CHRISTMAS 2012

   Living close to where I spent a year of my childhood made me think to post this poem about those days. The Christmas in Tuckahoe where my mother and brother and I stayed while my dad was stationed in the Azores was one of my happiest Christmases. Yes! It snowed. My first snow. In Brazil, my birthplace, snow was only in picture books and December came in summer. I felt I had landed in a picture book. Faeries and elves would surely prance on the top of the chest of drawers dancing a ring around the Nativity set.  I had wanted a doll pram and yes! I received a white wicker doll pram just my size. I was five and I was allowed to, trusted to, walk the pram to the end of the block and back by myself. Such independence! Such responsibility. I walked and walked and dreamed about living in America for the rest of my life. It took awhile.           


        TUCKAHOE

Eureka 2008

Rosalie said it was a Forever Year,
"Because of the way the 8 loops.
   Infinity divinity."
Like a child's train set, I thought.
Tracks, pretend trees, papier-mache blue mountains,
     little figures waiting patiently at the depot,
and the best feature: the light coming through the tunnel.

I've never tired of the light 
 and the quick holding
    of breath at each approach,
       part of a ritual.

Window shopping in the city. 
Della scurrying to find Lionels at Gimbels.
"There isn't a train I wouldn't take
    no matter where it was going,"
  she'd sing-song cheerily.
Her all seasons' quote is especially nostalgic at Christmas,
  as on the first Christmas I clearly remember,
   the train took us from Tuckahoe
      to expansive, wondrous Grand Central.
Snow! Kings! and kneeling camels!

This Forever Year brings olde scenes circling
    in a noisy clickity-clack of memories.
Hurry! Look! The dizzying, dazzling heart-stopping light
  comes this way again.  

...the blessings of seasons and childhood expectations fulfilled

be yours...  

COMING INTO GLAD TIDINGS

I am the workshop attendee type. It's the doing that attracts me. I've been in peace groups, centering prayer circles, writing huddles,  six week singing courses, and painting clay pots for Advent bazaars gatherings. Consequently, when a message came in to mark my calendar for an event at Jan Hus Presbyterian Church, an affirming, inclusive sort of place with a Moravian star hanging high in the rafter over the altar, I did so mark my calendar. A man who had known Fr. Thomas Keating led us on this particular day. Fr. Thomas Keating is revered by Roman Catholics for his  books on contemplative practices. I first came across him in Roanoke, Virginia where a friend had some of his meditations. I borrowed Open Mind Open Heart and began calling her up to recite a page on her answering machine which she appreciated. Such a pleasant way for me to feel useful!

The session began with a song composed by the Monks of Western Priory and then we were introduced to a woman from Epiphany Episcopal Church who would lead us in art explorations. There were pastel boxes provided and paper. In the background, soft sacred music played. The highlight was to make a mandala keeping in mind the themes of hope, love, joy, and peace. In the center of our drawings would be the light. She spoke about the whole--light and shadow. She said to pick a color which spoke to us or we could use all the colors. Mine surprised me--oh! the inner depths we have we didn't know about! I titled my mandala Tree of Living with the subheading, Street art of a soaring spirit. The pastels made the strokes delicate, free and I chose green, the color of hope and environmental stewardship. I was done so quickly, she asked me quietly if I would like to do another. I said no. I figured I had had my say. The other participants used the entire forty minutes and all the colors. Their mandalas were beautiful and individual, a true revelation of their personalities. We explained in the closing minutes what had been important to us. I had to leave before the end and was sorry but I had an appointment. Curiously, I thought I would come up with a poem about the beauty of silence or doing but it wasn't the case. Perhaps my heart had been set free with the green lines let loose in my mandela. I have written a Christmas poem every year since I was sixteen. They vary greatly in topic and form. I'm glad that this year's reflects my mood. It's haiku for simplicity and peace/love/joy/hope pops up in its attitude:

Winter is coming!

Red birds sing in snowy boughs

on holiday cards.  

