persuing patience
Even though that title is probably an oxymoron, that's pretty much what I feel like I'm doing.
It is so hard to actively wait. But I've never learned how to wait passively and patiently.
I keep waiting for that Big Bad Rove to be indicted.
Waiting for b!X to get a job.
Keep waiting to be inspired to blog something worth writing about.
And then, out of the blue, a comment left on one of my recent posts puts waiting on hold and sends me to my poetry stash.
But not before I link over to the commentor's site. Which is in Chinese. Whaddya know. There I am, in China. And in Chinese.
Of course, I emailed the commentor out of curiosity. She says that she's a Chinese woman with a two-year old daughter. She found me while searching for a poem by Jane Hirshfield, which I had posted on this blog a couple of years ago.
When I started blogging, one of the most exciting parts of the experience for me was crossing virtual paths with women I never ever would have a chance to get to know otherwise. Women from other countries and cultures, women from other generations. The first such young woman was Anita Bora, from India , who, as I see from her recent blog entry, seems to be on a world tour, running into fellow bloggers by chance in Paris. I've lost track of and touch with Anita. But I think of her now. Wonder if she's coming to America. Remember what we shared when we were first starting out in the blogworld.
And now there's Yan, in China.
I might be hiding out in the mountains of New York State, but blogging takes my spirit out into stunningly wide world.
So, tonight, I'm thinking of Yan and what we might have in common as women on this planet and I'm digging through some of my old poetry, like:
a point of order
his loyalty is to the horizontal,
to edgeless glacial plains,
oceans sacred to the seal.
his eyes return the call of gravity,
hold true to the long, linear view.
she prefers the root and cloud,
spirals with wind, intrudes upon stones.
her reach inspires the vertical,
hides in the rise of trees,
flies the moon with string.
where they meet,
the earth unfolds its secrets,
one
breath
at
a
time.
and this one
Think I Mean
Please don’t think I mean
that I have all the answers.
I race the same wind as you,
worry the same bones.
Like you, I watch for
signals and symptoms –
cast an ear, bend an eye.
(Is it a cry or a whisper
or the sloughing of old skin?)
If I try to spin the moon,
please don’t think the reason.
It is my way to dance with shadows
when they are manic with meaning.
and, this one with no title
what place is there for vultures
in this stark heart of the gorge?
this is a place for mourning,
for lying under rocky eaves,
loosing old moans
into the spill of unbound waters,
for sending into the core of the gorge
some haunting heaviness of heart.
and, finally, speaking of waiting, which I was when I began this post
Riding the Current
When the sun finally slips
through the clouds
spilling into that lake
in high Wyoming,
it is only a matter of time
before the muddy wters
reach Montana,
where the Missouri gorges itself
on the Jefferson, Callatin, and Madison,
binding its fate
to the press of a season’s passion.
Along the banks at Bismarck,
Spring becomes a time of waiting.
And even at bold St. Louis,
bright fishing boats
hold to their moorings,
sheltered from the sudden currents
that rush Springs’ murky dreams
toward the hungry Mississippi.
It is never wise
to swim the dark Missouri.
As everyone in Nebraska knows,
the mud must run its course
through each Missouri Spring.
And so I will run my course through the coming winter. I will sit by the window and plan what I will plant come spring -- that is, after I empty the dozen or so bags of top soil that have been waiting in the rain for a day like tomorrow promises to be.
I can be patient. I can wait.
And, while I'm waiting, I'll go and click on the breast cancer site because:
The Breast Cancer site is having trouble getting enough people to click on their site daily to meet their quota of donating at least one free mammogram a day to an underprivileged woman. It takes less than a minute to go to their site and click on "donating a mammogram" for free (pink window in the middle).
This doesn't cost you a thing. Their corporate sponsors/advertisers use the number of daily visits to donate mammogram in exchange for advertising.
Here's the web site! Pass it along to people you know.
http://www.thebreastcancersite.com
Categories:
Rain Rage
that's what I'm feeling right now. it's not just the actual rain, which is hard enough to take day after day. it's all of the circumstances of my life that are raining on my parade -- circumstances that include my desktop computer not being able to access my email or get on the internet. so I'm on my little laptop, which I'm not used to using. the point here is that right now I have no email, so anyone who needs to contact me needs to do it here or by phone.
consternation, confrontation. thats my life right now. i want to scream. sometimes I do.
she is becoming more and more childlike. doesn't like to be alone. wants all of her belongings around her. doesn't remember meals or meds, so everything is catered. every movement hurts. consternation underlies our interactions.
the confrontation rests with another, who doesn't seem to know how to relate in any other way. every interaction gives me a migraine.
I'm getting out of here on Thursday to take my car to Albany for a tune-up. also taking my computer to my techie guy to figure out what's going on there. going to visit with friends, join them for dinner, stay overnight.
just think, two whole days without consternation and confrontation.
nirvana.
i've been blogging less because I don't know what to write about. every day is a repeat of the last - maybe with a few tweaks of the agenda. I get nothing done that I would enjoy doing. we are finishing up some accomodating construction. when that's done, I'm hoping I will have more time, more focus. i can dream, cant I.
