...And another poem...

Hack

I have a cough…

or the cough has me:

a tickle, a prickle, a reflex:

undeniable, unavoidable,

muffled and smothered

for a moment

but exploding without warning

of its own accord.

in its own sweet time and place.

It clears the airways

of amorphous obstructions

in repeated blasts--

making way for welcome clarity

which never lasts for long.

It is a painful experience.

It can be faked—if all you want is attention—

(Ahem!)

but the best kind is productive

and comes from deep within,

irrepressible,

in the dark of night or the light of day,

deep and natural,

assertive

and meaningful.

It is a sleep thief--

at its worst early and late--

is loud and disruptive,

aching, exhausting,

and can be contagious.

(Writing is a cough.)

Lucky

I think it's time to buy a lottery ticket. I've had an extraordinary run of fortunate occurrences in the past week--perhaps to make up for the miserable coughing bug I have been harboring since the end of July, though I never expect things to be evened out quite that neatly. In all sorts of minor ways, good things have been happening. Recipes have been turning out well, plants have cooperated by blooming when they were supposed to, normally arduous appointments have turned out to be less so. Stoplights wink green when they see my car approaching, rain confines itself to when I am indoors, my cleaning lady returned from vacation a week earlier than I expected..and parking spaces amazingly appear when I need them. Funny.

I'm beginning to suspect, however, that it may not be luck that is following me, but--more likely--an attitude adjustment. Like the proverbial 'half-empty, half-full' argument, so much depends on our point of view. Who knows but that, as my ceaseless coughing dials back, I'm more optimistic and am seeing more of the good side of things? It also may be the eternal optimism of September, when everything revs up once more, and we are all convinced that this year will be different. It may be the relief from the oppressive heat and humidity of August, when nothing seems easy or worth pursuing. Whatever it is, though, I am glad of it.

Happy birthday

This week is my daughter's birthday. Once again, she is too far away for me to share a birthday lunch or dinner with her, or for me to bake her an angel food cake and buy her favorite ice cream and watch her face as she blows out candles and laughs with her friends and family. I am too far away to make this day as special for her as she made it for me and her dad 34 years ago. She is a grown woman with a daughter of her own--and this, in some ways, makes me think that she will understand how I feel on her birthday: as if I can't give her a present big enough or important enough to match what she has given me and her dad through the 34 years of her life.

What does a child give a parent? It's easy to enumerate the bad things: sleepless nights, the worry, the frustrations, the money drain, the uncertainties, the late nights, that first day at school when she boards the bus alone, and--it seems like the next day-- the anxiety over handing the car keys to that inexperienced driver, the late night phone calls, the missed curfews, the cuts and bruises and trips to the ER... But beyond helping me find my inner nag (and my frightening connections to my own parents) our daughters have brought us so much more.

They gave us responsibility. What mother does not remember a moment when she looked at that tiny bundle of sweetly sleeping baby and thought--or said--that nothing was ever going to harm that child as long as she was around? Who hasn't flung an arm across a car seat to protect a child in a sudden stop? Or turned themselves into a "no-no" machine when their toddler started exploring things like stairs and stoves and bathroom cupboards? We were responsible for their lives and safety. And they trusted us with the trust that only a child can have--and only a mother or dad could accept.

They gave us pride. Pride in things over which they had no control ("Oh, isn't she CUTE??") and things that we taught them and things they came up with, all on their own. Pride in the young women they turned out to be--intelligent, beautiful, talented, and--above all, kind and thoughtful and considerate and funny women who we're proud to call friends as well as daughters.

They gave us purpose. Not that we didn't have things to do and places to go and mountains of our own to climb..but they gave it all more meaning. We had to be someone they could look up to, for whatever reason. We had to be worthy of them. We wanted them to be proud of us, as we were proud of them.

Graduations, jobs, independence...all of these were gifts, too: affirmations that we didn't screw up too badly as parents. One of the greatest gifts we have received is our daughters' willingness to introduce us to their friends, and their acceptance of us as more than just parents. We've often said that our goal in raising our children was to raise adults whom we would like to hang out with, not because we HAD to, but because they were good to be around. We have succeeded in that.

So, Kay--and Sarah!--thank you. Thank you for the laughter and the learning, the adventures and the discoveries. Thank you for stories and the memories and the big moments and the small ones. Thank you for the drawings on the refrigerator and the cards and the phone calls, for the celebrations and the sad times, because all of them combine to make you what you are and always have been: the light of our lives and the best gifts any parents could have. Happy birthday to you--and for us.

