Of Moths and Jewelry Makers

This summer, I signed up for a silver jewelery making class at a local college. It is an indulgence I cannot easily afford and deliberated quite a bit about the $150 tuition and $23 material fees. But as soon as I entered the classroom, stepping over the enormous human foot sculpture that does double duty as a doorstop, I knew I was in the right place.  

It is a small class, of mostly forty to fifty-somethings, all women: creative and smart and funny and eccentric.  The instructor communicates with swans, believes they swim across ponds to greet her and drop feathers for her as gifts; she races 6 year olds to get to her favorite horse on a boardwalk carousel; tries every imaginable means to rid her ancient car of angry bees before brandishing the flip-flop and swoons over tiger- eye, garnets, and amber. She is great.

I love the company of these women, kindred spirits in many ways.  I get very little time at the torch, and my instructor does have a tendency to take my projects from my hands and finish them herself, but that is ok. I am learning by watching, by listening, and befriending. This is new territory for me, making friends, and surrounding myself even for a few hours, with artists.

When you solder a silver piece it has to sit for awhile in a solution and there is often a waiting period between instruction, during which I make my rounds and admire the works of these woman.  There are prayer beads in the making, brass cuffs and star rings and there are scary, aggressive pieces - large and angular. After I see what everyone is working on, I slip out the backdoor, into the courtyards where flowers abound and sculptures lurk. Here also is where the kiln building stands - its warmth, I am told, attracting a plenitude of moths.  The moths, which don't live long, often fall here and leave a wing or two.  I pick up these sacred offerings.  

Sunday, when I went outside, there, right there, was a Luna moth stretched out on the warm sidewalk. Maybe it is more accurate to say half a Luna moth, since she was missing her long tendrils. I thought for sure she was dead but when I looked closer I saw her shift her weight on her tiny, weary feet. I went to scoop her up, with the intention of putting her on a pink hibiscus to rest comfortably in her final minutes. She surprised me with a flap of her wings. I tried to lift her again, and she took flight, without her tendrils or "tails". She rose above my head and hovered a bit, a showy little air-dance, and then climbed higher, higher, and then out of sight. She was battered. She was bruised. She was broken - but she soared.

I went back into my class so happy about this. My instructor was working on a pendant, for herself, a rare thing, but she has had some tough times recently and needed to create a heartfelt piece.  I came in just in time to see her carefully set a small bit of swan down under glass.

 I watched over her shoulder: learning and understanding - so very worth the price of admission..

Alter Ego in Excessive Jewelry

A soft cry. I turn my ear. A frantic scamper, windows painted shut. Doorknobs rusted. She pounds now, desperate to get out, tugging, grunting -determined.

" Let me out! " she wails.

" It's too late," I shush her.

" No, No, there's still time..." she pants. 

She is wide-eyed, wild- haired, barefooted, silver earrings swinging. Mostly I neglect her, forget she is there.

" Please..." she begs.

 It's cruel to ignore her much longer.

She pounds again. Her bangles jingling.

I sigh, rocking my sheltered life.

She senses me weakening. Pounces. " I am the longing, you know it. I have your dreams, right here. " She reaches into the deep pockets of her long, flowing skirt.

 I hear the delight, a burst of wind chimes. She drops a small dream; The colors: teal, magenta, yellow, shimmer at her feet.

She sees my eyes glaze. I reach for the dream, but she snatches it and stuffs it back in her pocket. " Not until you let me out. "

I shrug, " I'd only let it wither. "

" But I won't! " She promises. 

" It' not that easy, " I tell her.

" Is THIS easy? This half-life of yours? "

I turn away. Embarrassed.  

She entices. " Your dance, it's ready at my feet, your desires, cling to my hair. "

We both wait, in the silence.

" Let me show you. "

" Not yet, " I say.

" What do you wait for? " she snaps.

 I lower my eyes. 

" Think about what you want. Go ahead. Try it. " 

" I'm afraid, " I tell her. 

