I spent last Saturday afternoon back at Eanlai's for prompted writing using the Amherst Writers and Artists method. The first prompt was to write about something that happened behind a wall.
What I really want to say is that sometimes I feel like I'm behind a wall from everybody and everything else already. I feel distant and other and unworthy, and like I'm observing people who are speaking an unknown language. There must be meaning to what they're saying, but I don't get it.
That said, sometimes I do have some empathy, and can sense how other folk are feeling, and I wish them well and want to help them or let them know that I share their feelings.
Things that happen behind a wall from others are meant to be private, not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but something meant only for the participants -- drawing so much meaning from their relationship that even in the absence of the literal wall, a metaphorical wall keeps the observer from appreciating how much of the interaction already happened. How much of the hidden iceberg consists of past adventures and arguments, pet names and in jokes, unexpressed judgments or compliments about each other's actions, attire, or attitude. Together, a couple or family, or pair of friends create a separate life, that arises from and between them, a life that is mysterious and hidden.
In a more literal frame of mind, I watch a lot of TV shows about factories that make various items, including food. And I am endlessly fascinated by the machinery, the ingredients, how the parts of the process fit together and produce the final result. Often the workers have to open a cover or slow down the mechanism to reveal the process.
In these shows, they take us behind the walls and inside the machines. And I start to wonder why I would want to eat anything that was made in a factory.
____________
The next prompt was to write a story where the weather plays a role. Ever the over-achiever, I wrote two:
Somebody left the outside door open at the end of the hall where my bedroom was. I wanted to close it, but feared I would lock someone outside, in the cold.
But I was astoundingly cold that night. Changing into pajamas for sleep was as unthinkable as wearing a bikini in a blizzard. I wore two pair of socks, two pair of pants, five layers of T-shirts, shirts, overshirts, and coat, and still shivered.
Now this was Northern California; the temperature could not have been below freezing, but I was chilled to the bone, through the bone, into some bony dimension of being hitherto unexplored.
The night was endless. I curled up on one side, and the other side chilled. I turned over and the chill shifted accordingly. The very air burned inside my nose unless it had been warmed by passing through the blanket. But then it seemed to lack oxygen, so I cycled between the burning air and the burned out air.
Then post-nasal slime choked its way down the back of my throat, and I began to suspect that the chill was not so much in the room as in myself. And when I finally reached daylight, my lack of a voice confirmed that I was sick, not just cold.
___
The still warmth of that day in '89 has always struck me since as earthquake weather.
After the BART train shuddered to a halt at Embarcadero Station, we mystified travelers made our way through the partly lit station and stationary escalators up to the slightly crumpled sidewalk. The air was a pleasantly warm temperature, but the unavailability of public transportation had me walking uphill towards my home, and I gradually overheated, removing layers of clothing and tying them around my waist.
The power was out most places, but I found one store still doing business, with an ancient manual cash register, and bought a bottle of water and a snack.
Time passed, the sky grew dark (except for the glow of fire over the Marina), and I finally spotted a light at the home of a friend, who gave me a ride the rest of the way back to my own home.
_______________
The next prompt was a poem by Noel Coward claiming that all the notes we ever heard and all the phrases those we loved have spoken to us lie deep in our minds waiting to be recalled:
All the notes I ever heard linger in my mind much more clearly than words spoken by loved ones, tho' I do remember some of them as well. Or do I remember remembering them?
My memories pale and shift with the recalling. I remember trying to remember a particularly sweet moment with a dear friend, and the sweetness ebbed every time I remembered it - like the fading clarity of a xerox of a xerox of a xerox. The juice gets pressed out and worn down with each visit.
But how does that compare with how well a memory retains its sweetness while unopened? If years pass before the event comes to mind, is there going to be any juice left at all? Or will I even be able to remember the event? Or even to believe that such events once happened to me?
If the risk in leaving the book of memories closed is total erasure, then I really should savor any sweet memory while it lasts, and write it down in as much detail as possible, both to cement it more firmly in my present recollection, and to have enough of a prompt in the writing to perhaps ignite the embers of the memory's lingering warmth.
I think I almost deliberately wiped my memory of people, places, and events when I was plucked out of Harrisburg at the age of 11 and dropped in Berkeley to live with a different relative, and again when he died four years later and I was moved to Southern California. My emotional survival in each new situation seemed to require letting go of what came before, to minimize the pain of looking backward, and to motivate me to become rooted in my new home.
But I've lived in the same city for 40 years now, and there is no value to me in washing away my past. So, can I hope that Mr. Coward is correct, and that all of those memories lie hidden somewhere in the subbasement of my consciousness? Maybe with practice I can get more of them to come swimming up, perhaps in response to writing prompts, bits of what I read or see on a screen, or my dreams.
Music seems to linger more securely in my mind than words. I've always been a singer, and music that I've learned and performed sticks pretty well in my mind. And I studied music in college, so a lot of orchestral music came into my consciousness then and lingers there, helped by the LPs I bought so I could enjoy them again. I seldom play those LPs, though, in part because I seem to lack the patience to just sit there and listen, but if I read or do other things, the music goes by unheard. It's a puzzlement, and a growth opportunity.
_______
And, finally, we wrote four minutes to the prompt "What I meant to tell you." This piece should be read after rereading the one about the last time I talked to my mother, from the previous post.
What I meant to tell you is that I now realize you intended that core dump of wisdom as a gift, since you had nothing else of value to leave me. You intended me to profit from your mistakes and experience, and to avoid some of the pain you felt. I meant to tell you that I realize you did the best for us that you could, that your own upbringing did not equip you to raise healthy children, so you passed us on to relatives that you believed would do a better job than you could.
I meant to tell you that I enjoyed Santa Monica summers and Christmases at Disneyland. That I realize how you must have scrimped and saved all year to pay for those trips and provide us with the season's best toys. I meant to tell you that I forgive you for your failings and thank you for what you were able to give us.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Writing at Kathy's
We're trying a writing method that involves listening to Baroque music in the presence of a lit candle, and writing on unlined paper, without prompts. So here's what came out:
Writing to Baroque music may produce the Mozart effect in people who don't have music degrees. But I know that this piece is from the classical period and is Albinoni's Adagio. I seem to recall it being used in the soundtrack of the movie The Elephant Man, at the end, when he decided to kill himself by sleeping lying down. So the piece is inexpressibly sad to me, although also quite beautiful, and of the sort of music I would really enjoy playing on recorders with some friends.
Which leads me to wonder why I've pretty much dropped out of recorder playing since I retired. I stopped going to the week-long workshops in Oakland and Carmel Valley, and to the monthly chapter meetings in San Francisco. I have trouble with stairs and roommates that may account for some of my unwillingness to go out of town, and needing to find a ride or a parking spot late at night is a disincentive concerning the chapter meetings. But that doesn't seem to be enough reason to quit.
Maybe I'm just not enjoying playing as much as I did before. I don't work at it enough to get any better at playing fast notes or long phrases. I don't know. Maybe something about taking early retirement makes me feel more apart from the gang than I usually do? I do know that getting chastised by a teacher for trying to help another player in her class really hurt my feelings. Maybe I feel bad when others seem to expect me to play better than I actually do?
P.S., this piano piece is not Baroque, I think. Maybe it's by Chopin or Liszt.
I really prefer writing to a prompt. Lacking one makes me think of my mother's saying: "When I'm alone, I'm in bad company." I tend to wind up thinking about things I don't understand or don't like about myself, and feel powerless and unwilling to change.
For example, I probably would get more accomplished if I spent less time checking email, playing Sudoku, etc. But I know how unhappy and conflicted I get when trying to give up an unedifying habit. And how could I limit the time I spend doing anything in particular without keeping track of my time, which is really repellent?
Maybe consciously substituting something equally gratifying (if I can figure out what that might be) for that activity maybe half the time would be doable.
Maybe I should get back into some carefully crafted affirmations, like: "I'm awake, alert, alive, enthusiastic." Something not so far removed from reality as to be a joke, but with a decent amount of aspiration. Maybe including my old standby: "I love myself unconditionally." or a more moderate: "I regard myself with humor and compassion."
The third musical selection was baroque, and the fourth as well.
What do I get from the candle flame? It reminds me of Shabbat candles, also of the candle I lit at bedtime for company in the depths of depression. It made me feel less alone, and almost relaxed enough to fall asleep.
One of my favorite aspects of music is how crunchy harmonies resolve. The contraction and release of tension in the music is very fulfilling and relaxing.
Another growth opportunity I have is the many records and tapes I don't listen to. The closest I get to music is turning on the classical radio station when I'm driving in the car or paying bills in the kitchen. Which provides some nourishment, but leaves me feeling like I'm hiding from the memories and feelings attached to the music I chose to acquire: classical, Broadway shows, women's music, the records we cut at Cazadero Music Camp.
____________
Then we wrote to a prompt about someone I once knew well but haven't seen for several years, beginning as follows:
The last time I talked to my mother may have been the time she phoned me and, with no fanfare or time to get a notebook, stated every piece of wisdom that she had acquired in her sixty-something years of life and twenty-something years in A.A.
At the time, I wondered what had prompted her to lay it all on me, and was a bit irritated that she had intruded on what I was doing at the time (whatever it might have been) and proceeded to talk my ear off for much longer than I was interested in listening. I basically kept making little noises to falsely suggest that I was listening, and waited for her to finish.
Now, of course, I wish I had paid closer attention, taken notes, and responded somehow to her attempted gift. But I didn't, and, probably not too long thereafter, I got a call from her neighbor informing me of her death.
I suspect that her angina was getting worse, and she began to feel mortal. I deeply regret not having paid more attention at the time.
On the other hand, I still remember maybe a dozen sayings and pearls of wisdom that she had repeatedly shared with me and my brother, so I've received some of her wisdom. And I don't know how helpful would have been ideas that she divulged only under fear of approaching death, without other context.
___________
Our final prompt was, would I like to write a book, about what?
I've always wanted, maybe not so much to write a book as to have written a book. Seeing my name and words in print is intensely gratifying to me.
With a career in legal writing under my belt, many words of mine about various legal subjects exist in print. Several of my prayers appear in the synagogue prayerbook, and a few of my poems have been published in a pamphlet.
But what would I fill a book with? Musings about my mental blocks, economic justice, and spirituality? Memoirish little bits about this and that, in no particular order?
There should be some way to piece together some of my hard-won wisdom and quirky foibles into a form that one or two folks might find of interest.
Unless Blogger is lying to me, the blog where I post my scraps of thought has fans as far away as France. And if I self-publish, nobody has to be sold on the value of my stuff but me. And convincing me of that value would be half of the barrier to publishing my words. And I expect the other half of the barrier would be to stop editing them and let them go.
And if I publish an e-book, no trees will be felled in the dissemination of my thoughts, which are worthy at least to rearrange some electrons on sand.
Writing to Baroque music may produce the Mozart effect in people who don't have music degrees. But I know that this piece is from the classical period and is Albinoni's Adagio. I seem to recall it being used in the soundtrack of the movie The Elephant Man, at the end, when he decided to kill himself by sleeping lying down. So the piece is inexpressibly sad to me, although also quite beautiful, and of the sort of music I would really enjoy playing on recorders with some friends.
Which leads me to wonder why I've pretty much dropped out of recorder playing since I retired. I stopped going to the week-long workshops in Oakland and Carmel Valley, and to the monthly chapter meetings in San Francisco. I have trouble with stairs and roommates that may account for some of my unwillingness to go out of town, and needing to find a ride or a parking spot late at night is a disincentive concerning the chapter meetings. But that doesn't seem to be enough reason to quit.
Maybe I'm just not enjoying playing as much as I did before. I don't work at it enough to get any better at playing fast notes or long phrases. I don't know. Maybe something about taking early retirement makes me feel more apart from the gang than I usually do? I do know that getting chastised by a teacher for trying to help another player in her class really hurt my feelings. Maybe I feel bad when others seem to expect me to play better than I actually do?
P.S., this piano piece is not Baroque, I think. Maybe it's by Chopin or Liszt.
