"I once listed all the good things I did over the past year and then turned them into resolution form and backdated them. That was a good feeling." Robert Fulghum
My friend Judy, who is the queen of quotations, sent this quotations to me attached to her yesterday’s e-mail. I laughed out loud, not so much at the quotation which I find brilliantly pragmatic, but because I had just done something similar myself.
The week between Christmas and New Year’s has been a dead zone for my husband who is both a judge and a student returning to university to acquire a degree in counseling. Not having many “must do’s,” other than pay bills, we both made lists of what we wished to accomplish during this free space of time. Mine was about ¾ of a page long.
Halfway through the week I took a look at it. Jeez, I’d accomplished only “pay bills.” I knew I hadn’t been lazy, exactly, so I wrote down all the things I HAD accomplished, like taking out the garbage on garbage day, making photo albums of our trip to Alaska three years ago, and my trip to Boston with my friend Janis in 2008. I even typed out all the poems I’d written during our Alaska trip and placed those next to the photos they referred to.
I had written my thank-you’s (Thank you, Mom, for teaching me that piece of etiquette!), watered the plants, and cleaned out Miss Emma’s kitty litter box.
I wrote a new blog.
Now my list took up the entire page and part of the margin. The page reminded me of letters I received from my Grandma Georgia who wrote not only on the front and back of every sheet of paper, but also all the margins, so that reading a letter from her was an exercise in 3-D, somewhat akin to figuring out a moibus strip.
Then for pure enjoyment, I crossed off all the new accomplishments I’d just listed. With a flourish. Some things like GARBAGE and PAY BILLS I put a rectangle around and then X’d out and some things I drew TWO lines through. “Work on novel” I merely checked because that’s an ongoing to-do. Still, the check showed that I had made a stab at revision. Same for “practice mandolin.”
By the time I finished, there were only four items remaining on the page. I felt so much better about my week. You know, there’s still a space on the page left, and I did watch three movies, which is like work for a writer, right? Wait a second. OK. I have that written down. Wait another second. OK. I crossed it out with only one line because that work is partly fun and inspiration.
I feel absolutely wonderful now. There’s one line left and I’m going to write down “Take a luxurious bath” because I deserve it after working so hard all week long.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
We all have human failings, right? Please tell me you said yes or I do not believe I can go on.
Today I am sharing one of mine with you, in the category of “Things that other people do beautifully, normal everyday things that everyone does even without practice.”
I’m sharing in the hopes that there’s another one of you like me out there, another person who cannot do a simple household task, no matter how many degrees you have, how many gifts you have, how many skill sets you’ve accomplished. I don’t want to be the only one.
My failing? Nine times out of ten, I cannot open a Kleenex box without ripping, shredding, mangling the first three Kleenexes in the box.
Let me show you:
That is even better than my first-opened box of Kleenex usually looks.
Compare that to how an un-afflicted Kleenex-box opener prepares the box:
My Buddhist friends explain that life is full of challenges that really are gifts to us disguised so we get the fun of figuring out what’s so damned great about our struggle. Well, woo-hee!
I understand the truth in what they say and I know ALL of us, even the perfect Kleenex box opener, face challenges with daily-life tasks. I have a friend who cannot cook. She tried once but her whole family found her meal inedible, including the family dog who growled at the glop when she put it down on the porch.
My sister has the talent of somehow picking up the toilet seat liner with her butt cheeks when she stands up. She doesn’t know how it happens or how to make it stop. When she complained to me about it, I suggested that she find a way to make that talent work for her. She did not appreciate my optimism.
I’m told it doesn’t matter so much what happens to you but rather what you do about it. Hmmm. If I can’t fix the plumbing, I call in a plumber. My electrical system, an electrician. However, I’ve never seen a professional Kleenex box opener listed in the yellow pages.
What I’ve decided to do instead, is do my very best (see photo above), laugh, thank the universe for my gift, and if worse comes to worse, use cloth handkerchiefs.
I’m great at running the washer and dryer. And in the meantime, I’ll be waiting to hear from you.
Today I am sharing one of mine with you, in the category of “Things that other people do beautifully, normal everyday things that everyone does even without practice.”
