Feeling Oh so Introspective today....

"I grow old, I grow old....I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."
from the Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

even more...the finish to this 1915 poem...

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Hope

Hope. I'm embracing hope again and it feels good. For the longest time I've struggled to define this four letter word; what does it really mean? I think there are many ways to describe hope; most very personal. My friend Wendy Harpham, in her blog On Healthy Survivorship, shares a poem she wrote entitled "Hope". Her words resonate with me and I'm posting her poem here today.

Hope

Hope is an image of goals
planted firmly in your mind.
When looking at life before you,
hope lines the paths you find.

Hope is a well of courage
nestled deep within your heart.
When faltering in fear and doubt,
hope pushes you to start.

Hope is an urge to keep going,
for limbs too tired and weak.
When apathy stills all desire,
hope sparks the fuel you seek.

Hope is a promise of patience,
as you wait for distress to wane.
When all you can do is nothing,
hope pulls you through the pain.

Hope is a spirit that lifts you
should heaviness pull at your soul.
When torn apart by losses,
hope mends to keep you whole.

Thank you, Wendy.

August

August is dusty;
the green foliage dulled
by a film of brown,
the grass at curbside
turned to straw twigs,
the blue sky overcome by fall's filter,
as if seen through sunglasses,
shadows creeping in.
August surrenders the summer.

Going Camping

Going Camping

Pulling out in a loaded down car,
Tent and sleeping bags stowed
Dreams of a site by the river,
Gurgling, moving, drowning sounds of people
Tasting already that first cup of strong coffee
in the crisp chill of morning.
Out there but still close
Cautious; a toe in the outdoors
Hopeful that the flies, and fire sparks, and camp dust
shake up my city brain
and, set me free.
Hopeful that the whispering pines offer a story
of wonder when darkness of night wipes out
the seen and unseen.
Hopeful that the mountain peaks dipped in snow
teach me surrender.

Respite

Respite

by Jane Hirshfield

Day after quiet day passes.
I speak to no one besides the dog.
To her,
I murmur much I would not otherwise say.

We make plans
then break them on a moment's whim.
She agrees;
though sometimes bringing
to my attention a small blue ball.

Passing the fig tree
I see it is
suddenly huge with green fruit,
which may ripen or not.

Near the gate,
I stop to watch
the sugar ants climb the top bar
and cross at the latch,
as they have now in summer for years.

In this way I study my life.
It is,
I think today,
like a dusty glass vase.

A little water,
a few flowers would be good,
I think;
but do nothing. Love is far away.
Incomprehensible sunlight falls on my hand.

"Respite" by Jane Hirshfield, from The Lives of the Heart. © Harper Perennial, 1997. Reprinted with permission.

Paralysis

"Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"

......by Mary Oliver

These are the last few lines from one of my favorite poems, The Summer Day by Mary Oliver.

The question stirs up the burning issue in my heart: What will I do with my "one wild and precious life"? Seems I haven't figured that out because this life of mine is constructed in stages. Doors are closing, times are changing and I'm waiting for new doors to open. When? Do I need to push on them or will they just open? I sense the former but I feel locked in, paralyzed.

Time is ticking.

The Guest House

I love this poem by Rumi, 13th century Persian poet. The words help me remember that all emotions are important and that we should not shove them away but invite them into our lives. They are indeed important guests that come to teach important lessons.

Enjoy.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

~ Rumi ~

(The Essential Rumi, versions by Coleman Barks)

Your Children are not your children....

I love this poem about our children by Khalil Gibran (The Prophet, 1923). Every so often I pull it out and read it slowly, allowing the words to settle down between the cells of my consciousness. I learn more acceptance each time I breathe in the lines.

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Gets me Thinking

This poem snared me this morning as I lay in bed preparing for my weekend workday.

No Deal

And when I died, the devil came and said,
"Now here's the deal: I'll give you your old life
all over once again, no strings attached.
Like an actor in a play, of course, you'll have
to follow the same script that you rehearsed
the first time through—you cannot change a glance,
a word, a gesture; but think of taking your first
steps again, and having your first romance

repeat itself, your love back from the dead,
beautiful and new and seventeen.
What matter if you see the future coming—
The cloven hoof of sorrow, loss's horn—
her dreamy eye, her nodding head?"
Get thee behind me, Satan, I should have said.

by Ronald Wallace


What if you were promised the life you have now all over again but only if you had to play the cards exactly the same way and have that sharp view into your future? I wouldn't bite, much as I love life.

