Childish Things

I’d rather deal in potential

And trade in possibility

Though hopes and dreams be slippery,

You may keep reality

I listen for the unspoken

I read between the lines

I see the writing on the wall

And write in silly rhymes

I dine at a fool’s table

At a castle in the air

Cast my bread upon the waters

While whistling in the wind

You may think this philosophy

Is folly twaddle and foppery

That one cannot live on poppycock

It will surely come to tommy rot.

But the earthbound soul takes flight in faith

Believing in things unseen

The darkly glass elucidates

The facts that were so mean.

You can creep to your confessional

Clanging tinkling bells and linking rings

I’ll leap into my passional

Joyful in my childish things.

LMM 10-7-11

Chronicle of a Morning

The hum of shower water is my first indication that a new day has come.

In the absence of a babbling brook, or pounding surf –

Shower water will do.

There are no longer children climbing on my bed

Pressing their warm cheeks to mine

Smelling of crusty noses and baby’s breath

Scents that make a mother’s heart turn over with unspeakable love

There are no lunches to be made or school buses to catch

Just the comforting sound of my husband in the shower

And eyes that open slowly

To the silence of trees outside my window

Swaying undulantly in the spring breeze

As if they were beds of kelp in deep sea water.

I wish the sky behind them was blue instead of grey

I thank God for hot cups of tea on grey mornings.

And remember that when the sky is blue and the morning is bright,

I will thank God for yogurt and fruit.

My husband kisses me good bye and I am left to

The cooing of wood doves and the hum of the refrigerator.

Bed covers for company.

No baby sucking at my old, empty breast

No one needing breakfast but me.

I slip on my sweats and pad five steps to my little kitchen.

Fill the pan with water and set it on the stove, clink,

Put bread into the toaster, click,

Open my book and write about slow empty mornings,

Not a bad thing, my favorite kind, really,

The only sound is the hum of my pen moving across the page.

Finally, I am a writer, a chronicler of the morning.

Unhurried. Unworried.

But still, I listen for the baby’s cry down the hall.

An English Day on a Western Plain

Fog has quietly crept in,
A stranger from another land

Hangs in heavy stillness
On the brown, flat plain

Bearing tales of English hills,
Green grass and purple heather

To tumbleweed and thistle thorn
Quaffing the cracked parchment.

Only my breath moves this quietude,
A vapor of lingering curls

Whispering of bog fires and gentlewomen
Who put mittened hands to heavy paper

And penned the mists
Of their minds,

Then it vanishes into the white blanket that
Softens sagebrush and spiny weed.

It’s an English day on a Western plain.
Call me Charlotte or Emily or Jane.

Ravings of a Lunatic

Have you been looking at the moon this week? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a moon so bright and beautiful! It casts big squares of light into my room at night. Moonbeams so bright it is hard to tell whether it is falling night or rising day. The Mother of the Night sending soft revelations into my walled world. Illuminations that turn my ordinary space into a sacred place. It seems almost a shame to close my eyes and sleep.

But the moon has been constant this week. She has watched over me through the night and awakened me each morning at 6 a.m. (well, OK, my full bladder helped). I usually stumble into the bathroom on my early morning potty runs, feeling my way along the wall and through the doorway, not wanting to open my eyes and wake up too much before I crawl back into bed for another hour or so of sleep. But when my eyes have fluttered open on these mornings, she has been waiting right outside my window, shining like a huge heavenly floodlight, a ridiculously brilliant ball so close I felt she was nearly within reach. It almost felt as if she were waiting for me to wake up and come out and play. I could not help but want to stay awake. She pulled me out of my sloom, and eased my early morning loneliness with some kind of Moon Magic. Call me Pagan or Lunatic. I felt a little bit of both.

Crawling back into bed vowing not to fall back asleep, I snuggled into my pillows facing the windows so that I could moon gaze. She was mesmerizing as I laid there trying to think of some poetic words to describe this experience. But none came. All I could think of were the words of Jason Mraz’s ballad to the moon, Bella Luna, going round in my head instead:

I'm just a singer, you're the world
All I can bring ya
Is the language of a lover
Bella luna, my beautiful, beautiful moon
How you swoon me like no other

I was so gratified when I had lunch with my cousin yesterday and she told me that her daughter had beckoned her out to see the moon the night before. And again when a co-worker walked into the office today and said, “Have you seen the moon this week?” I am so glad that I have not been the only one taken hostage by the beauty of Bella Luna, warming the winter sky. So often, our modern lives dictate that the only time we spend out of doors is the five second walk from our house to the car, from the car to the office, from the store to the car, and back again. We become disconnected from the natural world by our “inside lives”. Especially in winter. But every now and again, Mother Nature creates something so spectacular, like this week’s moon, she draws us out and we remember who really are. Though bordered and bound by concrete below and roofs above, we are children of the earth still.