I’m sharing in the hopes that there’s another one of you like me out there, another person who cannot do a simple household task, no matter how many degrees you have, how many gifts you have, how many skill sets you’ve accomplished. I don’t want to be the only one.
My failing? Nine times out of ten, I cannot open a Kleenex box without ripping, shredding, mangling the first three Kleenexes in the box.
Let me show you:
That is even better than my first-opened box of Kleenex usually looks.
Compare that to how an un-afflicted Kleenex-box opener prepares the box:
My Buddhist friends explain that life is full of challenges that really are gifts to us disguised so we get the fun of figuring out what’s so damned great about our struggle. Well, woo-hee!
I understand the truth in what they say and I know ALL of us, even the perfect Kleenex box opener, face challenges with daily-life tasks. I have a friend who cannot cook. She tried once but her whole family found her meal inedible, including the family dog who growled at the glop when she put it down on the porch.
My sister has the talent of somehow picking up the toilet seat liner with her butt cheeks when she stands up. She doesn’t know how it happens or how to make it stop. When she complained to me about it, I suggested that she find a way to make that talent work for her. She did not appreciate my optimism.
I’m told it doesn’t matter so much what happens to you but rather what you do about it. Hmmm. If I can’t fix the plumbing, I call in a plumber. My electrical system, an electrician. However, I’ve never seen a professional Kleenex box opener listed in the yellow pages.
What I’ve decided to do instead, is do my very best (see photo above), laugh, thank the universe for my gift, and if worse comes to worse, use cloth handkerchiefs.
I’m great at running the washer and dryer. And in the meantime, I’ll be waiting to hear from you.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Christmas Treasure
CHRISTMAS TREASURE
On my knees in my under-the-eaves storage space, I pawed through the box of Christmas books stored there where they’d been stuck five years ago when we moved to this house.
I searched for something to read at a friend’s tree-lighting ceremony later that night. As the real candles on the tree were lit, those assembled would listen to thoughts gathered on Christmases past by those long past celebrating.
I found a book, Christmas Treasures, and before I could begin reading the poems and essays to find just the right one for the party, I saw several sheets of folded, yellowed notebook paper stuck into the pages of the book.
Pulling them out and scanning them, I saw the writing of my high school English students from long ago, so long ago I couldn’t remember exactly how far back. I read them once again, this time not having to worry about editing and grading. In my hand resided poems and favorite Christmas memories. I saw their young faces in my mind’s eye.
One of the young writers wrote about his favorite Christmas memory up to his ripe age of 16. His parents had bought him the motorcycle he wanted. He’d seen it beforehand and assumed his father had bought it for himself. Then when his last gift was opened, it was a key, and he knew his wish had been granted.
If you have a teenager, you know how difficult it is to wring much information from them, especially one that involves emotion and gratefulness for family. Here was an opportunity for me to pass on that information. Enlightenment 20 or so years later is still enlightenment. I knew what I would do.
Back downstairs, out of the attic and standing upright again, I looked up his parents’ address, put the paper in an envelope, stamped and mailed it.
Continuing to read through the book of Christmas Treasures, I found just the right poem to share with fellow celebrants at the festivities that night.
Even so, it came to me that though I’d found my piece by a professional writer to read, the real Christmas treasure of the day had been a son’s 16 year-old favorite memory I could gift to his parents.
On my knees in my under-the-eaves storage space, I pawed through the box of Christmas books stored there where they’d been stuck five years ago when we moved to this house.
I searched for something to read at a friend’s tree-lighting ceremony later that night. As the real candles on the tree were lit, those assembled would listen to thoughts gathered on Christmases past by those long past celebrating.
I found a book, Christmas Treasures, and before I could begin reading the poems and essays to find just the right one for the party, I saw several sheets of folded, yellowed notebook paper stuck into the pages of the book.
Pulling them out and scanning them, I saw the writing of my high school English students from long ago, so long ago I couldn’t remember exactly how far back. I read them once again, this time not having to worry about editing and grading. In my hand resided poems and favorite Christmas memories. I saw their young faces in my mind’s eye.
One of the young writers wrote about his favorite Christmas memory up to his ripe age of 16. His parents had bought him the motorcycle he wanted. He’d seen it beforehand and assumed his father had bought it for himself. Then when his last gift was opened, it was a key, and he knew his wish had been granted.
