Category Archives: humanity

Last Chapter

Posted on by
10

identity1

If I were to write my memoirs,
the title would be “Reaching.”
The chapter headings:
How Far
How High
How Pretty
How Wealthy
How Meaningful
How Memorable

Maybe not in that order,
but probably so.

There would be a Foreword to explain
I’m not competitive (even against myself),
nor am I status-conscious, greedy or an overachiever.
Well, maybe just a little of all that.
It’s not about aspirations, goals, achievements…
just… reaching.

A reaching born perhaps of the low-key work ethic instilled by my parents.
(is that an oxymoron, “low-key work ethic?”)
Like this:
If you take one step, you might as well take two.
If you’re an apprentice, you might as well become a journeyman.
Once you’re a journeyman, you might as well aim for foreman.

There might as well be a chapter in my memoirs called “Might as Well.”

My memoirs would describe how I progressed through life in this mindset.
And how one day it flipped.
If I lost a step in my journey, I would likely fall back two steps.
If I missed a rung in my ascent, soon thereafter
I’d likely land on my butt at the bottom of the ladder.

And so it was.
Until finally I just stopped.
No up, no down.
Just full stop.

◊ ◊ ◊

Two summers ago I took up whittling.
I sit on my deck on warm afternoons
in the shade of a lopsided black walnut tree.
Opportunistic squirrels steal green nuts from the branches above me.
I place a glass of water or sun tea next to my chair,
and I whittle.

I don’t whittle to carve shapes into wood,
or to carve wood into shapes.
It’s just relaxing to take a sharp knife and a found piece of wood,
and shave away layers until I’ve reached… no, not reached…
until I know I am done.

Maybe this is the perfect last chapter for my memoirs.
I will call the chapter “Whittling,”
and I’ll describe my practice of peeling back layers
to see what’s beneath.
Not like some deep introspection, where I
lay bare the depths of my soul to reveal all the
rot and grisly scars.

Much simpler (and much more interesting) than that;
kind of like a low-key work ethic.

I just whittle
on found wood,
one shaving at a time
to discover the layers
of life,
of nature,
of squirrels,
of being in this world
on my deck on a summer afternoon.

finished

In response to the NaPoWriMo prompt: What does y(our) future provide? What is your future state of mind? Seems I had to go to the past to get to the future. 

RE: Journeyman/Foreman: my parents were of a non-gender neutral generation, but they never discouraged my career choices based on gender. 

Story Time

Posted on by
13

golden path 2

Rain splatters in puddles, and rivulets of water snake down window panes.
Snot spatters on child-sized sweatshirts, and rivulets of same puddle above little pink lips.

“Tell us a story, Oma.” Oma has already told half a dozen just since nap time, but how does one refuse such a rapt audience?

“Once upon a time there was a little girl and her little brother.”
“No, not about us! A princess with three fairies!”

“Okay. Once upon a time there was a princess with three heads.”
“No, Oma! Three fairies!”
“Oh, right. A princess with one head, and three fairies with three heads.”

Little girl sits back, satisfied with the new head count.

Little boy chews on the round, magnifier lid of a “bug catcher” container he has pried open. The bug catcher holds a big black spider — correction: used to hold a big black spider before little boy pried the lid off.

Oma gently pulls the lid from little boy’s mouth.
“A magic mirror!” Little girl reaches for the snot-laden lid and holds it up to her eye. “The princess has a magic mirror!”

Oma hands little girl a magic tissue with which to clean the “mirror.” Little girl misses the point. (Just as well. The tissue later becomes a magical horse blanket.)

Future pretend magical horse rolls onto his side and lazily licks his paw.

“What does the princess see in the mirror?” Little girl looks wide-eyed into the magnifier lid.

Probably not much in its current condition, Oma thinks.
“The future!” Oma says.

♦♦♦

The princess learns that an evil horse prince is going to turn her little brother into a horse on her brother’s fourth birthday, unless the princess can stop him.

With the help of the three fairies (one head apiece) and her magical mucous-filled mirror, the princess sets off down the golden path to the dark forest where the evil horse prince with glowing red eyes lives in a dark, dark cave.

♦♦♦

The story progresses — with minor plot changes at little girl’s request — and at last the princess prevails.

Little boy has long since lost interest in the princess story and instead pretends to be drinking water from the insect catcher container which, he informs Oma, has spider poop in it.