She puts out her hand, rings on every finger and whispers,  
" So what? "

image from personal antique photo collection

Dumpster Rat Has Nothing On Me

I have been making trips to the dumpster, throwing out - all through the night. The air is so warm and thick, it feels like velvet. It gives a false sense of safety, out here alone in a parking lot at 2:00 AM.

I carry a box, stuffed with a feather bed that has, at one time or another, kept all of us warm. Inside the box are photos, old, that no one wants. There too, are the three small pillows, hand sewn and embroidered with each of my girls' names. There is the big pot that offered batch after batch of vegetable soup, always eagerly received; and cup cake pans that once held ladybug treats for a classroom of first- graders.

I drop it all in the dumpster, the noise of the pot and pans, muffled by photos, feather

bed and tiny pillows. The history of my life, in a nondescript clankety- clank. I am dizzy from the heat, dizzy from fatigue, heartache.

I wobble a little, backward and look down, seeing that I have stepped on a stripped ear of corn. I think of the rat that had been dining before I interrupted.

 
"Is this your home?" I whisper into the dumpster where I know she is hiding, corn in her teeth.

There is a soft rustle, a burrowing down. Her answer. I imagine she has lived here all her life. And her mother before that and her mother before that...

"Lucky you," I tell the rat, meaning it.

I walk across the courtyard up the stairs, jealous of a rat, unseen. 

I curl up on the floor of my apartment, furniture all gone, knowing it is one of my last nights here. I am out of tears.

 I steer my thinking away from a decrepit car and a nowhere job. I let my mind wrap around my family, all that I have. I think of my parents, ancient and wonderful.  I see my dad's face, handsome still at 88, pride etched in every crease. I see my mom, and the softness in her gray eyes. My girls' bright smiles, sparkle at me, as if in a dream, but I know I am still awake; sleep doesn't come this easy. I reach for them and their genuine devotion. My grandbaby scampers by in these thoughts, wearing that look, that shows she knows it is her divine right to be adored. 

I am so tired. I find the thin blanket on the floor next to me. I pull it up to my shoulders, tuck it under my chin. It is familiar and welcoming and comfortable, like love itself. It is where I live. I have lived in love my entire life. Lucky me, so very lucky me. I rest my head on the one pillow that hasn't yet hit the dumpster. It is so soft; it cradles my head, like I am somebody.

Picking Up the Pieces

Some things are just so pretty. Aren't they?I bought this teacup for 20 cents at a thrift store about a year ago. Often, I had my morning coffee from it before work, admiring the size, the form, the violets, the way the light came through it, the way it fit perfectly in my hand, and how the gold rim inside, helped me feel a little important.

A month or so ago, it was precisely this admiration for this cup that prompted me to take its photo, perched, ever so perfectly on my tiny green table. Me being clumsy and all things impermanent, I thought, I might like to have a picture of it when it was gone. Maybe, I told myself, so as not to feel silly taking a picture of a cup, that I would some day learn to paint with watercolor and this might be my first subject.

Of course the cup broke; a casualty the other day, of the heavy tray from the grandbaby's highchair slipping off the counter and taking the cup with it. True to its image, it kept its dignity and didn't make a scene or even cry out when it broke. I was surprised to find it on the floor under the tray, in pretty pieces.

I saved the fragments of violets, where the cup one day, if I ever get the time, might find new life on a mosaic table top, or even as a pendent when I get better at my jewelry making. In fact it will give me more incentive to return to the creative things I love. When something is lost, something is found - I used to parrot this a lot once upon a time.  But the older I get, the more I get to live it, through monumental matters and in miniscule lessons, like the shattering of a perfect violet cup.

Prayer in a Night Wind

flicker flames of candles near 

dance out heartache, fend off fear

speak to me, through the trees

whirl through limbs, rustle leaves 

bend branches down to reach me

teach me faith, teach me, teach me

carry courage to my skin

wave my hair, lift my chin

dry all tears from my face

call me, pull me

take me home

promise lightness

to my bones

show me how

tell me now

speak to me 

through the trees

sing me answers

in a breeze

        

                                  

Tomato Update

I am sorry to report that this, has fallen prey to this:

It was a quick strike -snap! I knew the sound before I saw the plucking. She held the tomato baby in her hands.

