For the first time I can remember since this summer, I am finally feeling like all is right with my world. Not perfect, since my treadmill is still shutting down mid-workout after all my attempts to fix it, and just this morning our refrigerator threatened to go kaput (on the day before Thanksgiving, no less!), but still...
All is right.
I am myself again. I can write a poem--maybe a lousy poem, but I can write again. I can make my kids guffaw with terrible puns. I can pull out a screwdriver or vacuum cleaner to fix whatever breaks. I can be in the moment, whether it is sweet, stressful, or sad, and just be. I can breathe in and out. I can be happy, without fear that the other shoe will drop later this week, next month, or maybe even a year from now.
For this miracle, I give thanks.
Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
A day in poet's paradise
Saturday was really wonderful. I originally had two reallys before wonderful, but thought the better of it because there simply aren't enough reallys to convey how great it was; one in italics will have to suffice.
I went to an all-day poetry workshop down in Yakima with Kim Stafford, a second-generation poet and genuinely nice human being. I loved that he took the time to ask each of us attending the class what moves us to write and what we were looking for from the class and then listened and responded to each of us individually. It wasn't just touchy-feely, though; he's an incredibly gifted poet with tremendous technical skill and he shared freely from his experiences.
For this year's class I was in a relaxed, confident place, both emotionally and with my art. I feel like I've matured, particularly in my writing process and my patience with my work. Sometimes it takes a while for a poem to tell me where it's going, and I'm finally okay with that; I no longer feel the need to turn out perfect poetry right out of the gate. In fact, I recognize that it won't ever be perfect, but it will feel right when it's done.
Coming into the class with that sense was so different from last year, when I felt like the kid invited to sit at the grown-up's table for the first time, using all the wrong forks and not knowing how to make conversation but wanting somehow to prove myself. It was nice to be at ease, to relax, to mingle, and above all, to feel a sense of abundance about my writing: an abundance of things to write about, of time in which to write, and of wisdom to hone what I write into the best possible version of itself.
I also have to add, I got some of the best ever pregnancy advice from Kim. At the very end of the afternoon, he told me that his mother's doctor had prescribed for her "an hour every day spent in beauty". He said every pregnant woman needs that time surrounded by beauty so that she can pass it on to her children.
I promised Dr. Stafford I would follow his prescription.
I went to an all-day poetry workshop down in Yakima with Kim Stafford, a second-generation poet and genuinely nice human being. I loved that he took the time to ask each of us attending the class what moves us to write and what we were looking for from the class and then listened and responded to each of us individually. It wasn't just touchy-feely, though; he's an incredibly gifted poet with tremendous technical skill and he shared freely from his experiences.
For this year's class I was in a relaxed, confident place, both emotionally and with my art. I feel like I've matured, particularly in my writing process and my patience with my work. Sometimes it takes a while for a poem to tell me where it's going, and I'm finally okay with that; I no longer feel the need to turn out perfect poetry right out of the gate. In fact, I recognize that it won't ever be perfect, but it will feel right when it's done.
Coming into the class with that sense was so different from last year, when I felt like the kid invited to sit at the grown-up's table for the first time, using all the wrong forks and not knowing how to make conversation but wanting somehow to prove myself. It was nice to be at ease, to relax, to mingle, and above all, to feel a sense of abundance about my writing: an abundance of things to write about, of time in which to write, and of wisdom to hone what I write into the best possible version of itself.
I also have to add, I got some of the best ever pregnancy advice from Kim. At the very end of the afternoon, he told me that his mother's doctor had prescribed for her "an hour every day spent in beauty". He said every pregnant woman needs that time surrounded by beauty so that she can pass it on to her children.
I promised Dr. Stafford I would follow his prescription.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Listening
I'm now a month and a half into practicing yoga, and I love it. I love how after a morning yoga workout I feel more energetic, centered and calm throughout the day. Much more so than I did with swimming, walking or running. Most of all, I love how yoga is helping me to be more still. To observe. To listen. This is really helping with my poetry, in ways that I didn't anticipate at all.
Just this afternoon I was watching Jimmy out the window. Last week he discovered two little boys who live next door, ages five and eight. Every day he's been out, climbing up the tree next to the fence so he can talk to them, and yesterday we finally went over to formally introduce him and ask if they can come over to play. This afternoon he was back at the fence waiting for them to come home from school. Just watching him got me thinking about what I have learned (so far, of course) from being his mom, and the words started to come: I was meant to be a son's mother.