I really prefer writing to a prompt. Lacking one makes me think of my mother's saying: "When I'm alone, I'm in bad company." I tend to wind up thinking about things I don't understand or don't like about myself, and feel powerless and unwilling to change.
For example, I probably would get more accomplished if I spent less time checking email, playing Sudoku, etc. But I know how unhappy and conflicted I get when trying to give up an unedifying habit. And how could I limit the time I spend doing anything in particular without keeping track of my time, which is really repellent?
Maybe consciously substituting something equally gratifying (if I can figure out what that might be) for that activity maybe half the time would be doable.
Maybe I should get back into some carefully crafted affirmations, like: "I'm awake, alert, alive, enthusiastic." Something not so far removed from reality as to be a joke, but with a decent amount of aspiration. Maybe including my old standby: "I love myself unconditionally." or a more moderate: "I regard myself with humor and compassion."
The third musical selection was baroque, and the fourth as well.
What do I get from the candle flame? It reminds me of Shabbat candles, also of the candle I lit at bedtime for company in the depths of depression. It made me feel less alone, and almost relaxed enough to fall asleep.
One of my favorite aspects of music is how crunchy harmonies resolve. The contraction and release of tension in the music is very fulfilling and relaxing.
Another growth opportunity I have is the many records and tapes I don't listen to. The closest I get to music is turning on the classical radio station when I'm driving in the car or paying bills in the kitchen. Which provides some nourishment, but leaves me feeling like I'm hiding from the memories and feelings attached to the music I chose to acquire: classical, Broadway shows, women's music, the records we cut at Cazadero Music Camp.
____________
Then we wrote to a prompt about someone I once knew well but haven't seen for several years, beginning as follows:
The last time I talked to my mother may have been the time she phoned me and, with no fanfare or time to get a notebook, stated every piece of wisdom that she had acquired in her sixty-something years of life and twenty-something years in A.A.
At the time, I wondered what had prompted her to lay it all on me, and was a bit irritated that she had intruded on what I was doing at the time (whatever it might have been) and proceeded to talk my ear off for much longer than I was interested in listening. I basically kept making little noises to falsely suggest that I was listening, and waited for her to finish.
Now, of course, I wish I had paid closer attention, taken notes, and responded somehow to her attempted gift. But I didn't, and, probably not too long thereafter, I got a call from her neighbor informing me of her death.
I suspect that her angina was getting worse, and she began to feel mortal. I deeply regret not having paid more attention at the time.
On the other hand, I still remember maybe a dozen sayings and pearls of wisdom that she had repeatedly shared with me and my brother, so I've received some of her wisdom. And I don't know how helpful would have been ideas that she divulged only under fear of approaching death, without other context.
___________
Our final prompt was, would I like to write a book, about what?
I've always wanted, maybe not so much to write a book as to have written a book. Seeing my name and words in print is intensely gratifying to me.
With a career in legal writing under my belt, many words of mine about various legal subjects exist in print. Several of my prayers appear in the synagogue prayerbook, and a few of my poems have been published in a pamphlet.
But what would I fill a book with? Musings about my mental blocks, economic justice, and spirituality? Memoirish little bits about this and that, in no particular order?
There should be some way to piece together some of my hard-won wisdom and quirky foibles into a form that one or two folks might find of interest.
Unless Blogger is lying to me, the blog where I post my scraps of thought has fans as far away as France. And if I self-publish, nobody has to be sold on the value of my stuff but me. And convincing me of that value would be half of the barrier to publishing my words. And I expect the other half of the barrier would be to stop editing them and let them go.
And if I publish an e-book, no trees will be felled in the dissemination of my thoughts, which are worthy at least to rearrange some electrons on sand.
Today's Harvest
Two pieces written without prompt, waiting at a table with one or two others for the teacher to arrive:
It wasn't supposed to rain today, and I dressed accordingly. But it rained while I was stuffing envelopes at the SPCA this afternoon. My first clue was that the patio was wet when I left the building. Then the water drops on my car and the dry area underneath it confirmed the diagnosis.
It's odd that I didn't notice the rain while inside the building, since there were windows near where we sat, and the room was fairly quiet. But none of us heard the rain - or at least commented on it aloud.
It sure snuck up on me. And then the rain came again, only for a minute or two, as I parked the car at home. But then it very kindly stopped so I could stay dry on my way into the house. Most obliging of it.
___________
The clock ticks steadily. It sounds like a tin soldier marching. Melodies form in my mind to keep time with it. My teeth try to tap in time with it. I think of meditation and the passage of time. Raindrops and tick-tocks blend together in my mind, and I wonder if there's a leak in the building. Chinese water torture comes to mind, but so far the sound is inoffensive.
I'm sitting here with Beth, and, although neither of us was able to write at home, here we are putting pen to paper - in the absence of our teacher - because this is the time and place for our writing class, and because two of us together have many times the creative energy of one.
______________________
Then we came up with our own prompt about the relationship between sleeping with women and being a lesbian:
Being a lesbian does not require an active love life. Being with a man is never going to be a possibility for me, no matter how long I go without a woman in my life. Being a lesbian is who I am, not what I'm doing.
Not only is it the fact that women turn me on and men don't, but it's also that I've turned my back on the whole female mystique - dresses and make-up and high heels, and seeking to please the male gaze and to generally be subordinate and dependent.
Now I know that there is such a thing as a straight feminist, so the terms lesbian and feminist, although they overlap considerably, are not synonymous. But for me, a lot of my feminism preceded becoming aware of my lesbianism, which then made a lot of sense once I knew. And for me, feminism implies having no need for men, even for sex. On the other hand, men come in handy when I have something heavy to move.
So, anyway, my current lack of a sexual partner does not undermine my lesbian identity at all.
____________
Then the teacher arrived, and gave us the prompt to write something dangerous.
What would be very dangerous would be to reverse the tilt in the playing field that causes money to flow towards the wealthy few and away from everyone else. We need to change the tax law so that investment income is taxed at twice the rate of wages. We need to shrink the amount that is exempt from estate tax and level at least a 50% tax on the first tier of estates, and higher rates as they get bigger.
And we need to put those tax revenues back into the social safety net: universal healthcare, social security, highways and bridges, day care, free public education through grad school, all the stuff that made this country great.
Even the oligarchs are starting to realize that they can't make money from selling products if no one else has money to spend on them. Honestly, folks, student loans that can't be discharged in bankruptcy? It's a formula to create a permanent underclass. Everybody who works full time deserves a living wage. Everybody.
Walmart would still be profitable if it paid a living wage to full-time employees. The family should be ashamed of having employees who qualify for food stamps. Are they some kind of royalty, to be lording over serfs by divine right? Something is very wrong with America.
It wasn't supposed to rain today, and I dressed accordingly. But it rained while I was stuffing envelopes at the SPCA this afternoon. My first clue was that the patio was wet when I left the building. Then the water drops on my car and the dry area underneath it confirmed the diagnosis.
It's odd that I didn't notice the rain while inside the building, since there were windows near where we sat, and the room was fairly quiet. But none of us heard the rain - or at least commented on it aloud.
It sure snuck up on me. And then the rain came again, only for a minute or two, as I parked the car at home. But then it very kindly stopped so I could stay dry on my way into the house. Most obliging of it.
___________
The clock ticks steadily. It sounds like a tin soldier marching. Melodies form in my mind to keep time with it. My teeth try to tap in time with it. I think of meditation and the passage of time. Raindrops and tick-tocks blend together in my mind, and I wonder if there's a leak in the building. Chinese water torture comes to mind, but so far the sound is inoffensive.
I'm sitting here with Beth, and, although neither of us was able to write at home, here we are putting pen to paper - in the absence of our teacher - because this is the time and place for our writing class, and because two of us together have many times the creative energy of one.
______________________
Then we came up with our own prompt about the relationship between sleeping with women and being a lesbian:
Being a lesbian does not require an active love life. Being with a man is never going to be a possibility for me, no matter how long I go without a woman in my life. Being a lesbian is who I am, not what I'm doing.
Not only is it the fact that women turn me on and men don't, but it's also that I've turned my back on the whole female mystique - dresses and make-up and high heels, and seeking to please the male gaze and to generally be subordinate and dependent.
Now I know that there is such a thing as a straight feminist, so the terms lesbian and feminist, although they overlap considerably, are not synonymous. But for me, a lot of my feminism preceded becoming aware of my lesbianism, which then made a lot of sense once I knew. And for me, feminism implies having no need for men, even for sex. On the other hand, men come in handy when I have something heavy to move.
So, anyway, my current lack of a sexual partner does not undermine my lesbian identity at all.
____________
Then the teacher arrived, and gave us the prompt to write something dangerous.
What would be very dangerous would be to reverse the tilt in the playing field that causes money to flow towards the wealthy few and away from everyone else. We need to change the tax law so that investment income is taxed at twice the rate of wages. We need to shrink the amount that is exempt from estate tax and level at least a 50% tax on the first tier of estates, and higher rates as they get bigger.
And we need to put those tax revenues back into the social safety net: universal healthcare, social security, highways and bridges, day care, free public education through grad school, all the stuff that made this country great.
Even the oligarchs are starting to realize that they can't make money from selling products if no one else has money to spend on them. Honestly, folks, student loans that can't be discharged in bankruptcy? It's a formula to create a permanent underclass. Everybody who works full time deserves a living wage. Everybody.
Walmart would still be profitable if it paid a living wage to full-time employees. The family should be ashamed of having employees who qualify for food stamps. Are they some kind of royalty, to be lording over serfs by divine right? Something is very wrong with America.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
More Stuff
On the cue, what do I want to do with my writing:
I've always wanted to be published, and self-publishing is a piece of cake nowadays, if I can put together a reasonable number of pages of stuff I'm willing to share with the world.
I want people to want to read what I've written, to be warmed and moved and amused and inspired by it.
I want a written representation of valuable parts of me to be preserved for posterity.
I want to improve myself--self-discipline, clarity of thought, preservation of memory.
I want to move politicians and citizens to make choices that make life better in this city, state, country, and planet.
I want to be remembered as a capable writer and a spiritual person.
I want, why not, to have an audience for my blog that watches for new entries, hangs on every word, and raves about it to all their friends.
____________
Writing to the cue, you'll accomplish more later if you have a little fun this weekend.
This is obviously not addressed to retirees, who have room for fun every day of the week. That being said, I do approach Monday in a more positive frame of mind if I have some fun thing from the weekend to report if someone asks.
And being in a positive frame of mind certainly helps me to accomplish more. Feeling hopeful rather than depressed or sad helps me decide to just do what I need to get done. Contrariwise, feeling deprived or sorry for myself makes me want to suck my thumb and disappear into several books of mind candy, and real candy, too, for that matter. But if I've had some fun and am feeling comfortable in the world, I have more confidence in my ability to get stuff done and do it correctly.
As I have heard said, life is short, eat dessert first. I think starting with doing something fun helps me ease into accomplishment better than holding off until I've finished the job to have some fun, or, really, a steady alternation between fun and duty may be best. This is, of course, assuming that we are not in the best of all possible worlds, where I can somehow manage to have fun at the same time as I accomplish what needs doing. Which happens now and then, I'm sure, even if I can't remember many occasions now. I do enjoy doing the oddest things, such as stuffing envelopes at the SPCA.
____________
Written to a cue to write about a block other than writer's block, such as blocks about exercise or travel, or agoraphobia.
I've had all three types of these suggested blocks, over the years. They come and go. I've moved through each of them for a time, every so often.
I travel at least one week each year, and I try not to go more than a single day without leaving my house. As to exercise, I've joined several different gyms and quit, and started various exercise regimes: XBX, Wii Fit, yoga, tai chi. I can't seem to keep up with any of them for longer than a few weeks. If I have enough different programs that I can tolerate for a while, though, maybe I can cycle through them long enough to be doing something more often than not.
My personal theory of change is that I don't. The thought of adopting any particular practice every day of my life until I die makes me feel trapped and sad. I have no faith in my ability to make any change in myself and maintain it indefinitely.
But I can do a little thing most days, or one of several things most days. Especially if the consequences of not doing that particular thing are, say, painful. I can be motivated for a while to stretch, say, to avoid pain. But not indefinitely. Once I get used to the absence of a particular pain, I'm less motivated to do what kept it at bay, and gradually I forget about the activity, until the pain returns.
