just a mention of her or seeing her
name in print is enough to evoke
a dream with her in it
i wake up, hands clenched (fingernails making crescent moons in my palms) and sweating, but when i
open my eyes all i
see is the dark of 3 in the morning
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Little Pictures Everywhere
There are little pictures everywhere...
A single red wildflower framed by
rocks & dead pine cones
Acres of deep-rooted trees still standing,
ghostly and smoky,
masterfully lit by a sun who hasn't been able to
spotlight much for days: a quilt of dense
clouds has kept all heat to themselves; but
this sun: glows w/a blue backdrop, silhouettes a hawk circling for supper & the waves of mt.tops in the horizon, exaggerates
the stark crystals of new snow on the
summits, & evokes the steam from Burgdendorf
that cleanses my skin and deflects trailing
evidence of the cold I've had for the
last 2 weeks...
The angle at which an old stump juts from the
wild earth
The arc of a clearing
A cacophony of colors created by seasonal change
How moisture glistens on a loved-one's lips that are
smiling beneath the chatter of a chipmunk
Night & day trading shifts
& how Payette Lake apparently feels quite serene about
both sun & moon at once reflecting on its surface
No camera does these little pictures justice
Which is why you must see them first
Know these artistic miracles existed before you ever saw--
they are, for the sake of being
You're being honored--the guest of honor--for a moment,
to Creation
No camera does these little pictures justice;
but if you don't capture them,
even superficially,
you'll forget them...
the same way you do: an electric glance
revelations on forgiveness
or to take your vitamins
You return to the photos
minutes
months
years later
& the intensities aren't right,
but you still sigh when
you see & remember
that there are little pictures everywhere
Little pictures made so small by the vastness of
the Universe
& so vivid for existing in
that eternity...
If those little pictures exist (as they do) everywhere,
can't then we as people
be as rugged, fragile, resistant,
honoring each other...
Can't we, too, be indicative of our Creator,
be, in fact,
little pictures everywhere
of
love?
A single red wildflower framed by
rocks & dead pine cones
Acres of deep-rooted trees still standing,
ghostly and smoky,
masterfully lit by a sun who hasn't been able to
spotlight much for days: a quilt of dense
clouds has kept all heat to themselves; but
this sun: glows w/a blue backdrop, silhouettes a hawk circling for supper & the waves of mt.tops in the horizon, exaggerates
the stark crystals of new snow on the
summits, & evokes the steam from Burgdendorf
that cleanses my skin and deflects trailing
evidence of the cold I've had for the
last 2 weeks...
The angle at which an old stump juts from the
wild earth
The arc of a clearing
A cacophony of colors created by seasonal change
How moisture glistens on a loved-one's lips that are
smiling beneath the chatter of a chipmunk
Night & day trading shifts
& how Payette Lake apparently feels quite serene about
both sun & moon at once reflecting on its surface
No camera does these little pictures justice
Which is why you must see them first
Know these artistic miracles existed before you ever saw--
they are, for the sake of being
You're being honored--the guest of honor--for a moment,
to Creation
No camera does these little pictures justice;
but if you don't capture them,
even superficially,
you'll forget them...
the same way you do: an electric glance
revelations on forgiveness
or to take your vitamins
You return to the photos
minutes
months
years later
& the intensities aren't right,
but you still sigh when
you see & remember
that there are little pictures everywhere
Little pictures made so small by the vastness of
the Universe
& so vivid for existing in
that eternity...
If those little pictures exist (as they do) everywhere,
can't then we as people
be as rugged, fragile, resistant,
honoring each other...
Can't we, too, be indicative of our Creator,
be, in fact,
little pictures everywhere
of
love?