If you have a teenager, you know how difficult it is to wring much information from them, especially one that involves emotion and gratefulness for family. Here was an opportunity for me to pass on that information. Enlightenment 20 or so years later is still enlightenment. I knew what I would do.
Back downstairs, out of the attic and standing upright again, I looked up his parents’ address, put the paper in an envelope, stamped and mailed it.
Continuing to read through the book of Christmas Treasures, I found just the right poem to share with fellow celebrants at the festivities that night.
Even so, it came to me that though I’d found my piece by a professional writer to read, the real Christmas treasure of the day had been a son’s 16 year-old favorite memory I could gift to his parents.
Monday, December 21, 2009
The Best Gifts
THE BEST GIFTS
Lingerie, perfume, slippers—the usual presents for women can’t hold a Christmas candle to the best gift I received back when we were a younger family and our son was still at home. The gift had no wrapping, and because it came disguised, I didn’t know what I had received at first.
My husband, son, and I rode the train from Portland to visit my parents and sister in La Grande. We chugged into the cold, icicle-clad station, irritable and rumpled after the six-hour trip.
Looking out the train window onto the dark, snow-frosted platform, we saw among the large crowd a Santa Claus waving. The mittened hands of my father and sister held a white banner with broad black letters reading, “Welcome: Karen, Neal, and Sean. Merry Christmas!” With that, my exhaustion dissipated, and a lump formed in my throat. My sister and my dad and…where was my mom? Why wasn’t she here too? I supposed that she stayed home, baking sugar cookies for us to frost, or preparing spicy, chunky chili as only she can make it.
I wove my way down the aisle, through departing passengers and bulky luggage. As I stepped off the train, Santa Claus, who was handing out candy canes at the train exit, stuck a candy cane in my coat pocket. “Merry Christmas,” he said, in a gravelly voice.
“Thanks,” I muttered, thinking that this was a great service Amtrack was providing, and rushed off to meet my family. We all hugged and helloed. To my surprise, I noticed that Santa Claus, who hadn’t gone inside the station with all the other disembarking passengers, embraced Neal and Sean.
Then Santa sidled up to me, hugged me, and said, “Merry Christmas!” again.
How nice, I thought, and hugged my dad and my sister again. Santa continued to stand next to me. “Why is he still standing out here in the cold with us?” I wondered. “Isn’t this overplaying his role a bit?” I kept chatting and all the while Santa remained at my elbow. Why was Santa so attentive to us?
I couldn’t figure it out. The chatter died out and my entire family stared expectantly at me, then laughed as Santa pulled off his beard. Only then did I finally understand. In my excitement I hadn’t seen what they had seen. I screamed and threw my arms around the red and white padded body. You see, Santa Claus was really my mother.
My vision always blurs when I think back to this incident. It taught me two things. First, presents don’t have to be wrapped to be just what you need. And secondly, parental acts of love don’t stop when you leave home, but continue the rest of your life in the form of some of the best gifts you’ll ever receive.
Lingerie, perfume, slippers—the usual presents for women can’t hold a Christmas candle to the best gift I received back when we were a younger family and our son was still at home. The gift had no wrapping, and because it came disguised, I didn’t know what I had received at first.
My husband, son, and I rode the train from Portland to visit my parents and sister in La Grande. We chugged into the cold, icicle-clad station, irritable and rumpled after the six-hour trip.
Looking out the train window onto the dark, snow-frosted platform, we saw among the large crowd a Santa Claus waving. The mittened hands of my father and sister held a white banner with broad black letters reading, “Welcome: Karen, Neal, and Sean. Merry Christmas!” With that, my exhaustion dissipated, and a lump formed in my throat. My sister and my dad and…where was my mom? Why wasn’t she here too? I supposed that she stayed home, baking sugar cookies for us to frost, or preparing spicy, chunky chili as only she can make it.
I wove my way down the aisle, through departing passengers and bulky luggage. As I stepped off the train, Santa Claus, who was handing out candy canes at the train exit, stuck a candy cane in my coat pocket. “Merry Christmas,” he said, in a gravelly voice.
“Thanks,” I muttered, thinking that this was a great service Amtrack was providing, and rushed off to meet my family. We all hugged and helloed. To my surprise, I noticed that Santa Claus, who hadn’t gone inside the station with all the other disembarking passengers, embraced Neal and Sean.
