Poem: Somewhere in the Middle

I am experimenting with a new poetry style. The following poem is the result of running lines off the page (hence the indentions under the first line of each stanza). For lack of a formal style name, Stephen Bagley and I are calling it "flood poetry" because of the flood of words on the page. Let me know what you think.

Somewhere in the Middle

She stands on the front porch shrieking at me while God-knows-what works its way into a brain already half-rotted while one sister weeps in the house with Mother and I flinch in the front yard when she spews sanctimonious at me and I am even though she is breaking my heart falling apart

  

She sits on a bench in the back yard sobbing I’m sorry into my neck while her brain careens against her skull a mind we no longer recognize because things like this don’t happen to people like us but here we are waiting for strangers to save her life again

She lies in the back of a silent ambulance prostrate with life her mind knocked unconscious like an old boxer who couldn’t be talked into quitting while I ride in the front with my jaw clenched in anger at how dare she abandon her family abandon me until somewhere in the middle the ambulance turns into a screaming banshee turns anger into fear turns sanctimonious into a howling prayer

She struggles on a narrow gurney pulling at tubes and her emptied stomach frees her mind to zoom inside her skull to peer out of ice blue eyes to pour out of a grinning mouth in shotgun chatter dressed appropriately for a cocktail party while we watch nothing change watch bits of our baby sister fall off scattering across the emergency room floor

Writing

Just when I thought my days in the classroom were over, I find myself enrolled in a poetry writing class. And excited about it. I am, unfortunately, a writer who is not driven to write. As a child, if I wasn't reading or traipsing across pastures, I was writing. That need to play with words on paper got derailed when I began writing grants - the most hideous genre of creative writing.

I have been away from grant writing for two years, and the desire to write is returning, but it will likely never be as strong as it was as when I was a child. So, I am learning to put myself in situations where I must write. First, a book of poetry with a deadline forced me to scrape the rust off my brain. Then another book. No deadline hung over me, but some awesome pictures lit a fire under me.

Soon, I will be attending a class that will require me to write a lot, and I won't be writing in a vacuum. There will be other people with different ideas to stir up my thinking. Writing is most satisfying when my thoughts tumble onto the paper. I can hardly wait!

New Year's Day 2014

My new year began with a bittersweet gathering of family and friends, not to mention the requisite black-eyed peas. Several family members were not able to participate in the festivities. My youngest daughter and her family live in Iowa. Both she and her husband have new jobs that prevented them from joining us during the holidays. I am happy for them, but I do miss them and the grandchildren, especially at times of celebration.

My older sister was not able to make it. I talked with her on the phone, and we both bemoaned the weather like country folk are wont to do. Although I now live in town, I factor the weather into my life like a farmer does. She lives on the remnants of the home place and has a small garden each year. I watch the weather in her area almost as avidly as I do in mine and feel the shock of extremes just as she does. Country lies deep in the bones.

Yesterday was our baby sister's birthday. She would have been 63. She was always proud of the fact that she was a new year's baby. It made her feel special even though she would complain that people forgot her birthday because it was so close to Christmas. I would love to fuss with her.

My soldier grandson was here. He will be deployed to Afghanistan at the end of this month (January). I cannot express the terror I feel for this beautiful man-child. I could not hug him tightly enough.

In the afternoon, we sat around a fire outside and watched the production of fry bread. Fresh from hot oil and dredged in powdered sugar, we dubbed them Indian beignets. Delicious! When the cold front moved in and the fire could no longer keep up with the wind, the black kettle had to be abandoned. Uncooked dough had become sponges for cooling grease.

All in all, it was a good day, a good beginning for 2014. Each of the remaining days is a present we will unwrap, little gifts of joy and anguish, all to be cherished.

Laurels to a Friend

In two weeks, I will be signing copies of my first book of poetry, Red Bird Woman, at the Ada Public Library. The book, the book signing, and my foray into becoming a published author is due to a friend's faith in me and his dogged persistence that I should not hide my light under a bushel.

I met Stephen over 30 years ago when I attended his poetry writing class sponsored by ECU's continuing education program. After the first class, I enrolled in every one he taught. What I learned from him was priceless. Here are a few tidbits:

• Make every word count
• Seldom, if ever, use "be" verbs
• Count syllables
• Be concise; don't ramble
• Always write with your audience in mind
• Read the poem out loud and listen to its music
• Read other poets

I will be forever grateful to Stephen for the times he insisted that I rewrite a poem to make it stronger. He did not realize how he got inside my head and guided my writing.

After the series of classes ended, I did not see Stephen often, but when I did, he always asked if I was writing. There were times I had to say no, and I felt I had disappointed him. And myself.

Two years ago, we reconnected and our friendship is stronger than ever. I never ceased to be amazed at his depth of knowledge and his wisdom. He makes me laugh and he pushes me to use the little talent I have. Best of all, he makes me feel special. Nothing tops that.

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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To Do or Not to Do

Soon, with the help of an amazing friend, my first book of poetry will be published. My friend is excited for me. He has pushed me to do this for several years. It’s not that I have actively resisted; it’s just that I was easily distracted from writing and rewriting. He didn’t give up. For that I thank him, but I must admit that I am nervous about putting my work, my babies, out there for target practice.