____________
A flicker of motion
on the telephone pole.
My gaze fixes on
a large squirrel,
with an extra-fluffy tail,
climbing down the pole
in defiance of gravity.
____________
Two eyes glinted at me from atop my bed. Too far apart to be my cat's, and, anyway, it takes only a second to see that they are actually buttons on my pajama top.
I must have blackwatch plaid flannel pjs and bathrobe nowadays. can't remember when, but at some point that plaid became the color scheme of comfort and sleep.
I recently bought a blackwatch flannel shirt, and I'm afraid to wear it most places--either folks will think it a pj top, or I'll be so comfortable in it that I'll nod off behind the wheel.
The eyes looking from atop my pillow are wise and bright. The iridescence arises from their origin as the shells of a sleepy sea creature, attached to the rocks in a tidepool, clinging firmly against the rushing waters.
The eyes speak of tenacity in all circumstances, of knowing your place and clinging to it in the face of all odds, of letting the universe bring all that you need directly to you, because you are so firmly planted where you are, where you need to be, where you belong.
_________
What does the book say?
"Dust me," or "read me," or "I remember when you put in a pile of books on your dresser and stood on me to change a light bulb," or "This is the third time you reassembled that tacky metal bookcase and crammed me into it. Why can't I go live on a wooden shelf?"
I've always wanted to be published, and self-publishing is a piece of cake nowadays, if I can put together a reasonable number of pages of stuff I'm willing to share with the world.
I want people to want to read what I've written, to be warmed and moved and amused and inspired by it.
I want a written representation of valuable parts of me to be preserved for posterity.
I want to improve myself--self-discipline, clarity of thought, preservation of memory.
I want to move politicians and citizens to make choices that make life better in this city, state, country, and planet.
I want to be remembered as a capable writer and a spiritual person.
I want, why not, to have an audience for my blog that watches for new entries, hangs on every word, and raves about it to all their friends.
____________
Writing to the cue, you'll accomplish more later if you have a little fun this weekend.
This is obviously not addressed to retirees, who have room for fun every day of the week. That being said, I do approach Monday in a more positive frame of mind if I have some fun thing from the weekend to report if someone asks.
And being in a positive frame of mind certainly helps me to accomplish more. Feeling hopeful rather than depressed or sad helps me decide to just do what I need to get done. Contrariwise, feeling deprived or sorry for myself makes me want to suck my thumb and disappear into several books of mind candy, and real candy, too, for that matter. But if I've had some fun and am feeling comfortable in the world, I have more confidence in my ability to get stuff done and do it correctly.
As I have heard said, life is short, eat dessert first. I think starting with doing something fun helps me ease into accomplishment better than holding off until I've finished the job to have some fun, or, really, a steady alternation between fun and duty may be best. This is, of course, assuming that we are not in the best of all possible worlds, where I can somehow manage to have fun at the same time as I accomplish what needs doing. Which happens now and then, I'm sure, even if I can't remember many occasions now. I do enjoy doing the oddest things, such as stuffing envelopes at the SPCA.
____________
Written to a cue to write about a block other than writer's block, such as blocks about exercise or travel, or agoraphobia.
I've had all three types of these suggested blocks, over the years. They come and go. I've moved through each of them for a time, every so often.
I travel at least one week each year, and I try not to go more than a single day without leaving my house. As to exercise, I've joined several different gyms and quit, and started various exercise regimes: XBX, Wii Fit, yoga, tai chi. I can't seem to keep up with any of them for longer than a few weeks. If I have enough different programs that I can tolerate for a while, though, maybe I can cycle through them long enough to be doing something more often than not.
My personal theory of change is that I don't. The thought of adopting any particular practice every day of my life until I die makes me feel trapped and sad. I have no faith in my ability to make any change in myself and maintain it indefinitely.
But I can do a little thing most days, or one of several things most days. Especially if the consequences of not doing that particular thing are, say, painful. I can be motivated for a while to stretch, say, to avoid pain. But not indefinitely. Once I get used to the absence of a particular pain, I'm less motivated to do what kept it at bay, and gradually I forget about the activity, until the pain returns.
____________
A flicker of motion
on the telephone pole.
My gaze fixes on
a large squirrel,
with an extra-fluffy tail,
climbing down the pole
in defiance of gravity.
____________
Two eyes glinted at me from atop my bed. Too far apart to be my cat's, and, anyway, it takes only a second to see that they are actually buttons on my pajama top.
I must have blackwatch plaid flannel pjs and bathrobe nowadays. can't remember when, but at some point that plaid became the color scheme of comfort and sleep.
I recently bought a blackwatch flannel shirt, and I'm afraid to wear it most places--either folks will think it a pj top, or I'll be so comfortable in it that I'll nod off behind the wheel.
The eyes looking from atop my pillow are wise and bright. The iridescence arises from their origin as the shells of a sleepy sea creature, attached to the rocks in a tidepool, clinging firmly against the rushing waters.
The eyes speak of tenacity in all circumstances, of knowing your place and clinging to it in the face of all odds, of letting the universe bring all that you need directly to you, because you are so firmly planted where you are, where you need to be, where you belong.
_________
What does the book say?
"Dust me," or "read me," or "I remember when you put in a pile of books on your dresser and stood on me to change a light bulb," or "This is the third time you reassembled that tacky metal bookcase and crammed me into it. Why can't I go live on a wooden shelf?"
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
This Week's Crop
another personification piece:
The wall outlet screams in silent shock.
Writings on an outrageous thing I did, first in prose and then as a poem.
The kids who lived in the Berkeley hills rode the same number 7 bus to school each weekday morning. We knew each other, and we got familiar with the back of the driver's head. For no reason we could see, he usually parked the bus on University Avenue and stepped outside of it for a minute or two each morning.
I watched closely as he opened and closed the door for himself, and one day I left my seat after he left the bus, and closed the door behind him.
He yelled at me to open it up again, and told me that if he hadn't set the parking brake before leaving the bus, it would have rolled downhill when I closed the door. So now I know that a separate brake engages when the door is open.
I've occasionally wondered why I did that. I'm usually a goody two-shoes, color inside the lines, kind of gal. Only now, nearly 50 years later, do I have an idea. I've had abandonment issues most of my life. And I think that his leaving us alone in the bus frightened me a little bit and angered me a lot.
Step away from us, will you? OK, we don't need you either, so there.
-------
Abandonment
The 7 Euclid bus
took us to school each day.
We made it ours.
The driver, not so much.
For some reason,
he stepped out of the bus
for a time
each morning on University Avenue.
This didn't sit
well with me.
I studied the controls, and
one day
I closed the door
behind him.
-------
Limbs Dance
Trees thrash in the wind,
their green and brown
arms telegraph the speed
of the air moving from
one place to another.
They bend, but any
sound they make is
barred by the window.
Some moments
they don't move at all
and I think maybe
the wind has died.
Then the whole tree
shudders in renewed response,
and I sit inside
cozy and warm
and applaud.
_____________
I write because my mother and brother wrote novels and short stories. It may be a genetic predisposition.
I write because I can - because grammar and syntax and spelling and organization all come easily to me.
I write to cement my memories, so I can be reminded of them when they've faded from my mind.
I write to get down what I'm thinking and how I feel about some sticky situation.
I write to record achievements, accomplishments, and other good things.
I write because reading has given me such pleasure and insight, in the hope that I can do the same for others.
I write to leave something of myself in the world after I am gone.
I write because something may pass unnoticed if I don't write about it - something good I want to remember, or something not so good that I need to confess.
I write because minds live on in the written word, and mine deserves its time in the sun.
I write to encourage my friends to exercise their political power in good causes.
I write so others can recognize themselves in my struggles.
I write to make folks laugh.
I write to fill the many journals that I've bought because their empty innards seduce me with the possibility of filling them to the betterment of myself and the world.
The wall outlet screams in silent shock.
Writings on an outrageous thing I did, first in prose and then as a poem.
The kids who lived in the Berkeley hills rode the same number 7 bus to school each weekday morning. We knew each other, and we got familiar with the back of the driver's head. For no reason we could see, he usually parked the bus on University Avenue and stepped outside of it for a minute or two each morning.
I watched closely as he opened and closed the door for himself, and one day I left my seat after he left the bus, and closed the door behind him.
He yelled at me to open it up again, and told me that if he hadn't set the parking brake before leaving the bus, it would have rolled downhill when I closed the door. So now I know that a separate brake engages when the door is open.
I've occasionally wondered why I did that. I'm usually a goody two-shoes, color inside the lines, kind of gal. Only now, nearly 50 years later, do I have an idea. I've had abandonment issues most of my life. And I think that his leaving us alone in the bus frightened me a little bit and angered me a lot.
Step away from us, will you? OK, we don't need you either, so there.
-------
Abandonment
The 7 Euclid bus
took us to school each day.
We made it ours.
The driver, not so much.
For some reason,
he stepped out of the bus
for a time
each morning on University Avenue.
This didn't sit
well with me.
I studied the controls, and
one day
I closed the door
behind him.
-------
Limbs Dance
Trees thrash in the wind,
their green and brown
arms telegraph the speed
of the air moving from
one place to another.
They bend, but any
sound they make is
barred by the window.
Some moments
they don't move at all
and I think maybe
the wind has died.
Then the whole tree
shudders in renewed response,
and I sit inside
cozy and warm
and applaud.
_____________
I write because my mother and brother wrote novels and short stories. It may be a genetic predisposition.
I write because I can - because grammar and syntax and spelling and organization all come easily to me.
I write to cement my memories, so I can be reminded of them when they've faded from my mind.
I write to get down what I'm thinking and how I feel about some sticky situation.
I write to record achievements, accomplishments, and other good things.
I write because reading has given me such pleasure and insight, in the hope that I can do the same for others.
I write to leave something of myself in the world after I am gone.
I write because something may pass unnoticed if I don't write about it - something good I want to remember, or something not so good that I need to confess.
I write because minds live on in the written word, and mine deserves its time in the sun.
I write to encourage my friends to exercise their political power in good causes.
I write so others can recognize themselves in my struggles.
I write to make folks laugh.
I write to fill the many journals that I've bought because their empty innards seduce me with the possibility of filling them to the betterment of myself and the world.
Friday, October 24, 2014
A List Poem
Written in Janell's class last Monday:
My Longest Plane Trip So Far
Packing proceeds smoothly,
I find everything I seek
after remembering everything I might need.
I am calm and optimistic --
no headache, no indigestion troubles me.
The airport shuttle comes
precisely when promised,
blue paint gleaming in the sun.
My bags nearly hop aboard themselves,
so eager do they seem to travel.
The ride to the airport is smooth,
nice women converse with me
and carsickness does not dare intrude.
My bag practically checks itself in,
and I proceed through security
in a meditative state.
After locating the gate,
I buy a book of sudoku
a bottle of water
sugarless gum
and a few snacks,
then hit a candy store or bakery
for some true indulgence.
I remember more than a dozen
cross-country flights in my youth,
starting when I was small enough
to sit in the aisle and sing to myself
while the stewardesses stepped over me.
The long flight unrolls at a stately pace,
classical music
followed by an adorable comedy,
followed by an acceptable meal.
Then I use alcohol
tranquilizers
and meditation
to get somewhere close to sleep.
When I swim up to consciousness,
scrape the sleepseed out of my eyes,
and look around the cabin,
I feel comaraderie with my fellow travelers.
That sound is the landing gear descending.
That was the flaps opening.
Bump, we're back on land.
Here I am in Auckland,
en route to Sydney.
Another, much shorter, flight to go today,
but nearly there.
Being a kid who commuted cross-country
really helped build my travel muscles
for today's marathon flight.
My Longest Plane Trip So Far
Packing proceeds smoothly,
I find everything I seek
after remembering everything I might need.
I am calm and optimistic --
no headache, no indigestion troubles me.
The airport shuttle comes
precisely when promised,
blue paint gleaming in the sun.
My bags nearly hop aboard themselves,
so eager do they seem to travel.