Meant to Be
I was meant to be a son’s mother
meant to learn the art
of listening to both words and silence
of receiving unasked-for kisses when they come
of gentling a bird from among thorns
of finding quiet wherever, whenever it is needed
of being wrong, humble, grateful, unashamed
of answering softly every time I am asked
of bridling a horse’s will without subduing its spirit
of bending before a breeze, even a gale
without breaking.
Just this afternoon I was watching Jimmy out the window. Last week he discovered two little boys who live next door, ages five and eight. Every day he's been out, climbing up the tree next to the fence so he can talk to them, and yesterday we finally went over to formally introduce him and ask if they can come over to play. This afternoon he was back at the fence waiting for them to come home from school. Just watching him got me thinking about what I have learned (so far, of course) from being his mom, and the words started to come: I was meant to be a son's mother.
Meant to Be
I was meant to be a son’s mother
meant to learn the art
of listening to both words and silence
of receiving unasked-for kisses when they come
of gentling a bird from among thorns
of finding quiet wherever, whenever it is needed
of being wrong, humble, grateful, unashamed
of answering softly every time I am asked
of bridling a horse’s will without subduing its spirit
of bending before a breeze, even a gale
without breaking.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
It's true...
...that I've been ignoring my blog. One of the things I've been doing instead is experimenting with reworking and rethinking some of my writing.
Last week, I made a second attempt at starting a poetry group, and was grateful (more than I'd care to say) when someone showed. It was worth the wait. I met a local poet who teaches psych up at the college and she had some interesting insights about my poems. One thing she told me, I already knew: I tend too much toward the narrative. But instead of viewing this as a weakness, she said, "Maybe you're a poet who should really be writing stories." She also pointed out that some of the longer pieces seem to have poems within poems that interrupt or detour from the flow of the larger poem, that maybe could stand alone.
When I got home, I looked of those poems and started to experiment with pulling them apart and reworking them, both as prose and separate poems. I tried not to think of it as chopping apart my babies but rather that the sum of the parts might be lesser than the actual parts themselves. It's a challenge to think about my writing in new ways, since I'm such a creature of habit, but I'm trying to be open.
One of the ones I've been working with was "Lac De Roche", a poem I wrote earlier this spring. The middle section is a vignette about picking gooseberries for my grandmother, and in looking at it with fresh eyes, I think it can (and probably should) stand alone. Last week I tried reworking it as a short, short prose piece, and am not sure how I feel about the product. So this morning I've been trying it as a poem. I'm going to give it a test flight at a poetry open mic night this evening, down in Yakima. Wish me luck!
Gooseberry Pie: a Disappointment in Three Acts
Hidden in the tall grass
low bushes of gooseberries grow wild
along weather-silvered fence rails
their taut globes whiskery
pale-veined translucent green
warm under my fingertips
from hanging all day in the sun
my hands weave a delicate dance
through prickly branches
plucking enough to fill an old plastic bucket
and when the soft one-by-one of them
no longer plunks against the bottom
when a few unruly berries
spring over the rim
when it holds enough for a whole pie
I carry my bucket back to nana.
She measures butter, flour, sugar
leveling each cup
with the straight side of a table knife
rolls out a delicate crust
with deliberate strokes
eases it into a glass pie plate
fills it with berries
then more butter, flour, sugar
finally, she cuts and weaves a fragile lattice
to crown her masterpiece
before commending it to the oven
and for a delicious hour
the cabin walls strain to contain
the golden aroma
of buttery crust and bubbling berries.
No scent of foreshadowing
prepares me for the sour regret
of braving thorns for bitter fruit:
I suck my cheeks in hollow
after a single sharp bite of pie
poke once with my fork at its sugary crust
and leave the rest
still steaming on my plate.
Last week, I made a second attempt at starting a poetry group, and was grateful (more than I'd care to say) when someone showed. It was worth the wait. I met a local poet who teaches psych up at the college and she had some interesting insights about my poems. One thing she told me, I already knew: I tend too much toward the narrative. But instead of viewing this as a weakness, she said, "Maybe you're a poet who should really be writing stories." She also pointed out that some of the longer pieces seem to have poems within poems that interrupt or detour from the flow of the larger poem, that maybe could stand alone.