In my mind, I know artists create because they are driven to translate the world onto paper, canvas, film, or whatever medium suits them. In my heart, that makes me doubt my own artist status. I don’t feel driven to write. At least not on a regular basis. If an idea slaps me in the face, and I can get to pencil and paper before I forget it, I will capture it and play with it like a cat with a mouse. I can go for days without thinking of anything worth writing down. It feels luxurious, almost decadent. I can excuse myself with “I’m retired. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.”

Fortunately, there are people around me who nudge, cajole, even nag when I don’t produce enough “art.” I enjoy the process of writing poetry, but when one is attempting to produce a book of poetry, it is hard to know which generates the most fear:  failure or success. Still, in the end, what I fear most is doing nothing.

Dirt

In the heat of an Oklahoma summer, as a child, I would squat with my knees under my chin and sift the fine dirt in the ruts in front of our garage. My fingers delighted in the silky feel of the dust created by rain and sun and the tires on my mother’s green Chevy. I had seldom felt the smoothness of real satin, but I knew what it should feel like. I felt the satin of the Earth, a gift of Nature, not a store-bought version encumbered with status and ego.

This dirt marked the seasons for me. First, spring rains created puddles of soupy mud. Then, as the mud dried in the summer sun, it would turn into puzzle pieces with curled edges, each piece shrinking away from its neighbor. These pieces could be lifted and crumbled through the fingers, transforming their hard brittleness into silky dust. This process was speeded up on the rare occasions when my mother would park her car in the garage. In an instant the tires would pulverize the crusty dirt into a tiny sensuous playground for my fingers.

That memory of summer has stayed with me throughout my life, and I still love to play in the dirt.

Monikers

Daddy called me “Stinkum.” Imagine how I felt when a boy came to pick me up for a date! At sixteen, I was still a little girl to my dad, and the appellation was one of affection. On one level, I understood that. On another, I was mortified! I had spent hours preparing myself for a date with someone I found attractive – although for the life of me I can’t remember who he was. I wanted to be appealing, maybe even sexy. Hmmm . . . dear old Dad knew exactly what he was doing!

My older sister was, appropriately enough, called “Sissy.” Even to this day, some sixty plus years later, I have a hard time calling her anything else. It was a shock to me when a few years ago she said she had never liked being called “Sissy.” Ever since, I have tried to call her by her given name, but it feels really weird, like calling my teachers by their first name.

My younger sister was always referred to as “Baby Girl.” I was green with jealousy. Not only had she usurped my role as the youngest, she had been given a sweet, loving nickname. It did not matter to me that she was the baby of the family and a girl. So, I did what any vengeful sibling would do, I came up with my own nickname for her:  Dummy Jo. It was a simple modification of her given name, Dama Jo, but it pleased me to no end. How clever I was! My satisfaction, however, was short-lived. She did not react to it as I had hoped. She did not run crying to Mother or try to whack me with a shoe. It was as though she had temporarily gone deaf. My hateful words had no power over her. Soon, I reverted to calling her DJ, and her hearing miraculously returned.

I’ve given up vengefulness. It doesn’t work for me.

Religion

There was a time when religion saturated my world. I was raised in a very rigid, uncreative church that did not nurture my need to question, discover, synthesize. It stifled. It pounded me into a box, taught me shame and guilt, which are very hard to shed. On the other hand, it taught me compassion and humility and a sense of responsibility for carrying my share of the burden that comes with being a member of the human community. Inadvertently, it taught me tolerance for the flaws of humans – except my own. It set impossible standards:  strive to be like Christ although you can never be like him.

Such cognitive dissonance did a number on my head and was the beginning of my doubt. I struggled with my mother’s god through my late teens and mid-twenties. I railed against him, turned my back on him, ignored him. Gradually, I discovered a kind of faith that religion eschews. I found god at my center, pervasive in my world. Not my mother’s god. Not the jealous, vengeful god of the Bible, rather a force of life that exists in everything, that says life is good simply because it does exist. No judgment. No guilt. No shame.

I am no longer uncomfortable when people speak to me about their faith, assuming that I am a “religious” person like they are. I don’t have to say to them that I don’t follow an organized religion. I understand what faith is, and I feel the impact of grace every day. I simply do not require a face to believe in something greater than myself.

One of my dearest friends is a very religious person. She has struggled with her own version of a vengeful god and, as a result, has found a god full of unconditional love and mercy. We both understand and accept the other’s position on religion, and when she talks about God’s love, I understand what she means, just as she understands when I speak about an abundant, life-loving Universe.

Words

I often wonder why I can't think of anything to write. It's not like my mind is empty. It is always churning away about something. I'm just never sure if it's anything anyone would be interested in, but then I realize that I write not because I need an audience. I just need to articulate my thoughts. Take them out of my head and put them on paper so I can get a better look at them. You can't see your own face without a mirror, and that's the way it is with thoughts. I need to see my thoughts - black words on white paper - in order to see who I am.

How I write is different. I try to write in a way that is appealing to an audience - should anyone be interested in what goes on in my head. There are authors that I love to read simply because they know how to use words in a way that appeals to me. That's the kind of writer I want to be. I don't care if you (my audience) agree with what I say, but I do want you to enjoy the way I put the words together.

