Moving Poems

Boxed Up

A life in boxes

paper-wrapped, tucked away

and neatly taped for transport, all

clean right angles--

easily stacked, with printed labels

describing contents and locations.

How beautiful the order!

How simple and predictable,

accessible and organized...

Perhaps this is the way other people live.

Pandora

The room is full of exploding boxes.

Knee-deep in packing paper,

brandishing a box-cutter,

I stand

amid the wreckage 

of my formerly-contained life

like Pandora, trying to force

released demons 

back to their confinement. 

Insecure

How deep my insecurity must lie

for me to retain so much:

doubles and triples of things

meaningful or mundane, 

or maybe, just a memory:

a souvenir, lest I forget

how blessed I am to have,

In a world beset

by so much need.

Listening

Sounds of home: 

the stairs creak and the plumbing 

wakes with a familiar (yet misremembered) rumble.

The jets overhead find their way home

via the river

and we wake to the engines’ roar--

along with the coo of doves,

which sounds just right for

a wake up call

(Less so when we find they've decorated our windows

as they gently welcomed morning…)

Moving Stories

There are a million stories in a move:

mysteries, like, where is the vacuum

and why did we keep that, and

is this yours?  

Half a million logistical problems in a move:

like, will this fit through the door, or

up the stairs, or in this drawer?

A quarter million phone calls

and technicians, arranging

services and utilities and deliveries,

cleaning and repairs and touch ups

and changes we should have foreseen.

Thousands of boxes and pieces of paper

requiring signatures or disposal or recycling…

Hundreds of small changes to adapt to:

like getting the mail,

finding the newspaper,

learning our way around

to market, to restaurant, 

establishing new routines, new paths

to old haunts...

and after that,

after all that,

returning to --and re-establishing

the singular life we knew so well,

that seems so long ago.

Storming Through

Sitting in the pre-storm twilight

with sun cloaked in cloud,

cat asleep on my lap

as if it were truly night..

I find myself dreaming

past the temporary storm,

past the threatening sky, 

past all that is wrong with the world

(and so much is..)

Dreaming of a brighter dawn

a bluer sky, a happier prospect

for us all.

Rain-washed streets

and freshened gardens

breathe more freely

and the sun smiles down

as it did before.

This is only a storm. 

It will pass.

Moving Music

This house is full of echoes;
hard surfaces bounce sounds
like basketballs from floor to ceiling
and back again to a silent infinity.
Percussive traffic, passing planes, our own voices
reverberate unmuffled against undraped windows:
loud, insistent, strident as cymbals.

Yet the doors swing wide to possibility:
a circus train of carpets and furniture,
a clown car of boxes and personality,
spilling warmth in its wake.
Blank walls give way to paintings,
floors don their carpets,
cushioned sofas soften conversation
to a quiet hum.
This is the music of moving..

Grandmother’s China

There is, when the boxes are all unpacked, 

a wineglass near the sink; 

it has not held a drop of wine in forty years. 

How did this crystal remnant 

of a grandmother's table 

surface on my counter, separated from its sisters? 

We are the repository 

for the china, the silver, the crystal 

of our family's long-ago brides: 

pristine and sparkling with hope and plans 

for afternoon teas and holiday suppers 

for parties with friends 

and confidential conversations 

at kitchen sinks 

while dishes were washed and dried and 

carefully put away, 

lovingly polished and nestled in flannel-lined boxes. 

Brides no longer dream  

of crystal winking in candlelight 

or silver forks chiming on porcelain. 

Today is stainless and paper and plastic, and 

the occasional sturdy dish   

slammed into dishwashers, with 

buttons jammed for normal wash 

and sani-rinse. 

No one “does” the dishes anymore; 

dishwashers aren't known for conversation. 

And meanwhile,  

ranks of lonely goblets, 

stacks of neglected china,    

shelves of tarnishing silver, 

the linen napkins, the embroidered tablecloths 

languish in their dusty wrappings,  

awaiting the inevitable estate sale, 

longing for the light of day. 

Remembering.

Confession

All right. I admit it. I try to do too much. All of us, though I am speaking pretty much here for myself. After a week when we grocery-shopped, planted herbs and flowers for the Folger Plant Sale, breakfasted with a friend, carted a bookcase to the new house, ripped out a bamboo screen on the patio there, measured and photographed the fireplace there, bought sheets for the already-ordered daybed,  had rugs picked up to be cleaned, emptied assorted dresser drawers, started a bag of donate-able clothing, did laundry, visited the endodontist, bought books for the granddaughters, picked up packages at UPS, returned a pair of shoes at Zappo's, scheduled a locksmith, internet installers, HVAC technicians, an electrician, and researched patio door replacements and gas log repair -- topped it off with a play at Arena...and finished the weekend with a bang by working at the Shakespeare Birthday celebration at the Folger..I am ready to say that I cannot do it all.