I’ve always suspected that we are still pushed and pulled by unseen natural forces even though electric lights guide our waking and sleeping hours more than the sun and the moon these days. I’ve heard it said that emergency rooms are packed at the full moon. And that more babies are born during a full moon than at any other time. I don’t doubt it. Two out of three of my babies were born at the full moon. It brings me some kind of primal satisfaction to know that the moon, like an ancient midwife, pulled my babies out of me with the same power she pulls the tides out to sea.

Jason Mraz sings of the moon as if she were his lover. I’ve always thought of her as my Ancient Mother. And she has inspired poetry from me too, as she has so many other dreamers since the beginning of time. Mine is a scant offering. My widow’s mite, as it were, among many much greater gifts by minds far richer than mine, upon the alter of the moon. Yet I cast my simple gift upon it with a full and thankful heart, knowing it is accepted by my Celestial Mother.

Moonrise Prayer

Mother Moon
In the night,
Gentle glow dimmed
By city light.

Am I guided by you
More than I know,
Like my ancient grandmothers
Long ago?

In womanhood,
I recognize you now,
As one Mother
To Another.

Quietly light my shadowed paths
As a mother does for her child.
Comfort me in darker hours
With wisdom wrought of tidal powers.

Mother Moon,
Oh! Sentient Mother,
Shining softly on creation,

May my own mothering
Be given to such
Modest illumination.

Idaho Thanksgiving With Country Cousins

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. When I was a child, it
was because my birthday always fell on or near Thanksgiving Day. And there
was always a birthday cake on the Thanksgiving table for me. So I had this
big idea in my little head that this large meal and family gathering was ALL
ABOUT ME!!!

When I grew up and began to be the producer of family holidays, a.k.a. The
Mom, I began to appreciate Thanksgiving for its simplicity. No other
holiday is, for me, as authentic and beautifully uncomplicated. There is
just something so deeply spiritual and honest about taking a day to simply
gather together with those who mean the most in our lives to express love
and gratitude.

This year, I'm choking a little on the fact that I won't be in Florida with
my sister's family, eating the perfect Thanksgiving dinner that she and I
have honed into an art form over the 16 years we spent together on the East
Coast. Along with turkey and gravy and mashed potatoes, we would be having
our Sausage Cornbread Stuffing, Sweet Potato Soufflé, Green Bean Casserole
made with FRESH green beans, and Cranberry Jello Salad. Followed by Pumpkin
and Pecan Pie with Whipped Cream. We would be dining poolside and the day
would be wrapped up with a sunset walk on the beach.

This year, however, I'll be in the cold barrens of Western Idaho gobbling with my country cousins. A few weeks ago, when I tried to pin them down for dinner
plans, this is how it went:

Me: What do you all have for Thanksgiving Dinner? Anything special?

Them: Oh. The usual. Turkey, gravy, mash potatoes.

Me: Can I bring my Cranberry Jello Salad?

Them: Yeah! That'd be great.

Me: What about Stuffing?

Them: (in unison) Stove Top

Me: Would you like me to make my incredibly delicious Sausage Cornbread
Stuffing?

Them: No, we like Stove Top.

Me: But

Them: Stove Top!

Me: OK. What about the Green Bean Casserole?

Them: (They anticipated where I was going here) Green Beans. Out of a can.

Me: Well, would you mind if I made the green bean casserole with fresh
green beans?

Them: Yeah, OK, if you want.

Me: What about sweet potatoes? Do you guys do sweet potatoes?

Them: Yes. Out of a can.

Me: Well, I have a really nice Sweet Potato Soufflé I can make. Do you
want me to bring that?

Them: Does it have marshmallows on top? We like marshmallows.

Me: I can put marshmallows on it.

Them: OK then. You can bring it. But we're still making our own sweet
potatoes. From a can. That's what we like.

Me: OK. What about pies?

