New York, etc.

We spent last weekend in New York, in a whirlwind of plays and restaurants and taxis. We managed to see God of Carnage, August, Osage County, and Blithe Spirit--all excellent productions, though I lean most heavily toward Osage County, which is truly a tour de force. It is almost impossible to find anything wrong with the production. It is mind-bendingly, wrenchingly true to life, and the actors wring every last drop of meaning from it. As for the others, any opportunity to see Angela Lansbury at her ditzy best is worth the price, and Jeff Daniels and his fellow cast-members give lessons in everything from nuance to murderous frenzy in Carnage.

Add to that the Washington scene: Legacy of Light at Arena in Crystal City and (my favorite play) Arcadia at Folger, not to mention Heroes at MetroStage. These constitute a mini-Stoppard-fest right here in town. While Legacy has no Stoppard connection, it might as well have. Playing at the same time as Arcadia, it is a prime target for comparison, with its time shifts and its questions of science and philosophy. It stands up surprisingly well as a companion piece.

A side-note to the NY trip: in a bookstore we visited, I bought a signed first edition of Billy Collins' Sailing Alone Around The Room, and am now revisiting those wonderful poems...

Mothers' Day

I'm not really crazy about Mothers' Day. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it follows a little too closely on my own mother's birthday and I am always at a loss as to what to get her for any present-giving occasion--much less two in a row (and those in the approximate vicinity of Easter, which can be yet another gift occasion.) Complicating things even further is the fact that it used to coincide as well with my mother-in-law's birthday. Four tough presents in the space of two weeks or so used to make me distinctly non-celebratory.

Of course it is nice to be wined and dined (or more likely, brunched) on occasion, and I do appreciate the cards and notes and the recognition from my own family. But what I value even more (and I suspect I'm not alone in this) is the occasional email from my daughters, the phone calls, the recipe requests, and the offhand acknowledgements every now and then that they still need something from me. It may just be a grammar or spelling question, how to do some repair, an opinion on something--or even a request to watch the cat for a weekend or keep an eye out for a particular item they've been looking for at the store, but it's reassuring to be needed--even in a small way-- by two young women who are so competent and so demonstrably un-needy.

It's paradoxical that after all those years of cultivating independence in my children, one of my brightest treasures is the occasional trace of the children they used to be, children who needed their mom.

Rita Dove

Nothing is more humbling for any writer--amateur though they may be--than listening to, or reading a master. Last night, Rita Dove read from her most recent work at the Folger Theatre. Lapsing into a distinctly non-poetic mode, all I can say is: "wow!" And perhaps, "why do I even bother?" Well, maybe that's not all I can say. But then you probably knew that.

Ms. Dove's new book, "Sonata Mulattica", tells a story--a real-life story, informed by twentieth-century sensibilities, of a mulatto child prodigy violinist and his encounter with Beethoven. Having heard a selection of the poems, I'm ready to dive into the book and read and learn more. Like so many poets, Ms. Dove uses her work and her narrative to awaken and prod her readers' understanding and awareness of issues that extend beyond the immediate time and place of her story. Poets write parables, more often than not.

But, for me, the real treasures from last night's reading and discussion were Ms. Dove's responses to questions from the audience, particularly those relating to how she chose her subject--which admittedly is obscure. The question of inspiration is one that dogs the footsteps of most writers. How do you choose what you will write about? It was reassuring to hear that this famous (and prolific) poet was inspired by a scene in a movie, by a quirk of casting that caught her attention and caused her to look a bit deeper. To play my admittedly broken record yet again, she reaffirmed that inspiration need not be a lightning bolt or a voice from the heavens that gives out assignments like your ninth grade English teacher. It can be a minute in a movie, a certain slant of light, an oddball thought about something you see every day--it can be anything that captures your interest, for however brief a moment. The key is to pay attention, always and everywhere; to see and hear and taste and smell and touch the world you live in--then to take it all home and write about it.