Marking Time
Heel up, ball of foot pressed down
Knees straight ahead, bending slightly
Marking time
Eyes and nose directed by the knees
No looking around, no diagonals
Hold your instrument at ready
Keep that tune in your mind: no cheats
Marking time
There's a cadence you can feel
It rumbles up between your toes
Let this drive you
Marking time
Listen for that whistle: 1 long, 4 short
Then, little by little, with focus and
Deliberate heel-to-toe steps
You'll march
Knees straight ahead, bending slightly
Marking time
Eyes and nose directed by the knees
No looking around, no diagonals
Hold your instrument at ready
Keep that tune in your mind: no cheats
Marking time
There's a cadence you can feel
It rumbles up between your toes
Let this drive you
Marking time
Listen for that whistle: 1 long, 4 short
Then, little by little, with focus and
Deliberate heel-to-toe steps
You'll march
Observant
O scillating fan that
B lows to every corner, over every
S urface: cooling frustration & testing
E ach inch of space for
R oom to breathe, and believing in a
V ision for themselves
A nd I'm this not just for them, but them for each other &
N ot just us for this community, but
T he world for the world
.
B lows to every corner, over every
S urface: cooling frustration & testing
E ach inch of space for
R oom to breathe, and believing in a
V ision for themselves
A nd I'm this not just for them, but them for each other &
N ot just us for this community, but
T he world for the world
.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
A Newer Model
Last night, the television set Monga bought for me almost twenty years ago started to hiccup. It had never before even so much as blinked.
Now it sits patiently by the door, waiting to be tossed into a dumpster, its blank face staring at me.
Technically, it hasn't flat-lined. There's still a little life left in it. When I turn it on, it lights up and shows a picture for about ten seconds. Then, it turns itself off. That's all the energy it has: all the juice it can muster sustains the few seconds it takes to awaken and look at you. Then, it is done.
I remember going to visit Monga at Life Care and wondering what was keeping her alive. No longer able to walk, speak, eat, swallow, she sat in her wheelchair or lay in her bed moaning and drooling. Those moans could almost make me believe she was about to say something. "What?" I'd say anxiously. I'd take her hand in mine and caress it gently. "Monga. Did you say something?" But she'd look at me with a stare I'd only before seen from a wax sculpture, and then close her eyes. I'd sit there with her on the edge of the bed (or in the chair next to hers)holding her hand, staring at the cold, hard linoleum floor. Monga was always afraid of death. Was that what was keeping her alive? She was also very stubborn. Was it that? Was there something more she wanted to say, percolating inside her: that rattle in her breathing the sound of all her hopes and fears bubbling away now? I hated seeing Monga like this: alive but not really living, and thought If I ever get like this, don't let me get like this. Pull the plug.
So, last night, as I could only get the TV to stay on for ten seconds at a time, I did just that. I pulled the plug.
Well, not right away.
First, I tried forcing it to stay on by holding my finger on the Power button, thinking that if I kept it held in, the TV would stay on against its will. Guess what? It clicked off. I told it to come back on about ten times. Flick/Click. Flick/Click. Flick/Click. It's no use. She's gone.
There was still a little life left in it, but it was clearly finished. I pulled the plug while it still had a little dignity. It was still able to awaken and shed a little light on things.
So, as I write this, the TV set Monga bought for me almost twenty years ago has been replaced already by a newer model. It's sleeker, brighter, has more definition. I'm still a little skeptical. Monga's gift was bulky and heavy, but it had a built-in VCR and has entertained me through a lot of illnesses. It had a friendly green light when you turned it on; this new one, even Off, stares at me with one red eye. I'm skeptical. And I feel a little guilty.
