On Mothers
You can deny it all you want, but the fact remains, we are forever attached to our mothers. There is a bond that simply cannot be severed.
Consider:
Two mere cells collide and begin to multiply, building upon each other and weaving about into the formation of another human being. The host – we call mother – experiences changes in her body and even emotions that she will only ever know during a particular pregnancy. Anything from severe mood swings to ungodly weight gain brought on by food cravings that are simply unexplainable. Swelling of legs, feet, ankles, ring fingers (how many wedding bands have had to be cut off?) face, breasts that double maybe even triple in size, and of course the ever-ballooning belly and hip area. She may experience queasiness or outright violent vomiting that mysteriously occurs around the same time each day or is brought on by the mere odors of cooking. And simply forget being able to notice that a shoe is untied!
How does the woman accept all of this? With love, hopes, dreams of what is yet to be. With a fierce determination to protect that which lies hidden within her, because she knows it is her responsibility to provide the best possible conditions for optimal growth.
There are times she is certain she can literally hear, perhaps even physically feel the extra heartbeat that now joins hers. And the baby grows and grows until it pushes all its mother’s organs out of its way. Kicking and pushing and demanding the room it needs, wants - already voicing its demands for space in her life. Screaming, “Make room for me, for my desires, my wants, my dreams, my life!” And how does the mother respond? She smiles down at her swollen abdomen, rubs it affectionately, and sends mental messages of calmness and love to the baby within. She is accepting and even welcoming of this intrusion on her life.
To mothers out there, you know the rest. The labor, the birthing, the feeding, bathing, nurturing, doctoring, educating – and all the while the child continues in her demands for space, still pushing and pulling in her strife to become who she is to be. And all the while blindly and vainly attempting to break the tie that will forever bind her to ----- her mother.
And how do we mothers respond? Ultimately, after the surprise, pain, outrage, and anger, we always somehow return to simple and unexplainable love. And that’s just being a mother - I suppose.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Glow
Glow
The firelight flickers its crimson and amber glow;
while faces gathered round the perimeter reflect the offered warmth.
Lines and angles are brushed smoothed and edges softened;
mirroring the calmness offered by our gentle sparking inferno.
Yet, in our midst two faces glow from another light source
casting a ghostly electronic bluish green hue that builds ridges and planes
reminiscent of the Black Hills succumbing to the falling dusk.
This cooling and casting forms eerie highlights of other-worldly beings.
Eyes drawn magnetically downward, downward,
effectively caught in the jaws of modern technology.
Gathered around the fire, easily flowing conversation exchanges
amongst our golden-clad community.
Stories of old, dreams of tomorrow and wonderments of today
travel around, over, and through the softly whispering flames;
only to be captured and recast into eternity.
Here our woven thoughts ride atop wispy tendrils of smoke,
while others are hurled in great puffs, refusing to be
forgotten.
The growing collection of stories gently slip over the tops of the electronically flashing faces.
And half-hearted, intermittent attempts at joining our group are tossed our way through fragmented and
punchy remarks.
The soft music of the ever-deepening night and the dwindling embers gradually sway us toward slumber,
and we’ve no need of announced parting.
We simply rise, push our chairs away from our close circle and begin our trek into the waiting cabin and
toward our beckoning beds.
As if suddenly awaken from some deep and hypnotic dream
our cool glowing members raise their eyes from their manufactured scenes.
Perhaps the faintest hint of surprised confusion brings a sort of subtle animation to their faces as they
nod consent
and follow us in.
The firelight flickers its crimson and amber glow;
while faces gathered round the perimeter reflect the offered warmth.
Lines and angles are brushed smoothed and edges softened;
mirroring the calmness offered by our gentle sparking inferno.
Yet, in our midst two faces glow from another light source
casting a ghostly electronic bluish green hue that builds ridges and planes
reminiscent of the Black Hills succumbing to the falling dusk.
This cooling and casting forms eerie highlights of other-worldly beings.
Eyes drawn magnetically downward, downward,
effectively caught in the jaws of modern technology.
Gathered around the fire, easily flowing conversation exchanges
amongst our golden-clad community.
Stories of old, dreams of tomorrow and wonderments of today
travel around, over, and through the softly whispering flames;
only to be captured and recast into eternity.
Here our woven thoughts ride atop wispy tendrils of smoke,
while others are hurled in great puffs, refusing to be
forgotten.
The growing collection of stories gently slip over the tops of the electronically flashing faces.
And half-hearted, intermittent attempts at joining our group are tossed our way through fragmented and
punchy remarks.
The soft music of the ever-deepening night and the dwindling embers gradually sway us toward slumber,
and we’ve no need of announced parting.
We simply rise, push our chairs away from our close circle and begin our trek into the waiting cabin and
toward our beckoning beds.