I prefer to wonder, as a dear friend of mine already knows, if ......."each of us has chosen his or her path before coming to live out this incarnation, and that [we] are learning lessons [we] came here to learn, as hard and painful as they may be. You may never know during life what the lessons are, or even if you are facing problems as you originally set out to do, but some day you will know what happened this time around. And then all the people around you (me included) will get to come back here again and do it another time, another way."

I love this friend. As this poem makes me think, so also does she.

April Prayer

April Prayer
by Stuart Kestenbaum

Just before the green begins there is the hint of green
a blush of color, and the red buds thicken
the ends of the maple's branches and everything
is poised before the start of a new world,
which is really the same world
just moving forward from bud
to flower to blossom to fruit
to harvest to sweet sleep, and the roots
await the next signal, every signal
every call a miracle and the switchboard
is lighting up and the operators are
standing by in the pledge drive we've
all been listening to: Go make the call.

The Meaning of Life

It's (relatively) early on this fine Friday morning in mid March. This day belongs to us (Denny and me) and we've plans to get out of town and walk on an ocean shore, eat lunch somewhere, and enjoy the simple pleasure of living and breathing the air. It has been a long three months for us. The saga of this rough patch began on December 10, '08, our wedding anniversary when we had some plans that were foiled at the last minute. It's not that there haven't been any moments of joy, laughter, and silliness since then but we've certainly not had the chance to head out there (relatively) carefree to simply be together.

I'll probably post a blog about where we went, what we did, and how taking the time for us was "a good". Let's hope so, anyway. I'm still a bit shell shocked and waiting for the next hurdle, challenge, next shoe-to-drop. Edgy. But today, I'm intentionally trying to put all this aside and live a little (like I was dying; see post from yesterday)

As I was catching up on my favorite blogs this morning I found this poem posted on Garrison Keillor's site. I love this poem. Not only have I lived this very experience but I totally get that this is a metaphor for life in some ways. The title of my blog, Ahead of the Wave, speaks to that heightened sense of awareness, the need to stay ahead of the disaster whatever it may be. Unrealistic for the long haul, I know that the subtitle of my blog ("exploring the fine line between steering and surrender") addresses the challenge of reality when that dog unloads the mess. Surrender. And, that's OK. Balance.

Enjoy this poem; it made me laugh but it also was a great big endorsement of my feelings about living. I'm hoping the dog's stomach is feeling just fine today.

The Meaning of Life

There is a moment just before
a dog vomits when its stomach
heaves dry, pumping what's deep
inside the belly to the mouth.
If you are fast you can grab
her by the collar and shove her
out the door, avoid the slimy bile,
hunks of half chewed food
from landing on the floor.
You must be quick, decisive,
controlled, and if you miss
the cue and the dog erupts
en route, you must forgive
her quickly and give yourself
to scrubbing up the mess.

Most of what I have learned
in life leads back to this.

by Nancy Fitzgerald

Live Like You Were Dying

Driving in to work this morning I had my radio tuned to FM Warm 106.9, a random station that rarely gets my attention but today there must have been a reason. Although I'm not a country music fan (except for the old Willy Nelson favorites from decades past), I was riveted to Tim McGraw's tune "Live Like You Were Dying". Need I share that there were tears welling up by the time the song wrapped up as I drove down 5th Avenue under Seattle's monorail? The message was clear, the timing perfect, and the effect on my day rather remarkable.

The lyrics are great (below) but the way he sings brings the story to life. Listen up all! We are all dying and we should live like we are dying. If not, life will pass us by. Why wait for the wake up call of a life threatening illness to bring us to this precious place where each day is the blessing, where each day is the opportunity.

Here goes.....

