wednesday

my Grandma Myrl, baker extraordinaire 

and 4-foot-nothing giant of my best childhood memories

Some things are important and some things aren't. The trick is distinguishing between the two. Unfortunately, I fear that I'm not always good at recognizing the difference. Maybe that's why the universe has taken it upon herself to school me a bit as of late. At least I'm learning.

First, we got the bright idea of cutting the size of our home in half. I know, sounds good on paper, looks admirable from a distance, feels lighter in the wallet, BUT -- it also means that, as a result, we've been required to sift through and discard entire decades of our family life. There's just not room for 30 years in 1900 sq. feet...you have to make choices, and that means moving in with your memories but not with the actual souvenirs of the times you spent making them. Put that in the "easier said than done" file...which is why we still have a storage unit roughly the size of our garage packed to the rafters. These things don't sort themselves overnight. Or even in eight months. But I'm happy to report that progress has been made. Take Grandma Myrl's canister set, for instance...

Grandma Myrl's canisters were just wonderful. They sat on her kitchen counter dispensing magic for all of the years I was lucky enough to know her. She kept a chipped teacup in the largest one for dipping out flour, which was not exactly measuring per se, but was somehow infallible. They were tins, in graduated sizes, with dented red lids and a nifty 50's apple motif. The day I inherited them, I remember thinking, SCORE! Hard as it was to believe she was gone, it was equally hard to believe that her magic might live on in my own newly-established kitchen. I loved that canister set.

Of course houses change, needs change, climates change...I soon came to value more room on my countertops for storing piles of school papers and art projects than baking supplies. I also moved to places where tupperware was just more useful than tin. And owning the canisters never seemed to mean for a moment that I could bake like Grandma Myrl. So they eventually moved into the decorative tin collection atop my kitchen cabinets, keeping company with things like the baking soda tin from Grant's Emporium, my great grandfather's legendary but burned-to-the-ground-before-I-was-born store, and Aunt Lillie's turn-of-the-century (the last one) marshmallow tin, used in my lifetime only for storing cookies in the back room. Some days I would look up and see them and sigh or smile...but most days when I did bother to notice them, I would dread their annual cleaning and wonder crankily how so much greasy grime could get on top of kitchen cabinets. 

This is how the beloved canister set came, along with all her tin sisters, to inhabit one of the hundred boxes I opened after our move that made me roll my eyes and feel a little sick. My new house has no space above the kitchen cabinets. And not only that, I just spent $5000.00 on new countertops for the first time in my life, and my dented greasy old tins are not really the look I was envisioning in my perfect new 1900 sq foot life. So they moved into the garage so I could wring my hands for awhile longer.

I could not send Grandma Myrl's canisters to Goodwill. That would somehow be wrong. But none of my daughters knew Grandma Myrl, nor did they have homes or space or interest in vintage tins. As temperatures climbed further into the 100's, it became apparent that I was going to have to make some hard decisions if I ever wanted to get a car in the garage. So I did. I could almost hear my friend Pam, the antiques dealer, wailing in sadness and disgust that I wasn't going to at least give her a chance at the good stuff before I tossed it, but she lives there and I live here and it was time to get down to what's important in my life now. A parking spot in the shade. So I scheduled an evening where I could invite my nieces to come for dinner and shop at my free garage sale. I put out all the things I couldn't bear to send to Goodwill, for one dumb reason or another, and let them take whatever interested them. And I began to feel better the moment the evening started...lighter...better than I had felt in months. In fact, I was elated! It was almost criminal to feel so good. Because the decision to let go was the hard part. Watching them actually cart the stuff away was easy as pie. 

And there hasn't been a single second of regret. I still have exactly the same memories of Grandma Myrl standing at her kitchen counter as I had before. I just don't have those memories in a box taking up space in my garage. And in Phoenix, that's important. So lesson learned. Let's hope it holds as I take on the boxes still in storage.

Next, Ms. Fate deemed me to be due for a lesson about what's important beyond the world of decorative kitchen accessories, even the most sentimental ones. She sent me on a two month, no-expenses-paid roller coaster ride with cancer. The "C" word. Yes, that one -- the one that other people sometimes deal with while I just do things like take in casseroles. Every second of the journey has been excruciating. Waiting, not knowing, more waiting, knowing even less, or sometimes knowing much more than you wish you did. 

There has been a lot more hand-wringing, all the while realizing with ever greater clarity that of course canister sets are meaningless in the big picture. Also a re-evaluation of life goals. Moments of sheer panic about the prospect of what-ifs like losing my already challenged hair. A 50th birthday, to heighten the angst. And also about a million blessings as friends and family and even near-strangers have rallied around me to prop me up and carry me through. And two months later, the surgery is behind me and the final word still isn't in yet. Not only that, but I have a strong suspicion that I'm going to be watching cancer over my shoulder and out of the corner of my eye for the rest of my life. But it doesn't really matter. Because I also know some important things in more intimate ways. 

