Things Fall Apart

I have good intentions. A lot of the time. Regarding a lot of things.

I sometimes wish that I could just show people how much I think about things and how much energy I put into trying to make things right, or hang out, or help, or make a difference. But most of the time I just don't feel like I make the mark.

I wanted to be the kind of person who gauged life differently. Someone who listed accomplishments with emotional tacks, not lines on an arbitrary paper. But the world isn't set up that way and I am not the dreamer I thought I was. The price of a dream is much more than sleep it turns out.

So maybe I bow down. I accept that I can't conform to anything but conformity and I go all in. I give of myself until there is nothing left and just sit back and hope things don't fall apart. I don't see much choice.

I think sometimes everything would be better if I could just sit in the park and swing. I tried. It made me nauseous. I think that sums it up.

Aunt Ida Mae

This is another class assignment. We all wrote poems about a special place. It is amazing how many details you can recall when you look inside your heart to find a place that is special. I found mine. What's yours? Aunt Ida Mae's Kitchen Cool mountain mornings, bright light makes dust sparkle in the air like fireflies. Creaky screen door, gateway to coffee. Brings in the murmur of morning conversation. Bacon sizzles, pot gurgles, Old time country classics croon from the record player, down the hall. The kitchen wakes up as the refrigerator Hums. Warm brown linoleum, Smooth from years of feet, Lays underneath like the fancy white saucer, For my flowered cup. I get coffee with lots of milk and sneak a deviled egg. It wouldn't fit on the platter. Pictures on the fridge fill in the conversation lulls, the faint glow from the oven light shines on the cake stands, They won't be empty long. My pickled beets sit silently in rows, Standing guard in their pantry. Waiting for their moment of glory, on the supper table this afternoon. No one leaves hungry. Moments creep into my mind like thorns, now that these mornings are gone. Why do all good people go away too soon?

CATKU

Today in class, the kids got the chance to look at some great poetry and then go out and give it a try. They were amazing. I am not sure that this is quality work, but I chose "Dogku" by Andrew Clements. I gave it a twist, however, and wrote "Catku". Here it is.

CATKU

A tale in haiku of one tough cat.

I have a tough cat,
A scar underneath his chin,
He is a bruiser.

My house has four dogs.
Of them, he is not afraid.
It is his domain.

Gray stripes and white paws,
Green eyes that glow like jewels,
My little lion.

Look at him sunning,
Not a care, paws are outstretched,
My tough danger-cat.

The Red Tent

I read a book called The Red Tent by Anita Diamant many years ago. I wasn't too familiar with the Biblical story of Dinah (which it retells from the feminine perspective) but I was reading it for pleasure so I wasn't concerned with detail. When I read the book, I was young and unmarried. I had no idea where my future was headed. It didn't occur to me that I would be 3o and childless. It didn't occur to me that I would be 30. The book describes how women would enter the Red Tent during their menstruation and childbirth, creating a community with and for each other, celebrating their roles as the givers of life. I was amazed as I read the book at how different our society had become. No one talks about "the time of the month" without first referencing Judy Blume it seems. It's socially acceptable to say someone is pregnant but don't start using negative terms like "placenta," or "dilation," or you might actually witness a human squirm like a worm. I also remember that I read this book and thought about how lonely it must have been for Dinah, giving birth with only women around and not having her love, her co-creator, the father of her child, there to witness the arrival. I pictured my future husband being right next to me during labor, at least close enough to hit and blame for all the pain.

But now I am 30. The way I see things has changed. Kids might not be an option for me. At least ones that come from my womb. Nathan may never have the opportunity to get clawed by me during a heated contraction. That's o.k. I still have the joy of teaching children. I have so many kids in my life that I can nurture and love and watch grow. And I have amazing friends who have let me be a part of the tiny lives that thay have made.

Last night, my amazing, strong, too tough for words, glowing Mama Christy welcomed her third son into this world. If you have never had the opportunity to witness that first moment of life... I hope one day you do. Christy chose to do home births with a midwife and a doula, and a birthing pool. Maybe it was just her peaceful vibe that made it happen, but there was an amazing feeling in that birthing room. We all sat around, conversating through contractions. Laughing on the highs and slowly breathing out as she moved with the pains of labor.

The modern day red tent. That is how I felt. Women together. It felt great. It felt right. It felt natural.

I am in awe of her. She is an amazing woman and an even more amazing Mom. I will forever be grateful to her for allowing me the honor of loving her children, from the first moment possible.

Bubble Bath

Nothing makes me quite as happy as a bath filled up with bubbles. Water rejuvenates. I don't take sissy baths, I take it seriously. Water as hot as a car in summer, enveloping, whole in its heat. I slide in, keeping my hands out so they stay dry. And then I read. Soaking, reading, pleasure. I have been many places in my bathtime. Traveled to different worlds and back. I especially like sad stories because nosy husbands don't make you feel silly for crying. You can blame it on the bathwater. A book and a bath are what I think of when days feel long and work seems endless. I like to think that everyone has that one thing that makes it all better.

And then there are days when even the bubble bath doesn't seem like it will work. Days when I miss my Mama. Days when I knew I could have done more. Days when I gave my best and it just wasn't good enough. On those days, I don't read, I just lay there. I pour in a little extra bubble. And fill up that bathtub even higher. And then I realize, I just gotta get out. Cool off. And keep goin.

Rock the Synagogue

I had my first experience inside a synagogue this weekend. It started with a beautiful and meditative group chant to end the Shabbat, ended with a beautiful Middle Eastern sounding melody that I didn't even know a guitar could make, and somewhere in between we all rocked to "Little Pink Houses" by John Cougar Mellencamp. I'm not making this up. In my head, a synagogue had a specific look. Like a small candlelit cellar, damp and cool, with hard, wooden benches and solitude. I don't really know why this was in my head, I don't have any real reason for making up a synagogue story in my mind. I was really wrong, by the way. It looked like a church. Like an average Methodist, maybe a little Baptist, throw in a Lutheran minus the kneelin' benches. One big difference however. The pew cushions were amazing. They were cotton candy pink and even softer. It felt like sitting on a cloud. Or maybe it was just all the great music. I have to say, my first synagogue experience was pretty cool. I don't know if I want to go back for a regular service though. It just might not be the same without Mellencamp.

Fire In the Morning

A while back, we woke up to the sounds of sirens. When we walked outside and stood in our front lawn, we saw a black tower of thick, heavy, smoke rising up from a nearby neighborhood. Ironically, it was a beautiful morning. The sky wasn't quite ripe and still held the colors of twilight. I stood in silence with my husband and watched helplessly. Later that morning, I wrote this:

Barking dogs mingled with wailing cries,
As thick black smoke poured into the dawn.
The night blooming vine, the deepest purple,
Like the jeweled slipper of an Egyptian queen,
Lay on the ground, fragile but unaware.
Voices called out, directions in a robotic tongue,
And the smoke billowed up, soft as a cloud,
But black as night.
The morning springs eternal until everything
You own is destroyed.
We are guaranteed nothing.