If she doesn’t show up in an hour, it’s time to look for the golf cart.
I start the long walk along our winding driveway, up the arm from our house that leads to the road and back along the loop to my brother’s house. I’m carrying a bottle of Ensure with me. There is no sign of Mom and her golf cart.
John is home today, so I check with him. He suggests driving down the road. Mom has been bored lately and so has started pulling thistle and nettle alongside the road. As I look for her, I’m working my way from concern into full-blown worry.
She’s gone past the rise of the hill to the bottom, getting close to where Bakken Road becomes Celestial Way. The golf cart is loaded down with nettle, thistle, and dead branches. Mom stands in the ditch, tossing up handfuls of weeds, but this particular stalk of Canada thistle won’t pull loose. She refuses the drink and gets her hedge clipper to get that last bit of noxious weed.
My worry has morphed into exasperation. I leave the drink in the cart and suggest she head on home. She’s rather offended that I look out for her, I know. Meanwhile, mosquitoes swarm me. I climb back into the comfort of my air-conditioned car, turn around, and head back to our driveway.
When she comes in, I will offer her favorite drink: an ice-cold bottle of root beer. Tonight her hands will cramp from all that weeding, and her arms will itch wherever the nettle touched her skin between her work gloves and her long sleeves. I will offer the heating pad, more cold drinks, and her muscle relaxant. She won’t remember what she did today to cause the discomfort, and she will ask me about it every few minutes all evening long.
Today during Lora Burge’s excellent presentation*, we considered how theology impacts life and how life impacts theology. The two questions she addressed were “Who is God?” and “Who is humanity?” She shared with us the Greek word for parent, Pantokrator, which comes to mind now. I have become my mother’s parent, and must daily weigh the balance between protecting her and allowing her the freedom to do the things she loves. I am a watchful presence, the one who helps her remember things and is available to help meet her needs. I make lots of mistakes, but my intentions are good. I want her to feel secure and loved and capable.
I’m most grateful that God never makes mistakes, and His intentions are perfect as well. Plus, He always helps me find the golf cart.
*Lora is a second-year student at McCormick Theological Seminary in Chicago.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
To Busticate
Yesterday’s word of the day from Dictionary.com—busticate—makes me think of slapstick comedy. Let’s take Abbot and Costello—or is it Laurel and Hardy? They are stuck in a jail cell for some unknown and accidental offense. The short, fat one with the black hair and moustache says, “We’re gonna busticate right outta here!”
Naturally, that is not what busticate means at all. Instead, it means “to break into pieces.”
Now I imagine a language lesson from a well-educated mom to the eldest of her preschoolers: “Junior, you need to busticate your cookie and share it with your brothers.” Later, in his kindergarten class, Junior, holding the shards of pottery in his hands, sadly tells his teacher, “I didn’t mean to busticate the bowl.”
And later, as a bespectacled teen, he whispers after his heartthrob brushes him off: “You didn’t have to busticate my heart like that.”
Such is the joy of new words: I can taste them, try them out, and explore their flavor. Hopefully without busticating them.
Naturally, that is not what busticate means at all. Instead, it means “to break into pieces.”
Now I imagine a language lesson from a well-educated mom to the eldest of her preschoolers: “Junior, you need to busticate your cookie and share it with your brothers.” Later, in his kindergarten class, Junior, holding the shards of pottery in his hands, sadly tells his teacher, “I didn’t mean to busticate the bowl.”
And later, as a bespectacled teen, he whispers after his heartthrob brushes him off: “You didn’t have to busticate my heart like that.”
Such is the joy of new words: I can taste them, try them out, and explore their flavor. Hopefully without busticating them.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Fibro Flare
I want to know why, even if there is nothing I can do about it.
I tend to blame the weather, this string of foggy mornings and changeable barometric pressure.
I also blame myself but am not sure for what: my eating habits have not changed, nor have my daily activities. I haven’t chopped wood or sat all day in the recliner.
I do know, however, that the fibromyalgia is the worthy recipient of all the blame, but I just don’t know the triggers.
Since Tuesday afternoon, I’ve been in a flare of sorts: the almost-migraine, the increased sensitivity to sudden sounds, the return of pain, the disappearance of motivation, and the general blah feeling. Nothing serious—I’ve survived much worse than this. But weeks upon weeks (or was it months?) of feeling good most the time lulled me into expecting to feel good all the time.
The return of aches and pains reminds me not to take the good things of life for granted. Some things are within my control; others are not. On days like these, I need to pay attention to what my body is telling me but refuse to forget the blessings God has showered on me.
I tend to blame the weather, this string of foggy mornings and changeable barometric pressure.
I also blame myself but am not sure for what: my eating habits have not changed, nor have my daily activities. I haven’t chopped wood or sat all day in the recliner.
I do know, however, that the fibromyalgia is the worthy recipient of all the blame, but I just don’t know the triggers.
Since Tuesday afternoon, I’ve been in a flare of sorts: the almost-migraine, the increased sensitivity to sudden sounds, the return of pain, the disappearance of motivation, and the general blah feeling. Nothing serious—I’ve survived much worse than this. But weeks upon weeks (or was it months?) of feeling good most the time lulled me into expecting to feel good all the time.
The return of aches and pains reminds me not to take the good things of life for granted. Some things are within my control; others are not. On days like these, I need to pay attention to what my body is telling me but refuse to forget the blessings God has showered on me.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
An almost migraine day
Tell-tale tingle tickles arms,
Skitters up neck to join ear buzz.
Tension draws straight line down spine;
Eyes blur with blinking.
Dull hammer pounds.
Skitters up neck to join ear buzz.
Tension draws straight line down spine;
Eyes blur with blinking.
Dull hammer pounds.
My Hairdresser
My hairdresser needed to talk.
I go to Supercuts, and this time the young woman who usually cuts my hair was not immediately available. So, instead of waiting, I signed up with another hairdresser.
I don’t remember the sequence, but all at once she was telling me about not having a church, her churchgoing friend driving off a Jewish friend by telling her she was going to go to hell, her mother being a Christian and her father being a Mormon.
What was more important was the subtext—all the things she did not say--beneath this fountain of information. There was the guilt over not going to church. There were the confused, angry feelings over her friend condemning another in the name of religion. There was a wistfulness of wanting a place to belong to that was not harsh and condemning. There was loneliness and struggle.
So I listened while she snipped and talked. She asked where I went to church and I told her. I probably missed my great evangelical moment by listening rather than talking. I hope that the non-judgmental listening ear was what she really needed. I hope she heard the invitation in my voice.
I go to Supercuts, and this time the young woman who usually cuts my hair was not immediately available. So, instead of waiting, I signed up with another hairdresser.
