The Clock

May 20, 2012 By

Big Ben

The Timex on my wrist, the old Seth Thomas clock on the wall that rings the hours, and the small, black electronic cube that sits on my nightstand beeping at six AM have been with me always.   They not only denote the hour and the passage of time, they have been the enemy. I have fought with them constantly.

Stop the clock. I’ve run out of time. It’s time to eat, time to sleep, time to feed the dog, pick up the kids. Time is short, too long and are we there yet?  Forever in a hurry, I was constantly running.  But somehow I was always on time or even early getting to the places I was supposed to be.  Why didn’t I have ulcers?

One afternoon while reading a good book and needing to be at an appointment in fifteen minutes, I caved in. Tired of rushing and feeling rebellious I kept on reading even as the clock ticked away.  I finished the chapter, got in the car, and drove to my appointment.  I was only five minutes late but I had been overwhelmed by anxiety on the way, thinking I’d be terribly late.  I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, my stomach churned filled with a load of worry stones, and I didn’t know what I’d been thinking.

Like a drunk who finally hits bottom and knows that the sauce will kill him soon, I knew that if I kept running the way I did,  it would be the end of me.  I’d crash the car, fall off a cliff and/or my heart would simply quit because it couldn’t keep up. My life was a train wreckwaiting to happen.

Changing my pace has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.  But somehow I’ve managed to slow the train, though it can still be easy to fall back into old habits if I’m not careful.  I do still have occasional overly busy days, but if I’m feeling overbooked I reschedule an appointment or two for another day when things aren’t so hectic. I’ve learned to say no to the one more thing that will tip the scale sending me into overwhelm and yes to breathing deeply and taking whole days when I don’t have to go anywhere but stay here and tend to whatever I want and need to do. I love those days the best and manage to get to my writing with time to spare for a nap, to garden, or read.  I still worry about being late once in a while, but I’m also beginning to trust that the clock does sometimes run slow and I’ll arrive in plenty of time without being frazzled.

I wrote this poem back in 1993 in the heat of my war with time.  I’m so grateful that battle is over.

The Clock

A tranquil pool reflects
As only water can
The confection of moon
Star lanterns
Show the way down
To the mouth of a cave

A tattered moth
Hands me her flame
Tells me to wait
Just inside at the edge
For a ferry to deliver me
To the middle of night

Aboard the vessel
The oarsman leers
With eyes that glow
In burning sockets
His mouth overflowing
Knots of squirming eels
I hold the flame closer
Easing my fear
A solitary owl hoots
At the sight of land

I am lifted to shore
By rigid talons
Left on the sand
Where a porcelain clock
Elephant high
Stands guard
Naming the hours
As they race around
An eroding track

The clock strikes twelve
Spilling sleeping cuckoos
Severed hands
Frantic numerals gather momentum
Left without time
Lifting the flame to possibility
I ignite the ticking sky

jzr, 1993

Filed Under: Dreams, Fear, Gratefulness, Life, Poetry, War Tagged With: , , , , , ,

On Mother’s Day

May 13, 2012 By

Dublin Grave, Polaroid Transfer with Water Color.The ois

I wrote the following poem years ago when I was visiting Ireland, once a year, loving the peace and quiet of County Mayo.  I rambled through cemeteries, many forgotten and uncared for, learning about women’s lives by reading the few words on their headstones. Their lives were not easy.   Mrs. Heartwell shows up in many of my poems.  She can be a goofy clown, naive, sad, and joyous, but she is also very serious and filled with compassion.

on mother’s day

the light shines within us
like a candle
an eternal flame

reciting inscriptions aloud
mrs heartwell studies rows
of weathered stones
ponders praying angels
the one with broken wings
guarding tiny patrick

died in his mother’s arms
he was only three

beyond a drooping cedar
blood red roses
scent the path
where the queen of heaven
her tranquil face
etched with lichen
extends her arms
blessing sarah golden

brave soul entered
eternal rest
november sixth
eighteen hundred and ninety four
the mother of eight 

stumbling through thorny weeds
she finds
a rotting cross
bits of broken glass
rosary beads scatter
as she tries to keep
from stepping on
mary shepherd

gave her life 
for infant sophie

jzr

To all mothers out there, Happy Mother’s Day
from me and Mrs. Heartwell!

