August 26, 2013

It has been four months since I have posted.  I have not been writing much but getting back in the swing.  I did write some blues lyrics that now have been given music, but since I have a collaborator (thank you John Barron) I better check before I put it out there.  I have to say that was a very cool experience, and I am motivated to write more.

But here is the current draft of a poem I have been working on a couple of days.  For lack of a better title at the moment I am calling it Screen Saver since that was the impetus for what followed:

Screen Saver

I can’t quite sleep.

Still awake with some disquiet,  

a search for words begins

when my gaze lands upon the screen:

rectangles, splayed

and overlaid,

the pictures of my life;

fossil fragments

of the years

but in no order

of meaning or time,

random, without story line.

But mind and ego wish it so

to tell the tale of who we are

and so collect the snapshots.

As if, like scattered breadcrumbs,

they could lead us

home again

to that beyond reach,

all that came before,

and in that shuttered moment

relive again. 

Toss death and loss into a void

and Then, etched always in the Now, remains.

Yet all things arise

then fall away.

The succor and curse

of memory hold sway

in the here and now, and what’s to come.

I stand upon a swinging bridge

and peering in between the slats

into that space, the future,

where there is both abyss and wish

and always pause,

hopeful of what might be next

and afraid of falling through.

A short story

The sun is just about to splash into the turquoise.  

It is that moment where the last glowing sliver disappears, leaving a sky streaked with coral and golden hues.  I hear the waves hit, and the see the sparkling foam fanning out upon the sand, the gulls skittering upon the surface.  I want to paint this picture so vividly in my mind’s eye that I can not forget it.  I want to hold the moment, to keep this small perfect picture indelible, and retrievable.  Because in this time around the wheel, it seems that much of my sojourn has already been forgotten, never to return...and there is no one to ask.

My husband has many holders of his history.  We are surfside, sitting at a dinner with friends of his childhood, their parents, his own parents.  I am surrounded by their love and laughter, I am embraced and lifted up by it, and yet I am an outsider to all these stories.  Like watching a favorite movie, it is familiar and heartwarming, but it is not my story, and a slice of me sits in abject sorrow and loneliness, for I have no one who can tell me about myself as a girl.

How pathetic and narcissistic to allow this barbed coil of wretchedness any place in my awareness.   Yet there it is.   It is a truth, and I feel less whole because of it.  

No brother or sister, parents dead, never really close with extended family,  a childhood of Air Force relocations, acquaintances remembered, but no lasting friends from those years.   Yes, I have rediscovered on Facebook some friend from high school days.  But the parts of my life that can be shared and remembered in any meaningful way start in college.  If I can’t recall some detail, Teidi or Kelly or Lisa or David will.  I can salvage those parts of my self through their collective net of consciousness, and I cherish those enduring bonds.  

But what I can’t remember from when I was 5 or 9,  12 or 16, when we lived in Oklahoma or Germany or North Carolina, these pieces of me have fallen into a space that, like an anchor laid down at the bottom of the sea, remains unreachable, unfathomable.  Alone, I can not hoist that ballast, or beckon back memories obscured by the tides of time.

Feeling at once forlorn and foolish, I rise from the table before the tears are seen and find my way to the restroom.   I gaze into green eyes, noting with some chagrin the creases of my crows feet, moist as I struggle with this pain. 

Stop it. 

No, don’t stop it. 

Breathe into it.

Feel it for what it is and let the knowing move through you. 

How interesting, this grasping at the past, this idea that what came before is so vital.  The experience and remembrance of a Me through time feels so necessary  to knowing who I am now, to being my authentic self.

But is it really that important after all? 

As a psychotherapist, day after day I hear the life stories of others.  I bear witness to the pain and struggle.  I accept, validate, and ultimately try to help my clients move beyond their self-limiting beliefs and habits, to transform the sadness, fear and anger that keeps them mired in the past, or paralyzed by fear of the future.  

