making a chair

I decided today, after helping my father make parts of a windsor chair, that I like sitting in chairs more than I like making them. Actually, that's a lie. I liked making certain parts of the chair very much. We used a tool like this one to pull strips of soft wood off rectangular blocks of red oak so that they slowly became rounded spindles. Pull, pull, pull. Check the guidelines, pull and pull some more then finally trim the last slivers-- not fighting the wood, but culling it to you curl by curl.

I've had some changes in my life, and the easiest ones to take were the ones where a drawing knife was used. Thin shaves of reality taken from me. Never too deep, just as far as the green wood in me could survive. The craftsman pulling the changes out of me by pulling the changes towards her. Not fighting my grain, but working with it. Then the last final trimmed slivers removed only after I had gotten used to the process.

This is the gentle work of relationships. This is the way to love someone, leave someone, or help someone move into her next self. Not the loud grinding of a band saw, or the high-pitched whine of the drill. Effective, yes, but the wood barely understands what is happening to it. So don't grab the shiny Ryobi router from Home Depot. Instead, take your drawing knife, lean your hip into the table, set the angle straight then pull. Pull the blade toward your heart. Then watch the tendril changes skim off the person you love and float tenderly to the ground.

flipping the omelette

It's been more than a year since I tried to make an omelette.

It's not really the kind of meal you make for one.

It's more of a meal made for another.

Sunday morning, with a side of bacon,

and some fresh squeezed orange juice.

It's a loving meal, food tendered up as a gift.

But today I wanted one. Mushrooms and cheese.

And, as I whipped the eggs with a bit of milk,

and put the butter into the warm pan,

I wondered if I should just make a scramble,

a fancy scramble. That would be good enough.

Then, a sure resolute "no" came over me.

I would make myself an omelette,

I could offer myself a good and loving meal.

The mushrooms sauteed, the eggs poured in,

the bubbling and pulling from edge to center,

edge to center. Creating the hard cooked bottom.

Then I was faced with the problem of flipping.

Not something I have done with much success,

and certainly without any practice

in a long, long time.

Again, a sure and resolute "yes" came over me.

I rocked the pan, felt the ease, the slippery tide of the eggs.

With an unwavering certainty,

I pushed the pan out and caught the omelette

on the other side.

It takes a certain amount of confidence

to flip an omelette. Just as it takes

a certain amount of confidence to flip your life.

To finally say, sure some parts of me

are still a bit loose, but I am solid underneath,

I am ready for what will happen.

See the way I can slide back and forth

against my life, see how I am about to teeter over,

see how I can take the push.

Push me, I dare you, push me.

See how I'll turn one end over the other,

see how I'll fly, then land, just right.

cairn

Onto this pile, I stack:

the things I need to give away

the things I need to give up

the things that have taught me well 

and are now not enough

the need to know

the need to be sure

the need to have answers

the knowledge that is no longer true 

the knowledge that may have never been true

the knowledge that escapes me still

the truth that is fixed

the truth that they claim

the truth that was once solid 

and now is silty liquid slipping away

the fixed parts of me 

the fixed parts of the past

the fixing of things that will never be fixed

the parts that may never heal

the parts that may never even scab over

the parts of me that they did not wait long enough to see

Onto this cairn, I lay down my boulder fears and aches.

See how beautifully the sun dances upon them --

the light stronger than the weight upon which it shines. 

But I have

I am homesick for a place I have never been, 

a place I have never seen. 

Yet, as I wander on the thin map of my life, 

there are places where home finds me, 

there are ways I make it home. 

I remember a table at Stone Oven -

the old Stone Oven -

a pad of paper, a smooth pen, 

her whole self  listening. 

I remember a song sung in a simple church.  

A man, a guitar, three hundred

eyes looking at me as I spoke from 

the second beat of my heart, 

the one that pushes out truth. 

I remember the first time 

I kissed her in the spring outside.

Her lips warm, her face warm, 

her smell like the garden she was planting. 

I remember a day in the pouring rain, 

I remember a toddler wobbling toward me, 

I remember a bridge over a small creek. 

I remember a catch, a car, a star dotted sky. 

I remember six women appearing to circle the bed, 

I remember the last tear I saw on my mother's face. 

I do not have your silent husband, 

I will never have your daughter, your grown son, 

your baby Maya, your new parish to pastor. 

I will never know the still face of a younger sister, 

the vibration of a cello beneath my fingertips. 

But I have a home out there 

that keeps trying to find me, 

who keeps extending her soft hand, 

that faithfully remains, 

so familiar, so patient, 

so willing to wait for me. 

sign language

When I go outside, my 18 month old neighbor shouts, 

"Jeen, Jeen, Jeen."  Then she waddles over to me, 

extends her arms for a hug.  Even though it does not last long, 

she rests her head on my shoulder and pats my back. 

