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A Teaspoon of Vanilla, Bitter and Sweet

April 30, 2021 by terrypetersen

vanilla

Forever is composed of nows. (Emily Dickinson)

Back in the days when I thought childhood and eternity were synonyms, a neighbor kid and I poured vanilla into a teaspoon and tasted it. The flavor was nothing like the ice cream or cake that shared the label. The other girl and I giggled about it. And made faces exaggerating the bitterness.

Again? Yes. We did it again. My mother obviously wasn’t in the room. The taste didn’t improve. Neither did my judgment for years. In a lot of areas. Strange, Mom never did ask why she needed more vanilla so soon. Perhaps we didn’t take as much as my taste buds recall.

That old memory appears as I put a fresh bottle of vanilla in my cabinet. As my mind travels into other realities. Two funerals. One next week. Another not yet planned. The second death occurred today. A member of my church community. It doesn’t seem real. And yet, my head knows differently. I hear her voice in my head. I want to answer back.

Darkness. Light. Bitterness and sweet. This moment. Capture it now.

The holes in lace become the design. The bee, part stinger and part honey maker. A full moon against a black sky.

Childhood and forever. No longer the same.

Balance. May it find its place in more than flavors.

 

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From a Dandelion, a Word to the Wise

April 24, 2021 by terrypetersen

Dandelions, like all things in nature are beautiful when you take the time to pay attention to them. (June Stoyer)

Good afternoon, human. I’ve been awake since early morning, grateful last week’s pesticide spray missed me.

Sure, I’ll pose. There are tulips on the other side of the sidewalk. Red. Yellow. I noticed you didn’t stop to admire them. You knew people in the eighteenth century preferred my ancestors to mowed grass. Nice research. I am hardy, rise early, and sleep late. I appreciate the compliment.

Wait… Don’t leave so quickly. I’d like to play mirror with a homo sapiens for a minute. Because…because you are thinking about people who are important to you. One woman was beaten when she was a child. She needed to be rescued. Yet, her spirit shines brighter than my yellow surface.  Her giving is honest.

I talked a bit fast there. But I wanted to get a lot of stuff in. Strange, isn’t it, how some creations flourish where others dissolve with the next temperature rise? Not a judgment, just what it is. An orchid is in trouble when its leaves get too dark. Can’t change that in a human either. However, the human has more sources for support. Physical. Mental.

You didn’t expect that much from a plant, a flower, this ordinary, did you? Even you have your stereotypes. I hope to see you again after the next mowing. Keep your eyes open. Thanks for the chat.

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Pool Water, A Metaphor for Peace

April 17, 2021 by terrypetersen

pool_LI

Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that. (Martin Luther King Jr., A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches)

A few jumps in cool pool water and my moving body feels warmer. The water temperature hasn’t changed. I have.

Aerobics class begins. Participants exercise in rows, five to six persons in each section. Different ages and backgrounds. I chat with a woman my age about our years in similar classes. Septuagenarian status and exercise are the few bonds we share. Politically we could be on separate continents.

“She talks to us,” she says to her companion. The word us is understood without explanation. Her friend is more rigid in her position than my chatting counterpart. I don’t respond. Left and right. Why can’t we communicate? Why do labels need such sharp edges? Why can’t the pool water warm all realms of thought?

I banter with my companion. I don’t argue. I don’t throw pebbles at a brick wall and expect the wall to shatter, to transform into a mirror.

Answers. I am not sure they come in words. Love isn’t pure sweetness. It is more like dark chocolate. It needs a bitter side to be real. Unfortunately, life doesn’t come with a recipe. Show what is right rather than jabber about it. The child who never learns consequences begins life empty.

One more day. Open ears, but never an integrity compromise.