I could put it outside so I don't have to look at this symbol of my loss of Monga staring blankly at me by the door (like she did so many times as I left her behind at Life Care). But, it seems rather harsh to punt it that way. She certainly never kicked me to the curb. I'm sick with a cold right now (as I was when I moved into Monga's basement all those years ago) and don't have the energy to take it to the dumpster for its proper departure. Who knows how long it will sit out there! And it's Fall, so it could rain. I don't want Monga's gift to sit for days out in the cold wet of early dying. At least it's warm and dry in here...At Monga's viewing, my 9-year-old niece said Monga was cold and needed a blanket. We all agreed; before she was sealed in the coffin, she was covered with an Elvis blanket...It doesn't seem right that the TV should get such flip treatment as being dropped into a public dumpster with all the soggy pizza, used tissues, and coffee grounds. But, the TV isn't her, after all. However I rid myself of it is not indicative of my love for Monga. At least, that's what I've told myself.
In the meantime, I have a serious chest cold and ear infection. I'd love nothing more than to lay under a pile of blankies and watch a movie. This new television set and I have some serious ground to break...
Now it sits patiently by the door, waiting to be tossed into a dumpster, its blank face staring at me.
Technically, it hasn't flat-lined. There's still a little life left in it. When I turn it on, it lights up and shows a picture for about ten seconds. Then, it turns itself off. That's all the energy it has: all the juice it can muster sustains the few seconds it takes to awaken and look at you. Then, it is done.
I remember going to visit Monga at Life Care and wondering what was keeping her alive. No longer able to walk, speak, eat, swallow, she sat in her wheelchair or lay in her bed moaning and drooling. Those moans could almost make me believe she was about to say something. "What?" I'd say anxiously. I'd take her hand in mine and caress it gently. "Monga. Did you say something?" But she'd look at me with a stare I'd only before seen from a wax sculpture, and then close her eyes. I'd sit there with her on the edge of the bed (or in the chair next to hers)holding her hand, staring at the cold, hard linoleum floor. Monga was always afraid of death. Was that what was keeping her alive? She was also very stubborn. Was it that? Was there something more she wanted to say, percolating inside her: that rattle in her breathing the sound of all her hopes and fears bubbling away now? I hated seeing Monga like this: alive but not really living, and thought If I ever get like this, don't let me get like this. Pull the plug.
So, last night, as I could only get the TV to stay on for ten seconds at a time, I did just that. I pulled the plug.
Well, not right away.
First, I tried forcing it to stay on by holding my finger on the Power button, thinking that if I kept it held in, the TV would stay on against its will. Guess what? It clicked off. I told it to come back on about ten times. Flick/Click. Flick/Click. Flick/Click. It's no use. She's gone.
There was still a little life left in it, but it was clearly finished. I pulled the plug while it still had a little dignity. It was still able to awaken and shed a little light on things.
So, as I write this, the TV set Monga bought for me almost twenty years ago has been replaced already by a newer model. It's sleeker, brighter, has more definition. I'm still a little skeptical. Monga's gift was bulky and heavy, but it had a built-in VCR and has entertained me through a lot of illnesses. It had a friendly green light when you turned it on; this new one, even Off, stares at me with one red eye. I'm skeptical. And I feel a little guilty.
I could put it outside so I don't have to look at this symbol of my loss of Monga staring blankly at me by the door (like she did so many times as I left her behind at Life Care). But, it seems rather harsh to punt it that way. She certainly never kicked me to the curb. I'm sick with a cold right now (as I was when I moved into Monga's basement all those years ago) and don't have the energy to take it to the dumpster for its proper departure. Who knows how long it will sit out there! And it's Fall, so it could rain. I don't want Monga's gift to sit for days out in the cold wet of early dying. At least it's warm and dry in here...At Monga's viewing, my 9-year-old niece said Monga was cold and needed a blanket. We all agreed; before she was sealed in the coffin, she was covered with an Elvis blanket...It doesn't seem right that the TV should get such flip treatment as being dropped into a public dumpster with all the soggy pizza, used tissues, and coffee grounds. But, the TV isn't her, after all. However I rid myself of it is not indicative of my love for Monga. At least, that's what I've told myself.
In the meantime, I have a serious chest cold and ear infection. I'd love nothing more than to lay under a pile of blankies and watch a movie. This new television set and I have some serious ground to break...
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