I know that bad things happen, but also that we are stronger than we think we are, and that there's no time like the present for doing anything we really want to do and in fact, we should have been doing those things all along. Procrastination shows a deplorable lack of gratitude. I know that modern medicine is miraculous, and a good surgeon can become your best friend overnight. Also that caring nurses have automatically earned a place in heaven, and we should all strive to be more like them. (One of them kissed my forehead, and she wasn't even my nurse.) I know that some days the most important thing might be reading a discussion of the pros and cons of enemas vs. suppositories following hysterectomy surgery, and that I am blessed beyond measure to live in a time and place where it is possible to Google something so inane and have an entire world of information and support at my fingertips. I know that prayer works, no matter who utters it, because the simple act of exercising faith, hope and love on behalf of another always makes a difference. I also know the true meaning of the word friend, and that going forward I vow to be a more thoughtful one. Because even the smallest gestures become magnified in their impact by a needy recipient. But mostly, I know that life is truly a gift that comes with no guarantee. The only thing we should count on is being surprised. 

And I know that someday -- who knows when? and there's the real aha -- my kids will thank me for going through all this stuff and getting rid of it so they don't have to find themselves completely overwhelmed in my garage, worrying about their own kids but also stressed and sad wondering what to do with a dented canister set that they don't remember a thing about except being made to help scrub the grime off it once a year. 

Important stuff. Now...can I be done learning for awhile?

wednesday

I had lunch the other day with a group of ladies who were all about 20 years older than I am. It was completely delightful. But about midway through I realized I was the only one at the table with gray hair. Come on...really? Normally I wouldn't care about that -- never have before, obviously -- but there was something a little disquieting about being confronted with that kind of (unintentional) peer pressure at age 50 that got my attention. It honestly has just never occurred to me to color my hair. And then suddenly - BAM - the nagging suspicion that people don't like to be reminded that they are old, and therefore if I continue to insist on looking my age...perhaps my friends won't want to play with me anymore.

I have another friend who is gray and proud of it. She's truly a salt-and-pepper beauty, so I'd be proud of it too if I were sporting her striking do rather than my own mousy one.  But we had a conversation one day in which she insisted there was a trend called "granny chic". I scoffed loudly and repeatedly. Maybe even snorted. That phrase was most certainly invented by a group of 60 year old women sitting around a table at lunch trying to feel better about the fact that they were no longer eating lunch together in a school cafeteria, but somewhere their grandchildren might be. Grannies are the anti-chic. Everyone knows that. That's part of why we love them...their well-used laps are made for sitting in, which more than compensates for any wrinkles. Or even whiskers.

Sure, there's something to be said for making the most of what we have in any situation, but I'm all for letting Barbara Walters look 83 because she's earned that privilege. I give her permission to relax, find a nice chair, and enjoy watching TV for a few years rather than making it. Not that I'm opposed to a little help if it's easy and won't make me end up looking like Joan Rivers -- I apply my sunscreen religiously now that I'm in Phoenix, for instance, fearful that I may age 10 years in the first 2. But I'm just saying that, as far as I'm concerned, Aunt Lillie's saggy breasts only made her more lovable, not less. I didn't care one whit that she forgot to wear a bra most of her life and certainly had no intention of putting one on for the big finale. I'm glad she liked herself enough to just be herself.

My mother has done a remarkable job of self-preservation. Her hair looks 15 years younger than mine, her teeth were purchased mid-stream and therefore still look great, she's worked hard to preserve her figure, and she never leaves the house without full makeup and freshly pressed attire. She hasn't missed a hair appointment in years, if ever. But somehow she failed to pass along that gene, and while I'm sure it causes her consternation, I'm grateful because sometimes looking at her makes me tired. She's been beautiful for a long time, and shows no signs of letting any of it slide. (Some husbands just get luckier than others.)

So to everyone who enjoys the hobby of making themselves look younger -- because at 50 I can see it's definitely going to have to become a full-on hobby, fighting an uphill battle to the finish -- I say good-luck and I will probably be a little envious of the results, even though I won't admit it. To my friends and family, I say oh well -- it's only going to keep getting grayer. And when the time comes, please don't have the mortician paint my fingernails or put lipstick on me either, because then no one will recognize me at the funeral.