Meanwhile, Happy Birthday, b!X.
And rest in glorious peace and the glory of history, Rosa Parks
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the rapture of raptors
Having just finished Mary Alice Monroe's Skylark, which is set at a clinic that rehabilitates injured raptors, I was reminded of this:
Predator
She sleeps where soft sea sounds
nestle in the branches of feathery pines.
Daylight takes her wherever her whims fly,
but night calls her home.
Osprey sleeps alone above the shore’s great stones,
far from the place of her own birth nest,
near the crooning song of Mother Sea,
near the place long abandoned by her own nestlings.
She waits in a separate space between
land and water, between darkness and time.
Sometimes she dreams of another –-
of plummeting together from a quiet place in the sky
to slash in unison through the glittering ocean cover
toward the quick silver flashes that beckon
just under the surface -- of pairs of eager talons
clutching at flesh, slippery, sweet, and alive.
Osprey wakes with the first light, watches
the curtain of clouds part to reveal morning’s intention.
She lifts her head to the sky, and stretches her wings
to catch the subtle singing in the air.
She stands and steps, thoughtlessly
chipping new pits into old stones,
poises toward the sun, embraces
the wind, and flies.
As she turns her back to the sun;
her night-tightened feathers open smoothly
to its honest heat. Below her massive wings,
the sea wind rises clear and reassuring,
and she lets it carry her higher and higher
into the sacred peace of morning sky.
It is here that she can hear her own voice,
coarse and heroic, calling…calling..
But a quickening hunger finds its way,
awakening bone and tendon. With a last bold cry
she slides down the edge of morning toward
the tempting surface of the sea.
She circles with eye toward a sudden glassy patch
and in an instant, glimpses a shape like her own –
a certain bend of wing, stretch of claw, glint of eye --
a shadow. Or a dream.
Suddenly, she falls, wings suspended,
claws arched and ready, eyes
gripping the spot where her talons will
cut, quick and elemental.
And it is here that she feels her call’s answer –
in the salt of sea, of blood -- the fill of flesh, of heart.
Her feathers dance in flames of air and water;
Her claws froth with the struggle of power and will.
The shadow dissolves.
A strangled cry.
© Elaine Frankonis 1989
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remembering
Photo With Red Raincoat
You stopped me, solitary,
half-way across the rain-slick bridge
-- a moving figure locked into perspective
at the clear convergence of edges.
My red raincoat ripped a flowing wound
into the starkness of that day,
forced fire from the dulled planks
into the simple symmetry
of the steep reach between us.
I waited for you on that bridge,
waited for you to focus
on my place in the picture,
on my burning presence,
the unavoidable point of it all.
Now, I see with your eye
those peculiarities of misty space,
the risky walk over water
deceiving in directness,
the call toward an unfamiliar landscape,
the disturbance of that sharp
red breach in the bridge.
© Elaine Frankonis, 1991
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you never know what they're going to remember
On occasion, I wonder what my grown-up offspring remember about their childhoods. Do they remember the good things or the bad things.
My daughter says that she doesn't remember the time when I, pregnant with b!X and subtitute teaching, rode home on the school bus with her (we only had one car then). I was tired and my patience was exhausted. As the two of us treked up the long steep driveway to our house (she was then about 6 years old, whining about whatever tired and hungry 6 year-olds whine about) I turned to her and smacked her across the face, my ring leaving a small cut on her cheek. I still feel guilty about that. She says doesn't really remember the incident.
Over at Jack Bogdanski's blog, where he writes about his memories of the Polish food from his childhood, my son leaves a couple of comments, remembering -- of all things -- the old Corningware Cornflower pots we used to have when he was a kid and the "golabki" (as he remembers, pronounced "gwumpki") his grandmother used to make when we visited. I remember that he really hated having to go to his grandmother's, and well understood his reasons. So, I'm surprised that he remembers her "gwumpki" with some fondness.
I wonder what my grandson will remember about me. Probably that every time I visit, I bring him a present. Or maybe that I have some teeth that I take out at night. You never know what they're going to remember.
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Skeleton 227
They found her buried in the Steppes of Russia, a tall woman, leg bones bowed, probably from spending a lot a time on a horse. She was buried with her earrings and other gold adornments. And a mass of arrowheads. A Warrior Princess who lived 2500 years ago.
They had found other skeletons too, in other places. Tall women, with bowed legs, some positioned in the historically ancient pose of the warrior -- one leg bent at the knee. Buried with arrowheads and swords. The DNA from one of these skeletons has been found in a young teenager currently living in a nomadic tribe in Mongolia.
The most famous Amazon warrior Penthesilia, Herodotus wrote, died at the hands of the greatest warrior of Greece, Achilles. Many think that the Amazons were a myth, but evidence is showing that such women probably did exist in various parts of Europe and Asia.
Archeologists are finding that there were others of these strong warrior women who, for generations, taught themselves and their daughters to hold their own in a world controlled by male aggression.
These women were as ruthless as the multitudes of men they fought and killed or enslaved.
There is something empowering to know that we can be as ruthless as the most ruthless men. There is something even more empowering to believe that we have the moral courage to choose not to.
