbling mysteries
on the arm
of his favorite chair
Gulliver
to my Lilliput

It’s hard to imagine
his hand
holding a revolver
the same hand
that gave out
orange-slice candy
and bullseyes
to greedy grandchildren
but it did

I knew him after -
after the glory
after the fame
when the only villains
that remained
were in the pages
of a well-thumbed book

Hank Rearden!
How he enjoyed
the sound
of their names
so wholesome
so robust
so unlike
the wretched Russians
(Sheniangals!)
who strung
their consonants
together
in the most
inconvenient ways

He had little
patience for them
but for Kitty
(poor Kitty!)
he had all the time
in the world

There
he would sit
on the verandah
as she wove
her tales
of conspiracy
willing away
the rays
with a pat
on the hand

I wish
I could say
I knew him well
that I knew
where he got
his green-smudge tattoo
and what it meant
to be
a hero
to so many
but I merely
loved him
as children do
when they
see good

Dogs and children
There’s no fooling them

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Rain

It began to rain this morning just as I was halfway up the trail by my house. My first instinct was to run for cover. But very quickly sloth (and futility) overcame me as I realized I could never outpace the downpour. So I relaxed into the raindrops and let them prick my cheeks with their inquisitive probes—what is this thing that plods on so?

It brought to mind the many times my cousins and I would walk to the sea face in the rain, hoping to be doused by an ambitious wave. No fear then—certainly not of getting a little wet. We welcomed wet. It was a happy release from the oppression of smog-laden humidity.

But in sunny So Cal where the sky is impossibly blue and order and convenience are always on the menu, rain is like a slap in the face—a personal affront, how dare they, don’t we have sprinklers for that???

I find myself getting impatient at the silliest of things, the most natural of things—fallen leaves on the driveway soon after I have swept it, children giggling outside my window when I am trying to nap, ducks marching across the street in front of my car, stopping, at times, for an interesting worm . . . how thoughtless of them!

Such is my preoccupation with myself.

I have become the busy, grumpy, adult that puzzles children so. Why wouldn’t she want to stick her hands in the mud and watch the ooze leak through the gaps in her fingers? Who wouldn’t want to sail paper boats in the gutter-rivers outside the house? How can she think this shivering frog is gross? They wonder.

And I wonder, too.

When did rain become a hassle, time an enemy, and play a chore? Who said that getting things done was more important than being? Where did we learn these lessons, these lies? I wonder. And as I wondered I wondered no more.

It was then that I saw him, pedaling furiously uphill, head tucked into shoulders, hair plastered into pink tributaries, trying to keep our son’s bike steady on the now-slushy trail. What on earth do you think you’re doing? It was raining, he said. So it was.

My Knight in Soaking Dockers had come to rescue me. From the rain. From my ruminations.

And together we walked home.

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When I Grow Up

When I grow up
I want to be
the kind
of girl
that laughs
at life
and shrugs
off doubt
as blithely as
a breeze

When I grow up
I want to be
the kind
of tart
that makes
men spin
their heads
and crane
their necks
to catch
a glimpse
of what
they’ll never
have

When I grow up
I want to be
the kind
of mom
who’s home
all day
to say
I love
the way
you breathe
and slowly sip
your tea

When I grow up
I want to be
the kind
of force
that makes
you think
and strain
to be
a life
that counts,
the man
you want
to be

When I grow old
I want to be
the kind
of ghost
who’s there
but not
to judge
or sneer
but calm
the fear
of death,
regret
and leave
what’s left
back here

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Toenails

Every 20 days or so, I follow my son around the house, begging to cut his toenails. It’s not that he has particularly ugly/long/dirty ones, it’s just that toenail cutting seems to satisfy some deep-rooted, simian-remnant of an urge I have to groom my children, to be connected to them.

I can no longer climb into my son’s bed at night or bundle him into the bath with me; I can no longer pick out his clothes (not that there is much “picking” involved—it’s either the home or the away kit) nor can I pack his lunch (the sandwiches I make don’t quite hit the spot), but I CAN clip his toenails. So I do.

Yes, he grumbles. Yes, he stalls. Yes, he yelps in pretend-pain. But in the end he submits.

To my authority. To my skill. To my need.