When I got home, I looked of those poems and started to experiment with pulling them apart and reworking them, both as prose and separate poems. I tried not to think of it as chopping apart my babies but rather that the sum of the parts might be lesser than the actual parts themselves. It's a challenge to think about my writing in new ways, since I'm such a creature of habit, but I'm trying to be open.
One of the ones I've been working with was "Lac De Roche", a poem I wrote earlier this spring. The middle section is a vignette about picking gooseberries for my grandmother, and in looking at it with fresh eyes, I think it can (and probably should) stand alone. Last week I tried reworking it as a short, short prose piece, and am not sure how I feel about the product. So this morning I've been trying it as a poem. I'm going to give it a test flight at a poetry open mic night this evening, down in Yakima. Wish me luck!
Gooseberry Pie: a Disappointment in Three Acts
Hidden in the tall grass
low bushes of gooseberries grow wild
along weather-silvered fence rails
their taut globes whiskery
pale-veined translucent green
warm under my fingertips
from hanging all day in the sun
my hands weave a delicate dance
through prickly branches
plucking enough to fill an old plastic bucket
and when the soft one-by-one of them
no longer plunks against the bottom
when a few unruly berries
spring over the rim
when it holds enough for a whole pie
I carry my bucket back to nana.
She measures butter, flour, sugar
leveling each cup
with the straight side of a table knife
rolls out a delicate crust
with deliberate strokes
eases it into a glass pie plate
fills it with berries
then more butter, flour, sugar
finally, she cuts and weaves a fragile lattice
to crown her masterpiece
before commending it to the oven
and for a delicious hour
the cabin walls strain to contain
the golden aroma
of buttery crust and bubbling berries.
No scent of foreshadowing
prepares me for the sour regret
of braving thorns for bitter fruit:
I suck my cheeks in hollow
after a single sharp bite of pie
poke once with my fork at its sugary crust
and leave the rest
still steaming on my plate.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Died and gone to heaven
For the past two days we've been in Seattle for a mini-vacay. Most of the places we went were specifically for the kids: the Children's Museum at Seattle Center; Ivar's on the waterfront, so they could feed fries to the seagulls. Yesterday we visited the Seattle Art Museum, which currently has a small exhibit of Andrew Wyeth paintings. And while I could lie and say this was for the purpose of exposing Jimmy and Audrey to art, well... that's simply not true.
Jim was the one who suggested it; he knows how much I love Wyeth, and that I haven't seen any of his paintings since the summer after my senior year in high school when I visited the Farnsworth Museum in Rockland, Maine, with my Nana. We went through the exhibit once all together, and then Jim very sweetly offered to corral the kids off to the children's play area so I could go back for a second, longer look at the paintings.
It would be the height of presumption to compare my poetry to Wyeth's paintings, but as I was looking through the exhibit, it felt like a physical manifestation of the way I like to write: framing portraits of places I've been, people I love with as much realism and detail as I can. It was like being in a religious shrine for me, and I could have easily spent the entire afternoon drinking in the stark magnificence of just those seven paintings. But oh, what paintings:
If I had to pick favorites (which is difficult), I loved Braids and Cape Coat best. It was all about the details for me: how Wyeth painted light on the texture of a gray sweater in Braids by using so many different colors other than just shades of gray. How the edges of the watercolor paper for Cape Coat were torn and spindled, and the painting bled off the very edges, yet the brush strokes around the face, the buttons on the coat, were so crisp and sharp. I love how all his paintings somehow manage to juxtapose movement with stillness, capture passion lurking below the surface of something quiet. Love it.
Then, as I was leaving the exhibit, my eye returned to the photo of Wyeth at the entrance, and a quote printed on the wall next to it. And I admit I whipped out my camera and snapped a very illegal photo (just of the quote) because I didn't have a pen and paper to write it down:
Really, I think one's art goes only as far and as deep as your love goes. I don't paint these hills around Chadds Ford because they are better than the hills somewhere else. It's that I was born here, lived here—things have meaning for me.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
NaPoWriMo #30: re-write
This is the super-duper chock-full-o-poetry final installment of NaPoWriMo. What a blessed relief! It's been an amazing day for poetry; I spent all day at a poetry workshop with Sam Green, the Washington State poet laureate. Wow.
