One I remember

The word ardent, the poem at 3 am,

the mustard smile for me on her dinner plate.

Being thigh to thigh at a poetry reading,

the heat, the ill of wanting.

The letters, stamps turned upside down,

a spot, like a pebble, amidst so much slippery.

The monkeys mating at the zoo,

the pottery mailed from France,

the glass at the Toledo Art Museum,

so fragile and destructive,

slow liquid pretending to be something solid.

The dread infused love, the first rush of lust,

the permission to let hand hold hand.

Outside, stolen kisses in the dark,

while God, himself, watched,

smirking and laughing,

then shrugged his boney shoulders.

the avett brothers

I am not ashamed to say that I cried three times at the concert tonight. Cried right in front of Katie's mom and her friend, Robin. Beautiful women. And Katie and Abby, beautiful young women. And the people near us. The woman who helped me up, the man with his pregnant wife, the four guys smoking pot. I cried in front of the stars, and under the sky, with gratitude I cried for being alone. I cried for being together. I cried because the words and melody were like identical twins and I was an older step sister from another mother. I cried when the crowd sang along. I cried when the people jumped and clapped. I cried because people get this music, love this music. I cried because I was someone on this night who got to hear this song.

We came for salvation
We came for family
We came for all that's good that's how we'll walk away
We came to break the bad
We came to cheer the sad
We came to leave behind the world a better way

To be 4

So after being told that he could not marry his mother,

or his sister, he decided he would marry me.

And, when his mom explained that people usually

marry others who are closer to their age,

she said that one day he will find someone

a little like her, and a little like his sister,

and a little like me, and maybe he would fall in love forever.

He will, I just know it, and my dream is to be there

when he says "I do" to this amalgam of people,

and I will remember there was a day,

when he laughed, and his mom laughed,

and his sister laughed, as we all made bubbles

and chased them before they would land on the ground

and pop. We made the bubbles, we saved the bubbles,

and we laughed with each other in love.

John said

...every day has every day in it. A little bit of Christmas, a little bit of Easter. Some Pentecost swirling around. A few hours in Gethsemane. And, when he said it, I felt my anxious self tender up a huge sigh. Too often I am ashamed of the inconsistent roil of my days. Happy flinging itself right into sad; anger busting through laughter. I never know what is going to happen. And I fear, sometimes, that something is wrong with me.

But I like what John said. Love it in fact. And, today, while painting with some fourth graders, I was in advent -- waiting for the day when the painted panel joins the others and they offer a backdrop to our sweet songs. And then I had some flipping over of the tables in at the temple as three students in a row tried to pull off "copy and paste" reports as true research. Oh no, not in my land. The sermon on the mount rounded the corner about 4 o'clock as I sat with Najee and explained to him that lying about homework was worse than not doing it. That relationships matter more than events -- the trust between two people supersedes any work, done or not done. "Love," we decided together, "is messed up with lying." Then that day -- the one with a name I can never remember -- when the Magi came to deliver their gifts. Epiphany. Yes, epiphany, near the end of the day, when I realized that I had something important to say to Anne . And I held out my words to her like jewels. Plopping them slowly into her heart so she could hear how crucial her work is to our church family. I held out my thanks like a box of myrrh as the night fell and stars began to light my way home.

So, yes, I understand. Every day has every day in it.

Thanks be to God.

Glitter

Why I needed to be glittering a snowflake with kindergartners on an 88 degree day in May is irrelevant, all I want to say today is that I came home with glitter on my toes. And in my ears. Speckled through my hair. Stuck to my cheek. Glitter doesn't cling to anything (though it seems to), it needs glue or sweat, or a tangle of friction to make it stay. Glitter does not appear from nowhere and stay. You have to call for it, cull it up, work with it, get dirty. Sticky.

I keep waiting for something magical to happen to me, zip out of the blue and land in my life. But, maybe, the better approach to getting something that makes my life sparkle is to be at the table, sitting in a tiny chair, knee to knee with the project. Maybe eye catching comes from being caught in a moment. Maybe glitter does not spin down upon us, but stays with us -- hangs onto us -- when we are simply doing. Being. Helping out.