Here is a little poem inspired by a friend's loss. I hope you enjoy the way I put the words together.

Last Rites

His hands,

searching for usefulness,

smoothed her tired pillow.

He matched his breath

to the ragged rhythm of hers.

Panic rose and filled his mouth,

threatened his face;

her words, shreds of mist

against his cheek,

“I have always loved you.”

Familiar words.

 “And I, you.”

 An intimate catechism.

In the corner, Death hung his head.

GRAND DOG

 

I dropped my daughter’s toy poodle off at the groomer’s this morning. When I left her, she looked at me as though to say, “You are leaving me here with these horrid barking dogs? Why?”

Holly is not just a dog. She is a family member, spoiled and manipulative just like any pampered child. She knows who will feed her tidbits of people food (me) and who will pick her up when she whines (my son-in-law), but the person she loves the most is my daughter, Rachael. Holly will pay equal attention to every family member – including me – until “Mama” comes home. The center of her world has arrived, and the rest of us could fall off the planet. She would never notice.

Oh, sure, when I show up at the door, Holly comes running, barking her greeting and begging to be picked up, but only long enough to sniff my face and find out what I ate last. Then it’s back to Rachael. Every move my daughter makes is monitored by this white ball of fluff. If Rachael sits down, Holly snoozes beside her. If Rachael moves, Holly pops awake, ready to follow her beloved mistress anywhere.

If someone knocks at the door, Holly charges through the living room, barking ferociously and ready to hurl her entire three pounds at any threat to her family. If visitors are admitted, she goes into airport security mode, thoroughly sniffing feet and legs to make sure no dangerous odors are sneaked into the house.

For a treat, Holly will roll over like a tiny barrel, then take the treat and hide it a closet or under an errant sock. Maddie’s closet is her favorite hiding place. Holly’s cache is seldom disturbed there among the shoes and toys and clothes. When the closet is cleared out during a cleaning frenzy, Holly just starts over, building her stash along with the disorder, preparing for the day when someone forgets to fill her dog dish.

Sometime today I will fetch Holly from the groomer’s. I am sure she will exhibit all the attributes of a newly crowned princess, then smell my face to see what I ate for lunch.

Walking, Seriously

Two years, 30 pounds, and one husband ago, I began run/walking. I walked up hills and ran down them. One mile, then two miles, then four. I sweated and puffed and gasped. I entered my first 5K race and finished in 48 minutes. That first year I participated in three more races and the thrill of crossing that finish line in less time than the last race never got old.

Running was hard on my knees and hips so I saw a chiropractor. His popping and cracking of my spine provided a temporary fix, but something told me it could be better, that hurting wasn’t normal. I saw too many people my age and older who were in better shape and were more joyful runners. I turned to the corporate behemoth Google for answers. It didn’t take long to discover that my running posture was to blame so I consciously changed it. Lo and behold, the pain in my hip subsided! I pushed harder, but a new posture wasn’t going to relieve the pain in my left knee so I gritted my teeth and took the advice of my youngest daughter to “run through the pain, Mom.”

In addition to run/walking, I took up boot camp and Zumba©. The weight began to fall off. My pants sagged in the rear. My arms lost their padding. I looked good in clothes! (Not as good without them, but after all, I am 63.) I felt better mentally and discovered that missing a day of physical activity made me cranky.

I dropped running from my routine for social reasons. Running is a solitary activity. It is easier to find people to walk with than to run with, and talking is way easier when you aren’t struggling to breathe. This year I have walked in three races, all with my walking buddy. We tackled a half marathon (13 miles) from the Arbuckle Mountains to Ardmore (cleverly called the A2A) and finished in about three-and-a-half hours. What a grand feeling to find out what we were capable of! I had to push myself the last three miles, but I would have crawled over that finish line rather than give up.

Our next race was a mud run. For 3.2 miles (5K), we climbed, we crawled, we slithered, we tromped, we jumped through creeks, mud holes, 15-foot walls, rope fences, swinging tires, and an ice bath. We squished when we walked, and we gave away our shoes when we finished. We were eight-year-old kids again, and it was grand!

Since we had walked 13 miles, we figured walking a 10K (6.4 miles) would be a piece of cake, so we signed up for the Fireball Classic on the Fourth of July. I walked the course several times before the race to get in shape. No problem. There weren’t many of us walking, but I bet there will be more next year. Both of us got medals for our age group. I learned that if you live long enough, you’ll come in first!

The latest race was Color Me Rad in Oklahoma City. My oldest grandson ran in that one, too. He’s the third grandchild to go with me. He made sure to hit the color stations just right and ended up multi-colored from head to toe. I have a feeling it won’t be the last time he runs.

My walking buddy says we’re gonna walk the Route 66 race in November – the whole marathon (26 miles). I hope they have lots of Port-a-Potties along the way.

Roatan

The following was written on January 11, 2005, while I was on vacation on Roatan Island, Honduras.

I am sitting on a wharf that juts into the Carribean, my feet dangling over clear water populated by water grass and schools of tiny fish. My horizon is a semi-circle of breakers spilling in a continuous roar against a coral reef. In contrast to the incessant thunder of the waves, a carpenter's saw buzzes intermittently, punctuated by hammering. A new house nears completion in paradise.

