The narcissist mentioned in the following poem is obvious. However, it could refer to many dangerous historical figures. The following quote presents a massive challenge.
“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.” ~ Martin Luther King, Jr.
Memory, the song from Cats. I have been singing it at the senior center with a kind piano player who encourages me. I haven’t used my soprano range except to occasionally add a descant during one of our small church services.
Now, memory gives me the notion to randomly go through some of my blogs from the past. The granddaughter I mention in the story below is now preparing for college. With scholarships. She has grown well. I am proud of you, Kate.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger of peace and love, a resting place for innocence on earth, a link between angels and men. (Martin Fraquhar Tupper)
I found a spiral-bound journal with a K on the front of it for eighty cents–perfect for six-year-old Kate. I tell her that I couldn’t find one with an R on it for her little sister, Rebecca, but I did get an extra outfit for her for emergencies. Kate sees no problem with cost disparity. Not at six. She is happy about her book and unwraps it immediately.
“I’ll use it for my letters to God.”
“Oh.”
I don’t mention that she asked me how to spell bird this morning. Her spelling vocabulary isn’t that comprehensive yet. Somehow, it doesn’t matter. Our granddaughter’s large heart is easy to read. Phonetically, drawn with stick figures, printed backward. I suspect her God can comprehend whatever she creates without a problem.
She decorates the front and back cover with blue flowers, drawn with my good calligraphy pen. I let her use it. After all, this is an important communication.
I can’t say I considered writing God a letter when I was in first grade. Heck, I don’t remember ever setting up a book for anything beyond a day’s coloring.
We arrive at school a tad early; there’s been a snow delay. She knows the rule, to sit quietly along the wall. She asks me to wait with her, the biggest kid in the class. I try to wear their innocence, squatted on the floor, but it has been too long.
“Mommy usually sits over there.” She whispers, pointing to three chairs across the way.
I nod, and the principal says nothing about her breaking the stillness. Sometimes adults need directions from their young ones.
“You can go to your classrooms now,” the principal says.
I linger long enough for my final goodbye hug, then leave for my day’s agenda. I wonder with a sense of awe what beauties will fill an eighty-cent notebook and suspect that nothing I accomplish today could come close to its mysteries.
Let’s stop believing that our differences make us superior or inferior to one another. (Don Miguel Ruiz)
Juneteenth. I was in my seventies when I heard about the event. And the real-person images of human beings sold like cattle, fill my mind.
Have you seen my husband, brother, and child? an old letter reads. The question remains from the day when slavery ended. Legally. An end to the practice came later in name only. Loss remains. Law could not outlaw bigotry and hate.
I think about how blessed I am to live in a multi-cultured neighborhood where I see color. The way I see the beauty inside a rose garden or a watercolor pallet.
Centuries-old black and white pictures appeared before the day approached. Without moving text. History. In words. Inside the eyes of a captured individual is a fear that must stay hidden. A numbness that was mistaken for ignorance. Stay inside the master’s rules, young man. Consequences can be fatal.
Now. Freedom has come. Listen. Juneteenth. I hope for a time when equality will move with the in-and-out breath of all living creatures. Taken for granted.
“There’s a police car in the parking lot. With its lights on,” someone in our spiritual group calls.
No sirens. Nevertheless, I’m jolted from the sweetness of our gathering.
I see a young man with dark skin and long hair. He hides beside a parked car. He runs next to the beige walls of a church and squats down, then runs again. I don’t know what happened, or why he hides.
With no chaos, no noise, and no gunfire, the police drive away. With the young man inside the car. I hear nothing of a forced encounter. I don’t see the capture at all. The beginning or end of a story. I see part of a scene from a silent play in progress. No ticket to follow its progress.
Later, the moment replays in my mind. And heart. May peace and justice meet without bias. May no violence be a sign of a reasonable outcome.
I recall simpler situations. The lady in front of me in the checkout line at the grocery. She’s uptight over the way a young man bags. I have her pegged. Yet, this could be just a sideways reaction on a difficult day. Even if my assessment is accurate, does it need to alter who I am?
Be the peace you wish to be. Okay, Dr. King. If you can do it, anyone can.
Sometimes the questions are complicated, and the answers are simple. (Dr. Seuss)
The Bridge Called Life
A bridge not always named
because some know they cross it,
and others believe they own it.
