Hope for the Future

 There is hope for the future. 

This week, we had a stairlift installed in our house, which involved three technicians. I engaged in casual conversation with one of them, a young black man, 25 years old, with dreadlocks halfway down his back. I was ready to write him off. And yet, he introduced himself, shook hands, and went to work.

Over the course of the day, we engaged in casual conversation. Where are you from? Where do you live? That sort of thing. Niko mentioned that he was Jamaican, with a British mother; that he lived north of Baltimore in an area where most of my family lived; that he had graduated from college, not really knowing what he wanted to do—like so many college grads. He couldn’t see himself in an office, so he and a group of his friends decided they would each pursue training in different trades: electrical work, plumbing, HVAC, carpentry...and would help each other when/if they became homeowners themselves. 

Niko had worked as an HVAC technician,  but had moved to this stairlift company for no particular reason—just to broaden his repertoire of skills, I guess. In addition, just for fun, they agreed that each of them would learn another language. Niko chose Japanese, but explained that he could speak more easily than write it. And then demonstrated why that was so. He admired the art we had on our walls and admitted that he painted a little.

These  mini-conversations ranged from surprising facts like these to the fact that he collected words—and used them frequently on the job to embed them in his vocabulary. For which he was ridiculed,  but he took  it with good humor, as we saw in his conversations with his co-workers. On the subject of handwriting (cursive), he said his handwriting was so bad that he had taken up calligraphy because his girlfriend had criticized it. Really??

Think about that. A young man collecting words. A group of young men thinking ahead and planning for home ownership, willing to learn a new skill for future use as well as for sharing. A group interested enough in learning to try to master another language, just for fun. A boy who worked at handwriting—not simply Palmer Method cursive, but its more artistic, more precise cousin, calligraphy. 

Whether he was being honest about all this is unknown—maybe he was just a creative storyteller, and showing off a bit. But, if so, he knows enough to have built some great stories. 

If there are kids, if there are young people with that kind of attitude, that eagerness for knowledge, I am heartened. We might just make it through.

Coyote

 Coyote

 

He was in New York—

a ridiculous place for a coyote.

Coyotes roam, wild and free,

on western lands 

(and occasional neighborhoods)

 They are predators, not

prone to restaurants or linen napkins.

He had crazy eyes—

(now, THAT’S New York!)

but did not belong in the company of a toy shop.

 

I ransomed him

and took him home to Washington

(another realm of crazy)

and set him on my foyer loveseat

next to a company of sheep.

When next I passed,

the sheep were huddled in one corner

and Coyote sprawled in the other.

No sheep were unaccounted for,

but territory was established. 

Left Behind

 What is the world we leave behind us?

I have been thinking lately

—in a rather morose way—

of what I leave behind

when inevitable death claims me.

Mostly paper, I think—

in all its maniifestations:

poems and books and pictures,

a scattering of things:

wood bowls, a giant bear,

a few dear monsters..

clothes and furniture,

dishes (and dishes) (and dishes).

There are things that made me laugh,

things that caught my eye

with their color, or their style, 

their clever words or concepts...

(I do admire clever, above all.)

But none of these will stay, but

will find their way to shops and sales

and maybe, just maybe,

to hearts that will treasure them as I do:

pieces of my soul

that will endure.

 

Bear

Bear

He is huge.

Ungainly. Impossible

to carry or place in a room

without prodigious explanation.

I have an affinity for these giants.

There was Bob, the Beerwolf:

seven feet of resin statue 

who lived in my garage for years--

a refugee from a misbegotten yard sale,

creating smiles at his incongruity,

making occasional appearances

at parties, offices, plays and other venues.

But now, there is Carson,

namesake of a butler of notable bulk

and infinite wisdom, ensconced

on a sofa, in a bedroom,

startling all and sundry who might pass,

yet offering a furry hug and warm welcome

for those who need it most.

  

Perceptions

 

There were folks who came for lunch,

and I worried over a menu,

over proffered drinks, over the messy house,

the table settings, even the state of 

the front door, and my choice of what to wear.

I found myself uniformly wanting;

coming up short in every way.

The hard-boiled eggs

(destined for deviling)

refused to part company with their shells..

my incomparable rolls found a distinct comparison

(inexplicably) with hockey pucks.

Dessert tasted fine, but failed miserably

in appearance.

And then, they asked to see the garden.

To tell the truth, I don't really garden.

I putter here and there, and prune a little.

I love my azaleas and camellias 

and my fountain of succulents.

I have bougainvillea and wisteria,

an orange tree, and a patch of green, green grass

that used to drive my granddaughters

to joyous somersaults and cartwheels.

I had almost forgotten the garden. 

I'd almost forgotten the pleasure of lunch 

with friends; the rediscovery

of what brings us together:

not food (or the perfection thereof)

not clean front doors and sparkling windows,

or lovely tables,

not even a garden that I love--

We are bound instead by friendship 

that is knowingly blind to minor faults, 

that, inexplicably, sees through caring eyes 

the important stuff that is worth remembrance.

Birthday (Christmas)

Birthday

 

The shepherds came, with all their clamor

And sheep and dogs.

The kings came, too, complete with retinues,

And camels and camel-drivers and tents.

It must have been a sight for the folks of Bethlehem:

A veritable circus come to town..

And they came to a STABLE?

 

Kings and shepherds, side by side

With sheep and cows and donkeys?

And you can’t forget the camels...

Mary and Joseph (particularly Mary)

Exhausted and dead on their feet

With a squalling baby and 

no warm bed for the night.

 

Who’s telling this incredible story?

Not anyone who was there, 

Or anyone who has ever traveled

Through crowded streets,

Or been stuck between flights 

At a crowded airport

With a baby and luggage and miles 

yet to go.

 

They tell us a romantic tale of stars and shepherds

And glory in the skies,

Of long journeys from distant kingdoms,

And fabulous gifts brought to a fellow king.

But—as is often the case—

Reality trumps the story,

And it is only in retrospect 

That earth-shattering, mind-blowing impact

Is assigned to this simple birth: 

This forgettable family story

that has been told for generations, through the ages,

and will be told again and again

Until the end of time.

  

Conversation

 Conversation

 

In the text-and-email world

in which we operate,

in the sterile black-and-white

communications

we exchange,

where is the space 

for face-to-face?

 

We are increasingly

distant, aloof, divorced

from our own words,

divorced fro each other.

We do not see reactions:

her smile, his hurt, her anger,

their disappointment.

 

We substitute emoticons 

for emotion, and somehow

define that as relationship.

We exist in abbreviated times:

words and feelings and people

reduced to lowest terms—

symptoms of abbreviated connection.

 

We exist at arms’ length,

deaf and blind to each other;

riveted to screens and earbuds.

Is it any wonder that

we lack understanding,

empathy, kindness...?

 

We need to talk.