To my left, the Carribean Ocean, blue and gray and turquoise, flashes white foam. Directly in front of me is a small point of creamy sand outlined by dead water grass washed up by the tide. Green, riotous green, begins a few yards from the water. Inland, the broadleafed trees, the palms, the tall almonds, reach for the sun. On this part of the beach, the houses are wooden and barely discernible from the vegetation. Not so either direction down the beach. The stark concrete houses shout their presence to every passerby.

The blue sky is ringed with white and gray clouds. Some pass over and provide a quick shower, which means I must retreat to a covered porch.

Sunday, we went into West End and prowled through the little shops. June and I bought straw hats to protect our white "European" skin. From the shops, we went to the dock where Loren engaged a water taxi, a dilapidated motor boat driven by teenage boys. We picked up several more fares on the way to West Bay. We were moving right along when the wind caught my hat and plopped it into the water. The "captain" executed a smooth U-turn, slid beside my hat and the youngest of the "crew" scooped it up. Bravo! I was grateful then and especially grateful later in the heat of the day.

After we reached West Bay and clambered out of the boat, we walked back toward West End through the rich Europeans who had left winter behind to soak up the Carribean sun. (I thought I must be the only woman on the island who had brought a one piece swimsuit!)

We ate a seafood lunch of shrimp salad and grouper sandwiches at Bite on the Beach then headed for the Gumbalimba Bird Sanctuary. First, we toured a small, man-made cave with a visual depiction of the island's history. In the 1700's, the island was the primary residence of a pirate name Coxen. (Coxen Hole is his namesake.)

From the cave, we entered the bird sanctuary by crossing the river on a hammock-like bridge that swung freely over the water. Four of us (including the Gumbalimba owner) made the bridge a bit more unsteady than I was comfortable with, but we made it across without flipping the thing over.

The parrots were friendly, especially the large colorful male. Two small green parrots nibbled at Junes's earrings and had to be removed from her shoulders. In the living quarters of the monkeys, a baby spider moneky fell asleep in June's arms, and a baby howler attached itself to me. A larger spider monkey bit at the babies in a pique of jealousy. Just like human children!

The owner of the sanctuary called a car for me. I was going to do the canopy ride! The car turned out to be a dilapidated pickup - all but the newest vehicles on Roatan are dilapidated. The driver took me to one of the highest points on the island and left me with teenagers. Again. They seem to run the place. Why aren't they in school? I paid my $35 U.S. to the oldest person, and two boys harnessed me into a tangle of straps and buckles and topped me off with a bicycle helmet. After they donned their gear, they led me to a platform, explained how to hold onto the cable and using the leather glove on my right hand to brake. One young man took my flip flops so I wouldn't drop them into the forest. The other went down the zip line to the next platform to wait for me  - there were eleven platforms in all. The first boy attached me to the cable, told me to sit and let the harness support me, then I was off! I zipped across tree tops eleven times in a switchback pattern until I arrived - exhilarated - at the beach where June and Loren waited. There is a lot to be said for a second childhood!

We caught a water taxi and motored back to West End where we caught a land taxi and headed "home" for a supper of black-eyed peas and rice.

Monday, Loren was busy putting dead bolts on all the closets as a result of break-in in the next house over. I borrowed his fins and snorkel and went out to renew my water skills. Snorkeling on this side of the reef is not terribly exicting, but it was safe for a novice like myself. I didn't drink an inordinate amount of seawater.

While I was drying out on the top level of the dock, a young man came up to sun. Todd was well-taveled but called Cambodia home. Full of stories, tattooed, and be-ringed, he would have been comfortable visiting with the Pope. He offered to take me out in the kayak so I could snorkel over the coral reef. It was a serendipitous opportunity since Loren was finishing up odds and ends at Seadancer, the house of which he was part owner.

Todd showed me how to get into the kayak without turning it over, and soon we slid across the ripples to the reef where he tied the kayak to a rock. I wasn't sure how to get out of the kayak without creating a big disturbance, but somehow I managed to  slide over the side without splashing. My feet touched the ocean floor. (We were at least three football fields from the shore.) That gave me enough stability to adjust my goggles and snorkel. I ducked my head under the water and without thought, my feet let go of the bottom.

I was gazing into a world of coral, made and in the making. While not the brilliant-hued vista encountered by scuba divers, it still spoke of other worldliness. Huge chunks of dark coral populated by living fans and tubes; small fish the color of night or almost ripe bananas; slivers of silver roaming in packs.

I kept Todd in sight so I wouldn't become disoriented and swim in the wrong direction - like toward the open sea. Even though it wasn't strong, the current was a force to be dealt with. The power of the sea was very evident, awesome and inspiring.

At the kayak, I told Todd I wanted to swim back to the wharf. How hard could it be with fins and a snorkel, buoyed up by salt water? Not hard at all until I was halfway across. I was tired, but I huffed and puffed my way to the dock - over a quarter of a mile. Todd kayaked back to the dock where we visited until Loren waved for me to come in. We were going out to eat so I had to hurry. I thanked Todd for the snorkeling adventure and wished him well.