"Ahhh!", she said, inspecting her prize.

" Ohhh!", I said. "That was a tomato, now it won't grow. "

Eyes wide, I saw the programing going on, the cataloging, the adding of this to her knowledge base. She sat cradling the little darling. "Mato!" She confirmed, nodding, grinning.

 Then without warning, with a flick of her dimpled wrist, she flung it off the balcony.

It was a perfect metaphor. We grow. We stop. We live; we die.

But this is what I learned from my grandbaby today. To be truly seen, to be the object of unadulterated  appreciation, pure and without agenda, is a pretty great thing. Even if it lasts for only  a few seconds before we hit the pavement.

You Are Here

Today, I played connect the dots

with my age spots

Joking about finding

mystical direction,

the answer to

"where do I go from here?"

I laughed
but I did 
almost hope 

that some sign
would take shape,

a symbol, a word, an abbreviation, at least.

But all that showed up

was a map

of where I've been

and it stopped right at today,

"You Are Here"

marked the last spot

So here I am

an older woman

who has just

drawn on her hand.

But I knew
enough
not to use

a Sharpie.

If I've learned

anything in

these
fifty-five years

it's that

not one thing

is permanent

Who Do You Shout at Now?

Once in awhile someone will ask if we still talk, " Oh no", I tell them and they shake their heads in disbelief. But in truth, I do still, from time to time, talk to you from afar. I look at the Gumbygirl and ask you if you can comprehend what you are missing. That the similarities between the little one and her mother would be enough to break your heart, if you knew. But then I wonder, not it a flippant or sarcastic way, if you still have a heart to break.

I watched the oldest going off to work today, ponytail, swinging just so. She looked so much like her third grade self, only twenty years later and today, instead of backpack, she carried her lunch and nursing shoes and a secret new life, growing inside her. This is something I would have told you when I handed you your dinner, I would have said," Hon, you should have seen her today, so mature, so beautiful as she walked away. But you know what? I could still see exactly her eight year old self too." And you might not have looked up from your over-buttered potato; you probably would not have. You would not have taken your eyes off TV, that I know for certain. Such a cliche our lives were.

The days are closing in when the youngest and I will have no place of our own. I will not have a nest for the others and their families to visit. I know how happy that will make you, because it is after all, all I have, their visits to my hearth, their fingerprints on my heart. But the fingerprints are mine to keep.

I finally found a place willing to give me a job. Take a chance on an oldie out of the workforce for too long. Couple the bad economy with no experience and add my liver spots and gray hair apparent, and it isn't a surprise that I have to be grateful to have even this. You would mock it. Shake your head in disgust and say, "That's God damn ridiculous. A sixteen year old can make more than that at McDonalds." I imagine myself now, the new me, snapping back. " Do you think I would choose to make so little?"

 I am not very good with math, this we both know, but I do know enough to understand that something is better than nothing. At this place, I am paid in praise, it is really true that the amount I earn could not keep a bird alive. That's my moms expression, do you remember? Of course you do not. There isn't room in your new life for clutter like that. 

But this job gives me a place to go, where someone expects me to show up and counts on me to fax and file, fax and file. I might learn something here, in ways I can't predict. And I will tell you a secret, how I get happily through the monotony of each day.  I tell myself, "with each file you move a fraction of an inch away from him, and that much closer to the life you were meant to have." And it helps some, it really does.  

If an old acquaintance asks if we talk, I say no, not at all, and they might shake their heads at 34 years, all meaningless. I just press my lips together in acceptance.  I don't tell them that from time to time I still talk to the space you left, or that the time between conversations grows steadily, blessedly, ever longer.

It's Only Hardware

      

Worn smooth by all of us, coming home and leaving, coming home, leaving. Now, none of us cross this threshold any more to infuse the old house with laughter, reunited. I was tempted to take the doorknob with us, but it would have been disrespectful, wrong. 