Them: COSTCO! (They nearly sang it in unison as if they were doing a
commercial.)

Me: You buy your pies. (Each word halted by a revelatory pause in
true Captain Kirk fashion as the gravity of this Turkey Day situation dawned
on me.)

Them: Yeah. You can't tell the difference from homemade. We are NOT
making pies.

Their words landed on me with a thudding finality.

Me: (My voice growing weaker as I dared to ask the next question)
OK....what do you put on your pies? Cool Whip? or Whip Cream?

Them: (There was a slight pause as they had to mull this one over a minute.)
Reddi-Whip. Out of a can.

My Aunt chimed in: What are talking about over there?

Them: Dinner. Lisa wants everything homemade. (Appropriate eye rolling
here)

Aunt: I'm bringing potato rolls, from Albertsons.

Me: Are you SURE I can't bring my Sausage Cornbread Stuffing???

Them: NO!!!! WE LIKE STOVE TOP!!!

So there you have it my friends. The only thing that'll be real on my
Thanksgiving table this year will be the potatoes, which will be appropriate
since we're in Idaho.

Oh, and the love. The love will also be real as I gather with a side of my
family that I haven't spent Thanksgiving with since we were children, on a
side of the country that is both old and new to me at the same time. And
for that, my heart will be full of Thanksgiving as I gulp down my Stove Top
Stuffing and Costco pie.

NOVEMBER

November is neither
Here nor there
But somewhere in between
Autumn
and
Winter.

When the year’s first snow
Falls on a November day,
While a few ruddy gold leaves
Still cling to the branches,

November is
Autumn and Winter
At the
same time.

Neither Pagan
Nor Christian,
November is content
To offer
Quiet Thanksgiving
Simply
for
Being.

Often overlooked,
Lost between
Radiant days of
Autumn glory
And
Winter’s hush,
November is neither
Here nor there.

Just somewhere in between

I was born in November
I am November’s child
I, too, am neither
Here
Nor
There.

11-2-90

Stone Age Music

The next time someone asks me what I do or who I am, I’ll say, “Woman”. I suppose that will sound rather primitive. I decided this the last time I went to a doctor appointment and had to fill out a stack of new patient forms. For the first time ever, on the line where I was to list my occupation, I drew a simple question mark. It hit me. I don’t know who I am.

I’m a wife but I live alone most of the time as my husband lives and works across the continent. I’m a mom but my children would rather me mother them from a distance, or not at all at this time in their lives. I’m not enrolled in any educational institution so I can’t really call myself a student, not officially anyway. I’ve never had a career outside my home. Worker, mother, daughter, wife, sister, friend, church member, student. I am all those things. But I’m not, really. That is me in relation to someone or something else. So what am I? Who am I? Just me?

Then it came to me. Overriding and underpinning all those things is the one thing that never changes. I am a woman. Yes. That is an occupation that I can be absolutely sure of that is constant and unchanging. Beyond all my relational titles that define me, I am a woman who feels most myself when I am engaged in things artistic: transported by a piece of music or a sublime piece of writing (my own or someone else’s) or a transcendent work of art. This is when I really know who I am in my deepest, most primal core and how I am connected to all that matters in this sphere of our existence.

I recently came across a picture of a Stone Age flute carved from the bone of a griffon vulture. It was eight and half inches long, had 4 finger holes with the end carved in a V shape to fit the primitive musician’s mouth. It was estimated to be 35,000 years old and was found alongside a carving of a voluptuous female nude statuette dating from the same period.

I find it fascinating that some of the earliest evidences of humanity are primitive creative expressions of beauty in the forms of music and sculpture. This means that long before humans figured out how to grow their own food, music echoed off the walls of an Ice Age cave. The creative impulse is not only what makes us human, but it is what taps us into the divinity within us. Art is the most primitive expression of humanity.

So, it gratifies me, in a primal way, to know that my primordial ancestors also discovered who they were through artistic creation and found transcendence from this existence through music and art. That knowledge connects me to the human family throughout all ages of time. It connects me to myself at the most raw and elemental core, when all other cultural accoutrements are stripped away.

The next time I, Woman (not unlike the voluptuous carved beauty found in the cave), sit in a concert hall listening to the likes of Mozart or Mraz, the ethereal tones of an ancient flute echoing through the dark hollows of an Ice Age cave, warmed by firelight and human artistry, will not seem so far away.