I don’t remember the sequence, but all at once she was telling me about not having a church, her churchgoing friend driving off a Jewish friend by telling her she was going to go to hell, her mother being a Christian and her father being a Mormon.
What was more important was the subtext—all the things she did not say--beneath this fountain of information. There was the guilt over not going to church. There were the confused, angry feelings over her friend condemning another in the name of religion. There was a wistfulness of wanting a place to belong to that was not harsh and condemning. There was loneliness and struggle.
So I listened while she snipped and talked. She asked where I went to church and I told her. I probably missed my great evangelical moment by listening rather than talking. I hope that the non-judgmental listening ear was what she really needed. I hope she heard the invitation in my voice.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
From Nitid to Nitidity
Nitid (adjective): bright; lustrous.
The noun, nitidity, is pronounced with the emphasis on the second syllable. (How I love Dictionary.com!)
But I’m not sure I love nitidity. It reminds me too much of nits and lice outbreaks at preschools.
So it may be awhile before I can use nitid or nitidity in any writing. First, I need to be cured of the lousy connotation.
The noun, nitidity, is pronounced with the emphasis on the second syllable. (How I love Dictionary.com!)
But I’m not sure I love nitidity. It reminds me too much of nits and lice outbreaks at preschools.
So it may be awhile before I can use nitid or nitidity in any writing. First, I need to be cured of the lousy connotation.
The Mistress of Sleep
Benjamin Franklin’s proverb needs some tweaking:
Early to bed, late to rise
Makes a Jan healthy, wealthy, and wise.
You see, I am the mistress of sleep. (Check the dictionary. Besides the definition that automatically comes to mind, “mistress” also means a woman particularly skilled in some subject, and it’s not the one you’re thinking of!)
Last night I was asleep by 11:30. This morning I woke at 8:50, feeling wonderfully refreshed and rested if not a little guilty for sleeping in so late.
I’ve read on WebMD that sleep promotes weight loss. It also reduces stress. And it is something most Americans don’t get enough of.
A good night’s sleep is mine when I monitor my caffeine intake, take my Reliv supplements, go on a walk, and refuse the temptation of a snack just before bedtime. Now, admittedly, because of my fibromyalgia, I still need the half dose of Ambien plus melatonin to be able to sleep all night. But that is no big deal, because I used to take a full dose and still not sleep through the night.
Any of you former or current insomniacs will appreciate the gift a good night of sleep is. I’ve had whole nights of sleep which left me tired, stiff, and achy. But not today. I may have a late start on the day, but it’s a good one.
Early to bed, late to rise
Makes a Jan healthy, wealthy, and wise.
You see, I am the mistress of sleep. (Check the dictionary. Besides the definition that automatically comes to mind, “mistress” also means a woman particularly skilled in some subject, and it’s not the one you’re thinking of!)
Last night I was asleep by 11:30. This morning I woke at 8:50, feeling wonderfully refreshed and rested if not a little guilty for sleeping in so late.
I’ve read on WebMD that sleep promotes weight loss. It also reduces stress. And it is something most Americans don’t get enough of.
A good night’s sleep is mine when I monitor my caffeine intake, take my Reliv supplements, go on a walk, and refuse the temptation of a snack just before bedtime. Now, admittedly, because of my fibromyalgia, I still need the half dose of Ambien plus melatonin to be able to sleep all night. But that is no big deal, because I used to take a full dose and still not sleep through the night.
Any of you former or current insomniacs will appreciate the gift a good night of sleep is. I’ve had whole nights of sleep which left me tired, stiff, and achy. But not today. I may have a late start on the day, but it’s a good one.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Blogability
You won’t find blogability in a dictionary.
I propose two definitions for this wonderful noun that I thought I had coined until I found it on the Internet this morning. My definitions are 1. The ability to write a blog; 2. The type of writing suitable for a blog.
Until this very moment, I have suffered from a blogability block since last Thursday. (Both definitions can apply; however, I was thinking of the second one. And please note that I have used the noun as an adjective.)
I’ve been writing, yes, but nothing that has seemed bloggable. I suddenly went into the “Dear Diary” mode at my computer. That plus poetry that would make absolutely no sense to anyone other than myself and/or is superbly awful, maybe even more awful than poetry I have posted in the past. (English teachers note my willful use of a lengthy sentence fragment.) With those statements made, you may realize that the second definition of blogability is highly subjective. In fact, you may hold the private opinion that none of my posts are suitable for a blog. And that’s alright, as long as you keep your opinion to yourself.
Definition number one seems to be a kissing cousin to definition number two. I realize that writing a blog requires no actual writing ability; anyone can post anything and call it a blog. But “ability” in the sense of being able to sit at the keyboard and come up with random words to type onto the blank posting page is something else.
Blogs are a really wonderful invention for aspiring writers. They allow room for error and editing—readers surely realize that blogs are rough draft outposts on the way to final draft destinations. Oh, did that sound good! I love making allowances for the rough draftiness* of my writing. That way no one has to know if I mistakenly think I have finally finished a polished product. (Oops! Just a theoretical statement, you know.)
*The use of draftiness as opposed to draftness is intentional. It brings to mind a cool breeze of revision waiting to ruffle my screen’s virtual pages into some sort of order. Suddenly I am intrigued by rhyming possibilities of draft and daft . . . but I promise I won’t post those. At least not now.
I propose two definitions for this wonderful noun that I thought I had coined until I found it on the Internet this morning. My definitions are 1. The ability to write a blog; 2. The type of writing suitable for a blog.
Until this very moment, I have suffered from a blogability block since last Thursday. (Both definitions can apply; however, I was thinking of the second one. And please note that I have used the noun as an adjective.)
I’ve been writing, yes, but nothing that has seemed bloggable. I suddenly went into the “Dear Diary” mode at my computer. That plus poetry that would make absolutely no sense to anyone other than myself and/or is superbly awful, maybe even more awful than poetry I have posted in the past. (English teachers note my willful use of a lengthy sentence fragment.) With those statements made, you may realize that the second definition of blogability is highly subjective. In fact, you may hold the private opinion that none of my posts are suitable for a blog. And that’s alright, as long as you keep your opinion to yourself.
Definition number one seems to be a kissing cousin to definition number two. I realize that writing a blog requires no actual writing ability; anyone can post anything and call it a blog. But “ability” in the sense of being able to sit at the keyboard and come up with random words to type onto the blank posting page is something else.
Blogs are a really wonderful invention for aspiring writers. They allow room for error and editing—readers surely realize that blogs are rough draft outposts on the way to final draft destinations. Oh, did that sound good! I love making allowances for the rough draftiness* of my writing. That way no one has to know if I mistakenly think I have finally finished a polished product. (Oops! Just a theoretical statement, you know.)