I watch the new television series Commander-in-Chief and an reminded that there are many ways to be a strong leader -- some more ruthless than others.
Bush is a failure as a leader. (Type in "failure" in a Google search and then click on "I'm Feeling Lucky." Heh.)
A woman wouldn't necessarily be a better leader. After all, there was the woman who is now Skeleton 227.
But there have to be individuals who could lead this nation with true commitment to all of its people, to the spirit of its Constitution, and to its responsibility to demonstrate how to make decisions based on ethics as well as necessity. I hope they're watching Commander-in-Chief for some tips.
Categories:
tired and uninspired
I'm tired of the rain. I'm tired of struggling to figure out how to organize my stuff in this space. I'm tired of the sameness of the days; the rain that keeps me from getting outside and beginning to clear some land so that I can make a pleasant space to sit outside next summer.
The hummingbirds and other birds have left half-full feeders behind. Chipmunks scurry around with cheeks full of their winter supplies. No one has heard anything of the bear in a while.
..........
you find yourself spending more and more time sitting with her watching american movie classics. you begin knitting an afghan for your daughter for christmas. you've never learned to just sit and watch television. you have to be doing something constructive at the same time. even though she gets disoriented and sometimes forgets where she is, she seems to know that she is in a safe place. except for the time in her teens when she had to quit school and go to work in a carpet factory, all she's ever done is cook, clean, and try to control her kids. she's forgotten how to cook; her cleaning results in objects being misplaced and assumed, by her, to be stolen. but she can't stop being a mother, even though you don't need her kind of mothering any more. you and your brother work each day to make physical accommodations to the living spaces. your work styles are so different that working with him is stressful for you. gives you a headache. sends you both into shouting matches that neither can win. the work will be done soon. it had better be.
.................
I have this urge to hibernate. Sleep all day.
I have this urge to stay up all night. Dance.
Once a week or so, I drive out the the pizza place and get pizza for dinner for all three of us. The guy who spins the pizza dough has begun to recognize me and waves as he spins. He looks a little like Cheech Marin -- you know, from Cheech and Chong. He looks Hispanic. After I picked up pizzas the other day, I wondered about asking him if he knows anything about the Latin dances on Friday night at the dance club up the road. I want to ask "Do you do the Salsa? Meringue? Do you ever go up to the Friday dances?" Of course, I won't. I've lost my edge.
Or maybe what I am is stranded on some other edge. Tired and uninspired.
Categories:
And then some things never change...
...like little boys having best friends. This could be the 1930s or the 2030s. And it could be now, which it is. My grandson (on the right) and his best friend.
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BIG CHANGES COMING
Watch for major visual changes in this weblog. It's being reconstructed by b!X, and it will take a while to get some things in order.
Good things come to those who wait and check in here again.
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neither rain, nor....
Despite the torrential rain and the 38 mile drive along unfamiliar roads to a really tacky mall where long lines of grandmas and their grandkids waited to get in to see a really tacky kid's movie, I did get in to see Serenity -- about which I will write more at some point.
Categories:
the kindness of strangers
I think it's easier to be kind to people you don't know than people to whom you're related. Probably because strangers would be more apt to appreciate and not continually expect...expect...expect
What I mean to say, specifically, is that I probably would not have such frequent moments of annoyance if I were taking care of someone I didn't know rather than my mother.
A cousin of mine, who -- with help from his wife -- took care of his mother until she died just short of her 100th birthday, reminded me that our mothers and grandmothers come from the "old country" expectation that children "owe" their parents their lives and so they have to take care of them in their old age.
I think it's the EXPECTATION that bothers me more than anything.
A friend of mine from college, who, in these her retired years was volunteering at a senior center to help drive the elderly to doctor's appointments, etc, told me of her disturbing experience being kind to one stranger. My friend began driving the same old woman to various doctors' appointments over a short period of time. The old woman, rather than being gracious and grateful, began expecting that my friend would do her grocery shopping, run errands, etc. And she got angry when my friend explained that she couldn't give up that much of her time and energy, and the agreement was that she would simply be available to drive.
Sometimes being kind to strangers only leads to ungraciously great expectations. Being kind to family sometimes gets you the same thing.
Of course, there's all of the kindness from strangers to strangers during the recent hurricanes.
Speaking of Katrina, I call your attention to an address given by Representative Cynthia McKinney (D-GA) last month on the House floor, in which she discussed "Katrina, the State of Black America, the State of Hispanic America, poverty in America, and the Katrina timelines being developed that will keep us from falling victim to the White House spin."
The point I really want to make is that she used the word "impeachment" on the House floor but, she said, it was not reflected in the official transcript of her September 8 description of "high crimes and misdemeanors visited on the American people." In a speech entitled Tremendous Challenges that Face our Country, (see link above) McKinney recounted the incompetence of the Bush Administration in addressing the needs of hurricane Katrina victims and the policies of Republican elites responsible for rampant poverty and an increased racial divide. Questioning everything from the lack of action on Katrina to rewarding the rich, the congresswoman later promised to use the word repeatedly on the House Floor until she sees it reflected in the Congressional Record.
Go McKinney!!
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