As I have aged

I notice how far less seems to throw me,

the small seems small, and so much seems small.

I am less ruffled, the edges have been smoothed off.

This is not to say I am an angel -- bringing light

and love to all I meet. The contrary is true.

My real me shows up more often, and I like that.

And, like this stone that has come home

and been swept out to Lake Erie over and over again,

I am more willing to dive in, experience

more and more incremental fear.

I have been picked up, looked at,

weighed for my value, tossed out, put down,

and still I am glossy, still I am still,

as the friction erodes away the useless,

and I wait to to be taken as far out as I can travel again.

Nearly July

The days roll like endless asphalt on the Ohio Turnpike,

and moments are lost like mile markers along the way.

But then, in the market, standing over the bin of red plums,

I become twelve years younger in a gazebo at the Thurber House,

fruit laid out between us, and your hand holds the first plum

of the season. I take, bite, the skin taut, then the juice drips,

filling the river lifeline on my palm.

Tonight I walked like a monk with two other friends:

heel on the ground, arch unfolding to the ground,

small toe, then next toe, until finally the whole foot found solid earth.

Why do I seek so many sacred ways to transcend,

when my hands simply want to hold the harvest fruit of summer,

my teeth want to pierce the shiny skin, and I want to gnaw

until I hold the center seeded pit in the pocket of my cheek?

Forgive me

We were experimenting with ropes and pulleys

on the kids' new jungle gym. I was trying to throw a swing seat

over a horizontal wooden post. Three times up and three times failed.

On the last effort, the seat bounced off course and whacked my four year old friend

smack dab on the bridge of his nose. Then three things happened.

First, T-man looked like he could not believe it.

His face full of anger filled then with pain,

then -- most remarkably -- he reached out his arms for comfort.

I have been angry at my father lately. So much so, I can barely

talk with him about his impending move. I should be helping,

I should be offering to hang out for a few days and do some hard labor.

Leaving the house where I finally knew and loved my mother,

and knew and found myself able to love him too, is -- for some unexplained reason--

hard for me. Maybe it means that mom is really dead.

That people die. That someday he will die. That someday I will die.

So much is rolled into this shift from one home to another.

A powerful bonk on the most tender cartilage of tip edge of my heart.

Just last weekend, I had a chance to let my state of mind shift from

disbelief to pain, then maybe even into consolation,

but I could not and did not let that happen. I was cold, I think.

Distant. I could not take the chance that he would not understand,

that I would not express myself and that he would not extend his arms

in a loving and comforting embrace. That's only happened once,

and I, honestly, do not know if it will ever happen again in my life.

We keep our distance when we hug. Every time, to me,

it feels like he is still deciding whether or not he loves me.

I wonder what it feels like to him, a man so quiet and roped in.

Isn't amazing how small children can so easily hold anger

and the need for relief in the same moment? Isn't it amazing how easily

we grown-ups reach out and give unmitigated tenderness?

How they tuck their heads into the crook of our necks?

Lean their full weight into our chests, wrap their legs around our waists?

Isn't it amazing how I can be scorching mad at God himself,

saying a cursing prayer that alternates between fear, thanks and need,

every single day of my life, but I cannot do the same with my actual dad?

I do not know where these words are heading and what

my hands want to teach my tonight. I type and type,

not sure what lesson will be tendered up in the last line.

Maybe, this evening, as storm clouds are rolling in from the west,

I simply need to write I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry,

over and over again, like a child in detention

on this blog chalkboard until someone somewhere

reaches out for me and I can tuck my head into his hair,

her collarbone, and sob for a while until I stop hurting

over the pain I cause and the pain that does not seem to heal.

the roll of days

It's begun, the roll of days,

no one distinguishing itself from the others.

I do not even know if it is the middle or end of the month.

I will only remember the the things in this day

that left a leaving mark:

the cold patch in my driveway,

an email to the choir director,

and perhaps, the check I wrote

that will end up on next month's bank statement.

