On Mother’s Day

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!

A Changed Mind

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.

April In The Big Apple

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.

What I Have To Say

The floodgates are straining. They cannot be opened up just a little.  I don’t have the strength to hold them so that only some of the run-off leaks out.  It’s all or nothing. By letting the stream overflow on it’s own, I risk being swept away by the torrent when the gates can longer resist the building pressure of words on the other side. Just a few weeks ago there was a void so deep that I was sure it would never fill again.  Such is the writing life and to be expected, I suppose.

For me it seems to be about satisfaction with life in general.  When the river dried up about a month ago I allowed myself to do other things.  I played, pottered about the house, straightening, neatening, and allowing myself to be at peace with the drought of words. I had time each day to notice the moon and stars as evening slowly overtook my world.  I sat and marveled at the early swelling of flower buds, the unfurling of leaves and a robin chasing his image reflected in the side view mirror of a neighbor’s car.  He was  intent on capturing the heart of the lady robin who appeared to be flirting with him. She disappeared each time he would try reaching out to her. I could feel his frustration growing. Can the desire for a mate and the desire to write be the same?  If it has to do with love, it must be so.

Instead of playing with words, I’ve been planting seedlings in the garden.  A few days ago I planted over three dozen plants: Christmas ferns, bleeding heart, tiny shooting stars, native columbine and Alleghany spurge. They are happily growing in the corner of the yard under blooming dogwoods and forest green hemlocks. Now that corner is aglow with new life, Mr. Robin appears to have found a real Mrs. and they are carrying dried grasses and leaves to a newfound nesting spot.  I’m at my desk writing words.

I’ve come to believe that the muse will never abandon me. We need a break from each other every now and then, like two lovers who go off to travel separate corners of the world.  They return vowing never to leave each other again.  They will of course separate again, but only for a time, because as the old saying goes: “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

I wrote the following poem back in 1991 when I was struggling with words and life in general.  Writing it helped me release the pressure building inside my head and my heart.

Words

Push
Through
Spreading
Fissures
I force
Them back
Repress
Meaning
Sounds
Dismiss them
As inadequate
Already said
Yet they must
Begin somewhere
As if there is
A place to start
Here on this line
Reaching those
Who would hear
What I have to say

A few of the plants I put in.

Books

There is no friend as loyal as a book.
Ernest Hemingway

I love books.  You might say I’m addicted to them.  I have a long list of books at Amazon ready to be purchased.  Right now they are mostly memoirs and books on writing.  I try to order only three or four at a time, but that’s very difficult for me.  They are as tempting as my favorite locally made chocolates or a quart of freshly picked, June strawberries from the farm down the road.  I often tell myself, “I’ll never have enough.” or “I’ll buy it now, because I REALLY NEED it. ”

I also tell myself that my addiction is harmless because books aren’t narcotics or contain alcohol. I’m not into buying diamonds, furs, or private jets.  I don’t need those things and I don’t have that kind of money.  If I did, I’d probably spend it all on books, with a healthy dose of traveling and clothes thrown in.

I’ve been told by those who frequent AA meetings that thoughts like that are called, “Stinking Thinking.” Well, I’m guilty.  And though I’ve known that I’m a bookaholic and do a lot of stinking thinking for a long time, I am in the middle of confirming it as official. We moved to this house almost two years ago.  In the frenzy of the move, my husband and I got rid of a lot of books.  I can’t speak for him, but for me it was difficult.  I chose books that I remembered as not being engaging … that no longer drew me and/or that obviously for one reason or another,  I never should have bought in the first place.  After the move and unbeknownst to me, Bill asked a friend who was helping us to unload all of the boxes of books onto our bookshelves.

I discovered a problem a month or two later when I was looking for one in particular, a favorite poetry book.  All of my books had been unpacked and in some cases packed in such a way that they were all mixed up and out-of-order. You might think I’m a bit anal, but I’ve always grouped genres of books together.  Poetry, Gardening, Nature, Novels, Memoirs, etc.  The only ones I keep in alphabetical order are the poets. There are too many to do otherwise.

So, as wonderful as it seemed to have all of my books unpacked for me, it was a nightmare. I had my work cut out for me.  Just after Christmas, Bill and I decided to finally get our downstairs “Tornado” room put together and unpacked.  It’s underground, where all of the bookcases are located, along with a TV, puzzles, games and a fireplace.  It’s cozy.  Warm in the winter, and cool in the summer.   A perfect place to ride out any storm.

It’s where one night last summer, while Bill was having a meeting of associates, we made everyone go when a tornado warning came across on our emergency weather radio, telling us to take shelter immediately.  We flew to the basement, glasses of wine and crackers and cheese in hand. We sat amongst unpacked boxes and moving rubble for about thirty minutes waiting for the tornado to hit or move on.  One friend laughingly realized she was a “Tornado Virgin,” never having gone through a warning before.   Thankfully, the tornado passed us by and we were safe. No damage had been done, except for the embarrassment of having everyone see the mess and the boxes still needing to be unpacked.  We swore we’d get the room organized.  Reshelving the books was mostly my job since most of them are mine.

Since Christmas I’ve been working a little bit at a time to get my precious tomes in order.  First, I did poetry.  Then came gardening, cooking, and books on using herbs as medicine.  I’m now at work on my books on religion and spirituality, which are many.  I know I could get it all done in one day, but I’m enjoying the slow pace.  Books feel good in my hands.  They smell um, booky. They are filled with wisdom and some actually seem to glow.  No, not like a kindle. Like a real book that’s offering itself to me.

I have discovered that I have many books that I bought and have never read.  As I place each one onto it’s new shelf, I flip through a few pages and immediatley want to sit down and read it from the beginning. There are others I consider to be “old friends” that I’d like to read again or that I simply could never part with.  I started out making a pile of books that I wanted to read for the first time.  I gave up.  There are too many.  And there are three more on their way through the postal system that will be added to the stack by my bedside.

I’m trying to be honest with myself.  I am an addict.  I need to get my problem under control.  Someone suggested that I start going to the library instead of buying books.  That’s all well and good for some, but I like to write comments in books and I’m afraid that wouldn’t do if it belonged to the library.  Maybe I just need to read faster.  Maybe if I stay up later than I normally do and get up earlier I can get them all read.

And just maybe I shouldn’t buy any more until I’ve read the ones I’ve already got … Ah yes, books.  They’re a problem.