*The use of draftiness as opposed to draftness is intentional. It brings to mind a cool breeze of revision waiting to ruffle my screen’s virtual pages into some sort of order. Suddenly I am intrigued by rhyming possibilities of draft and daft . . . but I promise I won’t post those. At least not now.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
In The Middle Of Beauty
Even though the sky is overcast and the air cool and wet, I am struck again with the sheer wonder of it all. I step out our front door to deliver some dirty laundry to the shop and look up into the gray sky. The Northwest Pines point their crooked tops to the clouds.
If I continue down the driveway to Bakken Road, the water view is just steps away. If I drive the ten miles south to Freeland, I can be walking on the tidal flats within the half hour. If I drive the ten miles north to Coupeville, I can be enjoying the view from Ebey’s Landing.
All the “ifs” are wonderful possibilities that I experience most weeks. But even on the days I do not leave my brother’s twenty acres, I am surrounded by beauty.
If I continue down the driveway to Bakken Road, the water view is just steps away. If I drive the ten miles south to Freeland, I can be walking on the tidal flats within the half hour. If I drive the ten miles north to Coupeville, I can be enjoying the view from Ebey’s Landing.
All the “ifs” are wonderful possibilities that I experience most weeks. But even on the days I do not leave my brother’s twenty acres, I am surrounded by beauty.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Dirty Laundry
Our big dog, Gunner, doesn’t play catch. Keep away is his game of choice. I found out this morning that any old stray piece of laundry will do. Yesterday it was my brother’s dirty sock. Today it is a rather smudged white T-shirt. I laughed out loud when Gunner trotted off to the dry pond to fetch it. Admittedly, had it been my shirt, I would not have been laughing. Sorry, John.
For months I have been missing one brown sock and one dark green sock . . . and my favorite bra. I have a new theory now concerning their fate.
For months I have been missing one brown sock and one dark green sock . . . and my favorite bra. I have a new theory now concerning their fate.
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Last Place I Looked
Naturally, it was the last place I looked.
My first driveway walk this morning was in Bluetooth conversation with my daughter. She was happy to be in their new home enjoying the comforts of central air conditioning while the temperature blazes toward triple digits. Benjamin laughed when she tickled him and was silent when I talked to him. Oh, well. Maybe he will snort for me next time.
During that happy stroll, I came to John’s front porch where my dirty laundry had been scattered at the bottom steps by our trusty dog, Radio. Evidently Mom had set it down after gathering it this morning and forgotten it. Drat!-- my nice new blouse on the ground and my brown pants covered with dog hair. After I collected the clothing and carried it over to Mom’s house, I saw that Gunner had one of John’s socks. I wasn’t willing to tussle him for it.
(Because I was on my mobile phone with Dana, I couldn’t deliver the laundry directly to the shop office laundry headquarters because I lose the signal the second I step into the shop. Luckily, Mom was standing there near the front door, and I handed it over to her. This time, the clothes made it to the shop.)
By now, it was time to pull together a little lunch, but Mom hadn’t showed up. So after getting everything on the table and her coffee heated up, I went to look for her. I figured she was out in the woods with her golf cart. I did the full driveway circle without finding her, remembered it was time to open the cage door between Tiva’s and Eiger’s cages, stopped at the house to grab my jacket, and set out again, mildly worried. I’ve never read what to do if you can’t find your mother’s golf cart in the woods.
Since her cart had not been in its other usual locations—in the shop, by the garden, next to John’s basement door, in the woods, or in front of our house—I decided to go look behind the shop. Voila! There it sat, empty except for the pruning shears, the crocheted doily she uses to hold on to her freezer push-ups, and a box of kitchen matches. “Mom? I have lunch ready,” I called, and her voice emerged from the woods: “Okay, I’ll be right in.”
Stopping at the golf cart, I snatched the matches to hide in my closet. (We don’t want her starting any fires during the island-wide burn ban that just went into effect, so we have also hidden her small blow torch.) Pretty soon, she made her appearance, and we had our casual version of lunch: she dipped potato chips into her egg salad and enjoyed a few sweet pickles while I ate an almond butter sandwich, blueberries, and a banana topped with Nutella. She mentioned the burn ban and hoped for rain, now that she has the dry pond swept clean.
So now is our daily rest time, and instead of napping, I am at the computer. I think, though, that I can still squeeze in a few minutes of shut-eye before Mom heads back out to the woods. Then, after a bit, I can bring her a drink of her Ensure, check the laundry, and pick sweet and sour cherries from our three tiny trees in the garden. Maybe I’ll run across John’s sock after all. The first place I’ll look is in the pond.
My first driveway walk this morning was in Bluetooth conversation with my daughter. She was happy to be in their new home enjoying the comforts of central air conditioning while the temperature blazes toward triple digits. Benjamin laughed when she tickled him and was silent when I talked to him. Oh, well. Maybe he will snort for me next time.
During that happy stroll, I came to John’s front porch where my dirty laundry had been scattered at the bottom steps by our trusty dog, Radio. Evidently Mom had set it down after gathering it this morning and forgotten it. Drat!-- my nice new blouse on the ground and my brown pants covered with dog hair. After I collected the clothing and carried it over to Mom’s house, I saw that Gunner had one of John’s socks. I wasn’t willing to tussle him for it.
(Because I was on my mobile phone with Dana, I couldn’t deliver the laundry directly to the shop office laundry headquarters because I lose the signal the second I step into the shop. Luckily, Mom was standing there near the front door, and I handed it over to her. This time, the clothes made it to the shop.)
By now, it was time to pull together a little lunch, but Mom hadn’t showed up. So after getting everything on the table and her coffee heated up, I went to look for her. I figured she was out in the woods with her golf cart. I did the full driveway circle without finding her, remembered it was time to open the cage door between Tiva’s and Eiger’s cages, stopped at the house to grab my jacket, and set out again, mildly worried. I’ve never read what to do if you can’t find your mother’s golf cart in the woods.
Since her cart had not been in its other usual locations—in the shop, by the garden, next to John’s basement door, in the woods, or in front of our house—I decided to go look behind the shop. Voila! There it sat, empty except for the pruning shears, the crocheted doily she uses to hold on to her freezer push-ups, and a box of kitchen matches. “Mom? I have lunch ready,” I called, and her voice emerged from the woods: “Okay, I’ll be right in.”
Stopping at the golf cart, I snatched the matches to hide in my closet. (We don’t want her starting any fires during the island-wide burn ban that just went into effect, so we have also hidden her small blow torch.) Pretty soon, she made her appearance, and we had our casual version of lunch: she dipped potato chips into her egg salad and enjoyed a few sweet pickles while I ate an almond butter sandwich, blueberries, and a banana topped with Nutella. She mentioned the burn ban and hoped for rain, now that she has the dry pond swept clean.