It used to be that I could manage the three-ring-circus I call my life. When my memory was sharp, and my legs and hands and eyes could keep up with my brain, when it didn't take massive doses of extra-strength Tylenol to get me out of bed in the morning. I am slower. I can no longer carry a week's worth of groceries in from the car in a single trip, or move tables, chairs, or bookcases, not to mention bags of potting soil and pots. I keep a notebook and cell phone close at hand to remember what I need to do, say, find, buy, plan, or show up for. I am--in a word--getting old, and it is hard to admit it.

But that wasn't what I wanted to talk about (another creeping deficiency there: distraction.) In spite of all my insufficiencies, the slowdown doesn't bother me as much as it did at first. The physical stuff--deteriorating eyesight (damn it--cataracts are for old people!), arthritic thumb joints (ditto), a tricky middle finger, and ankles that swell in protest every evening-- is annoying, but I can handle it. What is difficult is reconciling what I think I can do with what I am capable of doing, reconciling my self-concept with my real self. My brain says off-handedly, "Well, we just need to spackle a few spots and paint that room," while my body says, "Not on that ladder, sweetie!" My brain plans the patio and the plants that I'll haul in from the nursery, while my back snickers at the prospect: "You want me to do what?!?"

It used to be that a move like this could be accomplished in two weeks flat, at the end of which all goods would be stowed, I'd know where everything was, and we could settle back into normal life, whatever that is. That is when I'd contemplate moving a piece of furniture, or relocating the contents of a cabinet, or maybe even paint a room. A wreath would be on the door, I'd have half-forgotten the password for the storage space, and we'd be back to regular meals of an evening.

It has been three weeks and I am nowhere near that state. I have run out of kitchen cabinets with more than 6 or 7 unemptied boxes labeled "KITCHEN": boxes full of what we affectionately (!!??!!) call "LS" (otherwise known  as 'little shit') --all the stupid little pieces that the packers carefully wrapped individually in packing paper--valuable items like stray keyrings, multiple bottle openers, expired library cards, a bowl full of foreign coins...Where did all this stuff COME from? (I know: the kitchen.) I have unwrapped buckets of refrigerator magnets, markers, pens (gallon bags of pens that went directly into the trash.) I am waiting..just waiting..for the box that contains only crumpled paper, carefully wrapped in crumpled paper. I have a box cutter permanently riding in a holster on my hip, and know the location of every recycling and/or donation center in the area, what they will accept, and when. BUT, I am at least a week behind schedule, and who knows when I will catch up. It's depressing. And exhausting. I wake up every morning feeling as if all my joints need a shot of WD-40. And you may have noticed that Extra-Strength Tylenol stock has skyrocketed lately.

However. I've managed a meal or two out of my desperately unorganized kitchen. I've (sort-of) cleared the living and dining rooms. There is an entire second-floor bedroom that appears to be full of virtually-untouched boxes (though you should have seen it last week!) The master bedroom still has one wall of boxes in various states of transition, and JC has command of the top floor bedroom/ map and book repository. All I know is there are files aplenty up there, and books, and not enough bookcases or cabinets for them. That goes (I fear) for the entire house. We don't have too many books (china, glassware, arks, wood pieces, maps, etc.); we just don't have enough shelves (cabinets, walls, tables, etc.) People just don't understand.

The garage-level room is more-or-less a staging area right now: goods in transit from the storage space or the old house, goods going TO the storage space or to the dump or to the recycling center, sometimes just to the garage. Bit by bit, box by box, we are looking less like an episode of "Hoarders" and more like our usual selves (who bear a striking resemblance to an episode of "Hoarders", but let me preserve my illusions.)

It will all get done. Spaces will be found, or we will whittle ourselves down to necessary stuff. Big shit vs. little shit. Maybe at some point, I will get to the patio and plant some flowers.

It might be next spring.

Heart

They said his heart stopped-- 

but they didn't know him. 

They didn't know  

that he'd given his heart    

to daughter,  friends, 

students, colleagues... 

to some he didn't even know 

by name. 

They didn't know  

that gifts like that don't just stop. 

They are bits of eternity, freely given: 

warm and vital,  

animating divine sparks 

of faith and hope and love, 

binding us closer, making us one. 

He did that. 

They say his heart stopped. 

I don't believe it. 

Love doesn't die.