I will forget Jaden Smith's natural ease on the movie screen,

the flirtatious invitation I extended in a text,

my vow to greet everyone I met with a smile,

the way I created a circle for tonight's meeting,

and the comment I made in the middle of the prayer

that made everyone laugh. I do not know

the purpose of these days, the ones that slide by

without notoriety. They pass like clouds,

morphing from shape to blob to shape,

then plow off to the east, forgotten,

but yet part of that stream of grace

that comes from being without proving,

living without needing to earn your place.

thanks

...for waking up with cold air conditioned feet,

for the ending of LAKE SHORE LIMITED,

hash browns with cheese and onions and peppers,

the asphalt ramp into my driveway,

the men who poured and tamped it down,

Mountain Dew and popsicles after mowing the lawn,

Rita Marie trying to fix me up,

being seen as worthy to be fixed up,

Tavish asking about and poking my little toe,

falling into a rhythm with Tori,

asking our familiar questions of love,

carrot apple juice "on the house,"

a second line parade in a distant city,

an email from a woman whose hand I once held,

the lobby of the new Capitol Theater,

the revitalization of a neighborhood,

walking around it without memories peppering the experience,

that sleepy long curve onto the shoreway,

the woman in the coffee shop,

her lavender orange scones,

the way she made sure to say good-bye,

and I made sure to linger long enough for her to do so,

the ease of exchanging one simple joy between us,

and the picket fence white of tonight's moon.

solstice

When I was sixteen, on this day -- and most days of the summer -- I would play tennis at Howe School until we could no longer see the bald ball. David James, beautiful David James, and I would whack away until our movements were directed as much by sound as by vision. We would play past sun down, then I would walk home, salty with sweat.

Today, I spent the waning light hours taking a walk with Margaret, a neighbor, as she explained her recent breast cancer diagnosis. The way the tumor has splattered out of its encapsulation. The malignant tendrils, and wondering whether cells have spread to the lymphatic system or not.

I cannot decide which is a more fitting tribute to the longest day of the year. Using up every minute of the light or talking into the darkness. How our bodies work so gloriously, or how they suffer and still carry our spirits on.

It was just yesterday

I was babysitting you at my carriage house.

You were young, not yet quite one,

and you were upset. I cannot remember why.

You were crying, could not stop, so I checked

your diaper, I tried to feed you.

Then, somehow, we just ended up

with your cheek resting against mine.

You calmed, then found peace,

and so I expected you to move away,

find something to look at or something to grab.

Or maybe you would make the move to wiggle down to the floor.

But you did not shimmy an inch.

You stayed -- we stayed -- cheek to cheek for a long time.

I remember looking in the mirror thinking

I will never love anyone as much as I love you.

And I need you to know, even now -- especially

after the years when you were uncomfortable with me

and I was afraid to ease the distance between us --

that that is still, in many ways, true.

I do not have a child, I will never have a child,

but you were the first child I ever had

and I will always love you, and love you,

and then love you more.

crossing over

There are two ways to change:

fully realize who you are in this moment and place,

and what you want and need will come to you

as your eyes open to the world around you.

Or, you might set your sights on the distant land,

and take action. Track down the change by moving to it.

All I know tonight is that I am on this side,

and I can see the other place I need to be.

The path between the two is clear, even short.

Even the light shines on the handrailing invitation

toward movement. See it?

So I could get up and walk there,

cross to the westbound side, right now.

I could turn off this computer,

stop writing words to an audience of one,

and see what awaits me.

But I also know that I have the high vantage,

the best view of the setting sun.

And a golden light is pouring over me right here,

as I think about the day: how Sheridan held me

and cried, her bird heart beating against mine.

How Jennie and I ate cupcakes on Main Street,

how Tori stopped her car to get out

and give me a kiss on my cheek while I was talking on the phone.

How Chris told me there is no one who can do what I do.

How Tavish made a monocle from a long clover stem.

How the solstice air felt against my face riding here,

how the moon looks over my shoulder, right now,

one half guarding the lip of the day, the other awaiting the night.

Rebuilding the steps

It's been an expensive few days. On Monday, I had the driveway apron poured before I would be cited for a trip hazard. There is excitement in getting a fresh new entrance to home, but the experience was dampened by the fact that I just had a new apron laid 4 years ago. The first one failed.

Then today, my bricklaying friend came to rehaul my sidesteps. The top platform had cracked and the steps were tilting toward the house. The new stone is radiant white, and the doorway, finally, looks welcoming again. This experience is less exciting than it would be, as well, because those steps were just rebuilt 4 years ago too. They, also, failed.

So, in the last three days, I paid 2400 dollars to redo work that originally cost me 6400.