It shouldn't be a surprise. As a school kid I consistently failed to wear what was in style too. And come to think of it, they didn't want me at the popular table then either. Proof that the older we get, the more like ourselves we become. Or that you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Or maybe that girls just want to have fun, and if sitting in a beauty salon hasn't ever been fun before, this dog isn't likely to start sniffing around one now.

friday

Waiting

so many birds, so many
songs and all 
the sunlight in the world 
to wake me, still --
unmoved I listen, looking
for notes 
to lure me, take me up 
and up until the ground 
is only wind beneath my feet
clouds to boost me
higher, there is nothing 
that will hold me then, nothing
that can keep me down at all 

--smh

friday

One of my favorite characters in all of movies is played by Billy Crystal in City Slickers. I find his angst to be so ordinary, so utterly relatable. And perhaps my favorite scene is the one on his birthday in which he stares into the mirror and comes to grips (again) with the fact that he's never going to look any better than this...never going to be any better than this...and it ain't that great. Yes. Welcome to the deafening tick-tock world of adult birthdays.

I remember turning 10, and rejoicing in the accomplishment of double digits. Breasts and boys were still far enough around the corner that I could be pretty darn content to just be me...crooked kid teeth and awkward hair and all. There was still so much time for everything to improve. And so many more important things to think about. Like enjoying my popsicle.

I remember turning 20, and thinking that at last I was almost as old as I had always wanted to be. Who but an impatient teen could possibly wish to be older? But all I had ever wanted was to be taken seriously. And at 20, I felt that legitimacy was about to be within reach. At last.

I remember turning 30, and thinking I was OLD. Actually, that shadow began to threaten at about 25, when I first heard the ticking and realized that I would be 30 without becoming rich and famous if I didn't do something about it quick. And then suddenly I was 30, and I began to realize that, not only might I never be rich and famous, but perhaps I should re-evaluate that as a goal anyway and do something truly important. But of course I had no idea what that would be. And being confronted with the sudden uncertainty attending the weight of that question made me feel like perhaps I should have come to that realization much sooner, because now I was...old.

I remember turning 40, and being quite thrilled that I was NOT old. I could run further and faster than I ever had in my youth. My kids were grown, and I was still a young mom! I did get my first taste of REAL life problems - the kind with a capital "P"- around that age, but I survived. Little did I know that real life problems leave lasting changes, and that as we trudge forward we do not shed the ones we have encountered, we just add them to the luggage and carry them along as we attempt to jump the next hurdle. Bigger kids, bigger problems...as the old adage goes. But also aging joints, graying hair, mortal parents, money worries and the nagging notion that, although we are certainly not old yet, there may actually come a day when...well, I don't even want to go there.

And now 50. To celebrate, I've been spending the last month engaged in a major cancer scare. I think that a major cancer scare around age 50 has the potential to turn into a great gift...once you open the box and find that it's actually NOT cancer, that is. And I've just about got that wrapping paper off. What I hope is that I'll use the gift to help me move forward in better ways. That it will come with renewed energy, and enthusiasm, and perspective, and all the things one ought to have at the beginning of a new decade. Also an increased appreciation for the journey. And for things like birthdays themselves. Even the 50th one.

The thing about life is that we never know where we are on the continuum. Not the one of time, nor even the one of goodness. Who knows when we are old? We may have started on the downhill side at 18...or 25...or maybe not until 50. And it's probably best that we don't know when it happens, because it enables us to hope that our best years, our biggest accomplishments, may still lie ahead. Who knows if we are good? We may think we are, or fear we aren't, but since we really can't judge anyone else's standing from our own vantage point, who's to say? Probably best we don't know that either. Because it allows us to suspect that we should probably be better than we are. And to try to get there.

Regardless of how things turn out now, there's a good chance we'll all eventually end up with cancer, if granted the privilege of living long enough. Will that possibility be less earth-shattering at 80...or 85...than it has been at 49? I want to say yes, because I will have moved from "died too young" to "lived a full life." But the truth is probably not, given the fact that I feel like the same me now that I felt like in 8th grade. I'm getting old enough to realize that's probably not going to change. 

I've been peering into my own darkness for a good many years now, and I'm still groping for a light switch or, better yet, hoping someone else is going to turn it on for me. It's looking increasingly less likely that there will be a sudden illumination in which everything will become clear, in which I will see not only the end from the beginning but the obvious path by which to reach it. And that's okay. Uncertain at 50 feels about right, I guess. Uncertain, but still the same me. And still expecting more.

