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Posts Tagged ‘gratitude’

In the Nursing Home, a Poem

Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , , , on January 28, 2022| Leave a Comment » 

Our lives can't be measured by our final years, of this I am sure. 
(Nicholas Sparks, The Notebook)

In the Nursing Home

They call the shower
a car wash. Every other day,
lathered head to toe,

the loose-skinned residents
sit exposed on a shower chair.
Who am I?

A tiny, bent-over man,
eyes bulging,
stares through the drops,

feels himself dissolve, 
slips down the drain 
with the suds.

Who was I before
these veins raised up blue
and held tight to something?

Or to someone?
He closes his eyes
and sees flickering darkness.

Gone are his long-ago wife
and the daughter who avoids
his blank expression. 

Life hides somewhere among
the oak and maple in the courtyard,
full some years, barren others, 

among his hand-crafted bird houses,
forgotten now, splintered, rotted,   
as the man’s attendant

lifts his dried arms
into a fresh shirt
he doesn’t recognize.

Then, residents gather at round tables.
A man smiles. He nods back,
as he listens to vague stories about

their car washes. Frowns, snickers.
And where-is-the-salt-
for-this-gosh-awful-soup?

While the common room piano
waits for someone to play,
with a voice strong enough

to sing the songs
these walls know
without breaking.

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If Only, a Poem

Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , , on January 14, 2022| Leave a Comment »

To move freely you must be deeply rooted. (Bella Lewitzky)

 

IF ONLY

If peace were a bird, it would fly through heat or wind. 
It would thrive in a nest open to storm.


If peace were a mountain,
it would stand patient,
constant, firm for centuries.

If peace were a tree, it would begin
as an acorn, unafraid of darkness,

then grow to house birds,
and reach for mountains.

Peace. It transcends
mountain borders, 
and allows foreign bird species
to nest together

despite unseen possibilities.



originally published in For a Better World 2011

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Dear 101st Birthday, Dad

Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , on January 2, 2022| Leave a Comment »

broken angel

When we think of the past it’s the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that. (Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale)

Happy 101st Birthday, Dad!

I have this image of a cartoon. On the outside of a closed door is a sign that reads: miscellaneous. Papers stick-out from all sides. Recently, I shredded or recycled notes that could have been in Sanskrit. It was about time I eliminated the clutter. Other items struck me as precious finds. Jewels at the bottom of a deep sea.

If he were alive my father would be 101 the first day of this year. In the chaos I found this fantasy letter I wrote for him on his birthday in 2004.

***

Dear Dad,

This story is fiction. After all, I don’t recall anything that happened before I was two. However, I am imagining talking to the angel in charge of directing new souls. In the tale, fresh individuals can request either a young father or mother to-be, with the approval of higher authority of course.

The angel on duty sighed a lot as I chose my dad. I mean, perfect wasn’t possible, and the angel kept telling me, “You need to learn from life.  Not live on some comfy cloud like a particle of icy elements. Think carefully…”

I took the guide literally and checked-out earth in the 1940’s for half of forever.

He got testy after I finished the tenth global spin. “The boss didn’t take this long when he chose his son’s mother. Give me your best-daddy data. Now.”

He entered the statistics on this computer that was part cloud and part moving keyboard. At this time only manual typewriters existed on earth, the kind that required a complete redo when the user made a mistake on the last line. “You do have non-cusser on my list.”

“I got it. I got it.”

I add, “I will need someone who can fix things. You know, a man with good mechanical sense.”

The angel shook his head and then looked into the store of talents I would have and nodded. “Oh yes, you will have creative abilities. However, you will need help in the practical field. Please take you-know out of that sentence. I have a sense your future father won’t like that habit.”

“Make him a generous carpenter.” I added.

“So now you are asking for Joseph II.” The angel sighed.

That’s when I saw you, Dad. In Africa. In an army uniform. “Yes! I decided.”

“Are you ready to see who he will marry as soon as the war is over? Dad’s busy taking bombs apart before they explode right now.”