So now is our daily rest time, and instead of napping, I am at the computer. I think, though, that I can still squeeze in a few minutes of shut-eye before Mom heads back out to the woods. Then, after a bit, I can bring her a drink of her Ensure, check the laundry, and pick sweet and sour cherries from our three tiny trees in the garden. Maybe I’ll run across John’s sock after all. The first place I’ll look is in the pond.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Anne's End
Since my late sister, Anne, can’t tell me the story of her last two months in the hospital, I will try to present fragments of awareness in the form of disconnected scenes, some she remembered, others she lost to the morphine, which at least dulled the edge of her pain.
The comfort of Michael snoring in the chair.
Terry here, the best boss in the world.
Funny that everyone wears yellow around here. Sheila and Daniel! They better not be skimping on their work to walk over and see me. I never would have imagined my employees holding my hands and stroking my forehead, but it feels good.
Natalie and Janis are talking. That is good since I can’t.
Ah, Maggie’s music. Good old blues tunes on the guitar. A room full of people for her impromptu concert. Hand squeezes all around.
Why is Bob crying? I can’t talk around this ventilator. (Instead, she implores both sister and brother with her eyes registering concerned surprise, asking for explanation.)
Jan’s birthday . . . yes, Michael, take her out to my favorite Mexican restaurant tonight. (With her eyes, she gives her blessing on this celebration, fully unaware of how sad and awkward it will be without her there.)
Ethan?
Ah, Bradley . . .
(She rasps out single words, finally, but no one understands them. When Janis tries to hold her hand, she waves it off—her hands hurt so much with the swelling.)
Please, ice. Please.
Jesus . . . not yet.
Michael has no pity for my pain. He helps the nurses inflict it.
Don’t you see the desk out there? Listen, you’ve got to break me out of this joint. Quick, while the sheriff is gone. Here’s my attorney’s number.
It was a bad wreck. I heard 80 mph around the curve. My legs are broken. I’m glad you’re here.
Stacy!
Lyn’s water pictures. I will drink water again someday.
I don’t want to leave UNC. I have a bad feeling about this.
Happy Birthday, Janis! (She sings it out—oh, the pleasure of being able to speak—but Janis looks bewildered and tries to minimize the passage of the four weeks since her Tex Mex heartburn.)
What?! They didn’t get the cancer? It’s inoperable? (Fear darkens her eyes as she steels herself to new goals.) The pain won’t be going away . . . I need to build up strength to sit up so I can go home . . . (She falls into the silence of shock.)
No . . . what are you saying about not coming in tomorrow? Please, Janis . . . (Such fear in her eyes, such need. She needs me much more than I need a break. I’ll come, Anne.)
Put up the red truck picture from my godson and the family reunion picture.
Who would think my timid sister would become a bear, savagely crying and pushing and prodding the nurses and doctors and aides to get their acts together and take care of me? I don’t have to say a word, just ask for her help with my eyes and she tries. Lord knows you can’t always win around here, but, by God, she is fighting for me!
Raw flesh flashing spikes of red-hot pain as the nurses change the wound bandaging again. Screaming, screaming, torture. My sister’s hand, thank God. Scream and squeeze so tight, eyes closed, braced. Janis stands there silently, tears streaming down her cheeks, a heavy drop of snot swinging from her nose.
Every minute a hell of pain and nausea and puking. Janis emptying my vomit bowl, gently wiping a dampened washcloth around my mouth. Janis calling for the nurses. Janis checking my open surgery wound and the drain. Intense whispers outside my room.
God, another bandage change after another endless night. At least no more puking. How much longer can I stand this? I hear Jan’s soft voice and feel the touch of her hand: Anne, I’m here. I squeeze back, look at her, sigh, so relieved she is here.
Up! Up! Janis adjusts the bed, and then I’m gone into some quiet cave. I hear her voice, but it’s so soft I’m not sure I get the words. Oh, she’s singing Grandpa’s favorite hymn, “Abide With Me.” Now she’s telling me it’s okay, I can let go and die if I want, or I can live—she wants me to know that it’s okay to leave. My cats, my dream house, my hot tub, I miss them so much. I wanted to go back so badly, but now I’m too tired. I’ll just listen . . .
And now she is saying from across the room that Michael is here, that she is going to take a break but will be back in a couple hours. Michael jiggles my feet, and I hear her say I’ve been unresponsive for several hours. And then there is the rustle of her plastic gown and the door shutting and the TV turning on and Michael sitting in the chair next to my bed.
I have to say good-bye to Janis. There she is driving my truck to the bookstore, suddenly smiling as she says aloud, “I’ll buy myself a couple books as an early Christmas present with your debit card, Anne. You’ll like that.”
And then I am back in my dreary hospital room looking down. I watch myself exhale that last breath. I see Michael suddenly turn and call the nurse.
In this wonderful slim, light body of my youth, I pass Janis by on wings of joy. I’m free.
The comfort of Michael snoring in the chair.
Terry here, the best boss in the world.
Funny that everyone wears yellow around here. Sheila and Daniel! They better not be skimping on their work to walk over and see me. I never would have imagined my employees holding my hands and stroking my forehead, but it feels good.
Natalie and Janis are talking. That is good since I can’t.
Ah, Maggie’s music. Good old blues tunes on the guitar. A room full of people for her impromptu concert. Hand squeezes all around.
Why is Bob crying? I can’t talk around this ventilator. (Instead, she implores both sister and brother with her eyes registering concerned surprise, asking for explanation.)
Jan’s birthday . . . yes, Michael, take her out to my favorite Mexican restaurant tonight. (With her eyes, she gives her blessing on this celebration, fully unaware of how sad and awkward it will be without her there.)
Ethan?
Ah, Bradley . . .
(She rasps out single words, finally, but no one understands them. When Janis tries to hold her hand, she waves it off—her hands hurt so much with the swelling.)
Please, ice. Please.
Jesus . . . not yet.
Michael has no pity for my pain. He helps the nurses inflict it.
Don’t you see the desk out there? Listen, you’ve got to break me out of this joint. Quick, while the sheriff is gone. Here’s my attorney’s number.
It was a bad wreck. I heard 80 mph around the curve. My legs are broken. I’m glad you’re here.
Stacy!
Lyn’s water pictures. I will drink water again someday.
I don’t want to leave UNC. I have a bad feeling about this.
Happy Birthday, Janis! (She sings it out—oh, the pleasure of being able to speak—but Janis looks bewildered and tries to minimize the passage of the four weeks since her Tex Mex heartburn.)
What?! They didn’t get the cancer? It’s inoperable? (Fear darkens her eyes as she steels herself to new goals.) The pain won’t be going away . . . I need to build up strength to sit up so I can go home . . . (She falls into the silence of shock.)