That evening, the three of us dined at the Argentinian Grill perched on the side of a mountain. Loren and I got monkey lalas - a concoction of coconut milk, rum, and vodka - more dessert than anything! We had a wonderfu Greek salad as an appetizer. June ordered lobster. Loren and I had grouper - mine with a cajun sauce, his with something milder. At the end we ordered bananas Foster - good but barely reminiscent of Brennan's in New Orleans.

Tuesday, Loren had business in Coxen Hole. June and I went along for the ride. We parked on a side street and walked to a "mall" where we could use the telephone. We passed ramshackle houses and tiny shops thrown along the road with no apparent plan. Children played in mud holes and dogs loafed along the street. Trash floated in the murkey river that seemed not to flow in any particular direction alongside the houses.

The native islanders bought peeled oranges and sliced mangoes from little stands and ate as they strolled to and from the business of their daily lives. White taxis weaved in and out, honking greetings or directives. The pedestrian traffic and the motor traffic mingled without thought.

The main road through Coxen Hole was newly paved with asphalt. Side roads were sand and gravel affairs that battered the kidneys, where speed bumps were huge shipping ropes lying across the road and slowing traffic very effectively.

June and I bought a bunch of small bananas at Two Doves. Exquisite things with a hint of strawberry and none of the "draw" of the large bananas shipped to the States. There are 30 plus species of bananas in the world, and we tasted what were surely the best.

At the mall, June and I took turns using the only phone, leaving messages on answering machines for fifty cents a minute. Most of the shops were not open because it wasn't "ship" day - a  day when a cruise ship docks and tourists flood the little town and spend thousands of dollars. Loren showed up wet. A sudden shower charcteristic of the island had popped up. We waited it out then walked to an "American" cafe for lunch. June and I tried the black bean soup - delicious! Loren had trigger fish - a big chunk!

Wednesday, I kayaked with Loren out to the reef then swam back to the dock. This time without benefit of fins and snorkel. Felt great to have the stamina and to float really well on my back.

Thursday, Loren and I toured the east end of the island while June stayed in bed. She suffered from a queasy stomach and couldn't eat. We saw some gorgeous homes with even more gorgeous views. In many places, the roads are not paved or maintained on a regular basis. The steep terrain makes a four-wheel drive vehicle a necessity. The island is 33 miles long and two miles wide. In Coxen Hole, or just above, the mountains of Honduras, fifty miles away, are visible. Everything mass-produced must come from the mainland since Roatan has no factories. Roatan was a pirate's island. Specifically, that of Captain Coxen. Pirates' treasure is still found from time-to-time, especially where excavations are taking place.

It is dark by 6:30. Not much to do after that. We go sit on the dock and look a the stars and listen to the waves crash over the reef.

I don't want to go home.

Dance, Baby, Dance

I am a Zumba© addict. I’m not very good at it. Actually, I’m terrible at it, but that doesn’t stop me from going every time the doors open.

As a little girl, I wanted to be a dancer, among about a kajillion other things, but in my evolving awareness, I discovered that dancing was against my mother’s religion, so I stopped dancing. (That awareness was the beginning of my suppression of all things fun and started a long list of things I wasn’t supposed to enjoy.) Now, in my still-early 60’s, I have taken up dancing in name of fitness, and it has blown the doors wide open on fun!

If you’ve never seen Zumba© performed live by a bunch of sweating women ranging from size 0 to 20, wearing a variety of garb, dancing at all levels of skill, you have never seen sexy. We are led by a woman who has a cult following, as probably most Zumba© teachers have. When we dance, we watch her and we feel like we look like her. Because her hips are free-floating, we believe our hips are moving in those seductive figure 8 patterns. This would be laughable, except it’s not. The feeling is so strong and so collective, that a man would have to be dead to be oblivious to the primal “womaness” that pervades the gym.

(If you are familiar with the ritual of Dionysus (aka Bacchus), you will understand when I say that Rick Santorum better not step in front of a Zumba© class. Ever.)

Zumba© has released me from what remnants were left of my mother’s religion and given me back my sense of power as a woman.

Here is a poem I wrote for my Zumba© teacher:

            The Six-Thirty Class

She coos, “Come play with me.”

And we do.

She strokes her hair and commands,

“Put on your short skirts, ladies,

and your high heels.”

We slip stilettos over rubber soles

and shimmy our hips

across the floor for her.

She leads us through cha chas

and fierce lunges.

And we believe

we are beautiful and strong

because she tells us so.

We would gyrate to Hell and back

for her,

for the words we crave,

for the words

no man will ever say.

WITNESS

I met a man who was compelled to tell his story about witnessing a suicide. On this particular day, driving past a hospital he had driven past a thousand times, he heard his son in the back seat whisper, "That woman jumped out of the window." When he turned to look, he was staring straight into her eyes as she fell. What he saw unnerved him. He said she looked pleased, satisfied. It was an intimate moment. Too intimate. He could not grasp the concept of wanting to die so he looked away. His mind struggled with what he saw and tried to make her want to live. Now he lives with two discordant images in his head, even though he found out later that this was not her first attempt at suicide, just her best.

I couldn't get his story out of my head. It made me omniscient. I was watching him watch her. I was compelled to write this poem in his voice.

                    Gravity

Somewhere,

between the ninth floor and Earth,

I turn my eyes away,

but not before I see hers,

naked in their desire for death,

fulfilled in the falling. 