Happy birthday, Me. Don't give up on yourself. Your teeth are still a little crooked, your hair is still pretty awkward most days, but those things haven't turned out to be terribly important. And even though you will never look better than this, probably never be better than this...this ain't that bad. And for heaven's sake, you're not OLD. (You should be so lucky!) In fact, here -- have a popsicle.

tuesday

I saw a mother at church on Sunday wearing her Mother's Day gift. It was a bracelet. It was made of blue construction paper. It had red squiggles drawn on it, and a big fat crookedy piece of tape to hold it together.  It was just about sixteen sizes too big for her wrist. In fact, she had to work pretty hard to keep it from sliding off over her hand every time she needed to use that arm to keep her two rambunctious boys under control on the pew. I was sitting behind her, and couldn't help but smile as I watched one of the boys reach over and stroke the bracelet. I am guessing he had something to do with its creation. And he seemed pretty happy to see it on display so proudly there. I didn't know that mother, but I wanted to lean forward and tell her that she was obviously a really good one. Sure, her boys were relatively out of control, noisy and distracting and longing to be anywhere but sitting on that bench, but it was easy to see she had the important things down cold. And they were reading her message loud and clear. Someday it will pay big dividends.

I did not receive a construction paper bracelet for Mother's Day. I did receive a new iPod to replace the one I smashed when it slipped out of my sweaty hand and landed face down on the road recently. Even though they don't make that iPod anymore, my daughter tracked one down, in the shade of green I like, and then loaded 500 of her favorite songs on there, which were hand picked to broaden my aging horizons, along with a nice selection of my own favorites - even the ones that she particularly hates. She completed the gift with a selection of non-breakable accessories to keep my new treasure safe no matter how sweaty or clumsy I get. It was an amazing bit of thoughtfulness -- a non-judgmental nod to my aversion to change, as well as a nudge into the future. The kind of thing a loving mother might do, come to think of it.

Another daughter spent the week prior to Mother's Day accompanying me to boring medical appointments. And discussing books with me. And sitting on the couch watching Sherlock and eating cake and ice cream. She finished off her gift with a hand-drawn card. In case you ever wondered, a hand-drawn card from a 26 year old may be even more charming than one from a six year old. It pictured a particular cactus we had seen at the botanical gardens earlier in the week that we thought looked as if it were offering us flowers. It made me happier than she could ever imagine.

The remaining daughter spent a chunk of time on a lovely phone chat with me. The kind we don't take time for very often. She told me all her news, big and small. We laughed a lot. She also sent a truly awful and amazing old video of Mr. T performing a song of some sort titled "Treat Your Mother Right" and wearing camo hot pants. You can imagine how good that was! Best of all, it came to my phone so I could watch it right when it arrived during church, and just when I was feeling bored and fidgety as those little boys.

Thank you, girls! I don't know what I possibly did to deserve such personal and affectionate displays, but I guess I did something right. It's hard to keep your eyes on the prize sometimes as a mother of young children. It can feel like a very long tunnel that you know you will eventually emerge from -- blinking in the light and probably feeling it's too soon. But it seems to go on forever while you're blindly groping your way through it. You hope you're doing the right things. The important ones. Of course, there isn't a map or a manual, so you never quite know. They just hand you your ticket in the hospital and away you go.

I suppose the best you can do is just be sure to wear the bracelet. Always wear the bracelet. No matter how much too big, or how much too blue, or how covered in gloppy tape. If it really doesn't match your dress, so much the better. Because someday you'll remember that bracelet very fondly and just wish you could have another. But most importantly, every day of their lives they will remember that you did.

friday

Whew! Finally at the end of what has definitely been one of the most challenging weeks of my life. Medical Disneyworld! I got to ride all the rides! And I am still standing to tell the tale. Perhaps sometimes we underestimate our own strength. Perhaps that's why the universe takes it upon itself to put us up to a mirror now and then and make us take a long look right in the eyes. No blinking. Just a good solid week of "know thyself" training. And when it happens, it sucks. We can only hope that we come out better somehow for having had the experience. And in this case, I do hope that.

When God holds up a really harsh lens, somehow it allows us to see more clearly. It's like the bad things are able to magnify the good. Tender mercies become suddenly apparent. And they were all around this week. I received so many words of kindness and concern from friends far and near. Every word helped me feel just a bit stronger. And the crazy thing was, I received random words of kindness from people who didn't even know I was caught in the worst week of my life. But they somehow felt impressed to reach out anyway. It made such a difference. Those folks won't ever even know they were holding me up! But that's okay, because I know. And all I can assume is that, if there was any point at all to this little exercise, it was probably to make me more cognizant of the fact that I am not alone.

None of us is. Of course, with that knowledge comes the responsibility to be there as a support when it's someone else's turn to need. And that requires paying attention.  To my life, and to yours too. Open my eyes, my mind, my heart, and then most importantly, my hands and mouth when I find a place they could help. And use them to just say thank you for the daily wonders I notice in my life merely by paying attention. Forever in debt.

