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Archive for September, 2021

The Year Before Dad Died, a Poem

Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , on September 27, 2021| Leave a Comment » 











I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted, and behold, service was joy. (Rabindranath Tagore)


Fernald Nature Preserve, 2012  
The Year Before Dad Died

January opens a sliver of warmth
as my husband and I
traipse through fresh mud,
past wadded-leaf squirrel nests, and
over discarded acorn tops.
My boots collect clumps of
soil in their ridges. When the trail
widens I slide my grimy soles
over loose gravel,
 and beg it to remove the soil.

What I really want is to cover
my father with more than
a thin, white institutional blanket
as he lies a few miles away
in his narrow nursing home bed,
even though I know in minutes
he will thrash about, the blanket tossed aside,
as if it were tissue paper that could be 
blown across this lake with a single breath,
his thin arms and legs exposed.

They didn’t take off my stockings last night,
he told me. And yet his nurse claimed 
he’d been confused.
I responded that he may not recall detail,
but he recognizes pain.

I wanted to add,
Can’t you see beyond the stroke,
the tremors, the uncertainty,
and age? Can’t you see the man?

The words blew away, 
more quickly than bitter winds
scatter October’s leaves.

I speak now to the stark brown 
outline of trees 
until I discover the blue above them,
the same brightness that celebrated August
with strips of white spanning the sky
before the goldfinch dulled his feathers,
when the hummingbird’s wings rarely paused,
and tomorrow was only a word.      
 
I allow the spirit of the Preserve
to open the way
to beauty
present even now
in winter chill,
in touching pain,
in healing life.


					
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Home Again, Home Again

					

					Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , ,  on September 19, 2021|
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waterfall in the Pocono mts


Much of writing might be described as mental pregnancy with successive difficult deliveries. (J.B. Priestley, author)


 My keys are missing. The entire ring. It could be smashed on the expressway or recovered by a bird searching for shiny objects. I don’t worry. I panic. The keys could be anywhere in five states. As far away as eight-hundred miles. My husband did all the driving. My car sleeps in front of our house. 


 In the meantime, I breathe. Slowly in and out. It takes time to lose the difficult moments and embrace both my sense of humor and the many beautiful memories that swim through my mind. The picture taken in the Poconos is one of many examples.


 The last load of wash is in the dryer. My older son calls and tells me I don’t need to go to the dealer to get a car key replacement. Walmart automotive has more reasonable prices. 


 Gratitude. It fits. I hope mama crow uses our house key as a worm plate for her newly hatched chick.


 Loss. May it create room for blessings. Room for words that celebrate those blessings.


 





					
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Inside Dreams

					

					Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , , , ,  on September 9, 2021|
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inside dreams


Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere. (Albert Einstein)


 The hotel bed is large, comfortable, with sheets cleaned by someone other than me. I’m on vacation. And yet, my closed eyes don’t travel toward dreamland. Two hours pass. A thunderstorm hits both outside, into the noisy street, and inside me, into a series of both recent and long-gone events that refuse to change their reality.


 Facts. Time to change channels. Silently my brain sings Summertime from Porgy and Bess. My one and only standing ovation for a vocal solo more than 55 years ago. The only song my arthritic fingers can strum on a guitar after a broken middle finger. Nope. Too many replays. I am yawning. Not a good sign.


I try grandchild stories. Smiles. Nonsense. Happy trouble. Words. Not the quiet needed for sleep.


Gratitude. Simple. I move closer to warmth. The man I married fifty years ago. And sleep steals my body and mind, the anesthetic necessary for healing. Perhaps as I waken not long after seven, my dreams didn’t have enough time to do a full night’s work. And I don’t remember the tiniest dream sequence.




 The sun rises and dries the cement-sidewalk world outside my window. My eyes open to a day that could take me anywhere. It doesn’t ask for perfect. Perfect has no place else to go. Sounds boring.


Boring ends across the street at a local coffee shop. A young girl behind the counter. Her name is Kay. I buy a croissant-sandwich and then survey the homemade treats. We talk. The beauty in her spirit speaks louder than her words. I don’t have enough change for the cookie I buy.


“That’s okay. I’ll spot it,” she says. 


I pause. The difference is one-third the cost.


“That’s okay. I’ll spot it,” she repeats.


And I tell her I will announce her kindness in a larger forum. This blog.




Thank you, Kay! May your fondest dreams come true.


 

					
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Are We There Yet? A Poem

					

					Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , ,  on September 3, 2021|
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country road_LI




What you're missing is that the path itself changes you. (Julien Smith, The Flinch)

Are we there yet? 
my child voice calls from the past.
And I recall waves of heat
on the road ahead, illusions of invisible fire
as my dad drives toward them.

Are we there yet?
a younger brother repeats
as the road continues
past neat rows of corn.
And cows, a rare sight for a city child. 

Are we there yet?
my siblings and I wonder.
We’ve asked too many times.

And now I watch
a different road. My beyond grown
wrinkled hands grasp the steering wheel.
“You really are old,”
my honest granddaughter says.

And we pass the full summer
beauty of leaves soon to ripen red
and drop.

My granddaughter and I
laugh as the light turns green.

Are we there yet?
I answer a long-ago child.
You were already there.



(pic taken from public domain photo)




					
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