No . . . what are you saying about not coming in tomorrow? Please, Janis . . . (Such fear in her eyes, such need. She needs me much more than I need a break. I’ll come, Anne.)
Put up the red truck picture from my godson and the family reunion picture.
Who would think my timid sister would become a bear, savagely crying and pushing and prodding the nurses and doctors and aides to get their acts together and take care of me? I don’t have to say a word, just ask for her help with my eyes and she tries. Lord knows you can’t always win around here, but, by God, she is fighting for me!
Raw flesh flashing spikes of red-hot pain as the nurses change the wound bandaging again. Screaming, screaming, torture. My sister’s hand, thank God. Scream and squeeze so tight, eyes closed, braced. Janis stands there silently, tears streaming down her cheeks, a heavy drop of snot swinging from her nose.
Every minute a hell of pain and nausea and puking. Janis emptying my vomit bowl, gently wiping a dampened washcloth around my mouth. Janis calling for the nurses. Janis checking my open surgery wound and the drain. Intense whispers outside my room.
God, another bandage change after another endless night. At least no more puking. How much longer can I stand this? I hear Jan’s soft voice and feel the touch of her hand: Anne, I’m here. I squeeze back, look at her, sigh, so relieved she is here.
Up! Up! Janis adjusts the bed, and then I’m gone into some quiet cave. I hear her voice, but it’s so soft I’m not sure I get the words. Oh, she’s singing Grandpa’s favorite hymn, “Abide With Me.” Now she’s telling me it’s okay, I can let go and die if I want, or I can live—she wants me to know that it’s okay to leave. My cats, my dream house, my hot tub, I miss them so much. I wanted to go back so badly, but now I’m too tired. I’ll just listen . . .
And now she is saying from across the room that Michael is here, that she is going to take a break but will be back in a couple hours. Michael jiggles my feet, and I hear her say I’ve been unresponsive for several hours. And then there is the rustle of her plastic gown and the door shutting and the TV turning on and Michael sitting in the chair next to my bed.
I have to say good-bye to Janis. There she is driving my truck to the bookstore, suddenly smiling as she says aloud, “I’ll buy myself a couple books as an early Christmas present with your debit card, Anne. You’ll like that.”
And then I am back in my dreary hospital room looking down. I watch myself exhale that last breath. I see Michael suddenly turn and call the nurse.
In this wonderful slim, light body of my youth, I pass Janis by on wings of joy. I’m free.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Maxims from a Vertically-Challenged Life
Three-quarter sleeve blouses are best.
Beware of thirty-inch inseams. Twenty-nine is the magic number.
Kitchen cupboards are designed for taller people. Old kitchens are designed for giants.
It’s hopeless to find anyone in a crowd.
Everyone over the age of twelve will be taller than you. Get used to it.
Tall people are for reaching things.
You are forever consigned to the middle seat if the truck has bench seating and there are two passengers.
When you’re older and if you’re lucky, lack of height can be mistaken for youth.
When you’re young and if you are unlucky, adults will think you are even younger. Being mistaken for thirteen at twenty-two is not fun.
Shorter people need fewer calories. It’s not fair.
A better word for “short” is “petite,” which, handily enough, also connotes “slender.”
It is very unsettling to look down at another adult when you are used to looking up. In fact, if you look up long enough, you can fool yourself into thinking you aren’t so short because the kink in your neck feels normal.
For an instant boost in self-confidence, wear heels. If heels are not your thing, try shoes with one or two-inch rocker soles. Then you can pretend you are actually almost five foot four.
Beware of thirty-inch inseams. Twenty-nine is the magic number.
Kitchen cupboards are designed for taller people. Old kitchens are designed for giants.
It’s hopeless to find anyone in a crowd.
Everyone over the age of twelve will be taller than you. Get used to it.
Tall people are for reaching things.
You are forever consigned to the middle seat if the truck has bench seating and there are two passengers.
When you’re older and if you’re lucky, lack of height can be mistaken for youth.
When you’re young and if you are unlucky, adults will think you are even younger. Being mistaken for thirteen at twenty-two is not fun.
Shorter people need fewer calories. It’s not fair.
A better word for “short” is “petite,” which, handily enough, also connotes “slender.”
It is very unsettling to look down at another adult when you are used to looking up. In fact, if you look up long enough, you can fool yourself into thinking you aren’t so short because the kink in your neck feels normal.
For an instant boost in self-confidence, wear heels. If heels are not your thing, try shoes with one or two-inch rocker soles. Then you can pretend you are actually almost five foot four.
Undercast
Dictionary.com word of the day
Undercast: Something viewed from above through another medium, as of clouds viewed from an airplane.
Undercast view
Of overcast sky
Shows sun streaming,
Reflecting off white puffy tops
Of clouds.
Mystery revealed:
Behind storm
Is sun.
I like the undercast vistas when the Spirit opens up an unfamiliar view, a real one, ringing in truth without shadow and understanding apart from sin.
Undercast: Something viewed from above through another medium, as of clouds viewed from an airplane.
Undercast view
Of overcast sky
Shows sun streaming,
Reflecting off white puffy tops
Of clouds.
Mystery revealed:
Behind storm
Is sun.
I like the undercast vistas when the Spirit opens up an unfamiliar view, a real one, ringing in truth without shadow and understanding apart from sin.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Stray Bits of Praise
Stray bits of praise
Float up through trees,
Delicate butterflies
Flitting through breeze.
Float up through trees,
Delicate butterflies
Flitting through breeze.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
My Mother Still Surprises Me
My mother still surprises me.
This morning, she was the one who noticed that Gunner, our large mutt on a lead chain, had gotten his collar hooked to the perimeter fence of the cougar cage. He was barking and generally complaining about being stuck.
The first time she informed me of the situation, I was here at my computer doing my morning wake-up routine: mug of coffee in hand, checking email. I told her I would go out and get Gunner unhooked after I showered and dressed. Even out here in the country, there is no way I am going to go outside in my pajamas with my bedhead of crushed and spiked hair going every which way. That would surely be the time a UPS or FedEx truck would pull up to deliver a package.
So, in honor of the dog and--I must admit--so I could minimize the number of times Mom told me with sorrow and surprise that Gunner was stuck, I cut short my computer routine to get ready for the day.
Almost done with my shower, I heard Mom’s voice outside the bathroom: “Janis, I got Gunner unstuck.”
Relief (I honestly didn’t know if I was capable of unhooking him from the fence) and amazement swept over me. How did she do it with her compromised vision and shaky hands?
So here I am back at my computer, ready for the day, listening to Mom playing the parlor pump organ, another one of the things she does that shows me she is a remarkable woman.