"He said I was in my early forties, with a lot of life before me
And one moment came that stopped me on a dime
I spent most of the next days, looking at the x-rays
Talking bout' the options and talking bout' sweet times.
I asked him when it sank in, that this might really be the real end
How's it hit 'cha when you get that kind of news?
Man what did ya do?
He said

I went skydiving
I went rocky mountain climbing
I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu
And I loved deeper
And I spoke sweeter
And I gave forgiveness I'd been denyin'
And he said some day I hope you get the chance
To live like you were dyin'

Verse 2
He said I was finally the husband, that most the time I wasn't
And I became a friend, a friend would like to have
And all of a sudden goin' fishin, wasn't such an imposition
And I went three times that year I lost my dad
Well I finally read the good book, and I took a good long hard look
At what I'd do if I could do it all again
And then

I went skydiving
I went rocky mountain climbing
I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Shu
And I loved deeper
And I spoke sweeter
And I gave forgiveness I'd been denyin'
And he said some day I hope you get the chance
To live like you were dyin'

Like tomorrow was the end
And ya got eternity to think about what to do with it
What should you do with it
What can I do with it
What would I do with it

Skydiving
I went rocky mountain climbing
I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu
And man I loved deeper
And I spoke sweeter
And I watched an eagle as it was flyin'
And he said some day I hope you get the chance
To live like you were dyin'

To live like you were dyin'
To live like you were dyin'
To live like you were dyin'
To live like you were dyin' "

Click here for Tim McGraw's video; very nice indeed.....

Poetry by J. Updike

John Updike died in late January 2009. He was a prolific writer. I've read far too little of his work and am inspired to seek out the Rabbit series and others. Dad always loved reading Updike and still owns several, old hardback editions of his novels. I'll add these to the "must read" list.

I didn't realize that Updike wrote poetry as well. I found this poem today and love the subject.......sleep and its elusive strangeness. I think of my Mom who has struggled all her life to deal with what Updike labels "the twists of another world" and who affirms what I've long thought about sleep:"This churning is our journey." Gorgeous words.

Tossing and Turning

The spirit has infinite facets, but the body
confiningly few sides.
There is the left,
the right, the back, the belly, and tempting
in-betweens, northeasts and northwests,
that tip the heart and soon pinch circulation
in one or another arm.
Yet we turn each time
with fresh hope, believing that sleep
will visit us here, descending like an angel
down the angle our flesh's sextant sets,
tilted toward that unreachable star
hung in the night between our eyebrows, whence
dreams and good luck flow.
Uncross
your ankles. Unclench your philosophy.
This bed was invented by others; know we go
to sleep less to rest than to participate
in the twists of another world.
This churning is our journey.
It ends,
can only end, around a corner
we do not know
we are turning.

"Tossing and Turning" by John Updike, from Collected Poems 1953-1993. © Alfred A. Knopf, 1993.

Brother and Sister

He has ideas
and plans.
Energy.
He loves them as they
need to be loved
in these dark hours.
He's game for a sprint,
as we all are in this
long journey.
Piece by piece, with time away
to collect one's soul back from the fray.
At it again with a resigned, if not joyful style.
If there is ambivalence or pain,
it does not show.

For me, the exhaustion never quits.
The guilt over succumbing to exhaustion even worse.
I've always said, I'm up for a sprint, not a marathon.
Because, because....
Even with bits of time away, the rejuvenation never comes
and I feel older by the second.
My face muddy,
my heart stony and hard.
Aching to make the most of a whisper of time
but not knowing how, with my
soul slowly burning, evaporating into mist,
dying to today's promise
with the closing of a door.

Feeding the Gulls

When infirmity creeps into the lives of those we love it's painfully clear that loss is a perpetual theme. There are losses of things we all tend to take for granted; the ability to dress, bathe, or ambulate without assistance from others, for example. Then there are losses of prior interests like reading, long walks, gardening, and entertaining even if it's just a cup of tea and a cookie. Life becomes smaller, more restricted and narrowed. Not having experienced this myself I speak as an observer. It's painful to watch; must be even more painful to live.

Mom still enjoys animals and I suspect she always will; the wild and the domesticated. Come one, come all. At least once a week, she and caregiver Catie drive down to the Ballard Locks with a loaf of bread, tear it into pieces and watch as the gulls summon each other in raucous caws to the woman who brings them sustenance that day. Despite the occasional dirty look from someone who views the gulls as winged nuisances in contrast to her love of their spirited attention, she ignores these people and continues to take delight. For this, I'm grateful.