A few more jumps in the pool. I am comfortable here. The temperature of the water remains the same. It doesn’t need the same level of change as individuals who touch it. And then, perhaps, touch one another…

 

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The Seasons of Envy: A Poem

April 10, 2021 by terrypetersen

clean sheets

The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.  (L.P. Hartley, The Go-Between)

THE SEASONS OF ENVY

When my kids were little
another young mother
ironed sheets, handkerchiefs,

boxer shorts, and the white T-shirts
her husband wore
to repair other folks’ plumbing.

A super-heroine mom.
I don’t recall her name.
We belonged to the same circle,

but I rarely spoke to her.
I thought we were too different.
Her kids appeared photo-shoot ready,

even in the sandbox.
Before noon my kids’ shirts needed pre-soak.
My boys called dress-up clothes corpse attire,

and a shirt buttoned to the neck, a noose.
Hours bonding with an iron didn’t suit my lifestyle.
Yet, I wondered how super-mom managed.

I honored her the way some people venerate saints,
the ones who accept martyrdom over burning coals
as if it were sunburn.

I meditate as I iron. Her explanation. Life’s wrinkles transformed.
Mine remained. I recall those days 
as I change bed sheets on an ordinary Thursday afternoon.

I notice holes in fabric
that has lasted through bleach, hot water,
myriad spins, more than one washer and dryer.

I consider the decades,
the blood clot in my lung, my parents’ funerals,
and nights when I couldn’t sleep.

I rub my hand over creases
and feel the texture of old cotton,
as if I could gather the years,

hold and thank them
for loss and imperfections
that have added character to my imperfections.


















									


				

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Like a Goldfinch: A Poem

				
April 3, 2021 by terrypetersen  

				


				

					





You are imperfect, permanently, and inevitably flawed. And you are beautiful. (Amy Bloom)


 


Like a Goldfinch


I look for the male goldfinch each Spring,


for the bright yellow feathers that say,


I am here and so is the warmth of a new season.


 


Yet, the goldfinch visits my feeder


all winter.  He perches, dressed in drab, 


everyday browns and grays.


In each season, whether white or green,


he flies away, thistle-seed fed. 


One avian creature with 


different-mood feathers.


 


I recognize warm seasons, 


sun-colored birds, and blue skies.


And call them acceptable.


 


And yet, manure that creates roses


irritates my sensibilities.


 


Welcome, Mr. Goldfinch 


in whatever suit you wear.


I hope to embrace my grayer feathers 


with equal enthusiasm.


 


 





									


				

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Poem: Guilt

				
March 26, 2021 by terrypetersen  

				


				

					
guilt and spice


“There’s no problem so awful, that you can’t add some guilt to it and make it even worse.” (voice of comic strip character, Calvin, Bill Watterson, The Complete Calvin and Hobbes)


I found the following short poem among a stack of papers I saved. The pile needed to be faced before it reached the ceiling. Copies of stories since published, others that fit in the practice-until-you-get-it-right category, and sentimental items. I kept a few letters from friends now deceased. A birthday letter I wrote to my dad.


The pile is gone. The recycling bin was heavy before it was dragged away. The moment is free now.




I wrote Guilt in the winter of 1994. That is what it says at the bottom of the original. I can’t recall why that information was significant. I also don’t remember why these simple five lines appeared on blue parchment. It doesn’t matter. Move on… Learn… Grow…




 Guilt


A pinch of guilt


when used as spice


accentuates the real.


Regret is indigestible


when served as the main meal.

									


				

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Once Upon an Open Hand

				
March 19, 2021 by terrypetersen  

				


				

					




The hand is the visible part of the brain. (Immanuel Kant)





Same person, skin, muscle, and bone. Yet, amazing the difference between a hand and a fist. Opened it can give and receive. Closed, tightened with anger, it becomes a weapon.





 Clenched in stressful situations, the same fingers reflect fear.





I tried to take a picture of my left-hand last night. Arthritis and an imperfectly recovered fractured metacarpal led my unsteady digits to create a blurred mess. The final product landed as delete permanently. Moreover, the photo centered on veins, age lines, and cracked nails. An accurate view. But at any age, the same thumb and four fingers can reach out, even if touch doesn’t make it all the way to another person’s grasp.