The angel turned a switch and I saw a short woman with blue eyes and natural brown curls. A great cook.

“Okay, let me know when to be ready.”

“You’ll know. Believe me. You’ll know.”

 Sometime before the birth process I lost all recollection of this story and grew up like every human does. I think it’s supposed to be that way. However, I am glad I made a heck of a good choice. Happy birthday to a super father, even if this page reveals more imagination than fact.

(And maybe an edited word or two… or three.)

The angel in the above photo fell, broke, and had a botched super-glue surgery. Nevertheless, she never dropped her light. She is also a statue; the injury becomes metaphorical. No one escapes pain and loss. May we continue anyway.

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Adeline, Teach Me About Innocence

Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , , , , on December 27, 2021| 1 Comment »

Addie back view (2)

Children are the true connoisseurs, what’s precious to them has no price just value.
(Bel Kaufman) 

 

Two-year-old Adeline takes my finger, not my hand. Her hands aren’t big enough yet. Her charisma is sunshine mid-summer style. Time to play. I am the only other kid available. My granddaughter doesn’t seem to care about the seventy-three-year age difference.

The make-believe electric surface of her toy stove would be on if the scene were real. A wooden cell phone lies on the right front burner. Adeline needs my help to get corn on the cob out of the coffee pot. Strange, I’ve never faced this problem in my own kitchen.

She pulls two t-shirts out of her drawer and puts one on her head and one on mine. The procession begins. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have enough vocabulary to explain the ritual. I do understand the end of the game when she takes both shirts, returns them to the drawer and says, “all done.”

I don’t understand much of what my youngest grandchild says. I do comprehend her laughter, her enthusiasm, and her love. The slightest sound calls for a dance. Why walk when you can run? World ugliness hasn’t touched her yet. My son and daughter-in-law provide a place where love lives. She is blessed but doesn’t know it yet. I accept the warmth of her hand and revel in her innocence.

When my husband and I close the door and say goodbye, our little one cries. The reality of the outside world appears occasionally. When another child grabs one of her toys. When sickness appears. When fun ends too soon.

We will come back. In person. In the flat space known as facetime. The fullness of reality will arrive slowly. Hatred, pain, destruction, are real. Yet, when I look into her eyes and savor her personality, I want her to be a fresh, simple toddler forever.

Not every child knows the blessings our granddaughter lives. I consider the outgrown clothing I have in a drawer and realize they need a home.

If only I could pull an infant shirt from a drawer, put it in a bag for a child who needs it and say, “all done.” In the meantime, I celebrate what I have, do what I can for somebody else, anyone else, and let time do what it will. Perhaps somehow, I will grow up, too, and understand the difference between peace and pieces.

 

 

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Time, A Poem

Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , , , , on December 13, 2021| Leave a Comment » 

All men should strive to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why. (James Thurber)

Time. I’ve tried to wrap it in boxes
tied it with ribbon, 
then attempted to 
bind an hour with duct tape.

I’ve balanced on one leg,
kicked through water
and pretened strength could be
my master over the inevitable.

Hurry through tasks, I say,
beat the clock, and then tell 
exhaustion it doesn’t exist.

This moment—I’ve claimed it,
but held on longer than night and day allows.

Perfection. It doesn’t exist.
The whole of being can’t be 
grasped, owned and hugged 
as if it were a teddy bear.

I smile at a stranger. She smiles back.
The moment is neither longer nor shorter.
And yet its presence feels stronger.

No eternal answers
and yet, we instead of I, 
a recognition of companionship
in a world that doesn't need 
to be one-hundred percent struggle, 
adds running-with instead of fighting-alone.

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Home Again, Home Again

Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , , on September 19, 2021| 1 Comment »

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| Leave a Comment »

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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A Final Conversation with My Dying Microwave

Posted in humor, inspiration, tagged , , , , , , on July 2, 2021| Leave a Comment »

 

Life does exist. It’s the purpose that counts. (Toba Beta, My Ancestor Was an Ancient Astronaut)

Me: What is wrong with you? Ten minutes ago, you turned bacon into the crisp treat my granddaughter loves. Now you have the power of a second-hand toy microwave, the kind with parts that aren’t made anymore.