I found this poem yesterday which captures the idea quite nicely.

A Woman Feeding Gulls

by David Wagoner

They cry out at the sight of her and come flying
Over the tidal flats from miles away,
Sideslipping and wheeling
In sloping gray-and-white interwoven spirals
Whose center is her
And the daily bread she casts downwind on the water
While rising to spread her arms
Like wings for the calling of still more gulls around her,
Their cries intermingling at the end of daylight
With the sudden abundance
Of this bread returning after the hungry night
And the famine of morning
And the endlessly hungry opening and closing
Of wings and arms and shore and the turning sky.

"A Woman Feeding Gulls" by David Wagoner from Traveling Light: Collected and New Poems. © University of Illinois Press, 1999.

Discovering a New Poet

I subscribe to The Writer's Almanac Online hosted by Garrison Keillor. Every day a post drops into my Google Reader featuring a new poem. Today I read a poem by David Wagoner and thought it tied in nicely with my post yesterday about the thorny topic of "forethought of grief". Notice how he describes how nature lives in the present moment, mindful of survival but overwhelmed at times by the association with the human animal who lives by different rules. This poem speaks to me about trust, about stopping to notice, about the innocence (in human terms) of animals who (seemingly) do not stress about forethought of grief. And what about those cars honking, like flying geese who honk to get the attention of the leader and confirm their direction in life? Interesting thoughts these.

Stopping along the Way

by David Wagoner

Heading south toward campus, my car
stops suddenly, abruptly, almost
on its own. My right foot
has found the brake pedal
before my eyes can admire
a very young possum strolling
across our right of way
at his personal intersection
of human cross-purposes,
some of whose breaks are squeaking
behind us now. The possum
pauses, lowers his gray-pink-
and-sooty snout to drink in
the odor of something
among the fallen and flattened
sycamore leaves. I've seen
too many of him lying down
even flatter than seemed
possible beside roads
and in gutters. I realize
my car's mere presence looming
over him won't quicken
those four deliberate paws,
won't urge him out of danger,
but before I can think or make
some warning sign, two cars
are honking. He lifts his head
dreamily, comparing
that sound to some distant sound
somewhere deep, far back
in his old, new mind, then begins
strolling forward again
and up onto the grass
among the unloaded, locked,
and abandoned bicycles
and empties and leaflets left
by fraternal and sisterly
orders on their own ways
to and from understanding
or back to forbidden gardens
and holes in the ground. Again
a car behind me honks.
And another. It's what geese do
heading south at the beginning
of winter. They want to know
the one in front still believes
they're there and are trusting him
to be sure where they're all going.

"Stopping along the Way" by David Wagoner from A Map of the Night. © University of Illinois Press, 2008.

I found another great poem by David Wagoner about feeding the gulls, something that still gives my Mother joy at age 91. I'll post that poem tomorrow. At this time, poetry seems to be the path of least resistance in this blog. When all I want to do (but won't) is rant and rave and scour out misery, I'll let someone else's words lead me into another world of thought.

Forethought of Grief

The poet Wendell Berry knows how to write beautifully about an issue that torments my mind and perhaps the minds of others (although I haven't met too many who admit to it). Hell, in my case it doesn't just torment my mind, it is my mind most days. At first it was tough for me to acknowledge that this mighty thorn in my side had a name which Barry so eloquently explores in his poem The Peace of Wild Things. Three little words carry the power here; "forethought of grief".

Let's see what you think.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do no tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

In this eleven line poem, there is such depth and insight into the terrors of the mind but better yet, a way out. It's called Trust. It is the trust in those day-blind stars who don't show themselves again until the dark of night. Yet, they are always there.

I've been pondering this heavy topic of "forethought of grief" a lot, more than is healthy to be sure. An active mind that looks ahead to imagine all forms of tragedy, sadness, loss, and discomfort lives in a world where trust is a minor player, a weakling.

What peace (of mind) do we forfeit as we move further and further away from "wild things"? Does sitting in their presence help to restore our trust and daily freedom from forethought of grief? Everyone is wired differently. Many who read this will likely wonder what in the world this is all about. But some out there will lock on and say, "that's me" or "that's sort of me". It isn't a fun world to live in, is it?

