Thankful

There were times during my life in which I was not thankful for much of anything, especially being alive. Waking up in the morning was a disappointment. Each day was like a landscape painted in monotonous grey. Some of this was due to my circumstances and some to a legacy of depression left to me by my father. They were never depressions of great width and depth like my baby sister experienced; nevertheless, they made me less than thankful for being alive.

I still experience depression occasionally, and although it doesn't feel like it at the time, I know it will pass. The real problem is how it affects the people I love. To cope with a few days of depression, I shift into neutral. My behavior goes flat. I don't talk much. I tend not to look at people. My heart is just not in being alive. My significant other wants to fix it, since that's how most men approach problems:  "Tell me what's wrong, and I'll fix it." First, nothing is wrong except the chemicals in my brain. Second, it is temporary. Third, it is no one's problem to fix except my own. It drives him crazy, and I hate that for him. He is a good man and he doesn't like to see me unhappy. I assure him I am not unhappy. I am just not anything. He is visibly relieved when the gloom passes.

One of the worst things about my depression is that I can't write. I sit down at the computer and stare at a blank screen. My mind is even blanker than the screen. During my "normal" times, I often don't write because I am so busy being alive that I don't have time to write about it. When a few dark days descend on me, my mind feels dry and hollow. Where I usually see poems, I see nothing, as though my mind has gone blind. It's a lousy feeling.

So what I am most thankful for at this time in my life is the brevity of my depression episodes. They are not pleasant, but they are short-lived. If they weren't, if I did not know they would pass in a day or two, I'm not sure I could endure them. My life is too good to spend it looking for a way out.

The Important Thing

I am learning about the marketing side of publishing a book. Mainly, what I am learning is that if you don't push your book under people's noses, they are not going to know it exists, much less buy it, and if they don't buy it, it doesn't get read. That's the most important part - getting people to read it.

Not everyone will like my poems. The audience for poetry is small and for the type of poetry I write, probably smaller still. But there are a few people out there who will "get" my poems. Those are the ones I'm aiming for, the ones who will feel what I felt while I was writing or will even feel something new. A poem should evoke a memory or an emotion, move the reader in some way, but there is no chance of that happening if it isn't read.

I don't like a lot of the poetry out there, especially "urban" poetry. I just don't get it. My experiences don't allow me to identify with city life with any depth. Some poems have some great lines but are too long for my taste. Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" is one. I tend to like short poems that pack a punch or squeeze my heart.

One long poem that makes a profound emotional impact on me every time I read it is Amy Lowell's "Patterns." I cannot read it aloud without breaking down. It has so many levels to it and each one is more wrenching than the last. It has influenced many of my own poems. If you would like to read it, you can find it here:  http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171725.

As for my own book of poetry, be assured that the poems are short and each word was carefully chosen. If you would like to find out if you are one of those people my poems can touch, you can buy the book here:  http://www.lulu.com/shop/gail-wood/red-bird-woman/paperback/product-21290374.html.

If you do read it, let me know what you think whether you like the poems or not. The important thing is that you read it.

Poem

Here is the poem that is on the back of my book Red Bird Woman. I think a lot of people feel this way when they fall in love.

        Meteorite        

I could not resist

your gravity.

I slammed against your love

like a molten rock

falling from the sky

and disappearing

into the crust

of your masculinity.

I disintegrated,

leaving only bits

of my heart scattered

across your terrain. 

You hardly winced.



 

Boston

Recently, I made a trip to Boston. It is one of my favorite cities. It has a historical depth not found in any other city I have visited. Old buildings are scattered throughout, snuggling up to modern skyscrapers as though to say, “You may aspire to the heavens, but my foundation reaches back in time. I am rock solid.” From the 28^th floor of my hotel room, I could count five churches built before the 1800’s. They seemed to pin the city to the ground, keeping it firmly in place.

I made a brief visit to the Boston Library in Copley Square. It was opened in 1895 and considered “a palace for the people.” The front entrance was indeed like the entrance to a palace – a two story ceiling, lots of marble, and curved staircases. It felt safe – not just for me, but for all the books it held, a grand repository for the immense knowledge within those books.

Aside from its historical value, Boston is a place for good food. I ate at an Italian restaurant with a Zagat rating of 28. Thirty is the highest rating a restaurant can get. I had butternut squash soup and a pasta dish with mushrooms and garlic – lots of garlic. Unbelievable. What I would have given to go back to the kitchen and watch! And that was just the first night!

On the second day, my dear friend Michele took me to Penzeys Spice Store in Arlington just outside Boston. You can’t even imagine how much better the spices are than those off the shelf in the local grocery. I bought the standbys I love – Vietnamese cinnamon, ground chipotle, smoked paprika, and sweet paprika – and a few new ones just because they smelled so good – rogan josh, vindaloo, garam masala, and a little jar of raspberry essence. Now my kitchen has a little bit of Boston in it.

One night I was privileged to eat at McCormick and Schmick’s. (Yes, I realize it is not a very appetizing name.) I had a salad with lettuce, shredded red and yellow beets and candied bacon. It was interesting, but the best was the halibut. The waiter assured me that it was fresh, had never been frozen. Believe me when say I was not disappointed. It melted in my mouth. It hard-wired a to-die-for gustatory memory in my brain.

Besides buildings and food, the most striking thing about Boston is the people. There are so many of them! I grew up in a home surrounded by 620 acres with no other houses visible. Some days the only people I saw were the four other members of my family. In Boston, sidewalks are like yards. If you live in an apartment, the only outside you have is covered in concrete, and you share it with a million other people. I had a hard time grasping how many people there were in that city during the work day. I rode the MTA, which was always crowded. I walked down sidewalks, which epitomized the term “bustling.” I could not walk three feet without passing another person, coming or going.

Needless to say, I have a much better appreciation for living in the “little” town of Edmond. It may not be historical or be filled with Zagat-rated restaurants, although it does have some good ones, it has an openness that is typical of Oklahoma. People are not stacked on top of one another. I will always miss the country, but at least I don’t live in Boston.

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