The bottom line is, after all the scans and ultrasounds and x-rays and poking and prodding and blood-letting that have gone on this week, it seems I will live to see 50. And if I'm lucky, far beyond that (wait -- is there life beyond 50? Wow...I'm about to find out...ummm...soonish). Still a few unanswered medical questions, but I am mostly healthy. Good for me. Because I have also seen, in some important ways, I can be better. And that's useful information to carry into the second half.

sunday

Interesting weekend. Here's what you DON'T want to have happen on a Friday...

You go for a mammogram in the morning. You receive a phone call from your doctor in the afternoon. Because it never occurs to you that there could possibly be a problem with your (yawn*) medical test, you answer the phone call. There's a problem with your mammogram. 

Turns out the breasts that you've lugged around for all these years, love 'em or hate 'em, have suddenly become...somehow defective.

Then the doctor says, "Have a nice weekend!" 

Suddenly the sky is bluer. You worry about all the things you've never done in your life. You want to see and touch all the people you love. You vow to be a better person. In fact, you hope you get to even keep being a person...it's all in the one minute phone call. 

And suddenly it is quite impossible to "have a nice weekend!" 

So I know. These are the kinds of things that happen when you are around age 50. If it's not your breasts, it's your gallbladder.  If it's not your eyesight, it's arthritis. The acne of your adolescence hasn't even gone away, and the wrinkles of your future are suddenly demanding equal face time. But knowing about something and expecting it to actually happen to you are two different things. 

Monty Python left us the memorable line, "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!" Truer words were never spoken. How could you? If you really expected any of the bad stuff, you'd never pick up the telephone. 

So I spent the weekend looking for antidotes to this kind of experience, and I found a few good ones. I held a new baby (1 1/2 weeks old!) for about an hour. I marveled at her tiny fingers and toes. I breathed in her baby smell. I remembered my own girls' dark brown, sticky-up hair and perfect little valentine lips...

I went to a really good Mexican restaurant. I ate more than my share of the above average guacamole. I closed my eyes and listened to a classical guitarist serenade me with surprisingly beautiful music, and lingered long after my enchiladas were gone.  I tipped him $5.00 on my way out, and wished I'd had more to give...

I watched Perry Mason, and walked the dog, and shaved my legs, and bought groceries, and did all the normal boring things I do in my normal boring life. I bought the new Michael Buble album and played it way too loud, and I ate almost an entire box of Dots myself, and that was after finishing my ice cream. Behaving just as if I hadn't a care in the world...

I went for an early morning run. I skipped all the songs on my ipod that I didn't want to listen to, and I enjoyed the solid slap of every single step. I sang "Let's Do the Time Warp" with gusto, even though I was running in a public place. The people who live in my AZ neighborhood are mostly old and quite deaf anyway...

And I have almost made it through the weekend. Not that Monday brings answers. I have several more days to wait for my several more tests. But I can live until then. I just needed a few days to get comfortable with the idea that nothing has really changed at all. Sure, it was an unpleasant phone call. And it unleashed an avalanche of "what if's" and a boatload of anxieties. But then I had a whole lot of worries in my head before the phone even rang...these new ones just helped me reorganize the pre-existing ones a bit. Which probably needed to happen.

Aha! I see! Life is uncertain...even MY life. Every second of it. And it's a good thing to have that brought to our attention now and then, I guess. Because we need a reason to empty the gratitude out of our pockets and spread it on the table. We need a reason to count up what we thought was just spare change, and realize that not only does it amount to a fortune, but it has already bought us everything. 

And because, as a result, we really have an obligation to enjoy every single uncertain second just a little...bit...more.

thursday

My week was progressing nicely and then suddenly...cell phone problems! Utter panic. Internal chaos. A feeling of complete disconnection and helplessness. WHAT IF SOMEONE REALLY IMPORTANT NEEDS TO TELL ME SOMETHING REALLY IMPORTANT??!! 

1) By text?...hmmm...probably not all that likely, now that I think about it.

2) And they don't have my home phone number? Also not likely, I guess, when I consider the cast of characters who might need to deliver those really important lines.

3) And I can't find out about it just by looking at facebook? 

Completely unlikely. It seems I get all my most important news via facebook these days...but then I guess that telling fact also explains the ridiculous feeling of complete disconnection and helplessness caused by one afternoon's interruption in my cell phone usage. I have to say, the panicked voice of the young man on the other end at the T-Mobile call center didn't help. He seemed to swing back and forth between sounding like someone apologizing for doing something dire like running over my dog, and someone convinced that I might jump at any moment and that he was the only hope for talking me down. I wanted to reassure him that I was okay, that I could live until my new phone arrived the next day (it was supposed to be here by 3pm, by the way...so WHERE IS IT??!!) 