Maybe that makes this summer the summer of do-over. The summer of second chances. The time to get it right.

I drove out to Chagrin to get my haircut and just before I rounded the last bend into town, I wondered if I would see Jane's car. I did, seconds later, parked in the RSVP parking lot. And just seeing that green Beetle made my body crimp and fill with such anger. My brain spun to the worst. Cursing Jane, which is really just a curse of Carrie. Cursing the final lie and deceit which outweigh and make suspect -- strangely -- any of the long love. By the time I made it to the salon, I needed my head to be rubbed with expensive Aveda oil.

I do not want to redo Carrie. There is no point in wishing for that. I have no desire to redo anything with someone who was so willing and able to dismiss me. I have no desire to shore up the things I did wrong with her. I have poured new footers. I stand on a different foundation. Nor do I want to widen my heart, knowing how closed it was to the love I was offered. My heart has been split at the ribs and the finest doctors have insured that I can and am glub glubbing my way back to whole.

That building failed. The promise of a Carrie home crumbled. I doubt she knows or cares how much her choice has cost me.

But, here I sit. A fresh driveway to pull up close to my house. A firm set of steps to guide someone inside. The backdoor is on back order at Home Depot. Soon, every way to me will be new. Every way to find me will have been rebuilt and ready for guests.

This is the summer of second chances. This is summer to do again the thing I want to do more than any other thing. Second love. Hinged to what I learned in the first, but so much stronger.

Her, in Columbus

What if this is the way it could be,

wide winged and unlaced to the world?

Face to the sky, lifted to whatever comes next.

All the while, long strong legs connected to the earth and all earthy things.

Bold with belly, naked need and hunger nakedly fed.

Breasts bared, gladly glorious and ready to give.

Not one ounce of apology or anxiety in your stance?

I do not know if I am different from the others

and that keeps me from them,

or if we are all the same, dreaming

the wild dream of freedom and home,

and I just have not found them yet in the time given me.

Maybe they have made peace with their bodies and place,

or have been numbed into a not-wondering.

Maybe they do not struggle against the thing that contains them,

nor do they separate their every day lives

from the sacred stones and holy bones under their skin.

All I know, tonight, is that she is with her,

and they are with them, and he is watching the door waiting,

and I am typing about a copper statue,

I am learning from a copper statue,

while the living find the living

and feed their handsome bellies

with the food upon their plates.

Dear God

I have only one prayer tonight:

that I love myself as much as I am

willing to love another.

That I am gentle with myself.

That I do not hate or hurt

the vessel of my spirit.

That in showing kindness

to myself, I am more apt

to connect with others kindly.

Help me. Heal me.

Let me be in my body,

and know that my body

is worth being in.

Partners

Today, I will not remember my mower conking out on me,

the walk I took with Sheridan to the big rock,

or the first batch of summer nectarine salsa.

Nor will I remember doing laundry,

hooking up the sleep room air conditioner,

or even the way I ran over Cullen's prescription

with my car and how I had to take it into CVS

with tread marks and a dark puddle dampness.

I do not suspect I will remember the sermon I gave,

or the way the college kids looked at me, smiling,

because the title was "The Calculus of Sin."

I won't recall the sweat dripping down my back at the pulpit,

or my relief when the usher snuck up behind me and turned on the fan.

What I will carry with me is the sight of Joyce,

seventy or seventy-five with Alzheimers,

and her partner, Marie, not much older than I am.

The way Joyce sat right next to Marie on the pew bench,

how her tiny hands found Marie's leg to rest on,

her nails painted glitter pink.

How her chin dipped to her chest,

then rose every time Marie spoke.

And the way Marie kept talking with with Joyce,

using her soft hands to guide her partner

from one unknown to the next,

every word a term of endearment,

every action a vow of forever.

Clap out

There is a tradition at my school -- the outgoing 4th graders and any retiring teachers get clapped out by the whole school. Children line a cordoned off area and as the eldest walk through, we sing our school song and clap. The song is never in unison, and the clapping has no rhythmic beat, but it is pure love. More often than not, the majority of people cry.