So instead, I have this photo to remind me of bringing babies home for the first time, of little ones on tiptoe- opening that door with two hands, of teenagers letting it slam, of my mom and dad, visiting. That doorknob turned in trust and expectation, opening and closing our years.  To hold it was to hold home in my hand. Looking at it now - I see a blessed piece of hardware, I see the past and inevitable change, and I can see without a doubt, the patina of my heart.

               

      

Picking up the Petals

This is a flower from the bouquet that my youngest brought for me on Valentines Day. She had the roses in one hand, a Starbucks vanilla cappuccino in the other and managed to juggle some caramel creams too. All my favorite things. She hugged me and said, "You're my one true Valentine, mom." She is 18 years old. I tell you this so you will have an inkling of how lucky I am.

                             

                                                    

This is what was left of a rose from that very bouquet after my grandbaby, 17 months old, sniffed a little too heartily and cherished a little too mightily. "Oh", I said at the sight of petals at her feet, and this in her hand. "Star", she said, and so it was. My grandbaby handed me a star.

Since I have been blessed with this tiny new being in my life, I have actually begun to think, in many ways like a toddler again. So much is beautiful, the rocks we find and coo over, the petals at our feet that are are soft and veiny and hold life, still. And I marveled at the divine timing, this grandbaby coming just when I need her most. Just when I needed to be retaught, that rocks are beautiful, because, rocks it seems are about all that I can acquire now. And if flowers are in pieces, and petals lie at our feet, well, isn't that a wonder too? As the wee one has shown me today, when you pick up the pieces, you should  look, really look, at what you have. And then hold it dear. "Because stars fall from the heavens sometimes and miracles rise out of little things..."*

 


*This is from a quote that I have carried around with me since I was a teenager, the newsprint brown with age, and credited to anonymous. When googling it to find its maker, I found, of course,  that I was not the only one wondering. http://callmenurse.blogspot.com/2010/12/stars-fall-from-heaven-sometimes.html

Thanks for Nothing

Old friends can't understand why I don't scream, tell you to act like a man; Wonder why I never threw your clothes out on the lawn or called you vial names that surely you deserved. But I don't have the strength to scream at you as this drones on and on. I never had the heart for it in the first place.

I think a lot about all of the things we built, you and I. And all the things you took away; home and trust and of course, my naivety, which lingered too long anyway. But I will tell you this, if I could hate you, I would surely hate you for taking the sparkle from the young one's eyes. 

I think about our seaside days and how you took those too, stuffed them in your pockets while scanning for anything else that was left.  I wish you could see the old ones' faces, and the worry that you've etched. You left dying dogs and dead trees, leaning - debt the only thing still growing. And my sleep? You took that too. Left me to sit in that old purple chair, ready to spring to defense, against demons in the dark.


Is this security lost? Well, what else could it be?

But if I've learned one thing, it is this: I was always at risk. So are you. And she is too. And so is every other breathing being. Security is not a steadfast friend. So go and flash your crooked grin. Laugh your obscenities. Tell anyone who will listen how you left me holding this empty space, where nothing is as it was, will never be the same again - this space where  nothing  is  for  certain.

But if you knew, if you only knew how that nothing space has carried me, then you would want that back too. Oh how my sighs fill that space with grace exhaled. How I line the walls with thistle down, color it with violet, scent it with honeysuckle, wild.  Vines, accepting - reach out all around, laughter grows in yellow patches, roots of faith run deep. Thank you for the gash of betrayal. How else would I have learned to make this balm? Thank you for the greed that schooled us in the art of doing without. Thank you, for heartbreak, glorious, that freed my own song, silent for so long. Thank you, thank you for that space given, that space where nothing is for certain but where every thing is revered.

Alive on Wednesday Morning

The morning, still dark, is enchanting.  It is 6:00 AM. I walked both my girls to their cars in the velvety mild of this wondrously warm January day.  There is something in the air, great happenings soon, both heart breaking and beautiful. I can feel it on my skin, I can hear a sweet mummer, close by. 