Like a photographer’s flash,

the image of her body

develops a memory

of hands seeking purchase

at each passing ledge.

Still she falls, and falls, and falls.

Cain vs Abel

I grew up loving trees. That’s why I’m not a vegetarian. While some people think I have Druidic tendencies, I’m not willing to sacrifice myself for a plant.

I understand people becoming vegetarian, even vegan, for health reasons. I’ve even tried it, but I felt like I was starving. Over the years, I’ve found what works best for me. I eat meat when I’m hungry for meat, and I eat vegetables the rest of the time.

What I don’t eat is sugar or wheat. Unless I’ve had a bad day. Then, I will eat Oreos, a sugar and wheat combination that has my number. Dipped in low fat milk until the chocolate cookie is soft and the creamy center is still firm, this classic cookie is a mini vacation from the slings and arrows of reality.

Until the guilt sets in. Why can’t I remember what it feels like after the Oreo indulgence before I’ve indulged? I’ve tried to conjure that “Oh, why did I eat that?” feeling before succumbing to the siren call of cookies and milk, but thinking a feeling and feeling a feeling just aren’t the same thing. So, occasionally, I give in and have three or ten black and white cookies, a brief, delicious experience sandwiched by past stress and future guilt.

One way I avoid guilt is by not being a vegetarian. People who choose not to eat “anything that had a mother” for humanitarian (carnivitarian?) reasons puzzle me. How is eating a ham different from eating a radish? Both had mothers. It would make more sense for them to say, “I won’t eat anything that came through a birth canal,” but that doesn’t sound altruistic, just creepy.

Through no fault of my mother’s, I grew up believing plants, especially trees, had feelings just like I did. I still do. So, therein lies the conundrum:   If I stop eating meat because it’s wrong to eat fellow inhabitants of Earth, I would also have to stop eating plants. See my problem?

Changing Blog Sites

All blogs posted on February 12, 2012, were copied from a previous blog site I used. I have nothing against that blog site, I just lost my password and couldn't figure out how to get it. That, of course, is my fault.

Also, I am a big fan of Google regardless of the gazillions of dollars the owners/shareholders make. Google gives me choices, albeit superficial choices, which appeals to my independent nature. Google has a better understanding of human nature than any other browser/website company I have used. George Orwell would be proud. Google comes off as a wonderful Big Brother. Can't help but admire that.

From the Bottom of the Political Barrel

I like President Obama, and it disheartens me to hear people speak disparagingly of him. On the other hand, I spoke disparagingly of his immediate predecessor without thought that I was adding to the general negativity of this country. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Bush’s politics (what were his politics, anyway?), I just didn’t care for him as a person.

People at my level (pretty much at the bottom of the political barrel) generally vote for people we like. So, when I compare the two presidents, here is what I come up with:

§  Obama is highly intelligent; Bush is not. I like intelligence. It makes me think, and I like to think. I can listen to President Obama speak for about ten minutes. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t last two minutes listening to Bush before searching for the remote.

§  Obama is enormously energetic; I didn’t feel the energy from Bush. I am drawn to people who are tireless; who can move rapidly from one task to another; who obviously love what they do. I am attracted to them because I am not energetic, but I yearn for it. With a president like Obama, I get to experience that tremendous energy vicariously.

§  Obama believes in what he is doing; Bush didn’t seem to know what he was doing (maybe he did, and I missed it). I don’t have to agree with what you do or what you believe to want to listen to you. I want to look into your eyes and see who YOU are, not see a reflection of myself.

§  Obama has a great voice; Bush, well, do fingernails on a chalkboard ring a bell?

Politcial Correctness

Political correctness has taken the emotion out of our culture. Unless you are a comedian paid to be outrageous, you have to watch every word that comes out of your mouth -especially if you have aspirations of public office. Heaven forbid if you say something to offend someone. This country reeks of righteous indignation, and nothing is more boring than a bunch of holier-than-thou citizens condemning anyone who does not “group think.”

We had an interesting discussion in our local NAMI (National Alliance for Mental Illness) meeting about the use of diagnoses when talking about mental illness. It seems there is a movement among some do-gooders to eliminate diagnostic labels when talking about mental illness. All of us at the meeting, including our resident bipolar, OCD member, thought it was a ridiculous idea. Getting rid of labels doesn’t change the illness. It hides it, just as referring to children with learning difficulties as “special education” students hides the real problems. What an insult! Instead of hiding people away in institutions, we hide them by destroying our ability to talk about an issue that influences who they are.

Instead of changing labels to maintain political correctness, let’s talk about the homeless man who talks to aliens from Mars. Let’s say out loud that he is crazy. That doesn’t mean we insult him or make fun of him. It lays out a major defining factor in his life, which also affects the lives of everyone around him. Saying he has a “mental health challenge” doesn’t make him saner. It sanitizes his situation by eliminating the emotional content of his situation. That’s what political correctness does – it takes the feeling out of life. And all of the humor.

Mother

My mother was a victim of women’s magazines. Pages filled with pristine kitchens and elegant dining rooms demeaned our small farmhouse and made Mother discontent. She had visions of entertaining. Instead, we “had company” – and not often if memory serves me correctly.