My good friends are leaving this year. Two to retirement. And one, a sort of sister friend, is moving to another state. And the rest -- my 75 little friends are moving on to fifth grade. Sure, they will stop by. They will tell me about their grades and their activities. We will sling each other's arms around one another in a familiar hug. But it is never the same as it is when they are with us, day after day. I know, I feel, just an inkling of what parents must feel when they experience the transitions in their children's lives. But for me, childless, every year I fall a little bit in love. And then I have to release my young friends into the world. There is no greater satisfaction in the world, and there is nothing that makes me more teary. Love and release. Twenty-three years of love and release. I clap you out Cal, and Najee, and Symoan, and Shaniya, and Enna and Ryan...

So much looks good on paper

Let's say a woman for example.

The right degrees, a big corporate job,

a love for the earth and the creatures on it.

A sense of humor that keeps you laughing,

witty retorts to your witty responses,

grey green eyes that change color

when she speaks the truth.

Or, let's say a job, in a movie set suburb

known for excelling at the work you do.

In a small school, with a cadre

of dedicated colleagues and

children who look like they should

be featured on a Benetton catalog.

Smart and kind, everyone,

with a paycheck that fills

even the holes in your pockets.

Or, let's say a house, the perfect cottage yellow,

with street siblings each trying to

outdo each other in cute.

A house who feels like a warm womb,

a safe harbor, a handknit sweater.

No other house feels like home.

It all looks so good on paper,

it all sounds right to someone

on the outside of the story.

Yet, she knows it is all a palimpsest

of another life she missed along the way.

A left turn world in what should

have been a right turn life.

So she takes to scraping

and scanning the weak pulp,

to decipher what needs to happen next.

summer flung out

...as wide as the sky.

I see roads, yellow dotted lines,

small town excursions,

shops with handmade fudge,

talking with old men, maybe Gus or Otto,

learning the names of new flowers,

bare feet on grass,

kicking the beach ball between two yards,

drinking Bels Oberoon at night,

nights on the porch.

Cantaloupe poems,

cardinals stopping by,

A dog resting on the stoop,

a book on top of ten others,

a long distance correspondence,

a short brave fling,

wrinkled white sheets,

finding beach glass,

(at a real beach)

red slushies ruining new shirts,

minor league ball,

Jiffy pop on the fire pit,

cornhole championships,

tan feet,white webbed fingers,

someone's hot summer lips on my back,

being braver,

saying hello to every person I meet,

taking it in, while letting so much go.

Sliver fingernails,

sliver cusp moons,

a pebble path,

2 dollars and 76 cents in my pocket,

whistling a new song,

needing nothing but

the hope of blue that reaches out

and around the whole world.

Rorschaching the tree

Today, I see a woman.

Her breasts, her belly.

Open heart surgery.

Or another woman,

one breast, lopsided

from a lumpectomy.

Or a young woman

in her seventh month,

waiting to see of she is having

a boy or girl.

Or an old woman,

her skin mottled and sagging.

Or my mother,

drying off from the pool

when I was young and ashamed

by breasts and bellies,

especially hers that hung down,

nipples and belly button,

to the floor.

Or, perhaps, a great, great

German grandmother from

the Isle of Silt,

washing up after a day of skinning salmon.

Or the grandmother we all

lean into, even when we are old,

wanting to rest our heads against bosom.

Or, any woman, every woman.

Her body made to give life,

her body made to store life.

Her life split between

the ones she loves,

and the one she calls herself.

the juice

Just heard that Al and Tipper Gore are getting divorced and for some unclear reason, I feel sad. Al and Tipper Gore? After 40 years of marriage? How can that be?

I get it. People drift apart. They say they are leading separate lives. And maybe they just know the juice is gone and it ain't coming back.

I had to call ATT U-verse (again) today because my service was down and in some distant city -- maybe even a different continent -- my technician was able to reboot my system. The modem went down, the green lights stopped flashing, and then, after a short while, it all started flashing again. The internet was back up. My telephone had a signal. I could leap from channel to channel on my tv.

I wish I could do the same with my life. Call up some 1-800 number and say that I am not getting a signal. There is only silence on the other end of the line. Then someone, somewhere, could punch in the code that would make the lights start flashing again. Make the fiberoptic spark within.

Reboot my body. Reboot my belief that it will all work out. That I will find her; that she will find me. Reboot my courage. To leave my job to do the thing I am itching to do. Reboot my sense of humor somedays. Reboot my gentleness. My patience. Reboot my ability, maybe, to accept it -- accept this -- and search not for the things that are lacking, but sit in my life and feel the juice. The juice I forget is in me.