As if suddenly awaken from some deep and hypnotic dream
our cool glowing members raise their eyes from their manufactured scenes.
Perhaps the faintest hint of surprised confusion brings a sort of subtle animation to their faces as they
nod consent
and follow us in.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
In response to the writing exercise "I remember"
I remember when life seemed easier and filled with simple pleasures. Sitting on the laundry room floor with Grandma Mack waiting for the next load of laundry to complete its cycle so that we could gather it into a basket. We’d walk out to the clothes line already billowing with dry clothes from the last load; it was those hot arid Arizona breezes that worked their magic so quickly. I’d carry the empty basket for gathering the dry while Grandma carried the one brimming full of soggy garments. We’d collect the dry and hang the wet, return inside to sit with our backs resting on the opposite wall from the washer and read until the next load clunked itself to completion.
I remember gathering rocks for this same grandmother’s garden edging; something I continue to do today for my own garden. Now I don’t consider a garden without rocks a true garden at all.
Just this morning I enjoyed, yes I said enjoyed, hanging a small load of my own laundry on the clothes line out back. The early morning air was filled with the chatter of early birds out seeking that proverbial worm (or perhaps simply munching happily at one of my many feeders). I remember thinking to myself, “I embrace these simple things of life. It’s really not the big ticket items or extravagant vacations that create a sense of satisfaction, it’s the little things, maybe even mundane, that permit me the time and space to work in a relaxed and enjoyable manner. Had I not been standing at that clothes line, looking upward to the sky I may have missed the clear azure blue sky with the deep green of early summer tree leaves waving hello to the world around them. I admired the way the bright sunny pattern of last night’s dinner napkins cheerily flapped in the morning air. And then there was the dampness of dewy grass and its recently cut clippings reaching over my sandals and clinging to my bare toes. My ever-faithful dog Ruby roamed and patrolled the yard, periodically checking on my progress as she doesn’t want to miss the next job for the day.
I recall my thoughts as I debated whether to move straight to the computer for my morning writing session or head over to the herb garden for a light weeding and planting of a few new members. I noted the shadows covering it and decided upon the latter. I gathered my supplies and pots, knelt to the ground and began carefully removing slender blades of grass from within the lemon thyme patch. This ended up requiring a bare-handed approach so off came the gloves, never to return to my hands. I remember thinking that I would not be able to have my hands photographed in our church directory photo this evening as I would have definite green thumb and fingers. It’s funny where the brain goes.
Once I was satisfied with the weeding, I laid out the plants in locations that I deemed suitable. Upon the first spade full of dirt, I noted the impossibly heavy amount of clay and knew it just would not do. So I lugged a bag of sand that had previously served as added weight for my car during the icy winter months, and emptied some of it into my wheel barrow. I mixed the sand and soil, introduced the plants to their new home and welcomed them with healthy drinks of water.
Just as I was about to finish the last plant, Ruby went barking and snarling around the nearest corner of the house. There stood the meter reader; poor man just held his arms close to his body and waited for me call off my man-eating guard dog. As I guided Ruby into the house, I leaned down and whispered to her, “Good girl.” After all, she’s only doing her job, and well at that.
This man and I struck up a conversation with Ruby up on the sofa monitoring it all through the window. The electric company recently placed automated meter readers on their customer’s homes and I asked the gentleman about that. He explained that they’d continue reading manually for two more months to be sure it was all working accurately. To which I inquired about his job. It was no surprise that he’d lose it. He explained that he’s sixty-three years old, working for a sub-contracting company, about to lose this job and nothing else in sight to replace the income. We both agreed that America was being run by the almighty dollar and no longer by the relationships of the past. And our conversation angled right to my earlier thoughts of the morning regarding the enjoyment of simple pleasures: laundry whipping in the morning sun-filled breezes, the moist blanket of earth and grass beneath your feet and bare hands reaching into the soil in preparation for sowing new plants.
And so, the meter man left leaving behind two doggie biscuits for Ruby which she gobbled up after his departure and I returned to finish my task at hand. Now, I’ll go and work on that writing project niggling at the back of my mind.
I remember gathering rocks for this same grandmother’s garden edging; something I continue to do today for my own garden. Now I don’t consider a garden without rocks a true garden at all.
Just this morning I enjoyed, yes I said enjoyed, hanging a small load of my own laundry on the clothes line out back. The early morning air was filled with the chatter of early birds out seeking that proverbial worm (or perhaps simply munching happily at one of my many feeders). I remember thinking to myself, “I embrace these simple things of life. It’s really not the big ticket items or extravagant vacations that create a sense of satisfaction, it’s the little things, maybe even mundane, that permit me the time and space to work in a relaxed and enjoyable manner. Had I not been standing at that clothes line, looking upward to the sky I may have missed the clear azure blue sky with the deep green of early summer tree leaves waving hello to the world around them. I admired the way the bright sunny pattern of last night’s dinner napkins cheerily flapped in the morning air. And then there was the dampness of dewy grass and its recently cut clippings reaching over my sandals and clinging to my bare toes. My ever-faithful dog Ruby roamed and patrolled the yard, periodically checking on my progress as she doesn’t want to miss the next job for the day.
