the last post-it

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My late once-husband often sent me books that he thought I would like, after he read them. He always had an uncanny knack for selecting both books and music that I liked as much as he did.
As I continue to clean out my “stuff,” I moved a pile of books yesterday and found one I had forgotten about. And so I started reading it last night.
He was right, again. From the Amazon review:

Mixing magic and modernity, the acclaimed Orson Scott Card (Ender’s Game) has woven threads of history, religion, and myth together into a convincing, time-hopping tale that is part love story, part adventure. Enchantment’s heroes, “Prince” Ivan and Princess Katerina, must deal with cross-cultural mores, ancient gods, treacherous kinsmen (and fianceés), and ultimately Baba Yaga herself.

Thanks, again, Bill.

Myrln Monday: Legacy

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Myrln is gone, but his spirit remains with us in the power of his words, thanks to our daughter, who salvaged his collection of writings.

Legacy

My children:

I want to leave you something –
but what?
My images are either silver compound
or airy theater –
both without example or duration:
mere light reflecting a moment of existence.
I was, my children,
but how to prove that to you?
What will serve as evidence –
for what is legacy but proof
your forebears were something more
than momentary makers of egg or sperm?

There is only this:
I came from shadows,
and toward shadows I inexorably moved;
I dove (or sank) deeply into shadows,
skirted the light flanking them, reflected awhile
then wrapped myself in them.

(Wrapt myself in them.)

waf 1977

nostalgia runs rampant

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I’m caught up in a wash of nostalgia these days, with friends I haven’t been in contact for a long while emailing photos with messages saying “Were we ever that young?”
And so this poem, one of Jim Culleny‘s dailies, reminds me of just how young I once was and how much has happened since.

In Memory of Radio
Amiri Baraka
Who has ever stopped to think of the divinity of Lamont Cranston?
(Only jack Kerouac, that I know of: & me.
The rest of you probably had on WCBS and Kate Smith,
Or something equally unattractive.)
What can I say?
It is better to have loved and lost
Than to put linoleum in your living rooms?
Am I a sage or something?
Mandrake’s hypnotic gesture of the week?
(Remember, I do not have the healing powers of Oral Roberts…
I cannot, like F. J. Sheen, tell you how to get saved & rich!
I cannot even order you to the gaschamber satori like Hitler or Goddy Knight)
& love is an evil word.
Turn it backwards/see, see what I mean?
An evol word. & besides
who understands it?
I certainly wouldn’t like to go out on that kind of limb.
Saturday mornings we listened to the Red Lantern & his undersea folk.
At 11, Let’s Pretend
& we did
& I, the poet, still do. Thank God!
What was it he used to say (after the transformation when he was safe
& invisible & the unbelievers couldn’t throw stones?) “Heh, heh, heh.
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows.”
O, yes he does
O, yes he does
An evil word it is,
This Love.

should I or shouldn’t I

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That’s the dilemma of every blogger who is considering whether it’s appropriate to post a certain entry.
b!X deliberated and then made the decision to post. And I could have left it at that.
But I see his Deathbed post and photo link as a tribute, a reminder — in a sense, a virtual wake, a moment to say a final goodbye — and, for those of us who were not there to actually witness, closure.
You can read his post and decide for yourself. This entry is my decision.
And, just as an added note that reflects how attuned our little family is to the magical occurrences in life that Myrln loved to recognize, Myrln died just about at 5 p.m. When we survivors were at his apartment last weekend sorting through his stuff, our daughter noticed that the clock on his wall, which was keeping accurate time the last time we were there, had stopped at 5 o’clock.

roses

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I woke to the smell of roses today, but there are no roses anywhere around here. I smelled them in the garage, too, when I went to take out the garbage.
My father loved roses. His wake was full of them.
My mother barely woke up this morning. Her mouth hung slack, her words slurred. She took a few bites of french toast, a few sips of her fake coffee, and now she’s back in bed. I wonder if she’s smelling roses.