Thank you Luke; we made a beautiful snowflake.

Start now

To myself

Throw away the worries about June 2nd.

Toss in next year too.

Pitch the last day of your life into a far, deep lake.

Fling your deepest fear in the ravine.

Waste no more time on someone else's flipflop mind.

Let your caution splat in the middle of the road,

where it can be run over by a Nissan Pathfinder,

a woman on a red scooter, and tomorrow's garbage truck.

Pick up a peanut. Watch the water's condensation.

Look at the thick well of glass at the bottom of the glass.

See the bubble within the glass.

Notice the well-worn arms of your favorite chair.

See the indentations where you most happily lean.

Touch the bottom lip of the iris,

go nose to nose with the ants licking the peony buds.

Watch the way the clouds look like they were

smeared with a spackling edge across the blue.

Claim the urgent beep of your moped's horn,

find the white tip on your lucky polished flint.

Do not gather up anything that is not real.

Get your life out of your brain and into your hands.

So much comfort within ten paces,

open the door, and go out.

I was listening to the radio

(though I won't tell you the station

because it would be embarrassing).

One line rang out among the others,

"It's not love unless you give it away."

That one will really stick with me for a while.

It's not about intent, it is not about desire.

It's about riding a bike beside someone else,

it's about picking up the phone when it rings,

it's about giving the bigger half of the almond cookie away.

Love it an outward offering, spooning out soup from an infinite trough.

It's not love unless you give it away.

Make that your mantra.

I don't know why

...but we often watched Monty Hall and "Let's Make a Deal" when I was growing up. There was something about the allure of the other door or the object beneath the box. That measured calculation between what was known and what might be coming.

So many things around be are changing. People running to and through new doors. Taking new jobs, moving to distant cities, buying new homes, rallying for a new cause, taking on a new partner. But I seem to be stuck exactly where I stood when taking this picture. Far from the options. Centered on them, knowing they were coming, but still distant. And like the picture, my feet are fixed. Stuck in the cement. For all I know I may still be standing there, a statue in someone else's favorite memory.

Let me take a chance now. Let me decide what each of those six options could be. How about a different job in this city? How about a different job in a new city? How about a new city, without a new job? Maybe a summer sojourn across the country? Maybe finding someone waiting for me behind one of those columns -- right there, I am just not close enough to see her yet? Or how about this: maybe an option is just to be here, with this job and this life, and actually decide to give into it. Love it. Accept that it is the option I have always been choosing. How about that?

When I was young

...I never knew how beautiful I was. There is a picture of my golden haired cousins, my brother and me on my grandparents' steps. I always deferred to the notion that blonde equated with pretty and, hence, they must be prettier than me. They went to a country club, they lived in a big house in a posh New Jersey suburb. They went to "the city," and by that, I mean THE city, not Pittsburgh, where I grew up. But now, when I look at the photograph, it is clear to me who is the knock-out in the bunch. It's me. My dark brown eyes, my cropped hair that showed my full, old-soul face. The way I pressed my hands together in the praying pose, my willingness to look unflinchingly into the camera.

And when I was a teen, oh my how I thought I was fat. Huge maybe. Botero-like compared to the other girls. Surely no boy would like me.

But, maybe, since so many people said I looked like my mother, I was confusing my body with my mother's body. We used to go to the public pool nearly every night after dinner. I would wear my suit under my t-shirt and shorts, so that no one would see me naked, but my mom would take one of the open benches smack dab in the middle of the locker room and she would disrobe slowly, never covering up one part of her body as she tugged at her suit. She would take off all of her clothes, then yank and jump into her suit. Her white belly huge, her breasts bobbing up and down like pineapples in a tropic storm. And, God, I could see her pubic hair. Everyone could see her pubic hair.