My muscles are alive with tender care given.  Yesterday I watched my Gumbygirl, grandbaby for about thirteen hours.  It is blessed time spent. It is also exhausting, as I swoop her in the air, wrestle when it comes time to change, crawl into play huts, push a toddler car and generally police everything that is a hazard to a 16 month old. And everything is a hazard. A fork is a deadly weapon. I hear the Jaws theme when I spy a Chapstick cap on the floor, diving for the choking hazard that she is drawn to like moth to flame. She is so quick. Leaving for a walk to soak up some of that glorious sun yesterday, we were met with a ten inch patch of snow, hanging on right outside the apartment door. "Ooooh!", the Gumbygirl said, eyeing the slush up like Hawaiian Ice.       " Snow!" I said, slipping my key into my pocket. In a micro second,  with one turbo swoop, she had a mouthful of the bedraggled stuff.  "Mmmmmm!"she said, brown eyes shining, shredded mulch hanging out her mouth, dirt smeared up her cheek, into her eyebrow.

When she leaves I am still in mode, still scanning, still on alert for a good two hours. These old bones are tired. But for some reason I just had to make my dad his favorite cornbread and rice pudding before I sat down. I knew I would be seeing him today; He is 88 and it's a small thing I can do for him. Moving out of my house had been so draining; and with this apartment kitchen, being all but nonexistent, I had sorely neglected him these past few months. As the cornbread baked and as I stirred the rice pudding, I called my mom to check in, like I do every night.  Usually when I ask how they are, I  hear, "Great, we're both fine." But last night's, response was, "Not so good."

It seems as though my dad's bones have worn away. Either disintegrating or cracking, or maybe worse, and he has extreme hip pain, has been in extreme pain, which he did not want to worry anyone with. I swear this big Marine of a man, is, among other reasons, staying alive so he can be certain that I am back on my feet. But this big Marine of a man is literally falling apart and even he cannot stop it.  It is happening, I know it is happening and although I looked the other way in the demise of my marriage, I will not turn away this time. I will find a way to see the sacred in this impending loss.  I will find a way to be of use to my dad, the only man, that may have ever loved me.

Incubating also, is the marriage of my daughter. The middle one: A chirpy bird of a girl. Happy, giving, a love- bug from day one. She is marrying a good man. If I personally had scoured the planet for her I could not have handpicked a more generous soul. 

Beginnings and endings are vibrating all around us. Molecules of each swirling all about, colliding, embracing. My dad is to give my daughter away at her wedding in a few months. All of us pray that he will be able to do that, and if he can will himself to do it, he will and if it is God's will that it does not happen, we will find a way to accept that too. 

If I perch and picture the rest of my life unfolding there is no doubt at all that it will continue to be punctuated with great loss, just like the rest of humanity's.  Up until a few years ago,  sorrow had not stopped that often at my door.  I am so very aware that I will come to know sorrow intimately from here on in. I will have to befriend her to survive, inviting her to tea with my good friends Grace and Love.  We will each drink from old china cups, each with a different pattern, hopefully mine will have sweet peas, or maybe forget -me- nots. All the cups will have a hairline crack or a smooth chip or two. We will sip our tea, looking over our steaming cups at each other- Sorrow, Grace, Love and me. We will see that we are each beautiful and here for one another.   

                                       

Snow Excuse

                                                                     

                                                     The leaf girl and I have weathered

                                                                all kinds of storms.

                                                             She, no worse for wear.

                                                                Coming where ever

                                                                              I go,

                                                                    strategically set

                                                                         to gaze in

                                                                         and assess

                                                                       my progress.

                                                                    Today she sees

                                                                   me sip green tea

                                                                   and hears me hum 

                                                                      with the heater,

                                                                           all cozy.

                                                                       Her eyes drill

                                                                         impatience.

                                                               What are you waiting for?