Oma assumes that announcement is primarily based on two-year-old little boy’s fondness for saying the word “poop.” After all, the big black spider that formerly occupied the container is a plastic toy.

Oma would, however, like to know the whereabouts of the big black spider. She half-wonders if it’s going to come flying out of little boy’s nose the next time little boy sneezes.

Just then, the beautiful, wise and brave queen comes riding up the hill to the castle in her magical Subaru, and little boy and little girl greet the queen with coughing, sneezing, snot-flinging hugs and kisses.

Oma takes her leave and climbs aboard her handsome Nissan steed to head home to her palace. As Oma checks the magical rearview mirror, she gets a vision of her own future.

In the not-so-distant future, Oma foresees that she will be coughing, sneezing and snorting into her own magical tissues.

And they all live happily ever after.

Achoo!

Based on NaPoWriMo day eight prompt: Write poems in which mysterious and magical things occur. (I don’t know that this qualifies as poetry, but it is mysterious and magical.)

First Session

Posted on by
14

session 1

Sofa. Davenport. Divan.
It could go by so many names, but
in here — invariably — it’s a couch.

“So… like this?” I ask, as I lie down.
As if I’ve never reclined on a couch before
and don’t know how.

“I thought this was just a cliché,” I admit.
Therapist smiles, bemused.

I shift my weight on the sagging sofa,
try to find a comfortable position.
But of course, there isn’t one.
Lumps in the cushions, scratchy fabric.
Is that a spring poking me in the hip?

Oh, I guess not. I pull the car keys from my pants pocket.
There, that’s better. A little.

“See if you can relax.” Therapist’s disembodied words
float across the room.
I squirm. I want to see her face,
read her body language.
But apparently that’s the point of not seeing her.
It takes her out of the equation, she says.
Or some such thing.

I stare straight up.
White fiberboard tiles rest on a metal grid.
What’s it called? A false ceiling?
Dropped? Suspended?
So many names for one thing.

I squirm some more on the sofa/couch.
Suspended.

Therapist does not speak.
Is she still there?
Has she nodded off to sleep?
She could be working crossword puzzles
for all I know.
I’m tempted to sit up and check on her, but I don’t.

What should I say?
What does therapist want to hear?
Why is it called a couch and not a sofa?
How much loose change has fallen from patients’ pockets
over the years, as they lay here for their sessions?
Does therapist collect it at day’s end from amongst
the lumpy, scratchy cushions?
Does she spend it the following morning on the newspaper that
carries the crossword she’s probably working right now?

I clear my throat.
How much time has elapsed?
I want to look at my watch. Timepiece. Chronometer.
But it seems inappropriate somehow,
to check my watch/timepiece
as I lay here on the sofa/couch,
staring at the false/dropped ceiling.

If only I could relax, I bet
I wouldn’t care what time it was.
In fact, it might even feel to me as though
time — like the ceiling — were suspended.

What’s a six-letter word for vulnerability?

NaPoWriMo, day four.

Wonder

Posted on by
2

Wonder comes in many sizes.
Unfortunately, it seems that the bigger one gets,
the smaller their wonderment.

Thank goodness for the little ones who remind us
to pause — as often as we can – and wonder.

big4

big3

The Daily Post one-word prompt: Wonder
Cee’s Black and White Challenge: Large Subjects

this wall

Posted on by
6

can you imagine
a wall that keeps us apart
when we stand so near

Berlin wall 1

In 1982, I visited the Berlin Wall that separated West Berlin from East Germany. The original wall was erected unannounced in the dead of night on August 13, 1961. Where the day before, one might walk across the street to visit a neighbor, friend or relative, now they were separated by an impenetrable wall, and remained thus separated for decades.

The original wall consisted of concrete posts and barbed wire. When I saw the wall in ’82, it was in its fourth configuration, 12 feet high and four feet across, with an additional inner wall, anti-vehicle trenches, watchtowers, electrical fences, guard dogs and mine fields.

Berlin wall 3

Berlin Wall, 1961-1989

Berlin wall 2

Berlin Wall, 1961-1989

On June 12, 1987, President Ronald Reagan stood at the Brandenburg Gate in West Berlin, and — in a now famous speech — challenged Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev to “open this gate… tear down this wall.”

The wall came down in November of 1989.

 

history teaches
if we but open our minds
better yet, our hearts

The Daily Post one-word prompt: Inscrutable
Cee’s Black & White photo challenge: Walls