I am developing a suspicion that our culture may be training us to be completely absorbed in relatively trivial things. Not like when I used to watch The Young and the Restless and Nicki and Victor would get a divorce...and remarry...and get a divorce...and remarry...and for some reason I kept tuning in. No, this is more like the whole world has become a reality show. I would like to get a peek inside the booth and see who is responsible for the editing. It must be somebody smart, an evil mastermind with a firm grasp of both the allure of technology and man's basic need to feel connected. Because the content is pretty stupid most of the time, but we all keep watching. I saw a disclaimer at the end of a reality show recently that said "content may have been edited for entertainment purposes." I think they should also start tacking that on the end of the 10:00 news. 

The fact that there are Kardashians in the world, for instance, and that people buy magazines to watch them gain/lose weight, speaks volumes. Or that there is an entire TV channel devoted to the Jodi Arias trial. My sister and I eat lunch at the same restaurant every Wednesday. There is a TV there. It plays only the Jodi Arias trial. It's a restaurant that serves only locally sourced, organic food that is delicious and, as a bonus, makes you feel a little self-righteous and pretty darn good about yourself. Smug even. BUT THEIR TV PLAYS ONLY THE JODI ARIAS TRIAL? I would expect maybe some kind of nature channel, or perhaps TED talks...you know, what passes as 21st century brain food.

Now most of what I do on my cell phone is relatively worthwhile. I communicate with people I love. I allow my children to beat me at Wordfeud. I take pictures of amazing things I am eating or of beautiful things I see and send them as little virtual postcards to say, "wish you were here!" I recently figured out how to use the calendar function and set alarms to remind me of things I forget. That should become increasingly useful as I become increasingly forgetful. I don't use facebook on my phone. Having to actually sit down and turn on my computer now and then provides the little extra step I'm counting on to keep me from becoming completely enslaved. 

I'm hesitant to allow our relationship to become any deeper, even though I know I only use about .01% of my amazing little device's capability. Because I'm already an addict. I take comfort in that familiar little weight in my pocket. But a cellphone seems to come equipped with a million insidious tendrils that will work their way into your tiniest cracks, if you show weakness. If I download one more app, I'll probably soon find myself using the phone while using the bathroom, or texting while simultaneously eating a cheeseburger and getting on the freeway. Or, heaven forbid, watching TV on my phone! In fact, some poor fool is probably watching the Jodi Arias trial on his phone right now...speaking of which...hmmm...I wonder if I could figure out how to listen to TED talks on mine...AND IT'S 3:05! WHERE'S THAT DARN UPS GUY?!

sunday

Spring, 1935 by Kuzma Petrov-Vodin 

Picnic

I am suddenly 

quite taken

noticing your blue 

socks, how they only 

seem to match

your eyes

an odd choice

just one of

the million things I hope

to always remember

about this

-smh

Thanks to The Mag for today's prompt. 

Follow the link to read more...

friday

Here's a snippet of excellent Friday writing advice from Sam McNerney at Big Think:

 

"I think fluency explains why one hallmark of good writing is clarity. If written language is a window into the writer’s world, then wordy prose diminishes the reader’s chance of understanding that world. Here’s the rub: despite easy-to-digest principles that encourage fluent writing (e.g., 'omit needless words' and 'when in doubt, cut'), many writers fill page after page with verbose paragraphs much more difficult to understand, hopefully, than this one.

"There are at least two reasons why. First, everything we write is fluent to us. The challenge is to know how comprehensible a piece of writing is for the reader. This is difficult because it’s nearly impossible for you, the writer, to know what it is like for your reader to not know something you know. Psychologists term this the 'curse of knowledge' and one byproduct is using jargon unknowingly. If, for example, I write, 'Cartesian mind-body dualism is at odds with modern neuroscience' I may wrongfully assume that a reader has a background in either philosophy or contemporary cognitive science.

"There are a few ways to avoid the curse of knowledge. The easiest is to show a draft to a friend and ask him if it makes sense. Stepping away from a draft also helps. Research suggests that apocryphal stories of warm baths, long walks and ping-pong matches giving rise to moments of insight contain some scientific merit. An effortless activity refreshes the mind, so when you return to your draft it’s easier to notice previously overlooked errors.