Microwave: You really want to know.

Me: Yes, I really want to know. STAT. I have guests for brunch.

Microwave: STAT. That stands for Some Time After Therapy. Extensive treatment. You warmed that coffee long enough to mimic molten lava. Did you really think that would coax me into action? If I suddenly rose from the dead, whose tongue were you trying to burn?

Me: Okay. Okay. I was desperate. Wait a minute. You are dead?

Microwave: Not completely. You need to pull my plug.

Me: Literally.

Microwave: Yes. I’m an appliance. You don’t pay for my healthcare. Electricity was all I needed. And an occasional cleaning. I can deal with a garbage-pickup burial. I wish you warm leftovers with no spillovers. May my replacement last as long as I have.

Me: Your timing stinks, you know.

Microwave: And you think you will be planning your demise?

Me: You’re mighty clever for an appliance. No. I don’t think I will jump into a casket on purpose.

Microwave: Well, your son has taken over the stove. Quite well. He’s not staring at a dying appliance for help. Time to face facts, human. You are mighty lucky to have something like me. Gratitude? Yeah. For what you have. For what you can do. Your son is calling you now. Your meal is ready. Celebrate. I’ll wave at you from the curb on pickup day. Well, I’ll wave metaphorically.

And by the way, nothing is wrong with me. Not in the larger scheme of things. You don’t blame a battery for wearing out. Or a day from turning into night. I did what I was meant to do.

Now, you do the same.

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Darkness and Light, an Almost-Poem Approach

Posted in inspiration, positive thinking, tagged , , , , , , on January 30, 2021| 2 Comments »

I feel a very unusual sensation—if it is not indigestion, I think it must be gratitude. (Benjamin Disraeli) 

Darkness.

Because the electricity is out again. And I am accustomed to flipping a switch and accepting light. As my own right. Without any awareness of entitlement.

Darkness.

It can be a gift or a curse. Deepened colors reveal dimension in a painting. Shade provides relief from the bright sun. Or darkness can mean hatred without reason, an ignorance of color or shade.

Darkness

can be found in a moment or it can be stuck inside a locked mental space. It can be a fear, based on the past, or a fear, set on immediate danger.

Light.

The power has returned. Mechanical clocks flash and beg to be reset. They remember this moment and begin from here. A fresh place in local time.

Light.

Who do I know who needs a simple touch? Power. Start. With a word. Gratitude for who that person is. Now.

Light

joins with power. Hospitals heal patients. People can survive and thrive. A new day. And a new day in this simple, small house where two septuagenarians celebrate the gift of another day.

 

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More Than a Morning Newspaper Delivery

Posted in inspiration, tagged , , , , , on January 21, 2021| 3 Comments »

We are formed and molded by our thoughts. Those whose minds are shaped by selfless thoughts give joy when they speak or act. Joy follows them like a shadow that never leaves them. (Buddha)

Eight AM. The doorbell rings. My hair is in pre-brushed condition. I wonder if delivery trucks could be on the road already.

“No, it’s a little boy,” my husband says. “I saw him come up the walk.”

A child, no more than seven years old, appears on the other side of the door, his dark eyes wide. He hands me the morning newspaper.

“Why, thank you,” I say. “That was very kind of you.”

He dips his mask for one moment to show a full-faced smile.

My paler face responds to his sweet, rich chocolate grin.

I don’t recognize the child, but my heart has taken a photograph.

He runs up the street, his backpack announcing the beginning of a school day.

My day has begun with an unopened newspaper and news of a different kind. Good exists. It lives in the spirit of a small boy made of large kindnesses.

I hope that our painted sidewalk and lawn sign make clear important facts: Black Lives Matter. People with Down syndrome have innate value. Individuals from every part of the globe are unique men and women, not alien things.

Hours later I treasure the earlier part of the morning. The blessed gift of a hand-delivered newspaper. Much more than a five-second smile.

 

 

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