When I was a teenager, I confused my body with her body. I thought I took up an enormous amount of space. But now, when I look back on those photographs, I was lean and athletic. Wide shouldered but nothing extra around my middle. My legs and arms were muscular. And there were my eyes. Still yearning and dark. So wise without knowing.

Now, I actually do carry my mother's belly. And her large fruit breasts. And her patch of pubic hair. She has become me, I have become her. I am not deluded in my thinking. I am not so beautiful anymore, and it would take about one hundred pounds to place me in the range of what any doctor might be willing to be called normal. Might. And I know that my face too often is scowled and my brow is too frequently furrowed. As I rush through my life, not in it, I do not look so great with he weight of responsibility bearing down upon the weight of disappointment.

Except for this. This day, not so long ago, when I wore this happy hat. In a small town where I was a stranger. In another state, just a hop away from mine. There was this day, this spark, this happiness -- all so ready to reclaim my face.

Look at me and tell me I am not beautiful.

I can be. I am. I will be. It's written in my eyes, just as it has always been.

It's been a year

since skin found skin,

and hands talked to skin,

and skin found shelter

in the skin of the hands

that were under and over

and so in between the within

It's been a year

since the body had something to say

and someone who listened to the soft

long bone of the back and

the valley shielding the crease of the heart

It's been in a year

since of all me was open,

no words no thoughts no dodging second layer,

just skin finding skin

then staying soft to soft

Selling the house

Today, my dad sold his house and bought a condo. And, though I know the proper etiquette is to be happy for me, and while I tried to summon the proper etiquette to do so, I could not. I went numb, then silent, then -- because a sob had taken up lodging in my throat -- I screeched out, "Can I call you back?"

I do not know why I am so sad, but I am terribly sad about this. My dad? In a condo? Not in a house? That house? With its front porch and back deck? With it's dining room bench and antique pie safe? Its pinks and turquoise palette? Its cookie jar? The doorknob where mom would hang her purse?

My brother is happy. He says that living in a condo will give Dad a greater chance for social interactions. That dad could meet a neighbor in the elevator and forge a new friendship. Maybe that will happen. Maybe that's what Dad wants to happen. I do not know. Mark, with his family of six, does not know "one." He's less sentimental than I am, that's for sure. I doubt that he will shed one tear over this.

But I sit here, even now, crying again, over my father's decision.

This feels like my mother's death is now official for some reason. Or that dad's death, though years and years away, is impending. This feel like an unmooring of sorts.

I know I should not feel this way. I know that I should not link change to time, and time to death, but I do.

Tonight, it is all rolling into one.

Today was the day

As many people know, I have my students write and perform a poetry play every year. We start the first week in September by responding to a specific theme. This year's is "Dear Mr. President." Then, mid-year, I take the best writing from all seventy-five students, and combine it into a play, a play with a discernible arc that leads the audience through silliness, hopefulness, sadness, and dream-wishing. In February, the kids get their parts, and then work on them until they reach the root of intent. This can take much cajoling, modeling (sheesh, what a word in teaching), and risk-taking. In the spring, we finalize songs and begin the background artwork. It's a massive amount of effort under exacting circumstances; an unbelievable number of people are involved. I am not sure why we keep going, but perhaps the kids can feel the solid work of beauty rolling to its rightful place.

There comes a day when the poetry play goes from being a puzzle, where all of the various pieces are roaming around the flat surface, inching their way to their positions. Edges clumped with edges, blues with blues, grass with ground. Sun finding its shadow. There comes a day when it all starts to fall into place. Links are made, seams are smoothed, songs have a spirit.

Today was that day. We were in the music room singing the finale song, "All your light" and before the last refrain, the kids sing -- for eight long measures -- the word "shine." It can sound -- it HAS sounded -- like a slow train pulling into a lonely station. But today, the kids just rang, sang it out like a gathering bell. And, for the first time in this nine month process, I felt goosebumps.

I pulled up my sleeve, and showed the kids. Then, of course, they wanted more. They wanted the power to affect someone's instinctive reactions.

I cannot wish for goosebumps, though I have. I cannot summon goosebumps, though I have wanted to. I cannot buy a goosebump anywhere in the world.