                                                                       If she had feet

                                                                        one would tap

                                                                soundless disapproval

                                                                          in the snow.
                                                            

Cleaning Closets

                                                              



They're just things, right? But oh the things I threw away when you left. Photographs of course, torn to bits, what else to do with them?  The dog - eared Snoopy cards of our college days, where you called me pet names and drew hearts around the words...

I gave away my old clothes, it would have been a sin to throw them out, those clothes I wore when  I was with you. Seeing them after, though, I was ashamed. The disappointment I used to see from you lingered on the sleeves, hems, settled into the folds, a mild repulsion at the middle aged woman your lover grew to be. Those clothes can't  embarrass me now, with them gone it's not as easy to be embarrassed by my old self - complacent, naive, stupid. Glad they're gone, gone, those sad, frumpy things.

I also lugged that big green bin of Christmas lights out for trash. There had to have been enough strands of lights to wrap around our block. They were my favorite kind.  The ones with the big glass bulbs that the wind clanked against the house. I put them and all those new extension cords at curbside. I'm happy somebody trash picked them; it would have been such a waste.  I bet you don't  know what those lights, the tangled mass, had come to symbolize for me. You probably don't even remember that you were putting them up that night when you dissolved, like something from a star-trek episode, into an alien right in front of my all too familiar eyes. There was no warning at all that this was to be the last year you cursed over our Christmas lights. You were so much more than annoyed that night, angrier than usual; this wasn't just a case of not getting the hooks to catch or the extension cords to reach. That night, you were roaring angry, shaking your head, grinding your palms into your forehead, rubbing your eyes on the verge of - what? "They're just Christmas lights", I told you. You took your hand from your face and looked at me with eyes that I had never seen before. You said nothing, but that look told me that it was way more than errant Christmas lights. Five minutes later, my world had imploded. I learned of your other life, your new love. I was breathing, but dead and the Christmas lights were still shining bright. So into the trash they had to go before the next Christmas rolled around.

Know what else I gave away? The stuffed dog that you bought me when we were teens, the one that you said was just temporary until we had a house and yard for a real dog someday. That was a promise you kept.  That stuffed dog came with us into our first house, she went with us to the hospital when  babies were born and sat on our bed for 28 years. I loved her, even without a nose, because the real dog had chewed it off when she was just a puppy. The real dog is long dead, and the stuffed dog got stuffed into a Good Will bag. I couldn't bear to throw an old friend like that into the trash. But I couldn't look at her without thinking of you.


There is hardly any thing here now that reminds me of you, not even my dear ones. They have so little of you in them, a blessing for me, really. Now I have my books that sing from the shelves. I can hear you laugh over that, and not nicely either, but, go ahead, laugh, it wouldn't cut at all anymore. And just so you know, even if the books don't quite sing, they are inclined to whisper - she lives here, she matters, she does.

Branching Out

                             
A tree grows close to this home, not our own. I pull back blinds. It reaches for me. Who knew less, was so much?  I reach right back, celebrate this: I do not need to own a tree, to love a tree.                                                 

Update on the Dating

            
                                                       

                                       

Three rounds of emails in to the prospect mentioned last post and already, today, I will be describing to him, in intricate detail, the patterns on the 6 mismatched saucers that I picked up at Red White and Blue Thrift. He will hear about where they were hidden on the shelf, and the search that ensued. He will hear precisely how much I paid for them and he will learn the difference between teal and turquoise, as well as the exact thickness of the gold leafing around the edges.  I will count any chips and measure the cracks and relay this also.

Why such punishment? What was the error of his ways? An entire letter without once asking a single question about his new pen pal. Not," How are you feeling?" "What's your favorite ice cream flavor?" "How long have you been divorced?" Not one crumb of interest, just a recitation of what he collects, and what he watches on TV. 