Then Santa sidled up to me, hugged me, and said, “Merry Christmas!” again.
How nice, I thought, and hugged my dad and my sister again. Santa continued to stand next to me. “Why is he still standing out here in the cold with us?” I wondered. “Isn’t this overplaying his role a bit?” I kept chatting and all the while Santa remained at my elbow. Why was Santa so attentive to us?
I couldn’t figure it out. The chatter died out and my entire family stared expectantly at me, then laughed as Santa pulled off his beard. Only then did I finally understand. In my excitement I hadn’t seen what they had seen. I screamed and threw my arms around the red and white padded body. You see, Santa Claus was really my mother.
My vision always blurs when I think back to this incident. It taught me two things. First, presents don’t have to be wrapped to be just what you need. And secondly, parental acts of love don’t stop when you leave home, but continue the rest of your life in the form of some of the best gifts you’ll ever receive.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Orphée, The Opera
I saw Philip Glass’s opera Orphée last Friday night. I had seen the Jean Cocteau film many years ago and being a former student of all things French, I knew what was coming from all directions except one: the music.
My friend Misty had said the night before she was a fan of Philip Glass and that she loved the music. My hopes, therefore, were high.
Opera music is generally BIG. In your face. You can’t miss opera music, usually. You can take a cat nap and still hear every note of the music. That’s how BIG it is.
Glass’s music was, to my taste, bland. I forgot it was there. I tore myself away from the story, tugging myself on the sleeve so that I would listen, but always, it was not much more than white noise. The “schrrrsch” of the radio onstage when it was not broadcasting. The sound a radio makes when it’s between stations or when a station has gone off the air.
I was ready for the mirrors, the illusion, the funny parts like the sentence saying poets are not writers. The motorcyclists of Death whose outfits I would like to wear for a day just for the thrill of being sexy and faceless.
I was not ready for zombie music. I don’t care that the five bloggers in the lobby that night liked the music. I don’t care that the reviewer for the newspaper loved the music. I don’t care that Glass probably scored the music to fit with the themes of the play. He should have known that when you take a film’s dialogue line by line and write music for it, there will be empty spots where nothing happens.
In the theatre, in opera especially, empty spots are boring. In a regular opera, someone is always singing. The only quiet moments are when someone is taking a breath in order to be able to sing again. The singing in this opera was about as interesting as those meaningless broadcasts on Death’s radio. The singers were vocally fabulous but what they had to sing was as much nothing as something.
Yes, the singers were fabulous, the set was fabulous, the Cocteau script was fabulous, but the music…was not. And this was an opera. A zombie opera. Oops.
My friend Misty had said the night before she was a fan of Philip Glass and that she loved the music. My hopes, therefore, were high.
Opera music is generally BIG. In your face. You can’t miss opera music, usually. You can take a cat nap and still hear every note of the music. That’s how BIG it is.
Glass’s music was, to my taste, bland. I forgot it was there. I tore myself away from the story, tugging myself on the sleeve so that I would listen, but always, it was not much more than white noise. The “schrrrsch” of the radio onstage when it was not broadcasting. The sound a radio makes when it’s between stations or when a station has gone off the air.
I was ready for the mirrors, the illusion, the funny parts like the sentence saying poets are not writers. The motorcyclists of Death whose outfits I would like to wear for a day just for the thrill of being sexy and faceless.
I was not ready for zombie music. I don’t care that the five bloggers in the lobby that night liked the music. I don’t care that the reviewer for the newspaper loved the music. I don’t care that Glass probably scored the music to fit with the themes of the play. He should have known that when you take a film’s dialogue line by line and write music for it, there will be empty spots where nothing happens.
In the theatre, in opera especially, empty spots are boring. In a regular opera, someone is always singing. The only quiet moments are when someone is taking a breath in order to be able to sing again. The singing in this opera was about as interesting as those meaningless broadcasts on Death’s radio. The singers were vocally fabulous but what they had to sing was as much nothing as something.