I recall my thoughts as I debated whether to move straight to the computer for my morning writing session or head over to the herb garden for a light weeding and planting of a few new members. I noted the shadows covering it and decided upon the latter. I gathered my supplies and pots, knelt to the ground and began carefully removing slender blades of grass from within the lemon thyme patch. This ended up requiring a bare-handed approach so off came the gloves, never to return to my hands. I remember thinking that I would not be able to have my hands photographed in our church directory photo this evening as I would have definite green thumb and fingers. It’s funny where the brain goes.
Once I was satisfied with the weeding, I laid out the plants in locations that I deemed suitable. Upon the first spade full of dirt, I noted the impossibly heavy amount of clay and knew it just would not do. So I lugged a bag of sand that had previously served as added weight for my car during the icy winter months, and emptied some of it into my wheel barrow. I mixed the sand and soil, introduced the plants to their new home and welcomed them with healthy drinks of water.
Just as I was about to finish the last plant, Ruby went barking and snarling around the nearest corner of the house. There stood the meter reader; poor man just held his arms close to his body and waited for me call off my man-eating guard dog. As I guided Ruby into the house, I leaned down and whispered to her, “Good girl.” After all, she’s only doing her job, and well at that.
This man and I struck up a conversation with Ruby up on the sofa monitoring it all through the window. The electric company recently placed automated meter readers on their customer’s homes and I asked the gentleman about that. He explained that they’d continue reading manually for two more months to be sure it was all working accurately. To which I inquired about his job. It was no surprise that he’d lose it. He explained that he’s sixty-three years old, working for a sub-contracting company, about to lose this job and nothing else in sight to replace the income. We both agreed that America was being run by the almighty dollar and no longer by the relationships of the past. And our conversation angled right to my earlier thoughts of the morning regarding the enjoyment of simple pleasures: laundry whipping in the morning sun-filled breezes, the moist blanket of earth and grass beneath your feet and bare hands reaching into the soil in preparation for sowing new plants.
And so, the meter man left leaving behind two doggie biscuits for Ruby which she gobbled up after his departure and I returned to finish my task at hand. Now, I’ll go and work on that writing project niggling at the back of my mind.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
the light through my window
The sunlight works its way through the filmy dust and grimy build up of my windows. It highlights the tree pollen trapped by the mesh of the screen. The light waxes and wanes with the passage of clouds overhead. Sometimes bright and then suddenly dim. During
those bright moments a sort of picture frame forms on the screen due to the shadow of the window frame itself. On my desk the sun seems to gravitate toward the stack of books on at the front corner. The yellow cover of a packet of watercolor paper happily reflects the sunlight in a reminiscent form of sunshine yellow. The light streams into the homemade pottery dish my mother made casting shadows on one side and lighting up the other.
Hmmm. How like our relationship that might be – maybe like the shadows of the past that fade right into the brilliant light of the present. One solitary pen sits in that dish, almost becoming a dividing line, and waiting to have it all written down.
I notice the swirling pattern of the wood within the black painted desk top is highlighted by the sun. The tiny peaks and valleys of ridges dappled in the same manner one might observe over a mountain range. This mountain range poses a different challenge though, rather than a physical climb, I’m faced with the daunting and often times, difficult task of trekking across the paper (or computer screen if you will) filling the space with story as of yet untold.
The very book that allotted this writing excercise captures not only the sun rays, but also the breeze and the paper back cover waves at me in an almost mocking jester jeering me forward in this endeavor.
My eyes next travel to the closet doors to my left, that would be toward the northwest in this northeasterly facing room. On this surface the light captures the wood grains in a similar fashion as that of my desk, only these seem to possess a more ghostly or goulish appearance. I recall being a small child and fearing those monsters in the grainy wood of my door or even the cracks in the ceiling or walls. Remember the story of the woman who thought she was slipping and sliding behind the wall paper of her room. Creepy!
Finally, I notice how this mid-morning light brings out the limy yellowish green of my funky-colored study. I remember choosing it because of its happy hue. I still like it. Sort of changes color depending on just how green it is outside and the amount of light reaching and reflecting from each part of the room. Today it moves from the window as pea green, then limy yellow, and finally to a deeper pea soup green. Perhaps, it doesn’t sound appealing to some, but I like peas and pea soup and I’m happy in my little green abode.