In essence, healing happens in the moment of release from the often-told life story and the endless editorializing and criticizing.  Freedom lies in the ability to be fully alive to the present moment, accepting it as it is without expectation or judgment.  Well-being exists in embracing the process of mindful awareness of here-and-now.  We grow in connectedness to others and feel the evolutionary impulse when we move beyond the constraints of ego -  me, my history, my story - and instead notice what is shared and essential in the experience of humanity.

I walk back to the table and feel connected once again.  We all were children once.  As were our parents, and theirs before them, and further, and beyond to the differentiation of species, and all the way back to the creatures crawling from water to land, farther back to only water, the changed yet same water now holding the hiding sun until it begins its arc again across the brightening sky.

All I really need to know is known.  If I have breath when the sun rises, I will have all I need.

Here.

This.

Now.

A Facebook Tale

I begin today feeling as big as the universe and as essential as those string theory threads.   I feel that for you too.  Let me tell you the story.

I am part of a  small group on Facebook participating in National Poetry Month by posting poems.  They are mostly original works (and some crackingly good ones!), and occasionally someone will post a work by some other published author.  Marcia, a woman I have never met except through Facebook, posted this by a poet of the 1800's:

Who Has Seen The Wind? 

  by Christina Rossetti

Who has seen the wind?    

Neither I nor you:            

But when the leaves hang trembling,     

The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?   

Neither you nor I:    

But when the trees bow down their heads,  

The wind is passing by.  

I felt inspired by this piece, and wrote the following as a sort of homage and extension:

I Have Seen the Wind.

  by Katherine Hamilton

I have seen the wind

It is just behind my eyes

Creating space for landscapes,

A place for lover’s sighs

You have seen the wind.

It is just behind my eyes

Creating gusts of discontent

And room for love’s demise

And then Marcia posts the following:  

               

"Katherine, it's interesting how a little something I read in a daily devotional email caused me                                  to think of that one line, "Who has seen the wind?"  Then I felt like posting the poem here, and you  composed a poem which sums up the twelve-year relationship with my ex-beau which I ended last September."

We are all the wind, and the wind connects us all.

Poem of the Day

So April is National Poetry Month, and I have been participating in a Facebook page of submitting a poem a day.  Today I submitted one that I just wrote, so thought I would share it here.  It is about spiders but doesn't have a title yet.  Maybe the first line?

The spider is my totem.

I used to kill her, you know,

before I was ready to let in her meaning.

She comes to me often now,

startling me

from lassitude and complacency.

Delicate, (dangerous?)

Maya, Arachne.

Gentle grandmother,

weaver of illusion and infinity.

The thread of generations

is spun from her belly--

a web of sorrows and wishes

wrought in the night.

Reminding me, yes, that all is connected

the past and time passed

is the pattern we live.

As she is the keeper of soul’s hidden language

of dream, and of poem

So she moves me to write.

Retooling a Poem

Sometimes the universe conspires in our favor if we allow it, note it and take advantage of it.  

There was supposed to be a small group of us from my writer's group meeting in my office today for a read and critique session.  When one of the four of us, a woman whose poetry I admire and whose incisive feedback I very much appreciate cancelled due to her child being sick, I had a sense of dread.  I had not yet met the other two who said they were coming, both young men, one of them only 19 and whose profile stated he was the member of 177 other MeetUp groups.  Right.  I bet he has 800 Facebook friends too.   

I was thinking maybe I could pretend I wasn't there, like when the Mormons or Jehovah Witnesses knock on my door.  

As I sat there, waiting, I was also feeling badly that I had not been giving any time to reading and writing lately. How can I say I am a writer if I do not, in fact, write?

As it turns out, The Year of the Snake started out quite well with neither of the gentlemen showing up, allowing me the quiet of my consulting room to work on my word-craft.  And I did.  

This new lunar year I aim to molt my tired meters and shed my over-reliance on rhyme, and get down to the essence.  I will read more and write more.  I will blog more often as practice.  

So this is the one I worked on.  Currently untitled, I originally called it "What My Hot Flashes Teach Me" and then "Morning Mirror",  neither of which I like.   And it isn't done yet, nor abandoned.