Yes, the singers were fabulous, the set was fabulous, the Cocteau script was fabulous, but the music…was not. And this was an opera. A zombie opera. Oops.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
LIVING YOUR PASSION
The best thing about seeing Julie and Julia this weekend was being with my sister Susie, my brother Eric, and my sister-in-law, Julia. All of us laughing and crying together felt unifying and potent.
The next best thing about seeing Julie and Julia was watching a film about two women who lived their passion. We all should be so lucky to do the same. What is life about if it’s not finding your passion and living it?
Notice that to do so is not easy but even through all the work, one’s soul is satisfied, always.
Both chefs learned, cooked, wrote, and then published. They forged ahead despite life’s vagaries and disappointments. By the time they reached their destination, their journey meant something important.
One of my childhood acquaintances has decided like several other artists to complete a small painting every day. Every week I check his website for the treat I know will be there, often scenes of places I know in Eastern Oregon. Sometimes he paints onions and other vegetables, but those are my familiar friends too.
In 2006 I wrote a poem every day about whatever I saw before me no matter where I was.
What happened to me, besides my pride of accomplishment, of actually doing what I said I would, was that I fell in love with our natural world. Everywhere I looked, I saw beauty. Every day I awoke with joy anticipating what wonders I would witness if I just opened my eyes and looked. Looked with intention. Looked deeply and long.
Finding a poem every day wasn’t easy. Living where we normally have 200 days of rain per year, I strained to find different ways to describe rain, clouds, and wind. How many shades of gray are there, anyway? Traveling to Alaska, Hawaii, and Central Oregon that year I got a break from the bleak coastal weather from time to time, but all too soon, here I’d be again trying to describe what I saw.
Day after gray day seemed the same, so I was forced to search for the one thing that was different, unique, or awesome.
Summer was more fun because of my garden. One plant came up when another left so there was always something to talk about. A new insect here, a giant slug there.
That year of poems has given me my own weather and planting almanac. I can always check the dates on each poem to see if the peonies and dahlias are blooming at the same time. I know exactly how old the cherry tree is now. I can find out how long I have to wait for the first daffodils to appear. I know how much wind, rain, and snow we had and can compare each passing new year to 2006’s poetic calendar of events.
Some of the poems I have entered in contests and won awards. The garden-based poems I plan to assemble in a chapbook. My favorites of the year I will collect in a book entitled, En Plein Air.
Every week I sent seven poems to my family and friends if they wanted to see them and the most amazing thing happened. They also began to really see outside their own back doors in depth and I started receiving their poems. None of them are poets by vocation. They are engineers, teachers, escrow agents, housewives and students. They became poets by watching and sharing their images with me. Sometimes a second can be spectacular. Our everyday life is so filled with beauty they had to tell about it. My passion inspired a passion in them.
When I’m around others who live their passions, I can feel a humming excitement, a connection to my own soul. I think that force is love connecting us all.
Passion is crucial to living well. Living your passion means honoring a commitment to oneself, saying I believe I am important enough to follow this through to the end in order to find satisfaction.
Living your passion means loving yourself and in so doing, love discovers you. Even in the rain.
The next best thing about seeing Julie and Julia was watching a film about two women who lived their passion. We all should be so lucky to do the same. What is life about if it’s not finding your passion and living it?
Notice that to do so is not easy but even through all the work, one’s soul is satisfied, always.
Both chefs learned, cooked, wrote, and then published. They forged ahead despite life’s vagaries and disappointments. By the time they reached their destination, their journey meant something important.
One of my childhood acquaintances has decided like several other artists to complete a small painting every day. Every week I check his website for the treat I know will be there, often scenes of places I know in Eastern Oregon. Sometimes he paints onions and other vegetables, but those are my familiar friends too.
In 2006 I wrote a poem every day about whatever I saw before me no matter where I was.
What happened to me, besides my pride of accomplishment, of actually doing what I said I would, was that I fell in love with our natural world. Everywhere I looked, I saw beauty. Every day I awoke with joy anticipating what wonders I would witness if I just opened my eyes and looked. Looked with intention. Looked deeply and long.
Finding a poem every day wasn’t easy. Living where we normally have 200 days of rain per year, I strained to find different ways to describe rain, clouds, and wind. How many shades of gray are there, anyway? Traveling to Alaska, Hawaii, and Central Oregon that year I got a break from the bleak coastal weather from time to time, but all too soon, here I’d be again trying to describe what I saw.