Not just the wow of having an entire day to myself (sans children) to focus on art and creativity and the stimulating conversation of other poets. But wow of wisdom shared. Wow of being able, for once, to go to the table teachable and be schooled in where I could do better. Wow of embracing criticism and the excitement that comes from growth after. Wow of driving home completely drained from the mental exertion of being engaged and present in my art, and not having to cook dinner after. (Thank you, thank you, to my dear husband who wrangled the kids all day and didn't complain, then suggested we hit our favorite Chinese buffet for supper.)
I came away from the workshop with more interest in revising my work and more confidence in how to do it. I feel like I came away with my toolbox filled with functional implements for working my craft, for which I'm so grateful, as well as a shift in attitude about embracing failure and imperfection as a means to better understanding. And since the most recent prompt at Read Write Poem was to revise an existing poem, that's exactly what I'm doing, with the understanding that this is only the first of what will most likely be many revisions. Go here to see the original (which is very recent); the revision—mostly minor tweaks, with a few cuts and a few additions—is below.
Going to Grayland
I’ve got two little ones
strapped in the back seat
and it’s me alone up front
on a day trip to my roots
with an option to stay awhile
each town a bright bead
on this gray silk string
Ellensburg on one end
Seattle somewhere in the middle
Tukwila, Tacoma, Dupont
Olympia, Tumwater, Elma
Satsop, Aberdeen, Westport,
Grayland tying off the strand
hands relaxed on the wheel
my eye catches the glitter of sun
playing off two diamonds
two wedding rings nestled
next to each other on my ring finger
two Christmases ago my mother
gave me nana’s ring, said
keep it three years then pass it on
to one of your sisters
purposefully I brought it with me
on this trip to the home
where my nana came as a new bride
she was a Boston girl, a lady
with wit, sense and style
a trim Navy nurse with soft brown curls
blue eyes that laughed, cried and
smiled all at the same time
she told stories about the war
she and the other nurses living in Quonset huts
near the base hospital on Oahu
and lowering her voice
as if someone might overhear about
another nurse getting discharged
for fraternizing with a married officer
which is why when one of her patients
a young officer
asked her to dinner
she looked up his next of kin first
then graciously accepted
the invitation of the son
of the Reverend Clark Cottrell
from Grayland, Washington
could she have known then
what it would mean
that he would bring her home
down miles of narrow roads winding
through interminable shades of silver, slate and jade
crisp salty stiffness of a breeze blowing
from the ocean to mix with pungent
moss-grown spruce, fir and pine
across one-lane bridges
arching over tidal flats
then down Highway 105
through shorter coastal forest
dotted on each side with small, scattered houses
turning onto the final stretch of Gould Road
that he would bring her home
to Reverend and Mrs. Cottrell
to a younger sister and three brothers but one
to cranberry bogs, skunk cabbage, weather-beaten dunes
to no running water and
all her favorite shoes spoiled with mold?
I look at her ring, then at mine
thinking of my own husband
bringing me home to his parents
to windswept Kittitas Valley
rolling out from the sinuous backbone
of Manastash Ridge and laced
with Yakima River's meandering tree-lined ribbon
fertile but still browner and drier
than the lush emerald bordered sound
and shimmering drizzled swath of my hometown
bringing me to live
in a single-wide trailer
with running water and a toilet
but no shower
and now returning through the familiar green
that became her home
and once was mine I realize
like her, I didn’t choose the landscape of my love
but only who took me there.
Not just the wow of having an entire day to myself (sans children) to focus on art and creativity and the stimulating conversation of other poets. But wow of wisdom shared. Wow of being able, for once, to go to the table teachable and be schooled in where I could do better. Wow of embracing criticism and the excitement that comes from growth after. Wow of driving home completely drained from the mental exertion of being engaged and present in my art, and not having to cook dinner after. (Thank you, thank you, to my dear husband who wrangled the kids all day and didn't complain, then suggested we hit our favorite Chinese buffet for supper.)
I came away from the workshop with more interest in revising my work and more confidence in how to do it. I feel like I came away with my toolbox filled with functional implements for working my craft, for which I'm so grateful, as well as a shift in attitude about embracing failure and imperfection as a means to better understanding. And since the most recent prompt at Read Write Poem was to revise an existing poem, that's exactly what I'm doing, with the understanding that this is only the first of what will most likely be many revisions. Go here to see the original (which is very recent); the revision—mostly minor tweaks, with a few cuts and a few additions—is below.