But, I also acknowledge it is a choice.

Some say, the choices we make have some positive feedback loop, a payoff, or we wouldn't persist in the rut of dysfunctional thinking.

Damn, but I'd like to know what that payoff is.

At any rate, enjoy the poem. It's one of my favorites.

Of Poetry and a Red Dress

Where to start?

Book Club meets again in mid-October. The topic for this gathering is "poetry". At our last meeting we discussed the format for poetry night. Some in the group feel mystified and perhaps a bit intimidated by poetry; others welcome the shift away from discussing books. I'm quite excited about our plan to each bring several poems to read aloud to the group. I think it will be interesting to see what type of poetry resonates with people; the choices they make will "tell", much like a window into the soul. Perhaps I'm being overly dramatic but I think what we like in this genre speaks a lot about who we are.

My selections are coming together nicely. Reading Kim Addonizio's What do Women Want? is a given. Kim writes boldly about the passion behind a red dress and captures beautifully the reason(s) for my obsession with my own red dress. I've given some thought to reading one of my own poems at this meeting and perhaps will pen some verse about my red dress in the meantime. I'll look upon the jitters of sharing as a way of revealing more of who I am much like I encourage people to read my blog. The evening should be interesting; fodder for another post in October.

As some in my family know, my love affair with a certain red dress began when good friend M.C. and I ventured into BCBG MAXAZRIA two years ago. On a whim this very generous woman shelled out hundreds to float my fantasy after trying on a certain little red dress. I'll need to write more about this story and may well share the details with book group in October.

In the meantime, let me showcase these wonderful photos of my niece, Jeanne who tried on her red dress recently. She wore this drop dead gorgeous frock to a high school prom twenty years ago. Two decades later, both she and the dress look amazing. Suffice it to say, there's much to be said about this powerful topic. Poetry is a good place to start.

photographs used with permission and courtesy of Jeanne M.
Thank you.

Redux

In June, I wrote and posted this poem entitled Safe. In my conscious mind, I was writing about my Mother although deep inside I knew the intensity of emotion bubbling up while writing was a signal that I was also writing about myself.

This morning, after a long night and an even longer day and night ahead, I know that all I want is embodied in the word Safe. With my tight and restrictive definition of that word, I won't get there because, like the word Perfect, safe does not exist.

Safe

All she ever wanted was to be safe.
An elusive place, found intermittently
when least expected, impossible to design,
Refractory to control.
The prized nugget, often the purpose to living.
Comfort and assurance.
Peace and restful sleep.
Living backwards, noting that what had passed was safe.
Rejoicing in retrospect that life was full; fun.
The moment of now uncertain, only perhaps safe.
Tormented by dread of future loss, unsafe territory looming.
Always.

What is safe? Depends.
So little of it comes from the interior landscape,
although she knows this is the only place where safe resides.
External factors and desire for control over a restless,
moving shoreline that defies comfort,
Even in the beauty of its unpredictability,
the breath of moments, one after another.
A consuming battle to the end of life, terminal.
Seeking the peace that passeth all understanding,
Yearning for the safe that resides everywhere and nowhere
A life, incomplete, paralyzed by anticipatory loss
until the precious arms of safe come to welcome her home.

The Last Birthday Cake

The Last Birthday Cake

I wonder; what flavor was that cake?
What taste the icing
made by those most precious hands
baked in her own kitchen
on my birthday three years ago?
Racking my mind, wanting to remember with certainty
the small details, wanting to carry the crumbs
of memory close to my heart.
Always.

There were no more cakes to come,
the last one a precious symbol of her love.
I struggle to find details through the murky veil of memory.
Her hands and mind now unable to mix and stir
and pour and bake,
Unable to assess and assemble.
Today she may not know this day comes again.
If she does, she may feel sad for times past when the cake
stood as a sign of her love.
Homemade and from the heart.

Angel Food with added vanilla, moist and delicious.
Drizzled with bittersweet chocolate, hardening to hold in place
a ring of walnut halves. Perfect.
Waiting for the scoop of ice cream.
Was this the last cake?
I will never know for sure. No photographs as proof.
Only misty thoughts of a night out,
returning home for our dessert,
The cake she had prepared, left on my kitchen counter.