"The second reason is less obvious. When I ask writers for advice, many recommend that I read other successful writers and 'steal' from them. This is good advice. However, the problem with learning how to write by reading good writers is a lot like trying to understand a magic trick by watching a magician preform it: it’s not obvious what makes the trick work and it’s easy to overlook the hours of practice the magician spent perfecting it. A cogent and lucid novel is likewise illusionary. It’s not apparent why it works – it just does. Importantly, the novel does not include the hundreds of thousands of words and paragraphs – even chapters – omitted from previous drafts. Like an aspiring magician, the aspiring writer cannot simply study a piece of prose by reading it; he must focus on the concealed details that make the final draft work while remembering the countless hours the author spent revising, rejecting, sifting and selecting.

"In sum, good writing is easy to read but writing well is difficult to do. Aspiring writers forget this and fall victim to what I call the illusion of simplicity, or the tendency to conflate the fluency of a piece of prose with how easy it is to write something of equal value. A professor of mine used to harp on what he termed the 'golden first draft bias.' His point is that because nearly everything we read – magazines, newspapers and books – is a final draft we mistakenly conclude that it was the only draft. As a result, his students – including me – believe that there’s no need to revise."

That "curse of knowledge" thing? 

Yes. Something I definitely need to work on in my own writing.

monday

Tete a tete

there is no way to tell anyone
all the things I would say to you

not the doctor, as I lay on his couch
dictate my heart onto his yellow chart 
make my head suitable to be filed
spread my sorrows across his lap and beg 
for understanding, or just a fix

not the librarian, wise in her sea of books
straight spine, stern looks, ears alert
all the words never spoken in her hand 
the world a reference, even she
would never understand it all 
despite having read every ending in advance

not my mother, I know  
the person who made this cannot explain exactly
the things it has produced, as a critic
she can see the beauty but knows too well
the heft, the shape 
the line of every flaw 
having carried them herself

not my sister, she is not enough like me
to see with my same eyes, she grew up
in another room, the voices through the wall
the same, but heard with other ears
a different rise and fall of family
as she drifted off to sleep

not a teacher, who might even tell me every why
and every how or when but never show
the work, never let fall simple facts 
the way I see them standing

not a stranger, as if anyone could
know me just from being at the same time
sitting together on a bus, bumping in a hallway
or sharing stars, both noticing but each
under our separate sky

only you could I tell my secret, only you
could understand my shooting arrow
my arc, my fall, my hits and misses, all
the things that burst me every day
but even so, even then
it seems that there may not be time
or words enough between us 
perhaps we will 
hold hands awhile first

--smh


  

friday

Desert Afternoon

a prick
unfriendly as a box of dropped 
tacks, points up in the dust
a squint, a tumbling wind 
a scuttle, rattle, whirl, a glint 
shadow crossed
and patient as a rock
twice baked to seeming sleep
heavy eyed half closed
but ready, waiting
with its startled bloom
to ask well what did you expect
and until then, content 
to simply sit 
and sit and sit

--smh

tuesday

Between Heaven and Hell, Jacek Yerka, 1989

Keeping House

Ignore the mess but
look closely at my kitchen nonetheless
I've planted every clue, my hidden
archaeology, my recipe
a trail of crusts 
and crumbs, of everything 
I did or ate or made, my store
of thoughts, overflowing the careful 
cabinets, pantry chock full 
with canisters of want
cups with which to measure
my wilted afternoon of flowers
in a vase, and eggshells, dream bits
lipstick rims on leftover 
milk in a glass, the ring
from the bottom of a pot, and only drips
to show what Tuesday was about
or Friday or probably tomorrow
for that matter, I am afraid
that this is who I am, my story may never be
cleaner or better, never prettier
than it is right here today, told by
a used napkin on my cluttered, littered 
spattered kitchen countertop

--smh



Check out The Mag 
for more responses to this fascinating prompt...

sunday

Faun, Horse, and Bird, Pablo Picasso, 1936

As You Slept

so much in a line

the swoop, the curve, the curlicue

all of you expressed along a slackened jaw
loosened knot of hands, I saw exactly

when it happened, understood by just your pause

so still, reclining there, the crinkled sleeve

around your elbow, easy flow of legs

across the couch, your cheek a wrinkle, I believe

that you could doze forever, dark

slits to mark your eyes, hair's scribbled mess

the gentle lift and fall of your chest, I wonder

in your dreaming is there flight, a gallop

something great or small, anything of interest

going on at all, or static, pepper black

the blue of song, a thousand words like bird tracks

stippling your path, the start and stop

of stories, any line of thought, a note

or just your own bare sound, I see

no thread to follow, the gentle curving 

of your side leaves me no end to grasp 

and nothing to unravel, now 

you move your arm, but not to beckon

you have left no clue, just gone, your shape

a hollow, here with me yet somehow

you have slipped to dreams 

your steps a line I can not follow

--smh

Thanks to Tess at The Mag for today's prompt -- 

and to Picasso himself, of course

friday

The Magic Garden, Rebecca Crompton, 1934

Organic Matter

forgive me, I fear
I have underestimated
the complexity of it all, every
thing connected and what
I have done today 
always becoming tomorrow
seeds for footsteps, buds
for words, their full
blooms dropping petals
behind me, a path exposed
where perhaps I never 
intended to go at all