Going to Grayland
I’ve got two little ones
strapped in the back seat
and it’s me alone up front
on a day trip to my roots
with an option to stay awhile
each town a bright bead
on this gray silk string
Ellensburg on one end
Seattle somewhere in the middle
Tukwila, Tacoma, Dupont
Olympia, Tumwater, Elma
Satsop, Aberdeen, Westport,
Grayland tying off the strand
hands relaxed on the wheel
my eye catches the glitter of sun
playing off two diamonds
two wedding rings nestled
next to each other on my ring finger
two Christmases ago my mother
gave me nana’s ring, said
keep it three years then pass it on
to one of your sisters
purposefully I brought it with me
on this trip to the home
where my nana came as a new bride
she was a Boston girl, a lady
with wit, sense and style
a trim Navy nurse with soft brown curls
blue eyes that laughed, cried and
smiled all at the same time
she told stories about the war
she and the other nurses living in Quonset huts
near the base hospital on Oahu
and lowering her voice
as if someone might overhear about
another nurse getting discharged
for fraternizing with a married officer
which is why when one of her patients
a young officer
asked her to dinner
she looked up his next of kin first
then graciously accepted
the invitation of the son
of the Reverend Clark Cottrell
from Grayland, Washington
could she have known then
what it would mean
that he would bring her home
down miles of narrow roads winding
through interminable shades of silver, slate and jade
crisp salty stiffness of a breeze blowing
from the ocean to mix with pungent
moss-grown spruce, fir and pine
across one-lane bridges
arching over tidal flats
then down Highway 105
through shorter coastal forest
dotted on each side with small, scattered houses
turning onto the final stretch of Gould Road
that he would bring her home
to Reverend and Mrs. Cottrell
to a younger sister and three brothers but one
to cranberry bogs, skunk cabbage, weather-beaten dunes
to no running water and
all her favorite shoes spoiled with mold?
I look at her ring, then at mine
thinking of my own husband
bringing me home to his parents
to windswept Kittitas Valley
rolling out from the sinuous backbone
of Manastash Ridge and laced
with Yakima River's meandering tree-lined ribbon
fertile but still browner and drier
than the lush emerald bordered sound
and shimmering drizzled swath of my hometown
bringing me to live
in a single-wide trailer
with running water and a toilet
but no shower
and now returning through the familiar green
that became her home
and once was mine I realize
like her, I didn’t choose the landscape of my love
but only who took me there.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Enchanted april
A year ago at Christmas, a friend gave me a copy of The Enchanted April, one of her favorite books. Immediately I was drawn in by the Maxfield Parrish painting on the cover, and found it to be a refreshing read, especially in the cold desolation of mid-winter here in central Washington. Then a few months ago, I caught the 1992 film adaptation on television. It was faithful to the book, and stood on its own as a well-crafted period piece.
Last Saturday I picked the book up off the shelf and read it over the weekend. I get a lot of flack from Jim for reading the same books over and over again, but for me there's something reassuring about it, like visiting with old friends; I always know what to expect and yet occasionally I'm surprised by a new and thought-provoking insight I couldn't have anticipated.
I remember enjoying my first reading: the lush Italian scenery described in loving detail, gorgeous flowers, moonlight across the water, humorous characterizations, a comedy of errors, and unexpected friendship and reconciliation. It was all there this time, and more.
Maybe it's all the changes I've been making in my own life over the last year, because this time I had a much greater appreciation for the themes of forgiveness, letting go, love, beauty, serenity, and making time to just be. And I found unexpected inspiration for my upcoming poetic endeavor in the idea of making time for beauty and the transforming power doing so can have in my life. Dare I say it, I'm actually looking forward to NaPoWriMo, the opportunity to take a few moments each day to create, to express the beauty I see around me, the love I feel, and joy at just being alive, being me.
Last Saturday I picked the book up off the shelf and read it over the weekend. I get a lot of flack from Jim for reading the same books over and over again, but for me there's something reassuring about it, like visiting with old friends; I always know what to expect and yet occasionally I'm surprised by a new and thought-provoking insight I couldn't have anticipated.
I remember enjoying my first reading: the lush Italian scenery described in loving detail, gorgeous flowers, moonlight across the water, humorous characterizations, a comedy of errors, and unexpected friendship and reconciliation. It was all there this time, and more.