And for this small mercy, for this small kindness, I am grateful.

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A Thought for Today

“The purpose of life is not to arrive safely at death”

                                                                                Alan Cohen

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Artist

He asks too much
of an empty stone
give
bear
be
more

As he carves
the finer points
chipping away
rock
no longer rock
strength compromised
for beauty

And they all file past
in wonder
at his creation
his fabrication
seeing
none of the cracks

It may be millennia
before
the nose falls off
and the toes
crumble
but she will be
rock
again

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Sin

The price
has long
been paid
in virtue pure
and innocence

but
with every
stolen kiss
vain hubris
bling and swag
lollygag
steamed and pissed
oh I wished
for more and more
of more and more

it’s as if
we raise
the flail
to ourselves
land a blow
upon His
pristine back
now
and
forever.

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Demons

Why do I hate Angelina Jolie so?

I guess it’s because she confirms my worst suspicions, that despite our so called evolution, despite the lip service we pay to character and accomplishment, despite our disdain for artifice, despite all our protests to the contrary, the pretty girl always wins.

This makes me crazy!

I don’t know what makes me angrier—the shallowness of a culture that is willing to turn a blind eye to all her lousy life choices, or the many lies we were told about what is good and valuable about humanity.

I think the real target of my rage, though, is myself.

I guess I wanted to believe all that good stuff—that beauty is only skin deep, that it is more important to do the right thing than it is to do what is convenient or pleasurable, that honor and valor have value, that charity begins at home (and not in Malawi or Somalia or God knows where!), that the meek shall inherit the earth . . . .

But more and more I am beginning to believe that I am an idiot . . .

. . . for wasting my time on developing my mind when it is my body that is the only viable currency in this world

. . . for guarding my integrity so closely when any and all behavior can ultimately be explained away

. . . for accepting the limits of my attention and resources instead of fulfilling my yearning for a big family

. . . for being responsible first to my own family and then to the rest of the world

. . . for teaching my children the same lessons I was taught, the same lies

Adios suckers, I’m off to the gym!!!!

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I Don’t Think I Can

I don’t think I can
summon the energy
to wash my car
by hand
or even take it
to the car wash
so I just look
past
the gray sprinkles
of 2008 rain
and crusted
peanut butter
from a time
when peanut butter
was still allowed
in schools
and fix my eyes
on the distant horizon
faded to match
my day

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Macondo (A Salute to Gabo)

The vowels
reverberate
pinging
the cathedral
ceiling
of my mouth
Mah-kohn-doh!

They sing
of forests
and torrents
of rain
leaning into
the earth
blurring
the horizon

That loamy
mineraly
tang
of earthworms
and crushed snails
the terroir
of decay
and life

Isolated
from magnets
and mysteries
the songbirds
their only
delight
they toil
and rut
in
indistinguishable
cycles

Of old
and new
life
and death
by mercury
bichloride
“the devil’s
smell”
musky and dark
as a starless night. 

 

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Ph.D. Year 1

Trying to make it
across the pool on one breath
waiting to exhale

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Sacrament

Baptism

It looked exactly
as it does
in the movies
Yellow sun
falling back
Green cloudy water
folding her body
in two
A trail
of tiny bubbles
marching
to the surface
Push off
Reach up!
she heard
the voices say
Then
cold air
on panicked fingers
sweet air
in grateful lungs
A baptism
on the Little Spokane

 

Extreme Unction

And all she could think was
this is what it feels like
Drowning
with your loved ones
floating down river
steering their boats
with surprising dexterity
And it was you all the time
it was you
playing ding dong ditch
with death
He smiles this time
shallowing the waters
stilling the moment
shutting the door
behind frightened footsteps
waiting
waiting for when it feels
more satisfying
to bring you home

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Reflection

I hoped I would
be different
and don a mantle
of my own
making
a mask
unique and true

I vowed I’d reach
my potential
not abandon
my ambition
in a fog
of diapers
and drool

I swore I wouldn’t
get fat
or walk
around the house
in a 1980s nightie
buttocks jiggling
in time
to my creaking knees

But when I look
I see her face
When I sing
I hear her voice
When I falter
I feel her arms
hold me upright 

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