Filed Under: family, Life, love, Poetry, stories, Travels, Writing Tagged With: , , ,

The Best Of Intentions

May 6, 2012 By

Eggplant in last years garden.

May 4th, 2012

It’s been one of those days.  Even with my list of intentions I can’t seem to focus.  Instead of coming home after yoga class to start writing, I went to the garden center where I bought another dozen or so plants for the shade garden. I found some interesting Hostas, Astilbes in blushing pink, and a colorful collection of Coral Bells.  These last have tiny bell-shaped flowers that are not particularly spectacular unless you’re a hummingbird.  It’s the color of the leaves that blows me away. And in a shade garden, which is mostly green, I like to throw in some odd color variations to keep my eyes interested. Today I found one with lime tinted leaves.  I also chose one with light, autumn-orange foliage and another with dark maroon leaves etched with silver. Next to that last one, I’ll plant another one called “Berry Smoothie,” with soft rose-pink leaves.  They look stunning together.

Thinking that I was almost done with my garden work for the spring, I quickly remembered that I haven’t yet picked out the tomato plants I plan on putting in the raised bed I use only for veggies and herbs.  Last year I filled it with sweet peppers in green, red and yellow. Never having grown eggplant and not knowing what kind of harvest to expect, I put in six plants.  There are only two mouths to feed in this house and we adore eggplant but it seems I went a bit overboard.

By the end of summer we were tired of eggplant parmesan, ratatouille, and everything else eggplant. When I approached friends with a basket of perfect purple orbs, I found out that most them don’t like it. I took the overflow to the local Food Bank where hopefully they found a stomach or two to fill with my gorgeous garden treasures.

It’s three PM, and I realize that I’ve not been attending to the item that was at the top of today’s list. I am doing about the garden, which was not on the list. I feel a bit guilty and annoyed with myself. I am supposed to be starting on a new blog post to be published on Sunday. I haven’t yet figured out what to write about and since next week is overflowing with places to be, I need to be getting one ready for next weekend as well.  Frustration time!! How do I fit it all in when there’s also the laundry, healthy meals to prepare and friends I want to see.

Writing a memoir and trying to keep my blog updated, is not the easiest thing in the world for me to do.  I love doing both but my head isn’t always in tune with the planned time schedule I put together to keep myself on track. And I have so many interests and passions that I’m constantly trying to figure out a way to keep all of them in my life. The garden is one of those and at this time of year it’s difficult to pass up the opportunity to discover an interesting new plants to add to the work of art I’m creating for myself with live plant material.

The list of intentions I put together every evening for the next day seems to be the driving force in my life along with the clock that is always ticking away in the background.  But should it be?  That page of numbered items does help me get things done and keeps me from running after every spectacular idea that blows my way.  But it doesn’t always provide fun or relaxation and I tend to be OCD about many of my projects.

I do know what to do to take care of my problem.  It’s very simple and at the same time very difficult. Bury the list, the clock, my guilt, and annoyance in a mound of compost. Then go do something else that I feel like doing. It doesn’t have to be anything big, just enough to loosen my shoulders and neck.

It might be taking a nap or smelling the unbelievably red roses that grow down the street.  Maybe it’s lunch with a friend or going up on the Blue Ridge Parkway with a picnic basket to watch the sun go down. When I get back from those little jaunts, I know the compost pile will be smoking with heat from digesting all the stuff I buried inside of it.  I’m refreshed and ready to go back to the writing, which then seems to be flowing like a rain-filled river until I get lost again in my life.

Update, Sunday, May 6:

Today I spent 4 hours in the garden planting all those plants I bought and doing a general cleanup. I found a newly fledged baby woodpecker flitting around the garden unable to fly.  I called the local wildlife sanctuary and they sent someone to pick him up.  He or she will be fed and placed in an area with other baby birds and released when he is able to fend for himself.  I have three cats and there are others in the area.  Not a good place for baby birds who can’t fly!