Maybe it's all the changes I've been making in my own life over the last year, because this time I had a much greater appreciation for the themes of forgiveness, letting go, love, beauty, serenity, and making time to just be. And I found unexpected inspiration for my upcoming poetic endeavor in the idea of making time for beauty and the transforming power doing so can have in my life. Dare I say it, I'm actually looking forward to NaPoWriMo, the opportunity to take a few moments each day to create, to express the beauty I see around me, the love I feel, and joy at just being alive, being me.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Open mic
About two weeks ago I was at the library with the kids and saw a poster announcing a juried poetry reading. Unfortunately, the deadline had passed and when I called and asked if it was possible to sneak in an entry just a week late I was told politely but firmly, no. But then the lady on the other end of the line said, "You know, we do have an open mic poetry night coming up on the twelfth, and I can put you on the list if you want."
I signed up, and then spent the next week ignoring it and trying not to obsess. See, I have a side of me that loves to perform, to be in the spotlight, and it's a side I'm afraid of because it feels so self-seeking and indulgent. So I purposefully put off choosing which poems to read until earlier in the day of the reading, and didn't even practice them once I had decided. I determined to fly by the seat of my pants, not strive for perfection, but just do the poems justice and let them speak for themselves. I was nervous about it, especially in front of a room of strangers, and reading my own untried poems.
Jim dropped me at the coffeehouse house in Yakima that was hosting the event and then took the kids shopping at Costco. Starting out the evening was a guest poet, whose name escapes me, but whose work was wonderful: real, vibrant, transcending and lyrical. I listened attentively, forced myself to relax and not get distracted while he read a love poem about cheese and crackers, about his dog, and why he wanted to die on the moon.
Luckily, I was third on the list after him. I got my own reading over with and then relaxed and enjoyed every one else's work. The other poets ran the gamut from heavily pierced high-schoolers to silvery-haired matrons, theatrical posturing to painfully shy, and included all levels of skill, walks of life, and ranges of subject matter. It was a creative oasis for me, just listening to other artists' truths and sharing my own. Best of all, at the end of the night, the hostess announced that Allied Arts of Yakima Valley will be offering a poetry workshop in May with Washington's poet laureate, Sam Green.
I had originally told Jim that I wanted to get my treadmill fixed for my anniversary present (he got his early: an Xbox), but today I told him I had reconsidered and was willing to work out at the pool instead, just so I could go to the workshop.
I signed up, and then spent the next week ignoring it and trying not to obsess. See, I have a side of me that loves to perform, to be in the spotlight, and it's a side I'm afraid of because it feels so self-seeking and indulgent. So I purposefully put off choosing which poems to read until earlier in the day of the reading, and didn't even practice them once I had decided. I determined to fly by the seat of my pants, not strive for perfection, but just do the poems justice and let them speak for themselves. I was nervous about it, especially in front of a room of strangers, and reading my own untried poems.
Jim dropped me at the coffeehouse house in Yakima that was hosting the event and then took the kids shopping at Costco. Starting out the evening was a guest poet, whose name escapes me, but whose work was wonderful: real, vibrant, transcending and lyrical. I listened attentively, forced myself to relax and not get distracted while he read a love poem about cheese and crackers, about his dog, and why he wanted to die on the moon.
Luckily, I was third on the list after him. I got my own reading over with and then relaxed and enjoyed every one else's work. The other poets ran the gamut from heavily pierced high-schoolers to silvery-haired matrons, theatrical posturing to painfully shy, and included all levels of skill, walks of life, and ranges of subject matter. It was a creative oasis for me, just listening to other artists' truths and sharing my own. Best of all, at the end of the night, the hostess announced that Allied Arts of Yakima Valley will be offering a poetry workshop in May with Washington's poet laureate, Sam Green.
I had originally told Jim that I wanted to get my treadmill fixed for my anniversary present (he got his early: an Xbox), but today I told him I had reconsidered and was willing to work out at the pool instead, just so I could go to the workshop.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Lilacs
I'm feeling inspired.
I realized recently that one of the reasons I got into blogging (besides having a place to post pix for all the out-of-town grandparents) is that I miss writing. Not that I flatter myself what I write is good enough that other people would admire it, let alone want to pay for it, but I miss the good it does me to articulate my thoughts and put them down. I've been a journal writer since third grade, and dabbled in writing poetry for almost as long. As a mom I've found trouble making the time for writing of any kind; blogging is the closest I get most days.