This morning, she was the one who noticed that Gunner, our large mutt on a lead chain, had gotten his collar hooked to the perimeter fence of the cougar cage. He was barking and generally complaining about being stuck.
The first time she informed me of the situation, I was here at my computer doing my morning wake-up routine: mug of coffee in hand, checking email. I told her I would go out and get Gunner unhooked after I showered and dressed. Even out here in the country, there is no way I am going to go outside in my pajamas with my bedhead of crushed and spiked hair going every which way. That would surely be the time a UPS or FedEx truck would pull up to deliver a package.
So, in honor of the dog and--I must admit--so I could minimize the number of times Mom told me with sorrow and surprise that Gunner was stuck, I cut short my computer routine to get ready for the day.
Almost done with my shower, I heard Mom’s voice outside the bathroom: “Janis, I got Gunner unstuck.”
Relief (I honestly didn’t know if I was capable of unhooking him from the fence) and amazement swept over me. How did she do it with her compromised vision and shaky hands?
So here I am back at my computer, ready for the day, listening to Mom playing the parlor pump organ, another one of the things she does that shows me she is a remarkable woman.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Perfect Morning
It was a perfect morning, and I almost didn’t realize it.
At 7:30 I awoke, well-rested and with no pain. My muscles did not ache, nor were my joints stiff. I even felt refreshed.
By 8:30, I was writing my blog post for the morning. And, as so often happens, I learned a little more as I wrote.
By eleven, I had put in a fruitful hour of practice on my concert flute. I worked on some tricky spots in the flute choir music, played through everything, and listened to my tone carefully. Overall, I believe I am improving.
Tackling the stack of papers on my desk and paying some bills was not high on the list of things I wanted to do, but, nevertheless, I felt a sense of accomplishment.
Writing and music bring me ineffable joy. Add to that the gift of feeling good and the satisfaction of getting some dreaded paperwork done, and it adds up to a perfect morning, courtesy of my Creator.
At 7:30 I awoke, well-rested and with no pain. My muscles did not ache, nor were my joints stiff. I even felt refreshed.
By 8:30, I was writing my blog post for the morning. And, as so often happens, I learned a little more as I wrote.
By eleven, I had put in a fruitful hour of practice on my concert flute. I worked on some tricky spots in the flute choir music, played through everything, and listened to my tone carefully. Overall, I believe I am improving.
Tackling the stack of papers on my desk and paying some bills was not high on the list of things I wanted to do, but, nevertheless, I felt a sense of accomplishment.
Writing and music bring me ineffable joy. Add to that the gift of feeling good and the satisfaction of getting some dreaded paperwork done, and it adds up to a perfect morning, courtesy of my Creator.
A Single Word
Last week I found out there is a word for what I do. I don’t remember where I read about the word, but it has stuck with me all week as its own private revelation.
I write to learn. I write to find out what I think. I write to give expression to the little bursts of inspiration that come to me at sundry times. I write to voice spiritual subtleties that only open up to me as I write.
For years in composition classes, I taught the values of planning and organizing, of writing geared to specific assignments and meeting specific requirements. I’d like to think that all that teaching drilled some underlying structure into my own writing that creates some sense and form when I am exploring an initial burst of creative insight. Because I don’t think about rules anymore—instead, I often break them. I like to follow sound and meaning, get wrapped up in the flow of words and the poetry of words.
Writing is a type of revelation in which I discover what I cannot find in any other way. There is a single word that captures all 212 words on this page: heuristic. It’s nice to finally know what I am doing here at the keyboard.
I write to learn. I write to find out what I think. I write to give expression to the little bursts of inspiration that come to me at sundry times. I write to voice spiritual subtleties that only open up to me as I write.
For years in composition classes, I taught the values of planning and organizing, of writing geared to specific assignments and meeting specific requirements. I’d like to think that all that teaching drilled some underlying structure into my own writing that creates some sense and form when I am exploring an initial burst of creative insight. Because I don’t think about rules anymore—instead, I often break them. I like to follow sound and meaning, get wrapped up in the flow of words and the poetry of words.
Writing is a type of revelation in which I discover what I cannot find in any other way. There is a single word that captures all 212 words on this page: heuristic. It’s nice to finally know what I am doing here at the keyboard.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Zephyr: a gentle, mild breeze
Holy Spirit zephyr,
Stir among us.
Flutter our hearts to praise.
Be our freeing breeze
That whispers your name.
Stir among us.
Flutter our hearts to praise.
Be our freeing breeze
That whispers your name.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Talina and Me
July 10, 2010
I’ve missed being stalked by a cougar.
Until her gall bladder infection and subsequent exploratory surgery several months ago, Talina stalked me on a daily basis. We had a sort of game played out with the twelve-foot-high cage fencing between us.
As I walked inside the perimeter fence by John’s house, Talina would silently creep up on me from her side of the cage. Sometimes I would stop at each post just ahead of her. Once, momentarily forgetting what I was doing, I leaned up against the fence and almost had a heart attack when she jumped, declawed paws against where I stood. Usually, she would follow slowly; sometimes, I would squat down to eye level with her; often, she would hiss. Our parting play was at the end of her outdoor cage where the perimeter fence door opens up in front of Mom’s house. I would stand there nonchalantly until she slunk or ran over for one last paw slap against the cage and one last hiss.
This morning she stalked me again for the first time in months. Instead of slinking along behind me as I walked along, she stayed hidden and poised for action in the grass. Finally, when I reached the end and turned to stand there, waiting for her, she ran across her caged yard in great leaps, landing front paws against the fence. She hissed. I smiled. We regarded each other for some seconds before I turned to head out the gate.
I’ve missed being stalked by a cougar.
Until her gall bladder infection and subsequent exploratory surgery several months ago, Talina stalked me on a daily basis. We had a sort of game played out with the twelve-foot-high cage fencing between us.
As I walked inside the perimeter fence by John’s house, Talina would silently creep up on me from her side of the cage. Sometimes I would stop at each post just ahead of her. Once, momentarily forgetting what I was doing, I leaned up against the fence and almost had a heart attack when she jumped, declawed paws against where I stood. Usually, she would follow slowly; sometimes, I would squat down to eye level with her; often, she would hiss. Our parting play was at the end of her outdoor cage where the perimeter fence door opens up in front of Mom’s house. I would stand there nonchalantly until she slunk or ran over for one last paw slap against the cage and one last hiss.