IN THE ARCHIVES

It seems strange to me that my e-mails are archived. Doesn't that sound as though I have been writing for fifty years? At any rate, I decided to look at a couple to see what I wrote back when. I thought I'd post this one for starting December as Eureka, CA seemed like Christmas year round. Even in summer, it has a crisp goodwill sort of feel to it. Coincidentally, this message was written on 12/12. Back when, of course.

" On Tuesday, I boarded the Amtrak bus in Martinez and sat across the aisle from a woman who radiated sadness despite her red velour sweatsuit.After an hour or so I asked if I could borrow her book since she wasn't reading it. It was about how to help people in grief. Ordinarily I read very slowly but I finished the book by the time we arrived in Ukiah for our lunch break. I asked her name (it was Usha) and if she were traveling as far as Eureka and she said, yes, she was visiting her son-in-law who manages the Rodeway Inn. Then she burst into tears saying her daughter had died suddenly of a quick illnesss 15 days previous at age 26. I had just read the book but didn't know what to say. What a shock. I said a few things of no value whatsoever and then recommended page 137 in her book and she said she was going to read it right then. We were quiet for the rest of the trip. The Rodeway Inn is not far from me so on Friday, I stopped for a small living tree at Target and went over to give it to her. The person working at the desk was Devora which turned out to be a name she took up when there were too many Deborahs. It's Hebrew for Deborah. She said she had lived on the same street as Usha in Stockton before moving here and we talked about Usha's daughter.

On Saturday, I walked to the co-op. There was a tired but brave bell ringer. I asked him to sing something. He balked but croaked out two lines of  "I'll Fly Away." I said, "That's a great start!" and went in. I browsed a long time and when I came out, he had a big smile on his face and sang the complete verses of, "Because He Lives." He asked me if I knew it. I said, "Indeed!" He exclaimed, "You're a Christian!" Well yes,  of a Quakery kind. 

Today was mildly blustery and I saw hopelesness on the street and Dog was not in his yard but I was uplifted by having met Usha and the Bell Ringer."

My writing hasn't changed much, has it? 

THE GREAT UNLEARNING

Everything I learned in kindergarten, I have had to unlearn. For instance, Columbus was not the first to land on our fair continent. In fact, continents are a relatively new concept geologically speaking. I am not a descendant of Adam's rib, which may account for my small bones and witches don't roam with their wicked black cats ready to eat my gizzards. I'm thinking maybe I don't even have gizzards. However, enough is enough. The latest unlearning has brought on a fierce (Irish/Apache?) rebellion. Mr. Infallible Pope Benny has declared there were no angels at Jesus' birth. The Jehovah's Witnesses told me the same thing back in '72; I declined such heresy then, too. Let me remind said Pope that infallible popes of the past committed some horrifically fallible atrocities and he'd better not mess with my angels. My numerous poems, drawings, accounts, and encounters stay.I will not give up singing, "O Little Town of Bethlehem" or calling on my helpers to leave a small sign in front of me to lead me on. I remember nights with a candle burning beside a nativity set when I wondered if the next bullet would signal my last moments on Planet Earth. Just because the pope has been checking his Fact Checker is irrelevant to me. In war weary countries, people need to believe in goodness. In places of famine and drought, people need to believe in manna. For me, the humility of God coming to us as a baby in a manger of straw bringing with Him the message that peace works is a spectacular, radical, unheard of miracle mystery. The truth must be told! Some stories are more important than supposed accuracy. Imagination trumps all.Wonder is the midwife of belief and experience confirms it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

...may angels rock you gently in their

soft wings and heal your misgivings...

Drawing credit: Henry Hobbs

NOW LET US ALL BE THANKFUL

I used to rhyme but haven't lately;

by lately I mean forty years.

