Wednesday, November 05, 2008

Yes, we can.

Today I woke up feeling like anything is possible. If we can overcome all our long-held prejudices and elect this man to be President of the United States, anything is possible.

We can get past the recurring stumbling blocks at work, and find new ways of working together.

The kids can remember to do their chores without my prompting.

Maybe I can even finish this book I've been working on for so long.

Change is possible.

Yes, we can.

Friday, August 08, 2008

something new

I have a new blog. The link is over there to the left.

My thoughts seem to be drifting more in that direction lately, so I decided to create a space for them.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

Celebrations & Concerns

Today I stood up
in church
and asked everybody
to celebrate my mother.

Forty-two years ago
she was a few days away
from giving birth to me.
She's lived a good life,
and now she feels like she's done.

I asked everybody
to pray
with Mom, for Mom
for all the days she has left.
There are so many,
stretching out ahead.

When I sat down,
she leaned over to me.

"Now that I've lost my brain," she said,
"I can't think."

"But I still have a heart,
and I can still feel.
And I love you."

I love you, too, my Mama.
For nearly forty-two years.

And counting.

Thursday, April 03, 2008

this day

I started this day with three dreams still tumbling around in my head. Fiery attacks, deaths of loved ones, emotional turmoil. My morning pages helped calm the storm.

After the redheads left for their normal destinations, I visited Mom. It didn't take her long to figure out exactly who I was, even though I arrived unannounced. We played Scrabble. My one seven letter word (which earned me 74 points) was RELATED. It felt appropriate. We're still related. We still relate, though differently.

From there I went out into the misty, moisty morning to walk a nearby labyrinth. It always centers my spirit, calms my soul. I breathed in the early spring air, walked carefully on the mossy paths, greeted the rocks as I came to them, again and again. In the center I sat. And listened. To the woods. To myself.

This afternoon I plunged deeply into the 1972 brain of my father. I examined his week-at-a-glance calendar, page by page. There was no glancing about it--at some points I needed a magnifying glass to decode his cryptic astrological notes.

Coming down to the kitchen, where my cheerful beloved was putting the final touches on supper, felt like swimming up from the bottom of a deep, murky pool. 1972 was so real--Dad hitchhiking back and forth, his fasting, his larger-than-life new age ideas. Could it really be that I actually live in 2008, under a roof, with a television and white rice, and a husband who earns a regular paycheck and comes home when we expect him?

Have I really managed to fool the gods and end up with a mainstream, sane, safe, happy life?

Labyrinth indeed.

Gratitude abounds.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

Spring fever

I've got
on my kitchen table,
in my heart.

Sunday, March 02, 2008

fire next time

Our fireplace burns gas. And yet I split wood.

My 11-year old son got in trouble at church for lighting matches in the Sunday school room when no adults were around. A match was smoldering on the couch, the other kids pointed the finger at him, and he was holding the book of matches when the adult walked in. And yet he claims innocence . . .

During the service we learned that a dear member of our congregation, a white-haired blues-playing saxophone player with twinkling eyes, has been diagnosed with acute leukemia. Another seemingly healthy member of our church faced this same diagnosis a couple of years ago, and lived a matter of days.

And then I spent a couple of hours with my mom--playing Scrabble, walking in a sun-filled field of hummocky almost-springtime grass. This time, for some reason, she didn't mention the fact that she prays every night for God to take her as she sleeps. But it's always in the air around her. I know she's ready to go. Why can't it be her turn instead? She's ready.

Our fireplace burns gas.

And yet I split wood.

It's all I can do.