The ride to the airport is smooth,
nice women converse with me
and carsickness does not dare intrude.
My bag practically checks itself in,
and I proceed through security
in a meditative state.
After locating the gate,
I buy a book of sudoku
a bottle of water
sugarless gum
and a few snacks,
then hit a candy store or bakery
for some true indulgence.
I remember more than a dozen
cross-country flights in my youth,
starting when I was small enough
to sit in the aisle and sing to myself
while the stewardesses stepped over me.
The long flight unrolls at a stately pace,
classical music
followed by an adorable comedy,
followed by an acceptable meal.
Then I use alcohol
tranquilizers
and meditation
to get somewhere close to sleep.
When I swim up to consciousness,
scrape the sleepseed out of my eyes,
and look around the cabin,
I feel comaraderie with my fellow travelers.
That sound is the landing gear descending.
That was the flaps opening.
Bump, we're back on land.
Here I am in Auckland,
en route to Sydney.
Another, much shorter, flight to go today,
but nearly there.
Being a kid who commuted cross-country
really helped build my travel muscles
for today's marathon flight.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
My Performance Piece
This is what I delivered from memory at the Feminist Festival of Transformational Art. It's assembled from pieces I wrote for various Mothertongue scripts, for my synagogue's prayerbooks, for the heck of it, and for the festival itself:
Hi, there, my name is Dana.
I joined the Festival because I wanted people to laugh at my wit and recognize themselves in my foibles and trials.
I wanted to help the other performers realize their intentions.
And I wanted to hear what they have to say and learn from it.
____________________
So, here’s what I have to say. When I was little, I hated the color pink. It was too girly and feminine, and conflicted with my self-image as a tomboy. Blue was my favorite color then, the boys' color, the color of strength and action.
When I was in law school, a woman friend told me that pink blouses would look good with the blue clothes I usually wore. You know what; they do. Now I'm a fairly butch lesbian, so all of my pink blouses come from L.L. Bean, and my favorite one is plaid flannel.
________________
How did I become butch? It might have something to do with being raised by single men from when I was nine years old until age 15, first my widowed grandfather, and then my divorced Dad. When I was 15, Dad died, and my brother and I finally went to live with our mother.
___________________
Here are some things my mother said to me:
"When I'm alone, I'm in bad company."
"Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional."
"Pray for potatoes and pick up the plow."
"They tell me I was a cuddly drunk."
"That poncho is ugly," the one I designed and made for myself out of fake fur.
When we first came to live with her, she said to us, “I figure you’re grown up enough, and I won't try to raise you. I’ll just make meals and write checks from the money your father left you.”
Many years later, she said: "I want you to complete the following sentence: Mother, I hate you because ..." I declined to respond, knowing that I wasn't ready to say, and she wasn't ready to hear, what might come up. My brother, not so canny, had replied - 'I don't hate you, but I don't love you either, since you weren't there while we were growing up.' After that, she never had a good word to say about him.
_____________
In light of that caliber of mothering, it makes sense that I’d be fond of flannel. I'm driven to seek softness to make up for my lack of cuddling as a child. In fact, I have quite a fetish for softness - for really soft sheets, towels, and T-shirts, for fuzzy plants and my cat's fur. My nearly irresistible urge to pat a crew cut - on a man or a woman - or to stroke velvet or fur that's being worn near me.
I also wonder about my thing for silver foxes. From my 30s, at least, I've had a soft spot for women with short silvery hair. So much so that my longest relationship was with a woman 15 years my senior. I'm probably still seeking the mothering that I missed as a child. But now I'm the one with short silvery hair. Hey, maybe I can be the mother that I've been looking for.
Getting back to my father, though, he never remarried after the divorce, but sometimes there was another man living in his house when my brother and I visited him. Only after his death did I learn that he was also gay. So, we never talked about his gayness or mine. Maybe it would have helped me with my lesbian identity. God knows, my years as a Christian didn’t help.
In fact, I’m still angry at the Christian Church because of the damage it did to my developing sexuality. As a little kid, I played doctor with my friends, male and female alike. I got crushes on my girlfriends in school, but it wasn’t until college that I had a full-fledged affair, with my roommate. So far, I knew my sexual activities should be kept secret—but I had no problem enjoying them.
Then, when I got involved with Campus Crusade for Christ, I was told that homosexual behavior is an abomination. OK, I thought. I was in love with God at the time, and it didn’t seem too much of a sacrifice to end the affair.
After moving to San Francisco, I started meeting gay Christians and Jews and envied their freedom to be both spiritual and sexual. But I couldn’t just pick up my sexuality where I left it. By rejecting my entire sexual being, I damaged it big time.
__________
For example, sometimes I “clutch” during sex. I start wondering if and when I’m going to have an orgasm, and then I shut down.
I think, “Am I going to come?” “What can I get her to do that would make me come?” “Could I ask for the vibrator without hurting her feelings?” or “How long before I can just get her to stop?”
Then I try to stop thinking at all, and maybe start up my mantra to help with the rapidly mounting anxiety. I want sex to be fun again.
______________
I was also left with body image issues:
Two different women look at me from the mirror. The one I see most often has a round face, a pasty complexion, and acne. Her expression is blank; she is plain. The other woman has cheekbones and a chin line. Her skin is clear and she looks wise and confident. She is attractive and I enjoy looking at her.
How can the women be so different? How can they both be me? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is the difference in my head rather than my face? Is it that how I feel about myself affects how I look? Or maybe I just look better at some times than others.
I don't know. But it would be nice if that attractive woman were the one I saw most often.
_________
And I’m still working on other issues. I put off doing the things I need to do, and I do other things I know I’ll regret. In short, I’m at odds with myself. I have this committee inside my head, and not only does control shift wildly from one member to another, but sometimes it’s completely deadlocked.
So how do I kindly and gently, and with curiosity and humor, recognize all the recalcitrant parts of myself, and persuade us that we're all on the same team? That we'll accomplish more and be happier if we act together? Perfection ain’t gonna happen, but a little progress now and then would be nice.
I'd like to have compassion for myself when I get stuck in a painful place, instead of beating myself up about it. I'd like to remember that hope can return when I journal, meditate, take a walk, stretch.
Even if I just remember to breathe with awareness. Although each breath is a new one, I'm inhaling molecules that originated in the stars and have been breathed before by many, many people over the millenia since they were created.
Remembering these things helps me realize that I’m just another human being, no better and no worse than others. And that’s enough.
____________
So now I’m going to close with a hope of mine:
I want to write something with such beautiful images that reading it would lift anyone's heart, would give hope to the most despairing person, would bring a smile or a tear to any face. I want to write a picture so beautiful that it creates in all who read it a yearning to be better, a yearning to live in hope, and the recognition that this beauty is here and now, right here, right now.
Hi, there, my name is Dana.
I joined the Festival because I wanted people to laugh at my wit and recognize themselves in my foibles and trials.
I wanted to help the other performers realize their intentions.
And I wanted to hear what they have to say and learn from it.
____________________
So, here’s what I have to say. When I was little, I hated the color pink. It was too girly and feminine, and conflicted with my self-image as a tomboy. Blue was my favorite color then, the boys' color, the color of strength and action.
When I was in law school, a woman friend told me that pink blouses would look good with the blue clothes I usually wore. You know what; they do. Now I'm a fairly butch lesbian, so all of my pink blouses come from L.L. Bean, and my favorite one is plaid flannel.
________________
How did I become butch? It might have something to do with being raised by single men from when I was nine years old until age 15, first my widowed grandfather, and then my divorced Dad. When I was 15, Dad died, and my brother and I finally went to live with our mother.
___________________
Here are some things my mother said to me:
"When I'm alone, I'm in bad company."
"Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional."
"Pray for potatoes and pick up the plow."
"They tell me I was a cuddly drunk."
"That poncho is ugly," the one I designed and made for myself out of fake fur.
When we first came to live with her, she said to us, “I figure you’re grown up enough, and I won't try to raise you. I’ll just make meals and write checks from the money your father left you.”
Many years later, she said: "I want you to complete the following sentence: Mother, I hate you because ..." I declined to respond, knowing that I wasn't ready to say, and she wasn't ready to hear, what might come up. My brother, not so canny, had replied - 'I don't hate you, but I don't love you either, since you weren't there while we were growing up.' After that, she never had a good word to say about him.
_____________
In light of that caliber of mothering, it makes sense that I’d be fond of flannel. I'm driven to seek softness to make up for my lack of cuddling as a child. In fact, I have quite a fetish for softness - for really soft sheets, towels, and T-shirts, for fuzzy plants and my cat's fur. My nearly irresistible urge to pat a crew cut - on a man or a woman - or to stroke velvet or fur that's being worn near me.
I also wonder about my thing for silver foxes. From my 30s, at least, I've had a soft spot for women with short silvery hair. So much so that my longest relationship was with a woman 15 years my senior. I'm probably still seeking the mothering that I missed as a child. But now I'm the one with short silvery hair. Hey, maybe I can be the mother that I've been looking for.
Getting back to my father, though, he never remarried after the divorce, but sometimes there was another man living in his house when my brother and I visited him. Only after his death did I learn that he was also gay. So, we never talked about his gayness or mine. Maybe it would have helped me with my lesbian identity. God knows, my years as a Christian didn’t help.
In fact, I’m still angry at the Christian Church because of the damage it did to my developing sexuality. As a little kid, I played doctor with my friends, male and female alike. I got crushes on my girlfriends in school, but it wasn’t until college that I had a full-fledged affair, with my roommate. So far, I knew my sexual activities should be kept secret—but I had no problem enjoying them.
Then, when I got involved with Campus Crusade for Christ, I was told that homosexual behavior is an abomination. OK, I thought. I was in love with God at the time, and it didn’t seem too much of a sacrifice to end the affair.
After moving to San Francisco, I started meeting gay Christians and Jews and envied their freedom to be both spiritual and sexual. But I couldn’t just pick up my sexuality where I left it. By rejecting my entire sexual being, I damaged it big time.
__________
For example, sometimes I “clutch” during sex. I start wondering if and when I’m going to have an orgasm, and then I shut down.
I think, “Am I going to come?” “What can I get her to do that would make me come?” “Could I ask for the vibrator without hurting her feelings?” or “How long before I can just get her to stop?”
Then I try to stop thinking at all, and maybe start up my mantra to help with the rapidly mounting anxiety. I want sex to be fun again.
______________
I was also left with body image issues:
Two different women look at me from the mirror. The one I see most often has a round face, a pasty complexion, and acne. Her expression is blank; she is plain. The other woman has cheekbones and a chin line. Her skin is clear and she looks wise and confident. She is attractive and I enjoy looking at her.
How can the women be so different? How can they both be me? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is the difference in my head rather than my face? Is it that how I feel about myself affects how I look? Or maybe I just look better at some times than others.
I don't know. But it would be nice if that attractive woman were the one I saw most often.
_________
And I’m still working on other issues. I put off doing the things I need to do, and I do other things I know I’ll regret. In short, I’m at odds with myself. I have this committee inside my head, and not only does control shift wildly from one member to another, but sometimes it’s completely deadlocked.
So how do I kindly and gently, and with curiosity and humor, recognize all the recalcitrant parts of myself, and persuade us that we're all on the same team? That we'll accomplish more and be happier if we act together? Perfection ain’t gonna happen, but a little progress now and then would be nice.
I'd like to have compassion for myself when I get stuck in a painful place, instead of beating myself up about it. I'd like to remember that hope can return when I journal, meditate, take a walk, stretch.
Even if I just remember to breathe with awareness. Although each breath is a new one, I'm inhaling molecules that originated in the stars and have been breathed before by many, many people over the millenia since they were created.
Remembering these things helps me realize that I’m just another human being, no better and no worse than others. And that’s enough.
____________
So now I’m going to close with a hope of mine:
I want to write something with such beautiful images that reading it would lift anyone's heart, would give hope to the most despairing person, would bring a smile or a tear to any face. I want to write a picture so beautiful that it creates in all who read it a yearning to be better, a yearning to live in hope, and the recognition that this beauty is here and now, right here, right now.