This morning she stalked me again for the first time in months. Instead of slinking along behind me as I walked along, she stayed hidden and poised for action in the grass. Finally, when I reached the end and turned to stand there, waiting for her, she ran across her caged yard in great leaps, landing front paws against the fence. She hissed. I smiled. We regarded each other for some seconds before I turned to head out the gate.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Double Bluff Beach Notes
I didn’t see any eagles or herons at the beach, but I did collect some words on my voice recorder. And already, as I listen, I edit out the false starts and try to capture the phrasing of my recorded voice by line. Later, perhaps, I will work some of the words into other poetry or prose. A few of these segments already feel like poetry to me. Think of all the words I would have lost today!
Segment 1:
It’s an ankle-deep day.
If I were wearing shorts, I’d be up to my knees.
The water lapping into shore
The sound of children
The slimy seaweed I must dodge
Beautiful, beautiful day
Segment 2:
Pockets of cool
And warm waves
Slimy seaweed
The brush of green
Segment 3:
A bed of dead Dungennes crabs:
Hollowed out shells
Of their former selves.
Segment 4:
I used to collect Petoskey stones and [tiny] fossils along Lake Michigan shores.
Now I collect words along the Sound.
Segment 5:
I had forgotten hot.
Segment 6:Rock polisher:
Give the dull green
A fresh, wet sheen.
Segment 1:
It’s an ankle-deep day.
If I were wearing shorts, I’d be up to my knees.
The water lapping into shore
The sound of children
The slimy seaweed I must dodge
Beautiful, beautiful day
Segment 2:
Pockets of cool
And warm waves
Slimy seaweed
The brush of green
Segment 3:
A bed of dead Dungennes crabs:
Hollowed out shells
Of their former selves.
Segment 4:
I used to collect Petoskey stones and [tiny] fossils along Lake Michigan shores.
Now I collect words along the Sound.
Segment 5:
I had forgotten hot.
Segment 6:Rock polisher:
Give the dull green
A fresh, wet sheen.
I Seem To Have Lost My Prose . . .
I seem to have lost my prose for the time being. All that is coming out of my fingers to the keyboard is poetry. Yesterday, a rhymed two-liner hit me and stayed with me until I could get back to my computer:
Relief can sting
Like anything.
Now that I have a handy voice recorder—smaller than a cell phone!—I haven’t had occasion to use it. Inspiration, it appears, has been rendered mute by the possibility of recording it.
In the same amazon.com package with the voice recorder came the digital tuner/metronome. I haven’t tried the tuner yet, but the metronome came in handy for practicing my flutes yesterday. I found out how fast the gypsy theme from Carmen (one of our flute choir pieces) really is. And I tested my tempos on “What Wondrous Love Is This,” the alto flute solo I’ll be playing at church on the 25th.
Using a metronome sort of reminds me of cruise control. Until you use either one, you can fool yourself into thinking you are being consistent in your pace. So I found out where I speed up and where I slow down.
I think, perhaps, I am a little worried about trying the tuner because I know that I have plenty of tone and tuning inconsistencies. We’re working on matching tones in flute lessons. Maybe I can eventually learn to hear and know when I’m flat or sharp!
And, yes, the flute lessons are helping me a lot. Kim is working with me on tonal quality, something I’ve never had much control over. An adjustment in how I line up my flute along with the position adjustment I had already made, plus work on embouchure and breathing are making a difference that I can hear at least.
This morning, I’ll practice my flutes as usual. This afternoon, I hope to go for a nice long walk at the tidal flats. I’ll bring my voice recorder, just in case inspiration hits, and maybe this time I’ll remember binoculars in case I see another heron or eagle.
Relief can sting
Like anything.
Now that I have a handy voice recorder—smaller than a cell phone!—I haven’t had occasion to use it. Inspiration, it appears, has been rendered mute by the possibility of recording it.
In the same amazon.com package with the voice recorder came the digital tuner/metronome. I haven’t tried the tuner yet, but the metronome came in handy for practicing my flutes yesterday. I found out how fast the gypsy theme from Carmen (one of our flute choir pieces) really is. And I tested my tempos on “What Wondrous Love Is This,” the alto flute solo I’ll be playing at church on the 25th.
Using a metronome sort of reminds me of cruise control. Until you use either one, you can fool yourself into thinking you are being consistent in your pace. So I found out where I speed up and where I slow down.
I think, perhaps, I am a little worried about trying the tuner because I know that I have plenty of tone and tuning inconsistencies. We’re working on matching tones in flute lessons. Maybe I can eventually learn to hear and know when I’m flat or sharp!
And, yes, the flute lessons are helping me a lot. Kim is working with me on tonal quality, something I’ve never had much control over. An adjustment in how I line up my flute along with the position adjustment I had already made, plus work on embouchure and breathing are making a difference that I can hear at least.
This morning, I’ll practice my flutes as usual. This afternoon, I hope to go for a nice long walk at the tidal flats. I’ll bring my voice recorder, just in case inspiration hits, and maybe this time I’ll remember binoculars in case I see another heron or eagle.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
The Opening of Sight
Dictionary.com word of the day: sibylline
1. Prophetic; oracular
2. Of, resembling, or characteristic of a sibyl; prophetic; oracular
3. Mysterious; cryptic
Sibylline—
Synonym for soul sighting—
That ineffable second
Of knowing.
Sibylline—
Reality unmasked,
Pushed past surface
To soul view.
Sibylline—
A panorama of truth
Suddenly opened,
Resonating within.
Airbrushed
Airbrushed:
That special silken sheen
Of feeling lightly surfacing
To skin.
Eyes and expression
Subtly show
The true color of intent.
Recognition
Lightens or darkens
Eyes that suddenly see.
Strain emanates
Past color to atmospheric mood,
A fine heaviness settling.
Fear flutters with activity
Even as the face’s blank
Masks agitation within.
Love shines
Its sparkling in eyes,
And adoration glows,
Reaching, seeking.
The opening of sight--
A perfect airbrushed pause—
Pushes the soul
To wordless prayer, a studied
Moment of communion.
1. Prophetic; oracular
2. Of, resembling, or characteristic of a sibyl; prophetic; oracular
3. Mysterious; cryptic
Sibylline—
Synonym for soul sighting—
That ineffable second
Of knowing.
Sibylline—
Reality unmasked,
Pushed past surface
To soul view.
Sibylline—
A panorama of truth
Suddenly opened,
Resonating within.
Airbrushed
Airbrushed:
That special silken sheen
Of feeling lightly surfacing
To skin.
Eyes and expression
Subtly show
The true color of intent.
Recognition
Lightens or darkens
Eyes that suddenly see.
Strain emanates
Past color to atmospheric mood,
A fine heaviness settling.
Fear flutters with activity
Even as the face’s blank
Masks agitation within.
Love shines
Its sparkling in eyes,
And adoration glows,
Reaching, seeking.