Filed Under: Life, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, The Garden, Writing Tagged With: ,

A Changed Mind

April 29, 2012 By

Bryant Park, New York City ... a lovely place to sit and read.

A while back I wrote a post about my love and addiction to books.  I absolutely love everything about them:  the feel of them in my hands, how when I fall asleep while I’m reading, they settle down oh so gently over my heart, staying open to the page I last read. And their sweet smell often reminds me of the first library I ever went to.

About a year ago my husband bought a Kindle. Wearing my high and mighty jeans, I asked him why in the world he would do such a thing. He advised me that when traveling it would be easier and weigh much less to carry his Kindle in his pocket downloaded with several books rather than to lug along a suitcase stuffed with reads he might not even get to. Being who I am and stuffed into those very tight, judgemental pants, I said, “Well yeah, I get that but I know I will never enjoy reading a book on an electronic gadget.  It looks and feels awkward and it isn’t soft and floppy like a well-worn book.

A few months later after trying to find a comfortable way to hold the Kindle in bed, he gave up.  It fell out of his hands several times onto the hardwood floor as he was falling to sleep. He also didn’t like not knowing how far along in the book he was.  He missed that comforting bookmark that let him know immediately where he was in the story without having to open the pages.  So, off the Kindle went to a friend at Christmas time who still hasn’t used it.  I didn’t say a word.

At work on my memoir, I’ve been reading loads of books in the same genre.  One of the things successful writers tell the rest of us is to read, read and read some more.  It helps immensely with developing our own style and finding our own voice. It can also be very inspiring and we may find ourselves writing immediately after reading a piece that is very moving.  I’ve found that works particularly well when I’m writing poetry. Often when I feel stuck, all I have to do is go to one of my favorite poets and read several of their pieces. I’ll be off and writing in no time at all.

However, my read list on Amazon is most often way out of hand and pricey. Especially if I have 20 books lined up on it. I could go to the library but lately the books I’ve been looking for aren’t available. So when I saw a review written by another writer about a new memoir and it sounded like something I’d enjoy, I took Amazon up on their offer for me to download it for free on my iPad.

A few weeks ago when I went to New York, I not only took along a few books that I was in the middle of reading, I also took my iPad. On the train ride back home, I found that I’d packed those books I’d had little time to read away in my luggage and couldn’t get at them.  But tucked away in my purse was my iPad with a downloaded book on it.

I’m sweating and getting a bit uncomfortable because I do have to tell you that I’ve changed my mind about reading books on electronic gadgets. People like me who are considered by some to be outspoken (: and use words like never and always, don’t like to be found out.  And here I am telling on myself.

I turned the iPad on and started reading.  I read the entire five and a half hours I was on the train. I didn’t quite finish the book, so back at home I put it on top of the stack next to my bed and finished it off several nights later.

I’m still breathing and the world did not end.  I still love real books the most and prefer to read those.  But, I really do get the point about how much easier it is to read a book on a Kindle, Nook or iPad while traveling.  Especially when they’re free.  And if they’re not the price is usually much lower than the newly published hardcover edition.

So the next time I go off on another travel adventure I’ll download another book or books to take along. You also need to know that I’ve traded in those tight high and mighty jeans for a pair of light summer sweats that tend not to embarrass me as much.

Filed Under: Addiction, Books, Life, Memoir, Poetry, Writing Tagged With: ,

April In The Big Apple

April 22, 2012 By

Up on the High Line.

My husband, Bill, makes at least one or two trips to New York City each year to catch up on the latest in theatre and also movies that most likely will never make it to Charlottesville. We have one small independent movie house that does its best, but the same film often plays for weeks on end, while good Indi flicks whiz by us.  Charlottesville is known for hosting the Virginia Film Festival every fall and you’d think we’d get all the good ones but that isn’t the case.  In summer especially, the movie theatres show nothing but violence, fantasy and whatever junk is out there.

For those who don’t know him, Bill is a director, an actor and a playwright who has also taught for many years on the high school and college levels.  His trips are usually 4 or 5 days in length and in that span of time he’ll usually take in 6 or 7 plays and whatever number of movies he can fit in, usually 2 or 3.  He then writes his take on what he sees  and his experiences on his blog, View In The Dark.