And just in case you think writing was one of those things that fell by the wayside...

Afternoon Tea

I have spent too long

in a world of coffee mugs;

I am ready to return

to teacups:

delicate china teacups,

light as whispers,

fragile as our secret dreams;

cups filled with music,

the song of silver spoons.

Coffee mugs swagger

and speak in boastful tones

of deals made and checklists scored,

of long dark nights

of cigarettes and crumpled papers.

Give me instead

a vellum sheet of poetry,

a thimble of sherry,

a tiered plate of artful sandwiches

and

a perfect strawberry,

clothed in chocolate,

a cup of amber tea.

Learn to love the process...maybe.

And here it is: August! Somehow the summer has drifted away, along with all my good intentions. The poetry book is still unfinished, the third floor is still the same old mess, as is the storage facility, and my closets and dressers and cabinets. I think my problem is that I like the CONCEPT of organization, but not the process. If only organization depended only on having all the required tools!

And so, despite my instinctive aversion to (and general disregard for) To Do lists (I DO make them, but usually when I'm on the verge of melt-down and need to really see where I stand vis-a-vis deadlines) the time has come to draw a line in the sand (or dust, if we're talking about my house) and decide what really has to be accomplished.

Automate the watering system in the garden.

Plant the planters that flank the door.

Figure out a storage solution for the patio.

Finish the damned poetry book and send it off for publication.

Get rid of the tons of clothes, books, paper, junk that inhabits all the nooks and crannies of this house.

Streamline the kitchen.

Find chairs for the TV room.

Clear storage area of all the stuff we will never use. Or the girls will never claim.

Get rid of the upstairs PC and get the network printer attached to the network.

Take the classes on the Mac that I've been meaning to take since December.

There. That should keep me busy for the next millenium. :)

E-Mail

This poem on my screen

is defined by the flipping of electrons,

is coded into the speech of atoms:

a different music from that I seek, 

but beautiful, nonetheless.

There is an elegance in the dance of atoms,

but it requires an attentive ear

to hear equations singing;

an eye attuned to patterns

of unseen and barely-imagined

mysteries.

Surely it must be a kind of magic

(or even poetry)

that finds my signal

(the electrons of my message)

amidst the noise and chaos of this universe

and sends it straight to you.

Home again...and way behind the proverbial eight-ball.

It's been a busy summer. No sooner did I recover from Poetry Month in April than I was thrown (along with my sister and brother) into the maelstrom of getting things ready for my mom's move to a retirement community (which loosely translates to throwing out all sorts of treasured items that wouldn't fit in the new space.) Interspersed with that was a stint of babysitting with Audrey in Seattle while her mom got to do at least a little of what she had planned to do at the Sleep Conference. I returned home to the prospect of our Summer Associate dinner/wine tasting--only 30 people, but still requiring time and attention. Then the actual packing and moving process in Baltimore, culminating in...a two week trip to San Diego/Tucson for Audrey's first birthday and some long-overdue maintenance at the SD house. Coming back to Alexandria and picking up all the loose ends--in Baltimore and here--consumed most of last week.

We are home again, at last. And the pace is once again picking up. A poem for the Alexandria Birthday celebration. Church responsibilities. A firm summer party this week. A brunch in August for our Dine with Nine group. Contemporary American Theater Festival in Shepherdstown at the end of this month. A gig with the Del Ray Artisans Summer Camp on the 28th. And, of course, the weekly trek to Baltimore to see how things are going at what JC calls "the home."

My car needs an oil change and a serious wash. My garden is somewhat the worse for wear, given the lack of rain this month. I need to de-clutter the attic and make an attempt at clearing out part of our storage area. I'm bored with everything I cook right now. I need to touch base with all the friends who have been neglected while I dealt with everything else. I have started the process of self-publication of a book of my poems--but haven't worked through all the kinks. And I owe Audrey a photo-book of her 1st birthday.

In other words, I am returning to my quasi-normal, half-completed to-do lists; I have more to do than I'll find time to accomplish in what's left of the summer. I have seized upon watering the garden as one thing I CAN accomplish that actually shows results. It is, as they say, what it is. Or, in French..que sera, sera.