A bit of free verse said it all

and saved my soul frustration's tears.

~~~

When my dad retired from the Foreign Service, he let loose his Inner Writer. He and my mother settled in various locations (sand-in-the-shoes-Foreign-Service-syndrome). In one of these places which my mother called, "This is my last move," he started a small newspaper. The circulation was intended for the folks in Green Valley, Arizona, a senior citizen haven for retirees who no longer wished to shovel snow. He said he wanted to have the opportunity to write a column nobody would censor. Each column would begin with a light verse to put the readers in a good mood because the meat of the column would be a rant against or for (Reagan, Udall) sufficiently caliente to draw the citizens from their slumber. One Lt. Colonel was so drawn he came after my dad with a shotgun. My mother, having experienced riots in Jerusalem, Caracas, and Cali, wondered why he couldn't simply print the verse and skip the column. She was wary and weary of contemplating an early death. I was given some space for a poem which she greatly appreciated as the poems were an attempt to add beauty to the world. She thought I lived in the Land of Da Nile as her view was that you could name any country and it would be going to the dogs. Having observed several of these countries, I concluded she was the most cheerful cynic one might encounter. I am neither cynic nor an inhabitant of the Land of Da Nile but I catch myself echoing her words. This might be a result of biblical training. No, not from church. From my mother, since she was prone to quoting Scripture. She said it was a paradox that an atheist can quote all she wants whereas a religious person is the victim of complaints if he or she even suggests that the meek will inherit the earth. A college friend wrote a few years ago that he and his wife had retired to Green Valley. The paper my dad sold (yes, it wasn't the last move) had prospered beyond anything he had envisioned. I looked it up and there was nothing recognizable except the photo on the banner of the mountains in the distance. The circulation is enormous but only the name remains of his work. No caliente in this news. I often wonder what my dad would have done with the Internet. I can see him copying and pasting and checking his copyright manual and having a conversation with Chris Hedges. Two peas in a pod. I am grateful for those days even though I was gone, living in San Francisco. Perhaps they gave me the incentive or the genes to be writing my "column." My mother would be relieved that I still prefer to add beauty to the world and, like her, still believe the meek will inherit the earth. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

...blessings to you on this Thanksgiving week

and remember not only the pilgrims feasting; 

remember also Pine Ridge...  

A WORD OR TWO BEFORE YOU GO

  "Soft you, a word or two before you go.

I have done the state some service,

and they know't--No more of that I pray you,

in your letters...speak of me as I am."

********

 Westport Country Playhouse

Westport, Connecticut

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 The buses had started running again after Superstorm Sandy had come through in one big tizzy fit, fussed at us because of the way we have treated the planet. I couldn't blame her even though I was stunned by the photos of the damage. All that strewn furniture, clothes, boardwalks, cars; there was even a rollercoaster adrift in the ocean! I was on the crowded Select (fewer stops) 2nd Avenue bus going down to 34th Street for an appointment with an oral surgeon. Standing in front of me was a woman with a cap which read, "A word or two before you go" across the back. Shakespeare! Well, I had to know what that was about. She turned to show me the front. It said Westport Country Playhouse. I said, "Oh, I was there in 1958 on a drama trip from college!" She began telling me the history of the playhouse and how it looks now. We enjoyed talking about theater and election day to the point where when she got off the bus she waved with a friendly, "See you at the Playhouse!"

 Voting had been chaotic at the E. 67th polling station as there was an influx of voters from Staten Island where the flooding had caused havoc and power outages. Future politicians showed up in the form of public school youngsters  selling baked goods.They were regular experts at Mike Check, excited and hopeful. Eavesdropping on conversations, I felt it seemed people were actually waking up to the words climate change. With a Nor'easter predicted to be coming on the heels of Sandy, it was easy to understand that this would be the new trending topic. Go Green Party! Go Justice Party! Get with it Democratic Party!

 

Garden City, New York

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Rockaway Peninsula, New York