They come. They simply come when our bodies know when something magnificent has whisked by.

That happened today. Today was the day.

Chivalry

...is not dead.

I stopped at an east side car wash joint to vacuum the muddy spring from my floor mats. I was there just as the man in charge was opening up shop. He had to bring out the vacuum hoses from the inside, otherwise they get stolen in that neighborhood. He had to unlock the cage in all four corners so that I could get to the change machine. I can only imagine what would happen to that if it were not secure. Once he saw I was all set, he went inside to set up the drive through car wash.

Within a few minutes a carload with three men drove up to vacuum out their car. They were all young, all big, all dressed in a way that made me think they knew I was not from that part of town. Their music was loud; they were all smoking, or chewing on, blunts. And they kept looking at me. Then at each other.

I live in a part of Cleveland were, almost daily, I pass similar people. I share my drugstore with tough looking guys. I have had cops zoom up and down my street in pursuit of cars that looked just like the one I was working next to. This combination of suburban and street hard was not new to me. Not frightening to me. Not anything out of the ordinary, really.

But this morning, I felt nervous. Something about the situation seemed tense and layered with possible danger. I cannot describe why exactly. I mostly think it was the way the men kept looking at me. Hard, without looking away.

The guy who was working at the car wash rounded the corner from the drive through section, and, immediately came down to my end of the vacuuming bay. He did not say anything. To me or the other men. He did not get close to me, but it hovered near me, clearly letting me know I had nothing to worry about. He did not acknowledge me. Did not look at me and nod. Did not assure me in anyway. That, I knew, would make him lose stature and be mockable to the other guys. He simply stood near me. He simply showed them and me that he was on my side.

I will never see that man again. And, in all honesty, I could be misreading the whole episode in a disgustingly cliched way. Except that I knew it. I knew it in my bones. The same way you can sense the nervousness in a baby. Or can read sadness in the eyes of someone with a completely neutral face. The same way your knees know that rain is coming.

And, while I am specifically thankful for that man, I am even more thankful to live in a world where men still do that for women. Where people old guard over each other. Where danger is eclipsed by a simple gallantry. Rest assured, we still live in a good world. There's no doubt about that.

Picking the picture

I just loaded up iPhoto, closed my eyes, then clicked on a picture. This was my random choice. I wonder what I am meant to see in it?

The rough hewn bark? The smooth corner post? The twisted vine? The dry grass in the background? The glint of green?

Which do I lean to the most this night? Am I more scratch than soothe? More dying or alive? Sturdy and stocky, a solid source of strength for others? Am I the thing that is trying to get away?

You know the answer of course. We all know the answer to any metaphor match. I am it all. The blistering skin of a tree, the marrow, the sun shining in the west. The thing waiting to die, the thing waiting to cycle through spring again. I am it all. All of it is me.

tonight

...I want to add dimension to the others in my life,

especially those I make assumptions about,

or have placed into a box.

I want to lean into people with mercy.

I want add a texture to each moment,

knowing that there were ten thousand moments before,

and a lifetime to follow.

I want to lean into events with grace.

I want to remember that there is so much

going on within and outside the confines of my perspective

and that I must strive to do no harm,

leaning into life with an open mind and open heart.

turning 50

Today was the third 50th birthday party

I have been to in three months,

all for women hosted by their husbands.

I loved every one -- the toasts, the roasts,

the laughter, good food, plenty of wine,

celebrating the beloved -- I loved it all

until I got home.

It's amazing how quiet a house is,

how big a bed is, how wide a lawn is,

how deep a driveway can be. It is amazing

how lonely one plate looks on a table,

or one toothbrush in a cup.

I have about 600 days to solve this problem.

600 days until I am surrounded by a crowd,

or eating a cake I made myself for myself.

But for now, I have today. Just one day

to wrestle with and conquer.

One fork to wash, one pillow to plump,

one towel to hang, one book to finish,

one door to lock, one poem to write,

one day to outlast, one moment at a time.