Do you think maybe I am not the only master of scaring away bad matches?  Giving me an overdose of ego-centric babbling might have been a calculated move on his part. Maybe he is giving me a chance to slink away with my pride intact. If he is, he is much kinder and smarter than I had planned to give him credit for. So much to learn, when I would rather be learning more about Rumi, reading more of Rilke's works, doing yoga with Rodney and pounding the pavements for a decent job than trying to understand this online dating stuff.  Do you think this might be a wee indication that I am not quiet ready for any of it?

Shopping for the Man of My Dreams

So I have done it.  I have officially joined a dating service. I feel absolutely ridiculous. I feel like a screaming spotlight is on me, knowing my photo is out there for criticism and review. For a private person, it is a great leap of faith, and the weirdest part is that I am not even sure I want another man in my life, now or ever. But, not long ago my kids had given me membership as a gift. Having the unactivated membership was like having a plate of cookies set out. I kept glancing at it, knowing I shouldn't, but what would a nibble or two hurt? Boredom and curiosity got the better of me and I activated the damn membership.  

Like Facebook, it can steal your time if you are not too careful; Too many minutes spent pouring over the dapper little lovelies. I am drawn to look, but there is always the nagging feeling that I am shopping for a man.  I am an eBayer, and I love to peruse, so online shopping should not be new to me. But when there are actual humans involved, faces looking back, it feels sort of wrong, shallow, immoral even.

But oh the tempting variety of sights to be viewed! Some of it is accompanied by  genuine familial love. Some of it is pompous, bragging. And some of it is really sad: aging men clinging to motorcycles or propped up next to corvettes. Most pose with their dogs, or their neighbor's dog, sponging off Buddy's charm, heads tilted in cultivated cuteness. There are exposed abs and glistening tattoos, there is facial hair, sprouted in a manner I could never have imagined. And fish, lots of men holding fish for some reason.

I am not hating on the male species here. If memory serves correctly, they can at times be wonderful, cuddly creatures. And there is no doubt that we woman fall prey to equally desperate measures in this game. I am merely observing with a skeptic's eye because those are the eyes I have right now. 

As of yet, I have never met face to face with a single soul and never even spoken to anyone on the phone. My communication has been limited to emails, which I quickly sabotage after a few are exchanged.  Did you know that it is not only easy to make someone think you are loony, it is also mildly entertaining?  Men scare off pretty easily. Think "How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days," but wrinkled girl version.  Most men fear a woman who coos on and on about how she dances around the house in spontaneous outbursts of joy. Most men archive the match if you recite the order and exact increments in which solid food was introduced to your grandbaby. Most men run for the hills, when you tell them you are poor. I think revealing things like this is a much kinder way to end a budding friendship than a flat out rejection. 

But I have very recently exchanged a few emails with a man who appears to have no need to impress. He actually seems sane, not too in love with himself, and  damaged yes, but not destroyed by love lost. Maybe I will think about meeting him for coffee some day, if fear and cynicism doesn't send me diving for cover again. We'll see.    

Resolution '12

I want to be a thin woman
who goes to church.
Believes what she sings.
every note clean, clear
affirmation
no doubt
at all
catches in
her throat.
What stops me?

I want to be a woman
earning enough to cushion
steps of her
beloved three.
Ease burdens, erase debts,
fix a car, clear up skin,
cut and color hair.
What stops me?


I want to taste the ocean deep,
have it cling, crisp my hair,
feel  waves roar, rumble
wild in veins
widened in wonder
breathing deep, abandon blue

What don't I?

I want love to know
no bounds.
Abundant so, it wraps
around  family,
my own, tenfold
seeping out home cracks
 into streets
settling on strangers,
just a fingerprint
of good.
What keeps me?

The wind beats sense
into morning, dark
I await answers.
Wind chimes oblige,
always polite,
Today's urge, gentle.
R e l e a s e
your fear, familiar.
Come, crawl
toward mystery,
coaxes now the day, dawning.
Darling one, it whispers, firmly.
Get out of your own way.