I don’t usually accompany him on his binges because I’m not fond of  sitting for hour upon hour in dark rooms where the only light is focused on stage, even for the world’s best in theatre.  It’s great for him to get away so that he can focus on what he’s seeing and I get some time to do nothing but take care of my own needs here at home.

We do however always plan an additional trip when together, we spend time doing other favorite city things.  Although, seeing top Broadway shows is always on the list, we’ll often go to an art museum or two and take in sites like Ellis Island or riding the ferry to and from Staten Island while we recite Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem, Recuerdo.  And we always spend time in the City’s green spaces so that I don’t become overwhelmed by the energy of such a large metropolitan area.  When I’m in Manhattan, I need continual grounding and the parks are the place for me to find solace amidst the crush and noise that is a constant in the City.

The week before last, I spent five days in New York City sitting in dark, crowded rooms with my Love, seeing some of the world’s finest theatre.  The shows we saw were at night when the sun wasn’t shining so I got to spend most of my days out-of-doors.  We did go to two afternoon movies I’m sorry we chose, but when you’re film starved as I’ve been, you pay your money and take your chances.  The weather was perfect and too nice to waste time indoors seeing stuff that we weren’t moved by.

The Broadway shows we did go to were mostly spectacular, especially Death of a Salesman, with Philip Seymour Hoffman. Anything Goes, was refreshing, funny, and I wanted to get up onstage to dance and sing those old, wonderfully familiar Cole Porter tunes myself.

Porgy and Bess, left me wanting more of Gershwin. Though the story is a tragic one, music of the Gershwins’ always speaks to my soul, leaving me immersed in it even as I sleep. I’m still humming Summertime, I Got Plenty of Nothing, and I Loves You, Porgy, long after having the privilege of being in the theatre to see and hear this marvelous show.

On the other hand, The Best Man, a political piece about a 1960 president election, written by Gore Vidal, starring James Earl Jones and Angela Lansbury, left me cold.  About the same kind of hateful campaigning we’re experiencing right this minute, I could have simply stayed home and watched the evening news. The only difference between the ‘60s and now is the amount of money being spent to buy this years election.  And even with those two all-time favorite stars it was nothing special.

The biggest surprise and absolutely stunning was a benefit performance of the gospel/musical, Momma, I Want To Sing, up in Harlem, at the MaMa Foundation for the Arts’, Dempsey Theater.  We’d seen a segment about the Foundation and its work on CBS’ Sixty Minutes, a while back and agreed we’d love to see what they do in person. We both love music in all genres and especially soulful, African-American gospel. Aware of how important music is in everyone’s life, we find the Foundation’s mission of presenting, preserving and promoting gospel, jazz and the R&B arts through programs like Gospel for Teens, to be extremely important. Especially since music, as with most art curriculums, is disappearing from many a school program during these hard economic times.

Twice a year, the Foundation, auditions kids between the ages of thirteen and nineteen for a spot in the Gospel For Teens Choir. Those selected are immersed in gospel music, and then move on to an advanced class in performing for live audiences.  They’ve won numerous awards and have traveled all over the globe bringing music and joy to those who have the opportunity to see and hear them.  I’d go see it again in a heartbeat for the   pure, inspiring energy they bring to my soul.

Up on the High Line.

However, the best part of the trip for me was taking a subway ride downtown to walk on the High Line, one of the Manhattan’s newest green spaces, above the City’s canyons, on a mile long stretch of old rail road tracks.  It’s beautifully designed and planted with native trees, shrubs and perennials, many of them in bloom when we were there. We walked it twice in as many days and the back pain I usually experience walking the streets of New York, surrounded by concrete and steel, was not in evidence for the rest of those days. Unlike the more serious faces of the hoards who hang out on Times Square, everyone walking the High Line was smiling.  It has topped the list of my favorite parks in the City, closely followed by Bryant Park and of course, Central Park, where watching people with their dogs is one of my favorite NYC past times.

If you’re interested in theatre, movies and some stupendous writing do check out Bill’s blog, View In The Dark.

Art up on the High Line.

Filed Under: Life, love, marriage, Music, Poetry, Travels
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