The previous version was posted here in December, as a Poem for Turning 55.

Domain without dominion,                                                

this body as I age.                                                           

I startle at my reflection,                                                

in recognition of                                                           

a “me-ness” that abides within that cage                       

no longer new.                                                           

A breath-stopping moment of

shock and silence; aware

that memories now stretch longer than

the days which lie ahead. 

Exhaling, holding my own gaze, I stare:

no longer young.    

My passions long neglected

require now a choice.

Ancient desire sparks nascent fire,

and inchoate, arise,

seek form, and clamor to be given voice,

no longer mute.

Sight will dim and sinew thin.

This hutch will rust and bend,

of little use or consequence.

I need but this breath to

sing the poem of pulse beyond body’s end:

no longer caged.

I Like It, Love It, Yes I Do

I, a married woman, spent last weekend in Phoenix, in the company of three men.  We had been planning this little get-away for about a month, and it finally came together.  The excitement had been building, and after a long dusty drive through the desert, we arrived, ready to get down to business.

Previous liaisons had occurred hurriedly in a crowded room in L.A. for which we paid by the hour, but now we were in the comfort of someone's home, with nothing but space and time stretching out before us.

Despite having done this since my teen-age years, I still get the anticipatory jitters, and I brought along some fine tequila.  Several shots later, and small talk over, we started what we came there to do.  There was no turning back, no guilt, no shame.

It didn't matter to us if the neighbors heard us; the louder the better.  We gave each other performance feedback, and sometimes had to do it a couple of times to get it right.  Soon we were sweaty and smiling, and had to take a break, because none of us are as young as we used to be.  In fact, one of us had to stop and take a nap, while the rest went outside, unplugged from our devices, and carried on some more.

Sex and drugs?  No.  Rock and roll?  Oh hell yes.

I know,  it's only rock and roll but god I love it.

I just joined this standing group a few months ago, and I can't tell you how much fun it is.  I have been singing in the car and at home forever, but not in a band since graduate school.  The synergy of playing together is an absolute joy.

I do feel the tiniest bit conflicted about pursuing this.  It is at its core absolutely selfish and hedonistic.  With my writing pursuit, I can tell myself that while it is a personal passion, it is also because I hope that ultimately others are touched in some beneficial way by reading it.  With the band, it is just because we can, because it is fun, because it feels good.  No one else usually hears it, and it does take time away from other important people and pursuits, so I do appreciate the forbearance of my family more than I can say.

But singing makes my spirit sing, and that can't ever be a bad thing.  I believe we are better people, and act more loving and tolerant as a result, when we allow ourselves the full measure of what gives us joy, and exercise our talents.  Mine is a quite minor and limited talent (and my son would probably argue,  no talent at all, having had to suffer through countless nights of Rock Band).   Nevertheless, I guess  it's kind of like that hackneyed sentiment: sing like no one is listening, and dance as if no one is watching.  How good or bad I am is not the point.  It is me, being me.

If I want to play rock star, why the hell not?

A Poem for Turning 55

Well, I have not been on my little blog site since September, so thought it was time to post something I have been working on over the past week.  Still a work in progress.  I originally was going to title it What My Hot Flashes Teach Me,  then changed it to Morning Mirror, now it is just untitled for the moment.

Domain without dominion,                                                

this body as I age.                                                           

I startle at my reflection,                                                

in recognition of                                                           

a “me-ness” that abides within that cage                       

no longer new.                                                           

What a breath-stopping moment

as I become aware

that memories now stretch  longer than

the road which lies ahead. 

Exhaling, holding my own gaze, I stare:

no longer young.    

Yet passions long neglected

need nothing but a choice.

Ancient desire and nascent fire,

inchoate, they arise,

seek form, and now demand to have a voice,

no longer mute.

Sight will dim and sinew thin

as bars of cage must rust.

But in this moment, in this breath

is all.  Enough.  Today

I write the poem of pulse, before the dust.

No longer lost.