Monday, October 13, 2014
Recent Writings
I got to do two writing sessions in the past week. Here are the better bits:
A good day tomorrow would begin with a good sleep tonight. My car won't get a parking ticket. My SFOP meeting will be productive, relaxed, and fun. The weather, or a friend, or the hand of the Goddess will draw me outside for air and exercise, and I'll find in myself a modicum of discipline, enough to get my chores done. And enough to do a little tai chi or yoga, to keep my body from seizing up. What I write in my journal will be pithy and gratifying. And the food I eat will be tasty, good for me, and easily digested.
______
Asked to write something about the flow of nature, I wrote:
Thinking about flow brings other people's poetry to mind. Nature and I interact like snapshots on postcards--fall colored trees, red mingling with green mixed with yellow. A sunset with that magenta shade of pink against the blue and white of clouds, some mysterious erection black and featureless beneath the sky.
Such moments of beauty prompt me to praise and thank their creator: good job on the sunset, God; that's quite nice.
What nature has done for me lately, though, is to make it so hot outside that I'm even less likely to go out than usual--which isn't much to begin with. Mouth-breathing to get enough air dries the inside of my mouth to dust in seconds, while my hair squishes against my sweaty scalp.
______
A thank-you letter to Sen. Elizabeth Warren:
You are my heroine. I was watching you being interviewed by Rachel Maddow tonight and had to tear myself away to come here to write. But I comfort myself that the DVR is watching for me, so I can finish watching you when I get home.
You are so straight-forward, so honest, so candid about who you are fighting for - America's vanishing middle class. You clearly see and explain how the game has been rigged against us, and you have moved mountains to get the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau established. It was a major snub that the Republican Congresscritters wouldn't let you head the bureau, but their opposition backfired on them. Now you're a Senator, and are free to champion all manner of middle class causes.
Many of us would love to see you become President. I can't help believing that your good-hearted wisdom would be so refreshing for this country. Even if you were able to accomplish only a quarter of what you took on, we would be so much better off.
I admire your optimistic approach to stating your convictions, your hopefulness and absence of cynicism. Maybe you get grumpy and tired in private, but we'll probably never know for sure.
Thank you, Senator Warren, for what you have achieved so far and all the promise that you bear.
_____
I also wrote about a time I asked a teacher for help.
When I asked Corky for help, I was literally asking a teacher, because she teaches public speaking at SF State. I was also asking metaphorically, because her performance in Mothertongue Readers Theater so many years ago was so inspiring that I joined the group for a decade.
Many years after leaving Mothertongue, I joined a weekly brunch group that Corky also attended, and we resumed our friendship.
A few months ago, I was trying to construct an 8-10 minute monologue, using an assortment of pieces that I had written over the years - not just for Mothertongue but also for my synagogue's prayerbook and for this feminist festival of transformational arts that I was preparing to perform in.
I lack perspective on my own pieces, and asked Corky to come over and help me deal with them. She told me which pieces she found most powerful, reminding me of what I already knew - that the most idiosyncratic, revealing, and discomfiting pieces were where the juice was. She also helped me put them in a good theatrical order. And she made costume suggestions and lent me a lovely floral necktie to complete my ensemble.
I memorized my script, and performed it without memory gaps, to great acclaim.
My mentor, Corky, really came through for me, and I love her.
A good day tomorrow would begin with a good sleep tonight. My car won't get a parking ticket. My SFOP meeting will be productive, relaxed, and fun. The weather, or a friend, or the hand of the Goddess will draw me outside for air and exercise, and I'll find in myself a modicum of discipline, enough to get my chores done. And enough to do a little tai chi or yoga, to keep my body from seizing up. What I write in my journal will be pithy and gratifying. And the food I eat will be tasty, good for me, and easily digested.
______
Asked to write something about the flow of nature, I wrote:
Thinking about flow brings other people's poetry to mind. Nature and I interact like snapshots on postcards--fall colored trees, red mingling with green mixed with yellow. A sunset with that magenta shade of pink against the blue and white of clouds, some mysterious erection black and featureless beneath the sky.
Such moments of beauty prompt me to praise and thank their creator: good job on the sunset, God; that's quite nice.
What nature has done for me lately, though, is to make it so hot outside that I'm even less likely to go out than usual--which isn't much to begin with. Mouth-breathing to get enough air dries the inside of my mouth to dust in seconds, while my hair squishes against my sweaty scalp.
______
A thank-you letter to Sen. Elizabeth Warren:
You are my heroine. I was watching you being interviewed by Rachel Maddow tonight and had to tear myself away to come here to write. But I comfort myself that the DVR is watching for me, so I can finish watching you when I get home.
You are so straight-forward, so honest, so candid about who you are fighting for - America's vanishing middle class. You clearly see and explain how the game has been rigged against us, and you have moved mountains to get the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau established. It was a major snub that the Republican Congresscritters wouldn't let you head the bureau, but their opposition backfired on them. Now you're a Senator, and are free to champion all manner of middle class causes.
Many of us would love to see you become President. I can't help believing that your good-hearted wisdom would be so refreshing for this country. Even if you were able to accomplish only a quarter of what you took on, we would be so much better off.
I admire your optimistic approach to stating your convictions, your hopefulness and absence of cynicism. Maybe you get grumpy and tired in private, but we'll probably never know for sure.
Thank you, Senator Warren, for what you have achieved so far and all the promise that you bear.
_____
I also wrote about a time I asked a teacher for help.
When I asked Corky for help, I was literally asking a teacher, because she teaches public speaking at SF State. I was also asking metaphorically, because her performance in Mothertongue Readers Theater so many years ago was so inspiring that I joined the group for a decade.
Many years after leaving Mothertongue, I joined a weekly brunch group that Corky also attended, and we resumed our friendship.
A few months ago, I was trying to construct an 8-10 minute monologue, using an assortment of pieces that I had written over the years - not just for Mothertongue but also for my synagogue's prayerbook and for this feminist festival of transformational arts that I was preparing to perform in.
I lack perspective on my own pieces, and asked Corky to come over and help me deal with them. She told me which pieces she found most powerful, reminding me of what I already knew - that the most idiosyncratic, revealing, and discomfiting pieces were where the juice was. She also helped me put them in a good theatrical order. And she made costume suggestions and lent me a lovely floral necktie to complete my ensemble.
I memorized my script, and performed it without memory gaps, to great acclaim.
My mentor, Corky, really came through for me, and I love her.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Writing With Janell
Openhouse has started a writers' group led by Janell Moon, an author, college writing instructor, and hypnotherapist. Here's what I wrote:
It was fun running into Mickey at the entrance to the LGBT Center, and recognizing three of the five women in the writing group (4 of 6 if you include the leader), so I feel a hint of belonging.
In two weeks, I'll have this writing group on Monday and the 24th Street one on Tuesday, which makes me feel positively wealthy. It almost makes me want to undertake a writing project of some sort, with that amount of support.
______
Women of the Castro
Too many of the women I see in the Castro appear to be straight -- e.g., arm in adoring arm with a man. Many women of the City have been priced into the East Bay. Those who are left seem to be towards both ends of the socioeconomic spectrum. But it could be that my economic judgment is as poor as my gaydar. What kind of person do I appear to be, when I shuffle around the Castro?
____________
My mother, brother, cousin, and I spent the whole night reciting poetry in the Disneyland Hotel room. (Mr. Disney would want you to pick up your lamb chop to eat it.) Our voices were hoarse in the morning, spent with the energy of our recitals, but we stood in enough lines to rest up for the rides.
What would a list of the pieces we'd memorized show about teachers' tastes in poetry over two generations and on both coasts? Did Sir Launfal have his vision on Main Street, U.S.A.?
Everything in Disneyland is part of the show. We played our roles in the production with the last of our speaking voices.
___________
The man who held my hand while we bought a building in San Francisco had learned real estate at his mother's knee, long before I met him in the Bay Area Lutheran Chorale. All six foot, five inches of him were immersed in the beauty of the music and the Spirit of the Divine. When we dined together, he picked up the tab gracefully and often. He doted on Victorian architecture, knowing his Stick from Edwardian from Romeo.
Handsome enough to have a partner whenever he wanted one, which was all the time; his nest of a home gave him strength. A devout country western dancer, with well-broken in boots, he naturally held his 60th birthday party at the Sundance Saloon.
It was fun running into Mickey at the entrance to the LGBT Center, and recognizing three of the five women in the writing group (4 of 6 if you include the leader), so I feel a hint of belonging.
In two weeks, I'll have this writing group on Monday and the 24th Street one on Tuesday, which makes me feel positively wealthy. It almost makes me want to undertake a writing project of some sort, with that amount of support.
______
Women of the Castro
Too many of the women I see in the Castro appear to be straight -- e.g., arm in adoring arm with a man. Many women of the City have been priced into the East Bay. Those who are left seem to be towards both ends of the socioeconomic spectrum. But it could be that my economic judgment is as poor as my gaydar. What kind of person do I appear to be, when I shuffle around the Castro?
____________
My mother, brother, cousin, and I spent the whole night reciting poetry in the Disneyland Hotel room. (Mr. Disney would want you to pick up your lamb chop to eat it.) Our voices were hoarse in the morning, spent with the energy of our recitals, but we stood in enough lines to rest up for the rides.
What would a list of the pieces we'd memorized show about teachers' tastes in poetry over two generations and on both coasts? Did Sir Launfal have his vision on Main Street, U.S.A.?
Everything in Disneyland is part of the show. We played our roles in the production with the last of our speaking voices.
___________
The man who held my hand while we bought a building in San Francisco had learned real estate at his mother's knee, long before I met him in the Bay Area Lutheran Chorale. All six foot, five inches of him were immersed in the beauty of the music and the Spirit of the Divine. When we dined together, he picked up the tab gracefully and often. He doted on Victorian architecture, knowing his Stick from Edwardian from Romeo.
Handsome enough to have a partner whenever he wanted one, which was all the time; his nest of a home gave him strength. A devout country western dancer, with well-broken in boots, he naturally held his 60th birthday party at the Sundance Saloon.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Writing for Social Change
I took a brief workshop on this topic at the Feminist Festival of Transformative Arts yesterday, and here's what I wrote:
I had a textbook in high school called The Irony of Democracy. As best as I can recall, it claimed that democracy became less effective when more people participated in it. I wonder if the authors were Republicans.
In theory, the more people participate in political discourse, the more ideas are presented and discussed and thought through, and the decisions reached after such an inclusive process should be wiser and better than the alternative.
If, however, a group that has power and seeks to keep it despite the way it crushes others into the dirt, their goal is to keep those others from having power. Make money into speech, so people without money don't get heard. Allow fewer days for voting, so people who work many hours can't get to the polls or stay in lines the hours it would take to cast their votes. Challenge everybody with an unfamiliar name to prove their right to vote with documents they may not have. Especially make it hard for anyone who might vote Democratic - students, minorities, the elderly. Let's go back to the days when you had to be a white, male, property owner to have any voice in running the country. Those guys knew what was what. We can't let just anybody vote; they might upset our applecart.
I had a textbook in high school called The Irony of Democracy. As best as I can recall, it claimed that democracy became less effective when more people participated in it. I wonder if the authors were Republicans.
In theory, the more people participate in political discourse, the more ideas are presented and discussed and thought through, and the decisions reached after such an inclusive process should be wiser and better than the alternative.
If, however, a group that has power and seeks to keep it despite the way it crushes others into the dirt, their goal is to keep those others from having power. Make money into speech, so people without money don't get heard. Allow fewer days for voting, so people who work many hours can't get to the polls or stay in lines the hours it would take to cast their votes. Challenge everybody with an unfamiliar name to prove their right to vote with documents they may not have. Especially make it hard for anyone who might vote Democratic - students, minorities, the elderly. Let's go back to the days when you had to be a white, male, property owner to have any voice in running the country. Those guys knew what was what. We can't let just anybody vote; they might upset our applecart.
More writing with Eanlai
A Clock and A Time When Time Was Important
When I was in college, there was a clock in every classroom, so I stopped wearing a watch for a while. It took some getting used to, since I kept looking by habit at my left wrist and seeing only a band of lighter skin, but I managed to get to my classes on time somehow.