And so, today, I will write.
those bright moments a sort of picture frame forms on the screen due to the shadow of the window frame itself. On my desk the sun seems to gravitate toward the stack of books on at the front corner. The yellow cover of a packet of watercolor paper happily reflects the sunlight in a reminiscent form of sunshine yellow. The light streams into the homemade pottery dish my mother made casting shadows on one side and lighting up the other.
Hmmm. How like our relationship that might be – maybe like the shadows of the past that fade right into the brilliant light of the present. One solitary pen sits in that dish, almost becoming a dividing line, and waiting to have it all written down.
I notice the swirling pattern of the wood within the black painted desk top is highlighted by the sun. The tiny peaks and valleys of ridges dappled in the same manner one might observe over a mountain range. This mountain range poses a different challenge though, rather than a physical climb, I’m faced with the daunting and often times, difficult task of trekking across the paper (or computer screen if you will) filling the space with story as of yet untold.
The very book that allotted this writing excercise captures not only the sun rays, but also the breeze and the paper back cover waves at me in an almost mocking jester jeering me forward in this endeavor.
My eyes next travel to the closet doors to my left, that would be toward the northwest in this northeasterly facing room. On this surface the light captures the wood grains in a similar fashion as that of my desk, only these seem to possess a more ghostly or goulish appearance. I recall being a small child and fearing those monsters in the grainy wood of my door or even the cracks in the ceiling or walls. Remember the story of the woman who thought she was slipping and sliding behind the wall paper of her room. Creepy!
Finally, I notice how this mid-morning light brings out the limy yellowish green of my funky-colored study. I remember choosing it because of its happy hue. I still like it. Sort of changes color depending on just how green it is outside and the amount of light reaching and reflecting from each part of the room. Today it moves from the window as pea green, then limy yellow, and finally to a deeper pea soup green. Perhaps, it doesn’t sound appealing to some, but I like peas and pea soup and I’m happy in my little green abode.
And so, today, I will write.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Living in the present
We must not allow the enticing voice of the future to rob us of our appreciation for the present.
Yesterday slips away beneath the rolling tires of progress. I speed ahead towards the future, the present a mere moment viewed through the limited sight of my windows.
And I wonder what is left behind?
What lies ahead?
I barely perceive the briefest moment, and POOF! It's escaped into the past.
Moving, moving forward to . . .
What?
More life? More living? More experience? More knowledge?
More sorrows, joys, hopes, fears?
Or perhaps more peace.
Is this where peace resides? In the past hallways of our lives?
That place where we ponder our chosen paths attempting to make sense of this life?
If so, why do we hurtle forward?
No wonder the elderly often seem put off by the hustle and bustle of life. They've learned to slow the pace (maybe are even forced to do so), appreciate the moment, and then move forward.
Yesterday slips away beneath the rolling tires of progress. I speed ahead towards the future, the present a mere moment viewed through the limited sight of my windows.
And I wonder what is left behind?
What lies ahead?
I barely perceive the briefest moment, and POOF! It's escaped into the past.
Moving, moving forward to . . .
What?
More life? More living? More experience? More knowledge?
More sorrows, joys, hopes, fears?
Or perhaps more peace.
Is this where peace resides? In the past hallways of our lives?
That place where we ponder our chosen paths attempting to make sense of this life?
If so, why do we hurtle forward?
No wonder the elderly often seem put off by the hustle and bustle of life. They've learned to slow the pace (maybe are even forced to do so), appreciate the moment, and then move forward.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
From the Roman Philospher Epictetus (epic/tee/tus)
"Clearly Define the Person You Want to Be"
Who exactly do you want to be? What kind of person do you want to be? What are your personal ideals? Whom do you admire? What are their special traits that you would make your own?
It's time to stop being vague. If you wish to be an extraordinary person, if you wish to be wise, then you should explicitly identify the kind of person you aspire to become. If you have a daybook, write down who you're trying to be, so that you can refer to the self-definition. Precisely describe the demeanor you want to adopt so that you may preserve it when you are by yourself or with other people.
So, I've been working on this assignment and have even challenged my eighth grade students with it. Give it a try (privately, of course).
Who exactly do you want to be? What kind of person do you want to be? What are your personal ideals? Whom do you admire? What are their special traits that you would make your own?
It's time to stop being vague. If you wish to be an extraordinary person, if you wish to be wise, then you should explicitly identify the kind of person you aspire to become. If you have a daybook, write down who you're trying to be, so that you can refer to the self-definition. Precisely describe the demeanor you want to adopt so that you may preserve it when you are by yourself or with other people.
So, I've been working on this assignment and have even challenged my eighth grade students with it. Give it a try (privately, of course).
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Friend or Fiend?
Did you ever notice that there's only one letter dividing friend from fiend? My 8th grade students find this interesting as do I.
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