Audrey's birthday: June 30

Audrey: One Year Old

The smile snaps on like a halogen bulb,

blue eyes illuminating the darkened room;

a quiet coo, a delighted giggle,

an exuberant little bounce

precipitating a wiggle, a wriggle,

then a full-fledged launch at the edge of the bed.

 

She greets the morning full-tilt,

babbling, crowing,

hurling herself at the new day

and all it has to offer:

a grab, a taste, a pull, a push, a peek—

exploration in all directions…

She seizes the day in her tiny fists

and squeezes from it

all the juice, the meaning, the excitement.

 

Her face reflects it all:

this is the first day of the world. 

Seattle, June 2009

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Seattle Babysitting

I just got back from a 4-day trip to Seattle, where I was babysitting my granddaughter while my daughter attended a conference. I am here to tell you, there was no 'sitting' involved. While I had only intermittent periods of responsibility, they were enough to remind me that there is a reason why one should have one's children when one is young.

During our sojourn, we managed to visit Pike Place Market a few times, rode the monorail to Seattle Center, the site of the 1962 World's Fair and the Space Needle. Audrey rode the carousel with Kay, and we took a few walks downtown. In addition, Audrey crawled/walked an estimated quarter mile across the floors and carpets of the Sheraton and the Convention Center. She opened and closed the bathroom door of our hotel room roughly 500 times, picked up a thousand pieces of non-edible trash from various floors, made approximately 100 beelines for 10 different electrical outlets, pushed a plastic chair about a mile across a food court (mostly in circles), and circumnavigated at least 5 tables about 5 times each. We remarked upon the flight of at least ten seagulls a day, pointed at and identified each other countless times, picked up what seemed like a box and a half of Cheerios from rugs and floors, and consumed large quantities of halved grapes, pretty much on the fly. Audrey crawls faster than the proverbial speeding bullet, and possesses (I am sure) other superpowers that we can only imagine. And envy.

Following her, feeding her, walking with her when she's cranky, chasing her, pushing her stroller, carrying her, and--above all--keeping her entertained is a full-time, 24/7 job. Fortunately, my stints were limited to a few hours here and there. I don't think I would have measured up very well against my daughter's high bar. I am in awe of the fact that she does this every day, and is still managing to write a dissertation and carry on a relatively normal life besides.

I guess we all did it once upon a time, but I don't remember the process of raising my girls as being this constant, all-encompassing undertaking. Maybe I just don't remember; maybe the fact that they were 14 months apart threw me into such a black hole of motherhood activity that I didn't notice that I was insanely busy all the time. Or just insane.

Kudos, Kay. I couldn't do it again.

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.

Poetry Month

This is the home stretch: the final week of National Poetry Month, one final burst of literary awareness, culminating in Alexandria's first Poem-in-Your-Pocket Day on April 30. I am hoping that we've succeeded in generating some interest in that event, and that The Athenaeum on Thursday night will be thronged with Alexandrians, waving their favorite poems and clamoring for the opportunity to share them with an audience. But, whether we have 5 or 50 or 500 participants that night, there have been some palpable results. We have started conversations. At City Hall, in restaurants, in coffeeshops, in bookstores, people have talked about poetry, and that is something they may not have done since they were in high school. People have REMEMBERED poetry, whether the poems they remembered were elementary school doggerel or Mad Magazine parodies or memorized pieces from their youth. In a small way, we have reconnected at least a part of our population with poetry.

In this busy month, I have talked to a variety of people about what I do--from 6th graders to casual acquaintances, from cocktail party conversationalists to family and friends, from neighbors to waiters and business owners. None of these have responded with the ever-so-polite "Oh" or "Really?" when I talk about stimulating interest in poetry. Almost without exception, they launch into stories or memories or favorite poems, willing to share an experience that relates to poetry. That is a measure of success that I never expected when we launched Poem-in-Your-Pocket Day. 

That's what poetry's all about, really. Communicating. Sharing the human experience in the best way we know how. We don't have to wait for Poetry Month or even a Poetry Day to celebrate it. Whether we speak or write or sing it, it's poetry. Poetry Month is just a reminder of that. Celebrate it.