Then, however, I decided to try wearing contact lenses. Suddenly my appearance was more important than the familiar security of my specs. I can't quite remember what prompted this decision. Maybe I had recently become lovers with my roommate, and the glasses were awkward. However, I needed to be very accurate about how long I wore the lenses while I was still trying to break them in, and back came the watch. Just my luck, my eyeballs are too delicate for contact lenses, hard or soft, so I gave up on them, but kept wearing the watch.
Nowadays, younger folks use their smart phones to tell time, and the only ones who still wear wristwatches are old fossils like myself. I must confess, though, I carry an ipod touch in my breast pocket, mostly for reading and sudoku, and I do occasionally resort to pulling it out to confirm what date or day of the week it is, and, if it's in my hands already, I will sometimes press the button that brings up the time in digital format, instead of turning my wrist to read the time on the face of my analog watch.
I also use the itouch as a timer when I'm sitting with kittens in the medical wing of the SPCA, and my watch is covered by a plastic gown and latex gloves. The alarm tone on the timer lets me know when my visit is complete, if I remembered to start the timer before starting the visit.
Nature and Self-Worth
Are you a religious person? Does the spirit move you to pray when you meet the beauties of nature, in forest groves, or when being misted by a waterfall? God creates such wonderful beauty, and some creatures reveal her sense of humor, and yet we so seldom think of ourselves as beautiful parts of God's creation.
On the other hand, something rubs me the wrong way about some people who seem too pleased with themselves, too comfortable in their skin, too perfect. I get angry with them - want to point out the mistakes they will make, that they'll grow old and die, like the rest of us. I get defensive when I compare my insides with their outsides.
I want to really believe that I'm doing the best I can with what I've got to work with. But there's a critical slave-driver sitting on the committee in my head, who always thinks I could be doing more, doing better, in justifying my place on earth. But waterfalls don't have to pass tests, forests don't have to meet quotas. They simply
are, valuable and beautiful as they were created.
What I really want to say is to wonder what would happen if I really accepted myself as I am, if I didn't compare myself with Mother Teresa or Bill Gates, but simply lived out being Dana. Would I stop contributing anything to the world and lose all self-respect? Would I become the self-satisfied, smug sort of person who grates on my nerves?
The Natives are Restless
There was a wildlife convention this morning in my backyard. I saw this mid-sized, mid-brown bird pecking at the recently cleared dirt next to the stepping stones. I grabbed the binoculars that live near my back windows, and tried to focus my weak eyes on it as well as I could. It pecked at the earth, and also seemed to be digging in it, with both feet at a time, in a hopping move. I really wondered what it was doing -- digging for food, digging a nest, performing a display of territory or courtship? Whatever it was doing came to a halt, and it disappeared.
A few moments later, I saw more motion, on the side fence. It was a squirrel, standing atop the fence and batting at the neighbor's tree with its paws. Also quite mysterious.
Finally, I saw a pair of smaller birds, back on the ground, pecking at the pink knotweed that the gardeners had cleared of weeds. Were they finding insects on the blossoms or sipping nectar and pollinating them? Heck if I know, but this morning I saw more animals not our cats than I've seen in the entire previous year.
When I was in college, there was a clock in every classroom, so I stopped wearing a watch for a while. It took some getting used to, since I kept looking by habit at my left wrist and seeing only a band of lighter skin, but I managed to get to my classes on time somehow.
Then, however, I decided to try wearing contact lenses. Suddenly my appearance was more important than the familiar security of my specs. I can't quite remember what prompted this decision. Maybe I had recently become lovers with my roommate, and the glasses were awkward. However, I needed to be very accurate about how long I wore the lenses while I was still trying to break them in, and back came the watch. Just my luck, my eyeballs are too delicate for contact lenses, hard or soft, so I gave up on them, but kept wearing the watch.
Nowadays, younger folks use their smart phones to tell time, and the only ones who still wear wristwatches are old fossils like myself. I must confess, though, I carry an ipod touch in my breast pocket, mostly for reading and sudoku, and I do occasionally resort to pulling it out to confirm what date or day of the week it is, and, if it's in my hands already, I will sometimes press the button that brings up the time in digital format, instead of turning my wrist to read the time on the face of my analog watch.
I also use the itouch as a timer when I'm sitting with kittens in the medical wing of the SPCA, and my watch is covered by a plastic gown and latex gloves. The alarm tone on the timer lets me know when my visit is complete, if I remembered to start the timer before starting the visit.
Nature and Self-Worth
Are you a religious person? Does the spirit move you to pray when you meet the beauties of nature, in forest groves, or when being misted by a waterfall? God creates such wonderful beauty, and some creatures reveal her sense of humor, and yet we so seldom think of ourselves as beautiful parts of God's creation.
On the other hand, something rubs me the wrong way about some people who seem too pleased with themselves, too comfortable in their skin, too perfect. I get angry with them - want to point out the mistakes they will make, that they'll grow old and die, like the rest of us. I get defensive when I compare my insides with their outsides.
I want to really believe that I'm doing the best I can with what I've got to work with. But there's a critical slave-driver sitting on the committee in my head, who always thinks I could be doing more, doing better, in justifying my place on earth. But waterfalls don't have to pass tests, forests don't have to meet quotas. They simply
are, valuable and beautiful as they were created.
What I really want to say is to wonder what would happen if I really accepted myself as I am, if I didn't compare myself with Mother Teresa or Bill Gates, but simply lived out being Dana. Would I stop contributing anything to the world and lose all self-respect? Would I become the self-satisfied, smug sort of person who grates on my nerves?
The Natives are Restless
There was a wildlife convention this morning in my backyard. I saw this mid-sized, mid-brown bird pecking at the recently cleared dirt next to the stepping stones. I grabbed the binoculars that live near my back windows, and tried to focus my weak eyes on it as well as I could. It pecked at the earth, and also seemed to be digging in it, with both feet at a time, in a hopping move. I really wondered what it was doing -- digging for food, digging a nest, performing a display of territory or courtship? Whatever it was doing came to a halt, and it disappeared.
A few moments later, I saw more motion, on the side fence. It was a squirrel, standing atop the fence and batting at the neighbor's tree with its paws. Also quite mysterious.
Finally, I saw a pair of smaller birds, back on the ground, pecking at the pink knotweed that the gardeners had cleared of weeds. Were they finding insects on the blossoms or sipping nectar and pollinating them? Heck if I know, but this morning I saw more animals not our cats than I've seen in the entire previous year.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Write Now!
So I joined this writing group that meets at a bookstore on 24th Street once a month. I wasn't taken with anything I wrote last month, but here's something kinda nice that I wrote last night.
Soundtrack of My Life
The music that comes to mind from my Harrisburg years is Broadway show tunes, played on a stereo encased in a wide wooden cabinet that matched the rest of the furniture.
The music that comes to mind from my Berkeley years is Laura Webber's folk guitar instruction book, which I wrote to the TV station for, and folk songs that I sang with Joyce Roop and her mother (and her sister, before her suicide). I still remember when we were singing for some people and I began the song alone, an octave too high, and Mrs. Roop stopped and corrected me.
The music that comes to mind from my Santa Monica years is Eric Coates' London Suite, and whosit's Grand Tarentella, that mother put on the record player to enliven our efforts at housecleaning.
The music that comes to mind from my UCLA years I listened to in the music laboratory, which had maybe 20 stations with headphones where you could listen to the assigned music, and I chose to work on my musicianship with the Rutgers University Music Dictation Course. I also sang with the UCLA Madrigal Singers one year, and the Brentwood Church Choir for at least two years, including challenging music like Poulenc's Stabat Mater and Mozart's Requiem.
The music that comes to mind from my law school years is hymns and anthems I sang every week with the church choir, and played on the bass recorder with my tiny hands because I was the only player who knew both the bass fingerings and the bass clef. I also remember singing Britten's War Requiem with the Civic Chorale.
Post-law school, the music that comes to mind includes what I worked on in voice lessons, like the duet from Delibes' Lakme, and what I played on the recorder at the memorial for a friend's mother - a Bach selection that was just a bit beyond my capabilities.
Nowadays, I enjoy whatever music the classical radio station sends my way.
Soundtrack of My Life
The music that comes to mind from my Harrisburg years is Broadway show tunes, played on a stereo encased in a wide wooden cabinet that matched the rest of the furniture.
The music that comes to mind from my Berkeley years is Laura Webber's folk guitar instruction book, which I wrote to the TV station for, and folk songs that I sang with Joyce Roop and her mother (and her sister, before her suicide). I still remember when we were singing for some people and I began the song alone, an octave too high, and Mrs. Roop stopped and corrected me.
The music that comes to mind from my Santa Monica years is Eric Coates' London Suite, and whosit's Grand Tarentella, that mother put on the record player to enliven our efforts at housecleaning.
The music that comes to mind from my UCLA years I listened to in the music laboratory, which had maybe 20 stations with headphones where you could listen to the assigned music, and I chose to work on my musicianship with the Rutgers University Music Dictation Course. I also sang with the UCLA Madrigal Singers one year, and the Brentwood Church Choir for at least two years, including challenging music like Poulenc's Stabat Mater and Mozart's Requiem.
The music that comes to mind from my law school years is hymns and anthems I sang every week with the church choir, and played on the bass recorder with my tiny hands because I was the only player who knew both the bass fingerings and the bass clef. I also remember singing Britten's War Requiem with the Civic Chorale.
Post-law school, the music that comes to mind includes what I worked on in voice lessons, like the duet from Delibes' Lakme, and what I played on the recorder at the memorial for a friend's mother - a Bach selection that was just a bit beyond my capabilities.
Nowadays, I enjoy whatever music the classical radio station sends my way.
Friday, August 22, 2014
New Poems
I write about what's on my mind. See below.
Unrest
My legs ache
when I sit too long
in most chairs.
The ache starts
in the backs of my thighs
and steadily grows.
Stretching doesn't help
jiggling my legs doesn't help.
The only thing that helps,
sometimes,
other than getting up and walking,
is propping my feet
on a footrest,
to get the pressure off
the backs of my thighs.
A Few Good Things
My mother learned
a few good things
in those twelve-step rooms,
while smoking like a chimney
and swimming in coffee.
She learned to avoid
getting too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired.
She learned to seek out others -
"When I'm alone, I'm in bad company."
She learned the trap of stillness -
"Action is the magic word" and
"Pray for potatoes and pick up the plow."
She learned that you can choose
how to respond to challenges -
"Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional."
She took care of herself
and her sponsees -
her children, not so much.
Unrest
My legs ache
when I sit too long
in most chairs.
The ache starts
in the backs of my thighs
and steadily grows.
Stretching doesn't help
jiggling my legs doesn't help.
The only thing that helps,
sometimes,
other than getting up and walking,
is propping my feet
on a footrest,
to get the pressure off
the backs of my thighs.
A Few Good Things
My mother learned
a few good things
in those twelve-step rooms,
while smoking like a chimney
and swimming in coffee.
She learned to avoid
getting too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired.
She learned to seek out others -
"When I'm alone, I'm in bad company."
She learned the trap of stillness -
"Action is the magic word" and
"Pray for potatoes and pick up the plow."
She learned that you can choose
how to respond to challenges -
"Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional."
She took care of herself
and her sponsees -
her children, not so much.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Fun with Haiku and Tanka
Another evening at the poetry class, and I learn that the haiku form, which I've known about since high school, descended from a much earlier Japanese poem type called tanka.
Longer than the 5-7-5 syllable lines of haiku, a Japanese tanka has five unrhymed lines of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables, but English writers of tanka take more freedom with the syllable count, and mostly produce five-lined poems with lines that are short-long-short-long-long, with as few as ten syllables total, up to the standard size of 31.
Anyway, we had some time to write, and examples ranging from classical descriptions of nature to cynical and angry poems about modern life. Here's what I came up with:
Stomp brake pedal down
Omigod; where'd that come from?
This time, I still live.
White mold on my cheese.
I guess it has been too long
since I cleaned the fridge.
Smallness is Asian
My cars are all Japanese
I'm really quite short.