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A bright note from my brother's festive exhibit at Orchard Windows Gallery was cheering:

Show I was in curated by Dino Eli, who is part gypsie, presiding over the candles. Everyone else had flashlights in each others eyes. Walking back to Tribeca at 9:30 very wooooky, nothing moving except whirling winds and the occasional police comet streaking by.

There was snow in Central Park on November 8th.

I cringe at the thought of what would have happened had Sandy, the sub-tropical cyclone, been a Category 5 hurricane.   I feel I should have told her, "A word or two before you go. I for one will do the best I can to take care of our exquisite Earth home. I don't need any more warnings!" Spread those words, my lovely friends. 

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF HOBBITS

When I was writing to my Carolina friend Lucille in 2008, we spent a lot of time on names such as names we gave houses, cars, and names we gave ourselves. I had an old pen name she liked--Zeppha which I said meant Dreamer of Dreams. If one is Irish, one can make up things like that. She decided she wanted to be Honor, an old name from the nineteenth century she had found. I don't recall if it came out of a family tree or a historical figure. I changed her entry in the Address Book and for many months she remained Honor. Honor was replaced, though, after she read a Billy Collins poem she thought a classic. She decided to be Billie Lu and stayed Billie Lu even up to the last e-mail she wrote to me in August. As to houses, I called my California apartment The Little Red Schoolhouse because of its boxy shape and color. She called her basement Undercroft. However, when she invited me to come live there she handed the naming to me and told me to make something magical of the whole house. I leaned toward calling the basement, The Shire by Bolin Creek; the first floor would be Middle Earth; and the upper floor would be the Blue Mountains; the small patio area would be the Bag End garden.  She agreed. When my lease was up in the Little Red Schoolhouse, the movers came (coincidentally home based in  North Carolina) and I closed the door forever. Yes, some things really are forever. I repeated to myself a line from The Lord of the Rings, "Let the journey begin."

 The Shire was magical, indeed. We had a routine. I slipped out in the morning to catch the free bus to town. I came back in time to tell Billie Lu the stories I had experienced. At four o'clock, I rode the exercise bike (which I called the Wonderous Horse) through the Blue Mountains. At five, I took my early supper to sit on Stephanie's loveseat and watch something--a telenovela, Abrazame Muy Fuerte, or a tape of one of the entire Wagner Ring cycle featuring James Morris. Billie Lu took her turn telling me her stories such as those about growing up in an antique shop, living in Japan, taking her children to the Soviet Union where she got in a cab with a famous conductor. At six o'clock, I retired to my reclusive existence in the fabulous Shire where the moon rose through the dark woods with the light reflecting on the tumbling creek water. I read books I could later describe. She was ailing and not up to reading long books but she enjoyed Carolyn Meyer's Young Adult book, The True Adventures of Charley Darwin. When chance found me commuting to the city of New York, she said she missed our cultural get-togethers. But I read all the Kristin Lavansdatter books which she encouraged me to and the Dave Cunane mysteries. (Cunane was her mother's Irish family name. As I recall it means rabbit).  I mailed reviews. The Poldark saga was a favorite of ours. Lucille had named a cat after the heroine, Demelza. I felt some quick step of synchronicity when the actress who played Demelza died the same season as Lucille. I picture them somewhere now with one of her teapots discussing poetry and cookbooks, surrounded by rabbits. I'm glad they have cookbooks together. I was never one for cookbooks and was happy that Stephanie filled a role I couldn't possibly: watching edgy TV shows. No I haven't seen the Sopranos or Mad Men or the one about the teacher with crystal meth. 

Lucille had a lot of challenges in her life and dealt with them deliberately. I came across a quote by an author she liked which reminds me of her daily: 

"So might we fail to see the real sadness that lies behind

the acts of others; so might we look at one of our

fellowmen going about his business and not know

of the sorrow that he is feeling, the effort that

he is making, the things that he has lost."

~~Alexander McCall Smith

I must go down to The Shire this week and start the closing up. It is a shock to end this chapter which turned a house into a whimsical land of great beauty and marvel. I mourn the loss of Lucille's bright intelligence, her hopefulness but am grateful for such a journal of memories, a regular Sam Gamgee's sketchbook of travels.