The bridge called life.
One thing I suspect to be true.
The blind understands better than
the sighted. Hold my hand. And don’t let go.
We’ll learn along the way.
photo taken from a public domain pic used in a previous blog
Some of the most wonderful people are the ones who don’t fit into boxes. Tori Amos.DEAR ELLA:
WHAT I WISH I COULD TELL YOU
My Dear Ella,
You lead our make-believe time
as we make a blue birthday cake for cow
and scoop chocolate ice cream for rabbit.
The birthday song needs only happy and birthday,
repeated with fervor, sung with heart.
I’ve often wondered if your tripled
twenty-first chromosome holds unique gifts,
including a sixth sense, compassion.
I recall a day before you learned to walk,
when you scooted freestyle along the floor.
A movie on television showed a violent scene,
reminiscent of an old crime,
different victim—me. I gasped.
You climbed into my lap
and blocked my view of terror.
Too young for words, your eyes said
what you could not. Don’t look at the screen.
Look at me.
Then, the past faded into
the beauty of your presence,
a reality lost to those who have not yet seen
more than a slant to your eyes and
delays in your motor skills.
Now, my attention returns to cow,
rabbit, snowman, and dog,
unequal in size, shape, and fabric,
equal in importance.
Today we pretend. The ordinary
opens to show the extraordinary,
above, below, and beyond
the surface of each moment.
My youngest granddaughter,
watching you be you
makes me a better person.
Love,
Grandma
In honor of World Down Syndrome Day
celebrated this past March 21
Third prize poetry contest winner Down & Beautiful 2017
“Never believe that a few caring people can’t change the world. For, indeed, that’s all who ever have.” Margaret Mead
Women’s March
From Caleb’s Point of View
My name is Caleb. I’m ten years old.
I wear a sign that says, I march for my sister,
and my mom didn’t make me do it.Great-Grandma links
her left arm into my right. She holds a cane
and shuffles from one foot
to the other, an offbeat rhythm
reminding me of an old-fashioned scratched CD.
Dad helps Great-Grandma from the other side.
The kind crowd gives us plenty of room.
Great-Grandma’s parents died at Auschwitz.
Our family matriarch marches
in silence. I am only a kid, yet
the pain of her story has leaked
into our lives. I know its depths.Mom rushes ahead with my sister.
A woman nods toward my sign.
"Perhaps your sister can become president
one day." Dad and I look at one another
with the same tight-lipped understanding.
When Mom runs my sister laughsand kicks her legs as if she could control them.
Mom pauses and waits for us to catch up.
My sistertries to rise from her wheelchair,
her legs weak as dried kindling.
She squeals with delight and flaps her arms
when she sees us. I don’t march for my sister
to become great. I march for my sister
to be accepted for who she is.
originally publishing in For A Better World 2017
illustration made from public domain images and cut paper
To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist. That is all. (Oscar Wilde)
I’ll get up in a minute.
Or two, or three, or… A minute has been redefined. It has been carved from the clock and thrown into infinity. And no longer has meaning.
A line of pink appears on the horizon. Then two more. Parallel stripes. They don’t stay. Like the existence that passes before this old body faces the day.
I toss blankets aside. The weight of my past had been keeping me down, pressing into my dreams.
The pink in the sky has already faded. Its beauty passes. Nevertheless, another day begins. Another chance to grab the dark, the light, and the unexpected. Then create with each possibility.
There is no way you should feel, there is only the way you feel.
(Akiroq Brost)
How easy it would be if life
could be explained in a word
or two, if should transferred
into reality the way words fit
on a page. In blocks. At least
my mother believed it. She
made sure I recited rules in
perfect cadence. Know the
answer without studying any
questions. Feelings had no
place outside a prayer book.
Strange. Now, I wish I could
reverse roles. Hold her hand
and tell her that I understand
why her care arrived broken.
Mom, years before you died,
I told you I loved you.
You didn’t know what to say.
But you heard my voice.
And I stepped outside the rigorous
lines set by
impossible perfection.
I look into the sky now
and find more colors
than blue, white, and black.
And I wish that I had found
rainbow memories inside you.
I know they are there. Even now.
terrypetersen 