“It’s not how much we give but how much love we put into giving.” ― Mother Teresa
The holidays magnify expectations. Suddenly, I think I need to fall into perfect alignment with the world. A perfect world. However, perfection doesn’t exist anywhere except in the dictionary. Pause. Breathe. Ask for help. Or give it. Christmas tree lights are artificial. Human light isn’t.
Good morning, mirror. I can count on you to be truthful. This day may be young, but my face shouts geriatric. Reflections don’t need to speak to shout reality. You can be powerful. I watch and let what I see connect with my brain and heart so soon after Thanksgiving. Life is a precious gift. I think about gains and losses. People. Things.
One glance outside shows me trees with rough bark. When birds and animals visit a growing oak or maple, they don’t change the tree’s mind about what the species is, or why it doesn’t have leaves this time of year. I wonder, was my last storm worth fighting? Or would it have been better to wait it out? Wisdom discerns when to act and when to remain silent. Whatever I do, may I choose to do it, to be it, to act with as full a vision as possible. May I lose this notion that I need to be perfect to be okay.
Good morning, mirror. Good morning, fresh-day me. One more opportunity to make a difference.
Families are the deepest, most screwed up relationships that we have. Antony StarrTHE DOLL HOUSE
Her pink shirt stained
with chocolate birthday cake,
the little girl moves miniature figures
through her new doll house.
The adults talk.
Their voices rise and fall with
grunts and whines.
That child’s daddy needs a new attitude.
Ray should knock off the bourbon
before his liver turns into a sponge
like the one in Nita’s filthy sink.
What’s the point of a 25-cent coupon
on four cans of tuna?
High-priced gas in a rusty Chevy is
like pouring diamonds
into a broken goddamn gumball ring.
The little girl pauses,
interrupted by dull laughter, a cynic’s applause,
as she prepares her doll family for a special trip
under the stairway,
where purple sand and white sea waits,
with a sky where the only clouds permitted
are made of ice cream and marshmallows,
and no one over the age of six may enter.
“The older I get, the more I believe in what I can’t explain or understand, even more than the things that are explainable and understandable.” ― Lillian Gish
Our carbon monoxide detector squeals at 9PM. My husband and I discover no apparent problem. However, the detector isn’t programmed to cry without reason. We need the help of our utility company. Now.
Within an hour five red caution tags cover worn valves. We don’t have gas to cook, can’t take a warm shower, and rely on the outside mid-fifties temperature for heat. An inconvenience. I realize how much I have taken for granted. Gas has a unique perfume for a good reason.
The next day my son and a trusted friend from our church community tellus there was something bizarre about this situation. Our simple carbon monoxide detector is not designed to detect natural gas leaks. How did it take on an administrative role when it had entry-level training?
The details don’t matter. The unexplained miracle does.
An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind.
― Mahatma Gandhi
Men willing to break their own arms
rather than race into fire and death,
war games played without winners.
The news spreads in endless loops
on screens with color but no dimension
while some watchers gasp, yet
others pass a bowl of snacks,
grateful the pain strikes in another
language, continent, time zone.
Human beings willing to reach
beyond a huff or pant. One country
touching another. One person
letting peace stretch beyond a closed
room. We will not let war
cage the world with hate. Or apathy.
Or depression. It will take time, but,
let us discover peace. Together.
“When someone loves you, the way they talk about you is different. You feel safe and comfortable.”
― Jess C. Scott, The Intern
Future Life Dancer
Two little girls dance
on an empty open stage.
They twirl exploring dizziness
and laugh as song rhythms repeat.
A man comes and pulls
the older child away while
the smaller one continues
to explore her own feet,
to pat her toes in syncopated
rhythms on the wooden floor
as if she notices her shoes
and their sounds for the first time.
My brow lowers as the
scene continues and I wonder
if I am making judgments based
on fact. To bless all possibilities
I slip by the father and his two
small girls. “You have beautiful
children,” I say, then grin at the
older child. My words are for her.
illustration made from public domain image
"Rarely does one see a squirrel tremble."
Zadie Smith.
The air in Canada carries peace—until a black
squirrel attack begins.
“Watch out!” a fellow traveler calls as an
acorn whizzes past me from the roof
of the motel.
Squashed acorns appear all over
the parking lot.
The squirrel appears and searches through
the pieces. Humans aren’t a target now.
It’s buffet time.
All I know for certain is that I am not
invited. The woman who saw the critter's
prank,smiles.
She and I talk. We feast on the moment,
the serendipity of meeting others.
illustration made from cut paper and colored pencil
“(24/7) once you sign on to be a mother, that's the only shift they offer.”
― Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper
BIRTH AND GROWTH, A POEM
Swollen, toxic, ignorant of motherhood,
you lie in your post-world-war hospital bed,
and wonder if you’ve heard lies.
How can a newborn, untouched
by her life source, be fine?
You see, hear, touch, smell nothing but
bleached sheets and ward antiseptic.
The baby develops away from you
in a nursery. You return home without her,
cord leaked into your womb, severed.
Later, at home, baby grows fed on evaporated milk
and rules made of rules. Each should-be is sacred.
The child reaches for you, to break the barrier,
but not until long after she delivers your grandson.
By then you have embraced age. It has taken you away.
Your great-granddaughter finds your photo in an old album.
“That’s my mother,” your daughter says.
“You would have loved her.”
The chasm finally closes.
For no good reason at all.
illustration made from public domain photo and colored chalk
“Guard well your thoughts when alone and your words when accompanied.”
― Roy T. Bennett
Thoughts, Cracked and Imperfect
small thoughts wander through small minds
the way grains of sand move inside a plastic water bucket
EXAGGERATED THOUGHTS CHARGE THROUGH INFLATED MINDS
WITH THE CLAMOR OF BLINDED DRIVERS SPEEDING THROUGH ORANGE BARRELS
DisJointed tHoughtS haZZard tHrough ScaTTered miNds
LiKE a hUndrEd lOsinG lottery TicKets FloatinG in a fLoodeD STreaM.
Clear thoughts carry possibilities,
confined by human limitations.
small, EXAGGERATED, and DisJointed fraGmentS impoSe
upoN clariTy.
May I keep my mouth shut
until clarity wins.