What I do remember with certainty is Mother’s anxiety when guests were expected for a meal. A bit of a social butterfly, my mother loved to be around people, unless they were coming to our house to eat. The anxiety she felt at those times was palpable and a total mystery to me. Nothing bad ever happened when people came to visit, so what was the problem?

The problem was those magazines with their glossy pictures challenging housewives to achieve glossy perfection. Mama’s behavior – the sighing, her list of flaws about our house, the apologies for non-existent mistakes – became embedded in my brain, and I carried them into womanhood.

I am not much like my mother. She was extroverted and sociable. I am more shy and reserved, so you would think having company for meals would send me over the edge. It did at first, but the more I “entertained”, the sillier my behavior seemed. Unlike Mother, I learned to organize tasks and make lists. Over the years, the process of preparing for gatherings of family and friends has become second nature and brings me great joy.

It makes me sad that Mother could never recognize and enjoy her talents the way others did. She had a wonderful sense of play and adventure and was a great cook – a perfect combination for any hostess. But, those magazines told her it was all about appearances, and unfortunately, she believed them.

John Daly

John Daly is the first television news reporter I remember. Other than his mellifluous voice, there was nothing spectacular about his presentation of the world’s events. This was long before flashy electronic screens, teleprompters, op-eds, and the need for television companies to convince viewers that their reporting was “fair and unbiased.”

Mr. Daly sat behind a plain desk holding a sheaf of papers which he glanced at from time to time. I still see him in black and white framed in the box of our RCA television. He emanated believability. I trusted him to tell me the truth about what was going on in a world I had just become aware of. He never expressed outrage. I don’t even remember surprise crossing his face.

My memory of John Daly set a standard for all the future news broadcasts I would see. Like a first love or a first kiss, nothing has matched it since.

In fact, watching a news broadcast today is akin to being emotionally assaulted. That’s why I’m swearing off “in-depth” news.

Infinite Rambling

I am always pleasantly amazed when I come across a book that articulates the thoughts that circle in my mind just out of reach of consciousness. My most recent serendipitous find is Bruce Lipton’s Spontaneous Evolution. Since I listened to it while driving, I couldn’t underline as I am wont to do, but I may buy the book just for underlining privileges.

Lipton uses a variety of sciences, quantum physics among them, to present a holistic (why isn’t that wholistic?) view of the Earth as a living organism and humans having as much influence over their own genes as their genes over them. It all makes perfect sense to me. I’ve never understood the need for an either-or/good-evil point of view. Life is not bi-polar; it’s multi-polar.

I love the theory of multi-dimensions or better yet, infinite dimensions. Imagine that there are an infinite number of our Selves living an infinite number of lives with infinite possibilities. Our consciousness moves from one life to another like a fish swimming in a river. Every time we increase our awareness, we move a little farther up the river, leaving an unconscious Self to continue living the life we were once conscious of.

The movement from one of our infinite lives to another is not smooth. It can only be accomplished through struggle and allowing that struggle change us. (This is quantum physics married to Emerson’s Oversoul!) Some people never move through infinity. I really can’t come up with a reason why. Laziness, maybe?

Death may be another way of moving our consciousness. Since all these lives exist in the same place in infinity, we never die because we have never not existed. The belief in reincarnation reflects, to an extent, infinite selves. Psychics seem to be conscious of other people’s consciousness. (I’m not sure how that is relevant, but from a holistic view, everything is relevant.)

All of this makes a very clear picture in my mind, but trying to articulate it makes me doubt my own sanity. Still, I like the idea that there are an infinite number of me out there, and all I have to do is figure out how to move my consciousness into the one that lives on a tropical island.

(I just realized there is no plural for me that doesn’t include someone else. How limiting!)

PERCEPTION

When Mother Earth shrugs, I pay attention (even when it means turning to television news). And Mother has been shrugging lately. Unusual weather, two major earthquakes, and a huge glacier-calving event in Antartica within a month or two of one another denotes some restlessness in our blue-green planet.

But are humans responsible for Her tossing and turning? It seems a bit egocentric of us to believe that we influence nature that much. Our primitive predecessors believed themselves to be an intimate part of the world they lived in. Unfortunately, as humans became more “civilized”, we stepped away from our support system and saw it as something to be dominated and manipulated.

We talk about the world as though our consciousness is responsible for its existence. If all humanity should cease to exist, will this planet dissolve into oblivion? Surely, few believe that, but there seem to be many who believe this marvelous Earth would be worthless without us, that its very purpose is to serve as life support for the top of the food chain.

When we treat Earth as a slave to our wants, how can that not spill over into the way we treat one another?

         Awakening

I slumbered, enchanted

by dreams of blue and green.
Shifting in tranquil sleep,
I exhaled soft spring rain,
Pushed mountains through bare plains.
But aimless children stomped
Through my spider-webbed dreams,
Tearing my gauzy truth.
Annoyed, I blinked awake
And found my long, brown arms
Circled by hard, gray bands;
My wild leaf-green hair shorn;
My eyes blinded with smoke.
I shuddered, and concrete
Ribbons snapped from my wrists.
I shook my bereft head,
And the shearing ended.
I wiped my streaming eyes,
And civilization
Fell away. Once again,
Unfettered by mankind,
I slumber, enchanted
by dreams of blue and green.