The opening of sight--
A perfect airbrushed pause—
Pushes the soul
To wordless prayer, a studied
Moment of communion.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
An Owl Gained
“I saw your owl the other day,” my brother John said. And with that statement, I have gained an owl by virtue of first sighting.
To me, owls have always been grand, exotic creatures. C.S. Lewis and J.K. Rowling immortalized owls with their wise, funny, sometimes unpredictable traits. When I saw the owl in the tree last week, all of those associations formed a connection to him. (Her?)
It’s nice to know I have an owl in the backyard, and I hope to see him (her?) again.
To me, owls have always been grand, exotic creatures. C.S. Lewis and J.K. Rowling immortalized owls with their wise, funny, sometimes unpredictable traits. When I saw the owl in the tree last week, all of those associations formed a connection to him. (Her?)
It’s nice to know I have an owl in the backyard, and I hope to see him (her?) again.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Joy
Joy entered my life this year. It drove out the banked gray clouds whose atmospheric weight kept me earthbound. Like helium filling a balloon, joy has sent my soul soaring.
Why? Only God knows the full answer. Maybe the presence of joy cannot be broken down into its individual components or reasonably explained. After all, it is a fruit of the Spirit. But why this fruit at this time?
It was a very long growing period before joy blossomed. Perhaps you could call it years of root work, the tunneling deep into the darkness required for a steady base, unexpectedly followed by hurricane-force winds that eventually uprooted me and required a replanting by the Gardener.
From seed to sprout to sapling to fruit-bearing tree: that is the Spirit’s work. How He waters us, prunes us, lets parts die until we fear that no life will be left is a mystery, just as mysterious as the new life that suddenly blossoms into sweet fruit.
I do not know all the ways God has produced this unexpected fruit that I now savor each day, always surprised by its sweetness. But gradually I have come to recognize that music and writing have given me ground for joy. The music, for years neglected, is praise. Praise is spontaneous, but steady practice makes it deep as well. Writing tills the soil for joy to grow. Sharing both does not allow me to burrow underground or linger under the weight of clouds but nudges me toward the sun (the Son!) into the free and open space called agape that God has always intended and I have always feared.
Why? Only God knows the full answer. Maybe the presence of joy cannot be broken down into its individual components or reasonably explained. After all, it is a fruit of the Spirit. But why this fruit at this time?
It was a very long growing period before joy blossomed. Perhaps you could call it years of root work, the tunneling deep into the darkness required for a steady base, unexpectedly followed by hurricane-force winds that eventually uprooted me and required a replanting by the Gardener.
From seed to sprout to sapling to fruit-bearing tree: that is the Spirit’s work. How He waters us, prunes us, lets parts die until we fear that no life will be left is a mystery, just as mysterious as the new life that suddenly blossoms into sweet fruit.
I do not know all the ways God has produced this unexpected fruit that I now savor each day, always surprised by its sweetness. But gradually I have come to recognize that music and writing have given me ground for joy. The music, for years neglected, is praise. Praise is spontaneous, but steady practice makes it deep as well. Writing tills the soil for joy to grow. Sharing both does not allow me to burrow underground or linger under the weight of clouds but nudges me toward the sun (the Son!) into the free and open space called agape that God has always intended and I have always feared.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Bird Poems
I like the clicking of wrens
Reminiscent of old metronomes
That have abandoned meter and keep
Ticking to their own rhythm
A flash of gray--
Huge on the periphery of my vision—
Causes me to pause,
Look out the kitchen window,
And see perched on small mossy branch
An owl, alert
Dark eyes focused on undergrowth.
I stare for long minutes,
Admiring fluff and black-ridged feathers that
Accent lighter gray, soft down underneath,
But above, the eyes, wide circles of intent.
Reminiscent of old metronomes
That have abandoned meter and keep
Ticking to their own rhythm
A flash of gray--
Huge on the periphery of my vision—
Causes me to pause,
Look out the kitchen window,
And see perched on small mossy branch
An owl, alert
Dark eyes focused on undergrowth.
I stare for long minutes,
Admiring fluff and black-ridged feathers that
Accent lighter gray, soft down underneath,
But above, the eyes, wide circles of intent.
Friday, July 2, 2010
The Pond Is Swept
The pond is swept, her memory an evanescence.
What is left? Half-filled buckets of dried pond debris,
Childhood afternoons in the river,
Silt removal and echoing song,
Hand cramps from pond sweeping,
Uncertainty and effort to maintain a
Memory that is gone.
What is left? Half-filled buckets of dried pond debris,
Childhood afternoons in the river,
Silt removal and echoing song,
Hand cramps from pond sweeping,
Uncertainty and effort to maintain a
Memory that is gone.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Word of the Day
Hunky dory: about as well as one could wish or expect; satisfactory; fine; OK
“Hunky dory” is one of my favorite words. There is nothing sophisticated about it. To use the word properly, you need to add a certain Midwest twang or at least be wearing denim overalls. “Hunky dory” is wholesome. It far outranks “OK” in its casual style.
Think for a moment how synonyms can express completely different connotations and contexts to the same exchange.
At the opera house during intermission, you might hear a critical connoisseur of the opera say, “The soprano was satisfactory.” Someone in a black evening dress with a diamond necklace would never say, “The soprano was hunky dory,” though in an unguarded moment amongst her girlfriends, she might say, “That bass is a hunk!”
On the other hand, ask a farm boy at the county fair how he enjoyed the Ferris Wheel, and “hunky dory” might very well follow “golly” in his enthusiasm. But don’t expect “satisfactory” from him—though his older teenage brother might roll his eyes and say “fine” in a sarcastic tone or “OK” with a bored manner.
As for me, I think it is simply hunky dory that Dictionary.com chose “hunky dory” as the word of the day. But, then, I have a yen for good old-fashioned words.
“Hunky dory” is one of my favorite words. There is nothing sophisticated about it. To use the word properly, you need to add a certain Midwest twang or at least be wearing denim overalls. “Hunky dory” is wholesome. It far outranks “OK” in its casual style.
Think for a moment how synonyms can express completely different connotations and contexts to the same exchange.
At the opera house during intermission, you might hear a critical connoisseur of the opera say, “The soprano was satisfactory.” Someone in a black evening dress with a diamond necklace would never say, “The soprano was hunky dory,” though in an unguarded moment amongst her girlfriends, she might say, “That bass is a hunk!”
On the other hand, ask a farm boy at the county fair how he enjoyed the Ferris Wheel, and “hunky dory” might very well follow “golly” in his enthusiasm. But don’t expect “satisfactory” from him—though his older teenage brother might roll his eyes and say “fine” in a sarcastic tone or “OK” with a bored manner.
As for me, I think it is simply hunky dory that Dictionary.com chose “hunky dory” as the word of the day. But, then, I have a yen for good old-fashioned words.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)