Simple Words

Let Go

My stepmother's passing last week creates an obvious image of letting go, particularly letting go of expectations that certain relationships would be any different than they have been in the past. I've been releasing that mightily stubborn chokehold I've had on expecting people to be the way I want them to be. And the equally powerful dumb insistence that next time, things will be different.

My stepmother and I didn't get along for 30 years, and while I don't want to go into details, I will admit that I brought my share of problems to the table. However, by the time we last spoke, we were cordial, and I'd like to leave (let go) my feelings with that thought.

Her passing has affected me much more than I thought it would. I've been grieving, and that has confused me. After all, my stepmother inelegantly broke up her marriage to my father. Dealing with her was always like walking blindfolded on hot shards of glass.

At her funeral,her son, stepson and son- in- law spoke about her life, her childhood in Germany during WWII, living in a house that had been bombed, running to the caves fduring bombing raids, coming to the USA as a war bride, not knowing the language. Later in life, she was widowed and had to hold her family together. And then there were the years that she was married to my father.

Listening to the eulogies made me think about her as an individual, a regular person, with a life filled with challenges and joys. In those minutes and with those words, she ceased being the "my stepmother" person, and became someone with whom I could empathize and respect. More importantly, I felt that I could understand her in a way that I hadn't.

For the last few weeks, I haven't remembered any of my dreams, and I came back to school feeling tired. When colleagues have offered condolences, I've been quick to point out that she and I weren't close. In retrospect, I think that my reaction had more to do with understanding that she was gone.

In those days before her funeral, I had trouble remembering anything that didn't involve some kind of conflict. I wondered if I should even be going to the funeral. We went out of respect for the family, and until the service, I could not think of any happy memories that we had shared.

Afterwards, as we drove home, I began to work my way through the feelings, and I'm still doing it. I am remembering my dreams , and my memory has been pushing forward both the good as well as the bad and indifferent.

What have I gained, from this relationship? What have I learned about life? I regret that she and I could not have been better friends. I've learned to mother myself, which has been hard. I've learned how strong I am, beneath too many layers of anxiety. I've learned that accepting people doesn't mean that they will change into my vision of them.

And I continue to learn. I'm releasing a dream that never was palpable. And that's okay.

Wonder in 2010

Did I cultivate a sense of wonder in 2010?  I don't think so.  If I did,  wonder was a few paces behind a sense of gratitude and a sense of coming back to healthier living.  Gratitude for all that I have has loomed largest this year.  I've family, friends, work and, well, what more do I need? 

I'm back to meditating fifteen minutes a day, seven days a week, and I can't believe that I ever let that habit slip out of my daily schedule.  Nothing grounds me better than slowing down and practicing meditation: focussed breathing, in and out, in and out, and ignoring the mind monkeys that usually swing from one neuronal branch to the next.  My mind slows down, my heart slows down, and each part of my body relaxes into a calm order.

How can it be that something so simple can be so powerful?

 

New Month, Old Year and Two Words

Here's my belated entry for the Reverb10 project.  The word for this year would be "readjusting" as I've spent much of the year reorganizing my life in these post-Dad's death years.  I think, too, that turning fifty a few years ago has been slowly changing my outlook; I know that I'm a whole lot less intense about everything. This time has felt like an enormous closet cleaning of the soul.  I'm letting go off behaviors that just weren't working for me any more and trying to acquire new ones that would be more. . . positive?  

Could I give you a detail or an example about what I mean?  I could, but I won't. Some things are best left to the individual. ;-)

 

And next year's word is: "focus."  I want to take some projects that I've begun and to focus on completing them--articles half-written, poems unrevised, a new gym membership. . .so we shall see. 

 

Day Three: That Moment

The kids raced up the lawn and onto the Slip and Slide, where they slipped and slid, screaming and laughing and tugging their swimsuits into place. After too many cycles of  bent knees sliding, they stopped,  detached the hose from the game, and started looking around at everything in the yard that wasn't wet.  The porch wasn't wet, the driveway wasn't wet, and the garage wall looked New England crisp.  Sitting on an old towel, I wasn't wet either.  And, let's face it, soaking me with the hose would prompt more of a reaction than, say, spraying the driveway would.  "Hey, let's get Aunt Joanna!" my niece stage-whispered to my nephew.  Oh no! "Please, please, don't get me wet!" I cried on the hottest day of the Rhode Island summer.  Slowly, I stood up and started to mock-run away, begging them not to soak me, but secretly wondering what was taking so long.  

 

Day Two: Take Away the _______ and Write

What do I do each day that does not contribute to my writing?  LOL.  Sleep, eat and socialize.  I don't really want to get rid of anything.  I'm liking life the way it is.  Perhaps if I taught in another discipline this topic wouldn't have me rolling on the floor, laughing.  

I have to make a daily promise to myself to get away from writing and reading in order to be a writer, if that makes any sense. I have to exercise, meditate and get back to center before I can write anything that doesn't sound like comments on a paper or an assignment of some kind.  

As we move more deeply into a semester, my time for my own writing is inevitably eaten up.  It's a rhythm that I've grown used to and have bent to accommodate rather than fight or sulk about. It seems that I've always done my work in pieces--like a quilter, maybe, or anyone/someone who has a full life.  

Wordplay-- Something About Pigeons in Boston

pigeon pose, pigeon toes

pigeon prose, pigeon nose

pigeon knows, pigeon no's

find your inner pigeon

release into the pose:

waddle through garbage

flying rat

fly, inner pigeon

eat trash 

scratch, scratch, scratch

on discarded wrappers

fly past the shoulders 

of distracted tourists

bob and bow bob and bow

gather round the old  green cow

A Poem For Today: Some Wordplay

SSSPPRRRRIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG

 

yesterday's poem, written three years ago

To The Quick

 

Bone loneliness stirs grief

 

in the marrow but not the soul--

 

The spirit knows to release,

 

To digest what it can for this lifetime,

 

To abide what it can to stay whole.

 

7/07

Easter

Easter is a promise kept;

 What's renewed once the cross

is lowered,

the body cleaned, 

the stone rolled into place.

It's the moment after you've shrugged

walking away from believing in miracles

Holy Saturday

Good Friday and Holy Saturday are my favorite days in the liturgical year, in part because they are the least commercial, which leaves us with time to think.  And being able to pause between crucifixion and resurrection, to be able to reflect, as an adult, the reasons for one's faith strike me as the most important part of this time.  When I was a child, of course, Holy Saturday seemed like a waste of time between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.  As an adult, I find common sense in having Holy Saturday between the two Holy days. It's a pause between attending the funeral and moving back into life; it's a moment to retreat into one's soul and question one's beliefs.

And so here is my poem for the day.

The pause in the calendar--

 When mourners return home,

exhausted.  Doubt greets them,

throwing open the door

 as if it owned the place.

When mourners return home

every turn of the prayer beads

wrenches pain as though it poured

 from the cross, or the wound

that made the man human

Every turn of the prayer beads--

decade by decade meditation,

returns souls  to the moment 

 of  the promise of Resurrection

and the calendar beyond life.