Day after gray day seemed the same, so I was forced to search for the one thing that was different, unique, or awesome.
Summer was more fun because of my garden. One plant came up when another left so there was always something to talk about. A new insect here, a giant slug there.
That year of poems has given me my own weather and planting almanac. I can always check the dates on each poem to see if the peonies and dahlias are blooming at the same time. I know exactly how old the cherry tree is now. I can find out how long I have to wait for the first daffodils to appear. I know how much wind, rain, and snow we had and can compare each passing new year to 2006’s poetic calendar of events.
Some of the poems I have entered in contests and won awards. The garden-based poems I plan to assemble in a chapbook. My favorites of the year I will collect in a book entitled, En Plein Air.
Every week I sent seven poems to my family and friends if they wanted to see them and the most amazing thing happened. They also began to really see outside their own back doors in depth and I started receiving their poems. None of them are poets by vocation. They are engineers, teachers, escrow agents, housewives and students. They became poets by watching and sharing their images with me. Sometimes a second can be spectacular. Our everyday life is so filled with beauty they had to tell about it. My passion inspired a passion in them.
When I’m around others who live their passions, I can feel a humming excitement, a connection to my own soul. I think that force is love connecting us all.
Passion is crucial to living well. Living your passion means honoring a commitment to oneself, saying I believe I am important enough to follow this through to the end in order to find satisfaction.
Living your passion means loving yourself and in so doing, love discovers you. Even in the rain.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Effluvia
EFFLUVIA
One of my jobs after my mother-in-law had died was to prepare her clothing to take to St. Vincent de Paul. In all her pockets I found used Kleenexes. Sorting through pocket after pocket, I realized that even though we die, our snot stays.
Our skin cells still on the sheets, stay.
The scum on the shower door stays.
Out there in the septic tank our shit stays.
All our effluvia, the stuff that shoots out from us in our daily whirling like dervishes, stays.
Our recipes stay. Our to-do lists with things still not crossed off, stay. The depression our head made in our pillow, our body made in the bed, our butt made in our favorite chair, stays.
Our appointments on the calendar stay. Our plates with the knife and fork cuts across the top stay. Our basket full of vitamins and medication vials stays.
The quilt, the vase, the painting we loved, stay. Our earrings, bracelets, belts, stay. The handkerchiefs our grandma sent us every year for our birthday stay.
The books still bearing our fingerprints, our tears, our breadcrumbs, stay.
Our e-mail, our address book, our Christmas card list, stay.
The fruit we canned, the bench we built, the tree we planted, stay.
Our guitar, our mandolin, our banjo, stay. The music we wrote, the music we sang stays.
Those whose lives we touched, our friends, our family, our husbands, wives, lovers, children--all with their hearts broken, stay.
We go, but not entirely. We linger there just out of the picture right where the frame obscures us, part ethereal, part dust.
One of my jobs after my mother-in-law had died was to prepare her clothing to take to St. Vincent de Paul. In all her pockets I found used Kleenexes. Sorting through pocket after pocket, I realized that even though we die, our snot stays.
Our skin cells still on the sheets, stay.
The scum on the shower door stays.
Out there in the septic tank our shit stays.
All our effluvia, the stuff that shoots out from us in our daily whirling like dervishes, stays.
Our recipes stay. Our to-do lists with things still not crossed off, stay. The depression our head made in our pillow, our body made in the bed, our butt made in our favorite chair, stays.
Our appointments on the calendar stay. Our plates with the knife and fork cuts across the top stay. Our basket full of vitamins and medication vials stays.
The quilt, the vase, the painting we loved, stay. Our earrings, bracelets, belts, stay. The handkerchiefs our grandma sent us every year for our birthday stay.
The books still bearing our fingerprints, our tears, our breadcrumbs, stay.
Our e-mail, our address book, our Christmas card list, stay.
The fruit we canned, the bench we built, the tree we planted, stay.
Our guitar, our mandolin, our banjo, stay. The music we wrote, the music we sang stays.
Those whose lives we touched, our friends, our family, our husbands, wives, lovers, children--all with their hearts broken, stay.
We go, but not entirely. We linger there just out of the picture right where the frame obscures us, part ethereal, part dust.
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