garden legacies

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Yesterday’s Myrln posthumous post was a poem with a “life as a garden” metaphor. Reading it made me think about how many of the legacies he left are what continue to grow from the seeds of his thoughts, his words.
While the “garden” has always been a life metaphor for me as well, I tend to use it in a different way. And that fact is also a perfect metaphor for how we related as spouses: we started in the same place, with the same need, but we went out from there in very different directions.
Here’s my garden poem, written in 2002 and posted here (with photo) in 2003.
The Gravity of Gardens
They gave me a garden
the size of a grave,
so I filled it with raucous
reminders of sense:
marigold nests,
nasturtium fountains,
explosions of parsley, and
layers of lavender —
forests of tomato plants
asserting lush ascendance
over scent-full beds of
rosemary, basil, and sage.
And waving madly above them all,
stalks of perplexing
Jerusalem artichoke,
an unkillable weed
that blossoms and burrows
and grows up to nine feet tall,
defying the grim arrogance
of gravity.
elf
may 02
My literal gardens are transient. When I move away, they decay away and are forgotten. Such is the nature of many of my legacies.
Once in a while, though, I need to believe in something permanent — hence, the two lilac trees I planted back from the edge of the woods around this house, where my brother most likely will not mow or snow blow them down when I move away from here. Someday, new owners will look out the window at the acres of rotting windfall and scraggly brush and old shaggy trees and see two blooming lilac bushes — a sepia landscape touched with unexpected color.

Myrln Monday (4)

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Myrln is gone, but his spirit remains with us in the power of his words, thanks to our daughter, who salvaged his collection of writings.
Myrln’s birthdate is this Thursday. He would have been 71.

Poem for My Birthday
Through years
— with seeds my own, some received before, some given later —
I planted myself:
a feeling there, a thought,
a sense of what might be, was, seemed to be,
a tear, a laugh, angry shouts and happy,
whispers, a reaching, holding, letting go, loving,
isolationliness,
some hiding, fear, joy, longing,
scatterings
of pain, risk, uncertainy, determination,
bit by bit
seeding through the years.

And making my garden of word and heart:
some parts stillgrown,
others modest,
and a few full flourished,
all being the what why where
whole of me.

waf
may ’03

a mother’s day tribute to my kids (reprised)

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I wrote this two years ago. It’s worth repeating.
Some women take to mothering naturally. I had to work at it. And so I wasn’t the best mother in the world. I would have worked outside the home whether I had been a single mom or not. But because I was, mine were latchkey kids, with my daughter, beginning at age 12, taking care of her younger brother, age 5, after school. I left them some evenings to go out on dates. Oh, I did cook them healthy meals, and even cookies sometimes. I made their Halloween costumes and went to all parent events at their schools. My daughter took ballet lessons, belonged to 4H (but I got kicked out as Assistant Leader because I wouldn’t salute the flag during the Vietnam War) . I made my son a Dr. Who scarf and took him to Dr. Who fan events. I bought him lots of comic books and taught him how to throw a ball. But most of all, I think/hope I did for them what my mother was never able to do for me, — give them the freedom to become who they wanted to be — to explore, make mistakes, and search for their bliss. I think/hope that I always let them know that, as far as I was concerned, they were OK just the way they were/are. (Me and that dear now dead Mr. Rogers.) Not having had that affirmation from my mother still affects my relationship with her. I hope that my doing that right for them neutralizes all the wrong things I did as they were growing up.
So, you two (now adult) kids, here’s to you both. You keep me young, you keep me informed, you keep me honest, and, in many ways, you keep me vital. I’m so glad that I’m your mother.
So, in memory of those not-always-good ol’ days that you two managed to survive with flying colors, here you are, playing “air guitar and drums” — enjoying each other’s company sometime in the 70s and bringing so much joy into my life.
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new bird on the block

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All of the creatures, medium and small, are back to feed in the little space in which our bird feeders hang. It’s the same place where the deer and the bear made their hunger-driven appearances over the winter. Now the space is teeming with the usual chipmunks and squirrels; gold and other finches, including an indigo bunting; the usual flocks of mourning doves and cow birds and house wrens; and the four different kinds of woodpeckers that we’ve been able to identify.
Today, a new movement beyond the window caught my eye. It was a huge wild turkey hen brazenly invading the territory of the usual suspects. And, with might making right, she pretty much grazed wherever she pleased, temporarily displacing the smaller creatures.
If she comes back, it must mean she has her nest nearby. Wild turkeys build their nests on the ground in wooded areas. Perhaps she will return with her brood.
At this rate, I’m going to have to increase my bird food budget. All birds, great and small, are welcome here.