Sturdy old Bay Bridge,
Rust like cancer in your bones,
Please don't fall on me.
I'm on a Segway
Lean into the turns
Can't seem to shift my weight forward,
My feet hurt too much.
Oh boy, a panic attack.
I can write haiku;
English class in seventh grade.
Tanka not so much
Because I'm used to ending
after the third line.
Naked ladies grow
Next to the Berkeley sidewalk,
Shiver without leaves
But beautiful nonetheless
Even as the blossoms droop.
Why would a cop shoot
A boy with his hands in air?
Bigotry unleashed
Little man with a big gun
His guilt has turned into fear.
Convoy of white trucks:
Humanitarian aid
or troops with more guns?
Longer than the 5-7-5 syllable lines of haiku, a Japanese tanka has five unrhymed lines of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables, but English writers of tanka take more freedom with the syllable count, and mostly produce five-lined poems with lines that are short-long-short-long-long, with as few as ten syllables total, up to the standard size of 31.
Anyway, we had some time to write, and examples ranging from classical descriptions of nature to cynical and angry poems about modern life. Here's what I came up with:
Stomp brake pedal down
Omigod; where'd that come from?
This time, I still live.
White mold on my cheese.
I guess it has been too long
since I cleaned the fridge.
Smallness is Asian
My cars are all Japanese
I'm really quite short.
Sturdy old Bay Bridge,
Rust like cancer in your bones,
Please don't fall on me.
I'm on a Segway
Lean into the turns
Can't seem to shift my weight forward,
My feet hurt too much.
Oh boy, a panic attack.
I can write haiku;
English class in seventh grade.
Tanka not so much
Because I'm used to ending
after the third line.
Naked ladies grow
Next to the Berkeley sidewalk,
Shiver without leaves
But beautiful nonetheless
Even as the blossoms droop.
Why would a cop shoot
A boy with his hands in air?
Bigotry unleashed
Little man with a big gun
His guilt has turned into fear.
Convoy of white trucks:
Humanitarian aid
or troops with more guns?
Friday, August 1, 2014
First Fruits of a Poetry Class
Either I just noticed or I just became interested, but last night I started going to a poetry class that's part of Roke's Feminist Arts festival. It was especially attractive since it includes not only the opportunity to perform a piece or two, but also to have it published in a booklet.
Anyway, we're trying to write portraits of a person, place, or event that reveal the pertinent emotions. My memory being nearly as bad as my imagination, I figured I'd start with something recent that I wanted to write about anyway - the dance at the OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change) gathering that I attended last week. So here it is.
Old Lesbians’ Dance
I had a high old time
the other night
at the Old Lesbians’ Dance.
I duded up,
jewelry and all,
and tucked my stuff
in a fanny pack
to clear the decks for action.
The band played a few songs
I recognized from the 70s
and it was way too loud
for talking.
Most women were eager to dance,
and we danced together or apart.
Scent-free, of course -
this being a lesbian feminist gathering.
At one point, I found myself
dancing next to a petite white-haired
firecracker; we sang
“Rolling on the river”
to each other
on the choruses.
We began to glow
with our efforts
as the evening wore on;
breasts nestled against breasts
during the slow dances.
One partner started
to intertwine her legs with mine,
but my inhibitions
intervened.
A 92-year-old woman,
looking mighty fine in her
embroidered vest and smile,
leaves her scooter to dance
by attaching one hand to her partner
and the other to her cane.
I surprise myself
by lasting through three or four
dances before heading off
for a cup of cold water
and an upholstered bench.
Women from my past
swim into view,
fellow recorder players
a lesbian studies professor
women from my synagogue
the author of a play I acted in a few years ago
and two others from the cast.
I notice one old friend
wasting the dance floor
by talking with others.
I nip over to her
and plant one on her kisser,
surprising the spit out of her.
There were no snacks,
and I skipped the wine,
but I got plenty high
on the women
and the dancing
and belonging.
Anyway, we're trying to write portraits of a person, place, or event that reveal the pertinent emotions. My memory being nearly as bad as my imagination, I figured I'd start with something recent that I wanted to write about anyway - the dance at the OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change) gathering that I attended last week. So here it is.
Old Lesbians’ Dance
I had a high old time
the other night
at the Old Lesbians’ Dance.
I duded up,
jewelry and all,
and tucked my stuff
in a fanny pack
to clear the decks for action.
The band played a few songs
I recognized from the 70s
and it was way too loud
for talking.
Most women were eager to dance,
and we danced together or apart.
Scent-free, of course -
this being a lesbian feminist gathering.
At one point, I found myself
dancing next to a petite white-haired
firecracker; we sang
“Rolling on the river”
to each other
on the choruses.
We began to glow
with our efforts
as the evening wore on;
breasts nestled against breasts
during the slow dances.
One partner started
to intertwine her legs with mine,
but my inhibitions
intervened.
A 92-year-old woman,
looking mighty fine in her
embroidered vest and smile,
leaves her scooter to dance
by attaching one hand to her partner
and the other to her cane.
I surprise myself
by lasting through three or four
dances before heading off
for a cup of cold water
and an upholstered bench.
Women from my past
swim into view,
fellow recorder players
a lesbian studies professor
women from my synagogue
the author of a play I acted in a few years ago
and two others from the cast.
I notice one old friend
wasting the dance floor
by talking with others.
I nip over to her
and plant one on her kisser,
surprising the spit out of her.
There were no snacks,
and I skipped the wine,
but I got plenty high
on the women
and the dancing
and belonging.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
More Writings with Roke
So, I've been to several sessions to create and plan this year's Siren Project adventure. In several writing sessions, the following bits manifested:
Asked to write why I'm involved in this project, I wrote:
I want to make people laugh. I want to share my trials and awaken recognition in others -- surprise, validation, the feeling that I'm not the only one after all.
I want to be clever and wise, and have folks laugh at the cleverness and have the wisdom sneak up on them later.
I want to take cultural narratives of femininity and rework them until they relate to me and my life, letting folks see what a prison they can be and what freedom can look like.
I want to have fun, get to know some women batter, use my theatrical and other experience to help them realize their intentions.
I want to listen to what others have to say and learn from it. I want to hear in what they say something that I recognize as universal and wise.
I want to learn what others see and hear when I speak, so that I can get a true appreciation of myself and my gifts - one that is skewed neither by unfounded pride nor by baseless self-criticism.
____________________
Here are two other little bits that came out:
Part of me want to write about my softness fetish - for really soft sheets and towels, for fuzzy plants and my cat's fur. My nearly irresistible urge to pet a cute crew cut - on a man or a woman, or to stroke velvet or fur that's being worn near me.
My theory is that I was seriously deprived of cuddling and holding as an infant, so that now I'm driven to seek comforting contact to make up for the lack.
I also wonder about my thing for silver foxes. From my 30s, at least, I've had a soft spot for women with shortish silvery hair. So much that my longest relationship was with a woman 15 years older than me. I really lost out on mothering as a child, so I'm probably still seeking mothering that I missed. But now I'm the one with short silvery hair. Maybe I can be the mother that I've been looking for.
___________________
Asked to write why I'm involved in this project, I wrote:
I want to make people laugh. I want to share my trials and awaken recognition in others -- surprise, validation, the feeling that I'm not the only one after all.
I want to be clever and wise, and have folks laugh at the cleverness and have the wisdom sneak up on them later.
I want to take cultural narratives of femininity and rework them until they relate to me and my life, letting folks see what a prison they can be and what freedom can look like.
I want to have fun, get to know some women batter, use my theatrical and other experience to help them realize their intentions.
I want to listen to what others have to say and learn from it. I want to hear in what they say something that I recognize as universal and wise.
I want to learn what others see and hear when I speak, so that I can get a true appreciation of myself and my gifts - one that is skewed neither by unfounded pride nor by baseless self-criticism.
____________________
Here are two other little bits that came out:
Part of me want to write about my softness fetish - for really soft sheets and towels, for fuzzy plants and my cat's fur. My nearly irresistible urge to pet a cute crew cut - on a man or a woman, or to stroke velvet or fur that's being worn near me.
My theory is that I was seriously deprived of cuddling and holding as an infant, so that now I'm driven to seek comforting contact to make up for the lack.
I also wonder about my thing for silver foxes. From my 30s, at least, I've had a soft spot for women with shortish silvery hair. So much that my longest relationship was with a woman 15 years older than me. I really lost out on mothering as a child, so I'm probably still seeking mothering that I missed. But now I'm the one with short silvery hair. Maybe I can be the mother that I've been looking for.
___________________
Thursday, May 8, 2014
It Is Enough
Fairley asked us to write a response to the following nifty yoga poem by Danna Faulds:
It is enough right now
to taste one moment of
peace. Of course I want
more, but at least the
door is open.
It is enough to draw a
conscious breath and
let my hands relax,
fingers releasing their
tight grasp on things
outside of my control.
It is enough to shed a
layer of stress as if
taking off a jacket or a
pair of too-tight shoes.
Ease of being has to
start somewhere.
This breath is my
first step.
_____________
Not knowing the yogic context, I responded as follows:
"To taste one moment of peace." This reminds me of an article I read recently about six things you can do in 30 seconds to make you feel better - take some deep breaths, smile, stretch, etc.
The important part, however, comes right before doing anything. It's stepping outside of the badness far enough to see that badness isn't all there is. Getting out of 'helpless and hopeless' enough to see the possibility of things being different, of me being different. Being stuck inside a black cloud, we need something to remind us that somewhere else the sun is shining, and that we ourselves have enjoyed that sun in the past. Only then can we believe enough in the possibility of returning to the sun that we can even imagine doing something that can move us in that direction.
It is enough right now
to taste one moment of
peace. Of course I want
more, but at least the
door is open.
It is enough to draw a
conscious breath and
let my hands relax,
fingers releasing their
tight grasp on things
outside of my control.
It is enough to shed a
layer of stress as if
taking off a jacket or a
pair of too-tight shoes.
Ease of being has to
start somewhere.
This breath is my
first step.
_____________
Not knowing the yogic context, I responded as follows:
"To taste one moment of peace." This reminds me of an article I read recently about six things you can do in 30 seconds to make you feel better - take some deep breaths, smile, stretch, etc.
The important part, however, comes right before doing anything. It's stepping outside of the badness far enough to see that badness isn't all there is. Getting out of 'helpless and hopeless' enough to see the possibility of things being different, of me being different. Being stuck inside a black cloud, we need something to remind us that somewhere else the sun is shining, and that we ourselves have enjoyed that sun in the past. Only then can we believe enough in the possibility of returning to the sun that we can even imagine doing something that can move us in that direction.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Writing with Roke
I'm joining the Siren Project for another production, a bit like the one I was in two years ago, Mad Love. At an introductory session last Sunday, we had a period of writing to the prompt "In my perfect world, I would ...", to which I wrote as follows:
In my perfect world, I would have a perfect balance of action and rest, of being with others and being alone, of doing and writing about what I've done. I would love myself and not say mean things to me when I'm not perfect. I would love others, and think about ways to bring them pleasure.
I would wear clothes that are attractive and comfortable, and not frayed or stained.
I would pick up a companion for a walk or a meal as easily as I choose a book to read or a TV show.
I would understand politics and make powerful presentations to officials and voters that make this a better place to live.
I would have friends to cuddle with whenever my cat is not enough.
I would be able to share a wise perspective with friends, and be able to hear their perspective on my and my doings.
I would wake up refreshed and eager every new day to care for my body, mind, and spirit, and to get out into the world to play and work with others.
What I really want to say is that my world is pretty darn good right now, but I do tend to isolate myself. I need encouragement and support to get out and be active, and I need to accept that I also need time alone to recharge.
In my perfect world, I would get up in front of audiences and blow them away with my comedic ability and wit. I would sing funny songs that I wrote, and people would understand every word. I would cconvince people that I am whatever character I was playing.
I would go to sleep satisfied with all I did that day.
In my perfect world, I would have a perfect balance of action and rest, of being with others and being alone, of doing and writing about what I've done. I would love myself and not say mean things to me when I'm not perfect. I would love others, and think about ways to bring them pleasure.