I realized recently that one of the reasons I got into blogging (besides having a place to post pix for all the out-of-town grandparents) is that I miss writing. Not that I flatter myself what I write is good enough that other people would admire it, let alone want to pay for it, but I miss the good it does me to articulate my thoughts and put them down. I've been a journal writer since third grade, and dabbled in writing poetry for almost as long. As a mom I've found trouble making the time for writing of any kind; blogging is the closest I get most days.
But in the past week I've been exploring other blogs, and encountered some by truly original, artistic women. Today I found a link to Pioneer Woman through Aubrey's blog. I was impressed by the way that Ree used her blog as an expression of creativity and it got me thinking that this is something missing from my life. Not that I don't do creative things from time to time, but often my creativity is expressed in more practical ways, like sewing clothes or explaining to Jimmy why curly bugs don't want to come in our house. So looking at some good photography and good writing, I'm feeling inspired to get back to my roots and do the things that I love to do. In that spirit, I went out in the back yard and snapped some pix of my favorite flowers. And here's a sentimental poem about them that I first penned in 1993, but that I'm resurrecting and revamping on the eve of my recommitment to poetry.
Other People’s Flowers (Redux, May 2007)
I used to borrow flowers from my neighbors’ yards
small grimy fistfuls, brilliant bouquets
of other people’s flowers
until mom marched me, shamefaced but unrepentant
to return them with apologies I didn’t mean.
The house on Donovan Street
where I lived in when I was ten
had lofty lilac trees, covered in May
with fragrant festoons of
snowy white, delicate lavender, rich purple.
Perhaps they held no allure for me then
seeing as they were in my own front yard.
Older now, I am haunted by
the purple ghosts of lilacs past
each time I catch the scent of lilacs
I find myself in the warm twilit yard on Donovan Street
lying on the cool green carpet of lawn
white and purple blossoms swaying softly above.
The house where I live now
has a single small lilac bush out front
it did not bloom this spring.
One night last week after dark I got into my car
drove the mile and a half
to Donovan Street.
They were waiting for me
they knew I couldn’t stay away
and I came for them.
The dusky purple smell enveloped me
and I did not resist.
Unrepentant I drove home
with a trunkful
of other people’s flowers.
snowy white, delicate lavender, rich purple.
Perhaps they held no allure for me then
seeing as they were in my own front yard.
Older now, I am haunted by
the purple ghosts of lilacs past
each time I catch the scent of lilacs
I find myself in the warm twilit yard on Donovan Street
lying on the cool green carpet of lawn
white and purple blossoms swaying softly above.
The house where I live now
has a single small lilac bush out front
it did not bloom this spring.
One night last week after dark I got into my car
drove the mile and a half
to Donovan Street.
They were waiting for me
they knew I couldn’t stay away
and I came for them.
The dusky purple smell enveloped me
and I did not resist.
Unrepentant I drove home
with a trunkful
of other people’s flowers.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
The gift of imagination
"Imagination is more important than knowledge... knowledge is limited, but imagination encircles the world. To see with one's own eyes, to feel and judge without succumbing to the suggestive power of the fashion of the day, to be able to express what one has seen and felt in a trim sentence or even in a cunningly wrought word... is that not glorious? When I examine myself and my methods of thought, I come close to the conclusion that the gift of imagination has meant more to me than my talent for absorbing absolute knowledge."
- Albert Einstein
I like to collect quotes, and this is one that I carry around in my planner to remind me of how much I depend on creativity for a sense of self. Einstein's words have so much substance to reflect on. I don't think he was saying that knowledge is unimportant; but that it simply isn't enough. The ability to use one's mind to conceive of new creations (whether artistic or otherwise) is more meaningful than the retention of facts. Even more, the confidence to discern the relevance and truthfulness of incoming information independent of the whims of those around us—that is a capability of mind that surpasses the mere acquisition of knowledge. I remember the sense of power I felt in college when, for the first time, I became aware that I could listen to my professors and mentally compare what they were telling me with what I had researched on my own, and then be able to formulate and articulate my own opinions, sometimes at odds with what I was being taught—but always with the confidence in my own intellect and ability to interpret what I was learning. I've carried that with me ever since.
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