--smh


  

wednesday

Well well . . . 
Already on day number whatever of my grand reinvention! Still feel like me. And still trying to decide what said reinvention might entail. Earlier this week I had decided to go back to school. I felt so sure! What a wonderful thing to do while trying to figure out what to do! It seemed obvious! I even went so far as to look at starting my application. But the first thing the website directed me to do was fill out the FAFSA . . . Hey, wait a minute -- I happen to know the FAFSA is for kids! Something you yell at your high school student to get done while they're dawdling around for hours on the computer... 

I couldn't do it. Seems like I was hounding Hannah so recently, trying to get HER to fill out the FAFSA...it just felt ridiculous to consider filling out my own. So I decided to hang around Facebook for awhile instead. Come to think of it, I suspect that's what Hannah used to do instead of the FAFSA, too. Kinda makes me laugh...kinda makes me hate myself.

And then there's the ongoing saga of the move/house. Good grief. Although I'm pleased to report that we FINALLY found the box labeled "Cookbooks" in the garage. Happy day! We can't get to it, but at least we know it exists. I have been without a single recipe for months, so that's good news! However, I may be expected to start cooking again...so hmmm. (Although I'm not yet sure what my grand re-invention plan looks like, I'm pretty sure it isn't going to involve a lot of cooking. Seems that's a habit that was frighteningly easy to break.)

Since Russ is out of town for the week, I decided to commemorate his absence with a major plumbing leak. I started to hear a strange hissing sound in the wall about 4am. I should have known that no story that begins with a hiss at 4am can possibly have a good ending... 

That's okay -- home warranty to the rescue! Thank goodness we had the foresight! Except turns out the leak was caused by a nail put through a pipe when the guy installed our baseboards after we moved in.  So not covered. (They were still happy to require the co-pay, however.) That sneaky nail had just been quietly rusting there for a couple of months, waiting for Russ to leave. Things like plumbing problems can be so patient when they want to be, waiting for just the right opening. 

The good news is the plumber did fix the leak. After he finished and went out to his truck to fill out paperwork, I ventured in to survey the damage. Through a gaping new hole in the wall, the pipe was spraying water everywhere, and at a much greater rate than before! I don't know a lot about plumbing, but I felt perhaps it was not fixed properly. I traipsed out to his truck and politely knocked on the window.  "We have a problem." He grunted, followed me up the driveway (I could feel the eye-roll behind me). At least he had the decency to shout HOLY CRAP!! as he ran for the main shut-off. He then hauled all his equipment back in to re-fix it, with the carpet just about twice as wet as it was when he started.  

I felt he was less friendly with me when he left than when he arrived. That's okay, since I felt less friendly by then too.  

We will now be replacing our 4 month old carpet.  Sometime after we repair the additional $500.00 in plumbing problems he kindly pointed out while he was here. Oh! And the giant hole he cut in the wall...and the baseboards that need replacing...not sure who I am going to call to do that job. But I am relatively sure who I am NOT going to call. 

It was while I was stuck killing time waiting for the plumber to stop the flood from carrying off every pair of shoes in my closet that, for some crazy reason, I decided it would be a perfect time to look at filling out a college application. Aha -- maybe that was my mistake! Maybe I was already on overload, so that's why the darn FAFSA stopped me in my tracks. Although somehow I feel confident I would have had no problem hounding Hannah to fill out her FAFSA, even with the sound of a plumber cutting a hole in my wall and my new carpet squishy with water...maybe even while balancing a cookbook in one hand and a spoon in the other! 

But there I was, completely unable to force myself. Perhaps this is why 49-year-olds make good mothers, but less sure students.  

Maybe I should call my own mother and ask her if she minds nagging me until I get my college application filled out.  I could message her on Facebook...

tuesday

photo by TheFoxAndTheRaven

Weather

there are only so many 
tears in any world, and all
the water in existence

has already rained, spilled
been drunk, absorbed, evaporated 
cried, and all the sadness

wrung from every sky 
just try to think of something
that has never happened

--smh


Thanks to The Mag for the photo prompt. 
Check it out to find more.