She points out flowers, she overturns rocks to look for bugs, 

she pours water into a cup, then dumps the water out.

Then she may look over at me, mowing or planting, 

point and say my name again.  I like that assurance, 

someone noticing me as I do completely ordinary things. 

And, even though there is a woman 13 miles from here 

who may never see me again who loved me once, 

fiercely and fully, and another woman seven states over

who would hold my aching back without me needing to ask, 

and one, about an hour away, who has not decided

what she will do with me yet, I have this:

The sun, the sky, a vegetable lasagna delivered to my door,  

a man crushing my spring debris into a lawn bag.  

Laughter tipped into giggling near midnight, 

a long drive past a lake, an email from my minister, 

strawberries dipped in sour cream and brown sugar, 

purple myrtle flowers, a cat sitting under my deck table, 

a song that I must turn up every time, a thank you card, 

warm socks, a rearview mirror wave, 

a boy planting seeds in squat position, 

the sound of pennies hitting a nearly full piggy bank, 

and her pressing her tiny fingers together when I head inside, 

as she shouts, "Jeen, more Jeen, more Jeen."

friday the 13th

 

Friday the 13th was the day I fell down the stairs at school and had to be taken to the hospital.  It also was a day, years ago, that I was rejected by my golf team.  So, the day and I have some history.  And, always, I wonder what might happen when it rolls around. 

Yesterday, though, should have been called whatever is opposite from Friday the 13th, maybe Friday the millionth.  Friday the great.  None of this was expected or planned, and that makes it all feel so much more solid and symbolic. 

I received assurances from every possible relationship I have.  A former student, from 12 years ago, came to visit.  Full of vigor and youth.  And athlete, a scholar, in the Army to work out his propensity for risk and action. I was able to support one of my closest working friends with a care package for a big comprehensive exam  and I knew exactly what to get her and why she would like each item.  A friend came over with a birthday present, perfect for me.  So perfect that I know he knows me well and deep and wide.  My neighbors called for help, something broken in their house.  A paramour from the past wrote with stories bridging the gap from when we knew each other to now.  And a friend called to ask if I could help her.  Help her in a way that no one had ever been asked.  Entrusted, I would be entrusted with a really honorable task.

A new acquaintance asked me what about my life surprises me, and after yesterday, it would probably be this: I am known and trusted in a way that my shy and nerdy seventh grade self never imagined would be possible. That there is a web of humanity and I am part of it.  Lucky to be part of it. 

75 reasons

1. He still wears those big glasses

2. He loves his baseball hats

3. He's younger than he is

4. Works hard

5. Always worked hard

6. Will always work hard

7. Has a good sense of order 

8. Listens well

9. Talks softly, never carries a big stick 

10. Meticulous 

11. Held my mom's hand

12. Provided even when stressed

13. Sacrificed even when stressed

14. Made a change 

15. Stuck with the change

16. Is gracious and giving

17. Can kick any crossword puzzle's ass

18. Listens to music

19. Good music

20. Appreciates the most important meal of the day

21. Can grill up some good stuff

22. Remembers to eat fruit

23. Honored his mother and father

24. Didn't give up when giving up would be easy

25. Dignified, but not in a pompous way

26. Cheers loudly for his favorites teams

27. Envelope gifts 

28. Two Christmas trees, every year

29. Made sure to drive us around to look at the lights

30. Coach

31. Timer

32. HORSE companion 

33. Devotes time to the things that matter to him

34. Let my mom get the attention she needed

35. Even if it meant sacrificing some that he may get

36. Bloody Mary recipe (though I do not personally know)

37. Taking us to baseball games 

38. Sharing Amelia Island 

39. Golf (even though he rolls the ball over)

40.  Wears pink shirts proudly 

41. And way before it was popular

42. Loved his dogs

43. Fed them ice cream 

44. Plans ahead

45. Years ahead

46. Is fiscally prepared 

47. Had convertibles 

48. Still wants a convertible

49. Knows how to keep the faith

50. Introduced me to pistachios

51. Permits me to be myself 

52. Defends me for who I am 

53. Smiles really big when he sees his grandchildren

54. Saves his change

55. Then counts and rolls it by hand

56. Can say a really good improvisational prayer

57. Comes when invited

58. Comes when needed

59. Writes in a beautiful way 

60. Organized

61. Open to where the spirit is moving

62. Protective

63. Always brought a gift home after traveling

64. Likes Chik-fil-a

65. Knows what is important and what is not

66. Let me be there when he could not

67. Kind, nice -- two overused words-- 

that in this case are true

68. Voted for Barack 

69. Does not need to be the center of attention

70. Is forgiving

71. Has gone from a pessimist to an optimist

72. But would never admit it 

73. Enjoys the morning sun 

74. Knows the value of sitting on the porch

75. Is trustworthy, reliable

Happy birthday, Dad.