Merrily Single at Fifty-Four

There are days when I am glad to be free. It is exciting to be able to remember who I was before I was married. To excavate the artist within, long buried, is at times nothing less than thrilling. Less exciting, but still nice is not finding tighty-whities in my laundry, because in three decades I never could figure out how to fold them right. It is also reassuring to know that no meat lurks in my freezer, since now only we vegetarians reside here. But truthfully, there are days when being divorced and fifty-four is a pretty lonely place to be. And so it is at Christmas time.

When our family was completely intact, we loved Christmas so! There was abundance, there was joy, there was stress too, but oh how we all loved red and green.  My girls and I still do. We celebrate more simply these days and everything we touch and give and make is heartfelt. In the material world for us, "plenty" has made way for "precious"and that is a pretty good trade-off.

But there are those days, and today is one of them, when the stores are filled with older couples, heads together in thought - pondering slipper sizes or debating how many bags of pecans are needed for this year's pie. I turn away when I glimpse such intimacy or hear such sacred murmurings about the seemingly mundane.  I walk on wistfully to the next isle, forgetting my oatmeal, forgetting for a minute why I was at the store in the first place.

Later, I struggle up the long courtyard carrying the boxed Little Tykes car for my granddaughter that I struggled to afford, and it is heavier than it should be.  I come into an empty apartment, happy that I got this great toy for the little gumbygirl, and there is no one to ooh and ahhh over it with me.

I make a cup of coffee and sit down to feel sorry about this, and it occurs to me, that even when I was married, I rarely had someone to discuss slipper sizes with or even shop for pecans with, or at least I hadn't had for a very, very long time. And I realize that this loneliness I feel, is nothing new.  I think back to the days, where my footsteps were as heavy as my heart, dragging around that vague sense of being alone in a marriage that lasted for decades.

As I sit staring at our newly decorated, scrawny silver tree there is a small rejoicing over the realization, that it is far, far better to be by myself, then to live with someone and be utterly and truly alone. 

No great revelation here, I am sure, but sometimes things are so simple that we step right over them.  So I raise my coffee mug to simplicity and the genuine; to my beautiful girls and the love I have all around from them and their own new families. Alone, I celebrate this quiet, blissful reality. Sitting humbly before this artificial tree - put together limb by limb with love and gratitude, I am at this minute, merrily single at fifty-four.

Tender Perennials

Hardening Off
Jan 8, 2011 7:51 am
There was a piece of dry cat food
in the boot with the broken zipper
that I put on without socks this morning.
Do you remember how I always
forgot to buy socks?
And how I used to steal yours?
I still forget to buy them.

I'm wearing boots inside the house
because the thermostat is set at 62
and 62 isn't cozy, is it?

When you were here
we had the heat
as high as you wanted.
When you were warm -
it was warm enough 
for everyone.

King of the Thermostat, I used to call you.
"Who touched the thermostat?" you shouted
when I secretly nudged it up
a degree or two.

These days it is smaller electric bills
or a sparse refrigerator.
So we choose cream cheese
over cozy.
And no one shouts
much about anything any more.

It's funny how a piece of dry cat food
can feel like a razor. 
Still, my steps aren't as heavy,
as you would think
wearing boots inside
the home
that we will lose.
 
The girls are asleep upstairs,
warm under the electric blanket
from Nan and Pop.
Later,
they will stumble
into the kitchen
and say
"Morning Mama".

And for a second, because some
habits take a long time to die,
I wonder,
if you are cold
this morning.


December 9, 2011 5:18

The boots came with us
to this place
because boots with a broken zipper
are better than no boots at all


We landed here, 
not far from our
old home, 
wings not yet strong enough
to fly very far.


Walking inside,
up the stairs -
we call out 
for each other.
Handbags huddle in
the hall, while we eat
pizza topped 
with giggles again.


Soon, we will all  
scatter
like milkweed seeds,
and my heart
will know a new ache.


But for now, 
the girls are still with me
in a temporary place
that you never touched.


It hurts less to be here
in this haven
where the heater hums on
and pink is the color of
choice.

If you are cold,
I don't care.
And it makes me 
a little sad,
knowing
I am not as nice
as I used to be.