Baby Sister

My first memory of my little sister has dimmed over the years. She was standing in the middle of the kitchen table; arms spread wide, singing “Standing on the Promises of God” at the top of her lungs. Her performance evoked a mixed bag of emotions in me. Irritation, first. She was always skirting the edge of the rules. Jealousy, second. She was charming and gregarious and the baby of the family – three things I would never be.
Fifty years later she created another memory, one filled with irony. She stood on the front porch of that same house, gesturing and shouting at me, calling me “sanctimonious.” I knew exactly what she meant, and I had a deep-seated fear that she might be right. This was, however, not the time to explore my own psyche. Hers was imploding before my eyes, and I had to do something while we waited for the ambulance to make the 13 mile trip from the nearest town.

Almost without thought, I gave back some of the control slipping out of her grasp. In a conversational tone so antithetical to our previous shouting match, I asked her what “sanctimonious” meant. Her pride in her intelligence kicked in, and it was enough to divert her attention from drug-induced ranting to explain the meaning to her less intelligent older sister.

The shouting and the four-letter words stopped. I was grateful for that bit of calm since my mother was sitting in the living room totally disoriented by the vituperation that had been spewing from the mouth of her favorite child. (Mother could battle a six-foot, egg-eating black snake with a hoe and win, but the dark side of human nature defeated her without a fight.)

Somehow, my sister and I transitioned from the front porch to a bench in the backyard. Maybe she took off and I followed her, but however it happened, we sat side-by-side with her head buried in my neck, sobbing like child. I rocked her and babbled stupid, useless words to quiet the demons that stomped around in her head. The siren in the background heralded relief from this drama.

I rode in the front of the ambulance, my body tied in a knot. She had fallen unconscious and halfway to the hospital, the driver turned on the siren. Because of her past histrionics, I had a hard time believing that her unresponsiveness was real.

In the emergency room, after having her stomach pumped and regaining consciousness, she flirted shamelessly with the EMTs who had brought her there and ignored our older sister and me. As with that first memory, I felt irritation, but jealousy had long since been erased from the slate of emotions that I felt for the woman lying on the hospital bed, batting her eyes at a man young enough to be her son.

CHEESEBURGER

I consider myself a fairly rational person, not given to drama or impulse (most of the time), but there is one thing that brings out the darker side of my psyche. I am totally irrational when it comes to cheeseburgers.

I love food and will eat almost anything. I ate sushi when it was real and raw, long before the civilized California roll. It was Denver if I remember correctly. I was attending a conference, and my cousin wanted to show off his new-found sophistication so he took me to an Asian restaurant and ordered sushi. I have since learned that that was probably not the correct name for the pieces of raw salmon, tuna, and octopus served on a wooden board. It was okay. The octopus was my favorite, although I can’t say I have ever craved it after that first try.

I have my food preferences. I’m a big fan of anything hot and spicy. As a child, I did not like raspberries or avocados, but I knew I would someday so I kept trying until they made a positive impression on my palate. It hasn’t worked for Brussels sprout. I just don’t like the taste of those nasty, little cabbages.

Disliking something for its taste is not irrational; disliking it for its emotional value is very irrational. And I am thoroughly irrational in my dislike of cheeseburgers – to the point of rudeness (and I am never rude). I have never liked them, and I am determined that I never will.

My intense animosity toward cheeseburgers became apparent several months ago when my dear husband brought one home to me for supper. When I saw the bag from Braum’s on the kitchen counter, I thought, “How sweet of him to bring me a hamburger!” This was a rare occurrence, and I wanted to reinforce his behavior so I was preparing to deliver a warm but not too effusive thank you (he doesn’t like effusive).

I set out a plate and unwrapped the burger. Something akin to shock skittered down my spine. Was that cheese stuck to the wrapper? Oh, dear. I don’t like cheese on my hamburger, but I could scrape most of it off and eat it anyway. No need to hurt his feelings.

I lifted the flawed burger onto the plate and lifted the top half of the bun to scrape off the offending cheese and add extra pickle slices. This time I actually stepped away from the counter. MAYONNAISE, ARRRGH! No way, no how could I eat that thing. This was an abomination, and I couldn’t hold my tongue. I confronted my husband, hoping it was a Braum’s mistake, that he didn’t actually order me a cheeseburger. After all, we’ve been married for 41 years, and I’ve never been shy about my dislike of these culinary mistakes.

It was not the fault of the teeny bopper server behind the counter. He ordered it for me! (What kind of horrible Freudian statement was he making?) When I let him know that in no uncertain terms that I DO NOT LIKE CHEESEBURGERS, his response was, “Well, you always ask me if I want cheese on my hamburger.” What? How is that even relevant to my aversion to cheeseburgers? How does this man’s mind work? I stood between a man whose thinking took him on a circuitous route to believing I liked cheeseburgers (after 41 years!) and a mass of cheese and mayonnaise defiling what could have been a tasty hamburger.

I couldn’t eat it. I didn’t eat it. I left it on the cabinet to shame him. (I doubt he noticed.)

The irrational thing about all this is that I actually like all the parts that make up a cheeseburger. I just don’t want to eat them in that combination. I find it more disgusting than raw fish on a board. I haven’t a clue why.