My hands can fold together in prayer, wash a dish, make soup for someone who is ill. Or they can grab the remote control and ignore the ringing phone.





My brain makes the choice. Imperfect words state my intention.















(photo based on a public domain photo

									


				

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From the POV of my Coffee Cup

				
March 12, 2021 by terrypetersen  

				


				

					


We lose many things simply out of fear of losing them. (Paulo Coelho)


Anthropomorphic. Yup, I admit it. In this short blog, my coffee cup understands every word I say. I’m too lost in my own overfull agenda to hear it.


“Holy grounds, I had that mug a second ago. Where the heck did it go?”


“Before you made stew in the crock-pot, checked your email, put in a load of wash, emptied the dishwasher…By the way, my contents are iceberg cold.”


I walk through the kitchen, living room, and dining room.


“That wasn’t a second ago.” The cup’s tone is as cold as the coffee.


“Come on. Where are you? I need to leave for art class in less than thirty minutes.”


“Try locked in the microwave. Put in your hearing aids. Follow the beeps. Please, lady. I’d open the door by myself, but your screaming would crack my surface. I’ve heard your descant. You strike a mighty high range.”


“Oh, there it is. Maybe if I heat it again, I’ll have time to drink at least half.”


“Then leave me with a dark ring around my middle. Gee thanks.”


“Now to get my shoes…Wait a minute! I know I took them off while I was on the couch.”


“Hah, hah,” says a black, old slip-on from just under the sofa. “I thought I would help us both out a bit, mug. She takes me for granted, too.”


Some of my things have a bizarre sense of humor.


 


 





									


				

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Spilled

				
March 6, 2021 by terrypetersen  

				


				

					


Cleaning anything involves making something else dirty, but anything can get dirty without something else getting clean. (Laurence J. Peter)


Maple syrup spilled 


in the back of my refrigerator.


 


As I scrub, beeps sound


a warning. Close the door. Now.


 


A fridge’s chill skill weakens




when heated air threatens its territory.


 


Maple goo has attacked a jar of pickles


This won’t take long, I hope.


 


I scrub, giving no anesthesia to mechanical


cries. Yet when I wait on hold


 


for three-calls-ahead


at my local pharmacy


 


during a pandemic rage,


I sometimes sigh and pace, as if


 


the workload of a short-staffed drugstore didn’t exist. 


I have an agenda. Twenty-six hours forced into twenty-four.


 


A bit at a time, I say to the fridge


opened for briefer moments.


 


A more intensive task comes next.


Removing stickiness inside me.


 


 

									


				

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The Almost Ice-Cream Cake

				
February 28, 2021 by terrypetersen  

				


				

					
 


Failure doesn’t exist. It’s only a change of direction. (Alejandro Jodorowsky)


Oops! One smudge of cake batter on my pinky. And it tastes horrid. The mixture is missing…sugar! The surprise cake is for someone I love. However, this concoction would work better as an eviction notice for squirrels damaging the attic. 


My creation. Saved in time.


An ice cream center, yes! A great idea. Until the freezer door is left partially open. The chocolate cake is lovely. But it looks like it was lined with pale pond scum. 


My sweet guest isn’t in the mood for cake anyway. Then, she admits ice cream has been bothering her belly. I guess I need to change direction.


Amazing what sweetness can do. Depending upon what kind it is. Fortunately, in everyday life, flavor and savor don’t need to contain calories.  Amiability does require intention. 


This time I am lucky. My guest and I haven’t seen one another for months. She settles in as if she were here yesterday. And the day previous.


“Help yourself,” I say. She puts hot sauce on her spaghetti. I smile but don’t try it.


Life doesn’t have much to do with my expectations. How much I adjust is another matter.


 


 





									


				

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