I would wear clothes that are attractive and comfortable, and not frayed or stained.
I would pick up a companion for a walk or a meal as easily as I choose a book to read or a TV show.
I would understand politics and make powerful presentations to officials and voters that make this a better place to live.
I would have friends to cuddle with whenever my cat is not enough.
I would be able to share a wise perspective with friends, and be able to hear their perspective on my and my doings.
I would wake up refreshed and eager every new day to care for my body, mind, and spirit, and to get out into the world to play and work with others.
What I really want to say is that my world is pretty darn good right now, but I do tend to isolate myself. I need encouragement and support to get out and be active, and I need to accept that I also need time alone to recharge.
In my perfect world, I would get up in front of audiences and blow them away with my comedic ability and wit. I would sing funny songs that I wrote, and people would understand every word. I would cconvince people that I am whatever character I was playing.
I would go to sleep satisfied with all I did that day.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
I Complete My SPCA Training
I continued serving in the Purr Posse for most of the past year. I also started knitting little cat blankets for the office to sell as fundraisers, and am occasionally called in to help with mailings to donors. I actually enjoy stuffing envelopes now and then.
I took a little break from volunteering last month, when I developed a rash on the palm of my right hand that wouldn't have benefited from being stuffed into a rubber glove, and might have been contagious.
After the rash healed enough, I went back to the adoption center, to ease myself back into the swing of things without the complications of gowning and gloving. Turns out, I've gotten better at this over the months. I visited three singleton cats, and two of them climbed into my lap (which hardly ever happened in my early months in adoptions). The third cat had behavioral issues and a full page of detailed warnings that volunteers should wear long sleeved shirts to avoid bites on the arms and instructions on how to remove your hand from his mouth if bitten. I treated the cat with respect and he was a perfect gentleman with me.
Then I thought I might as well take the last training, on matchmaking visitors with cats or kittens. I don't expect to be doing much of that, but wanted to complete my training and get my own Cat Volunteer apron, so I could quit relying on whatever tattered rags were in the bins for partially trained volunteers. It's particularly annoying to have sanitized items falling to the floor through holes in the pockets, and having to replace them with clean ones.
So a week ago I took the class, and am now the proud possessor of my very own maroon apron, a brand new one, with no holes! I have arrived.
I took a little break from volunteering last month, when I developed a rash on the palm of my right hand that wouldn't have benefited from being stuffed into a rubber glove, and might have been contagious.
After the rash healed enough, I went back to the adoption center, to ease myself back into the swing of things without the complications of gowning and gloving. Turns out, I've gotten better at this over the months. I visited three singleton cats, and two of them climbed into my lap (which hardly ever happened in my early months in adoptions). The third cat had behavioral issues and a full page of detailed warnings that volunteers should wear long sleeved shirts to avoid bites on the arms and instructions on how to remove your hand from his mouth if bitten. I treated the cat with respect and he was a perfect gentleman with me.
Then I thought I might as well take the last training, on matchmaking visitors with cats or kittens. I don't expect to be doing much of that, but wanted to complete my training and get my own Cat Volunteer apron, so I could quit relying on whatever tattered rags were in the bins for partially trained volunteers. It's particularly annoying to have sanitized items falling to the floor through holes in the pockets, and having to replace them with clean ones.
So a week ago I took the class, and am now the proud possessor of my very own maroon apron, a brand new one, with no holes! I have arrived.
Sermon on 29th Anniversary of Congregation Sha'ar Zahav
Here's a sermon that I delivered in 2006 and somehow never got around to posting on this blog:
Sermon on Chukkat and Synagogue Anniversary, July 7, 2006
Last month I marched with the synagogue in the Gay Day parade for the first time in several years. I first marched in the parade in 1979, and marched every year after that for about a decade. Every year I marched, I collected the official parade pin. At the parade this year, I wore a necktie on which I displayed my pin collection. The first pin said simply 1979 Gay Freedom Day Parade and Celebration. Several people asked me what the parade had been like back in ’79. Smaller, I said, and less corporate and marchers didn’t give beads to the watchers. The real difference, though, was that marching back then was much more serious and risky. If we marched in public in a gay parade, somebody might see us.
Those were different times. Back in ’79, most homosexuals were in the closet – our families didn’t know we were gay, our friends didn’t know we were gay, our co-workers didn’t know we were gay, and most especially, fellow congregants of our churches and synagogues didn’t know we were gay. Most religious organizations believed that homosexuals were sick and sinful and unfit to pray to God. When we were allowed to pray, it was only to acknowledge how sinful were our desires and actions and to pray that we might be converted to heterosexuality.
But the gay rights movement had been percolating along for several years, and it was beginning to reach into the hearts of religious people. Congregation Sha’ar Zahav was founded on July 9, 1977, by three gay men – Daniel Chesir, Shamir Ofel, and Bernard Pechter. 1977 was a particularly intense year for gay rights. Anita Bryant had spearheaded the passage of a law in Miami that prohibited gays from being teachers. That hateful slap at our humanity galvanized the gay community and our supporters into the largest San Francisco Gay Freedom Day parade so far. I haven’t asked Daniel, but I suspect it’s not an accident that the three of them decided to claim their Jewish gay identity shortly after that year’s Gay Freedom Day parade. And I don’t have to ask them to know that they wanted to create a place where they could be Jewish and gay at the same time – a place to be Jewish without having to give up being gay, and a place to be gay without having to give up Judaism.
So, Monday, July 9, marks the 29th anniversary of the founding of Congregation Sha’ar Zahav. The challenges of founding a gay synagogue included finding a regular place to meet, finding publishers who were willing to accept advertisements for Sha'ar Zahav services, and gaining acceptance from Jewish organizations.
I first attended the synagogue in 1980. At that time, services were being held at the Jewish Community Center. The first night I came to shul, I was asked to do a reading. That made me feel welcomed and honored. I had grown up in a Reform synagogue; so some parts of the service were familiar and other parts were new to me, but not for long. After a while I was asked to deliver a guest sermon, even though I was a member of a Lutheran church at the time (it’s a long story). I grew away from the church, and joined the synagogue.
The congregation was small then; maybe 40 people came to Friday night services, and most of them were men. There was a part-time rabbi named Allen Bennett. He and I had already met, having served as co-chairs of the Council on Religion and the Homosexual for a couple of years. Then more women started attending services, and there was some wrangling until feminism took hold.
The congregation grew, and we moved from the smallish room into a gymnasium. After another while, we bought the building on Danvers Street and hired a full-time rabbi. We joined the Union of American Hebrew Congregations. In addition to Shabbat worship, we conducted weddings, and funerals, and baby namings, and Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. We acquired land in a cemetery and started taking congregational trips to Israel. We became a full-sized, full-fledged, full-service synagogue.
In this week’s portion, Chukkat, the Israelites are still developing into a congregation. The portion opens with the laws concerning purification of those who have touched a corpse by anointing them with the ashes of a red heifer. Eleazar the priest is commanded to sprinkle the heifer’s blood towards the Tent of Meeting before the heifer is burned and turned into ashes, which are stored outside the camp. Everyone who touches the heifer or its ashes becomes unclean by so doing, but the ashes are to be used for purification. It’s rather mysterious.
What draws my attention is that the blood sprinkling is to be done by Eleazar, the son of Aaron. Sometime between last week’s portion and this week’s, 38 years have passed. This week’s portion records the deaths of Miriam and Aaron, and we know how much time has passed because the Torah tells us elsewhere that Aaron lived 40 years after leaving Egypt. In this portion, also, God tells Moses and Aaron to take the rod and assemble the community and order a rock to bring forth water. Instead, Moses hits the rock with the rod, and is therefore condemned to die outside the promised land.
A changing of the guard is happening; the generation that left Egypt is dying off, and only Caleb and Joshua of that generation will survive to cross the Jordan. Those whose minds were shaped by slavery could not get the hang of following God’s laws and depending on God for food and water and safety. Only a new generation could trust in God enough to succeed in conquering the land and making it home.
We’ve been having something of a generational shift at Sha’ar Zahav, too. We’ve shifted away from a synagogue founded by and for single gay men to one that consists largely of families, of all configurations, and many of them with children – there’s an aufruf, a wedding, or a Bar or Bat Mitzvah nearly every week. Children of members are starting to co-lead services. Not to fear, the synagogue is still a good place to meet someone special; there are still some single members (such as yours truly). In fact, there are some liturgists among us who are interested in writing rituals for non-family occasions such as menopause and retirement.
A synagogue is a place for communal prayer, and is also a place to make friends, to learn about Judaism, to receive prayers for healing, to be comforted on a loss. Sha’ar Zahav has for 29 years been the place where we come to present ourselves to God in all our diversity and uniqueness. And it’s where we come to help each other with our life journeys, and to get encouragement and guidance in our task to help repair the world. Long may its banner wave.
Sermon on Chukkat and Synagogue Anniversary, July 7, 2006
Last month I marched with the synagogue in the Gay Day parade for the first time in several years. I first marched in the parade in 1979, and marched every year after that for about a decade. Every year I marched, I collected the official parade pin. At the parade this year, I wore a necktie on which I displayed my pin collection. The first pin said simply 1979 Gay Freedom Day Parade and Celebration. Several people asked me what the parade had been like back in ’79. Smaller, I said, and less corporate and marchers didn’t give beads to the watchers. The real difference, though, was that marching back then was much more serious and risky. If we marched in public in a gay parade, somebody might see us.
Those were different times. Back in ’79, most homosexuals were in the closet – our families didn’t know we were gay, our friends didn’t know we were gay, our co-workers didn’t know we were gay, and most especially, fellow congregants of our churches and synagogues didn’t know we were gay. Most religious organizations believed that homosexuals were sick and sinful and unfit to pray to God. When we were allowed to pray, it was only to acknowledge how sinful were our desires and actions and to pray that we might be converted to heterosexuality.
But the gay rights movement had been percolating along for several years, and it was beginning to reach into the hearts of religious people. Congregation Sha’ar Zahav was founded on July 9, 1977, by three gay men – Daniel Chesir, Shamir Ofel, and Bernard Pechter. 1977 was a particularly intense year for gay rights. Anita Bryant had spearheaded the passage of a law in Miami that prohibited gays from being teachers. That hateful slap at our humanity galvanized the gay community and our supporters into the largest San Francisco Gay Freedom Day parade so far. I haven’t asked Daniel, but I suspect it’s not an accident that the three of them decided to claim their Jewish gay identity shortly after that year’s Gay Freedom Day parade. And I don’t have to ask them to know that they wanted to create a place where they could be Jewish and gay at the same time – a place to be Jewish without having to give up being gay, and a place to be gay without having to give up Judaism.
So, Monday, July 9, marks the 29th anniversary of the founding of Congregation Sha’ar Zahav. The challenges of founding a gay synagogue included finding a regular place to meet, finding publishers who were willing to accept advertisements for Sha'ar Zahav services, and gaining acceptance from Jewish organizations.
I first attended the synagogue in 1980. At that time, services were being held at the Jewish Community Center. The first night I came to shul, I was asked to do a reading. That made me feel welcomed and honored. I had grown up in a Reform synagogue; so some parts of the service were familiar and other parts were new to me, but not for long. After a while I was asked to deliver a guest sermon, even though I was a member of a Lutheran church at the time (it’s a long story). I grew away from the church, and joined the synagogue.
The congregation was small then; maybe 40 people came to Friday night services, and most of them were men. There was a part-time rabbi named Allen Bennett. He and I had already met, having served as co-chairs of the Council on Religion and the Homosexual for a couple of years. Then more women started attending services, and there was some wrangling until feminism took hold.
The congregation grew, and we moved from the smallish room into a gymnasium. After another while, we bought the building on Danvers Street and hired a full-time rabbi. We joined the Union of American Hebrew Congregations. In addition to Shabbat worship, we conducted weddings, and funerals, and baby namings, and Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. We acquired land in a cemetery and started taking congregational trips to Israel. We became a full-sized, full-fledged, full-service synagogue.
In this week’s portion, Chukkat, the Israelites are still developing into a congregation. The portion opens with the laws concerning purification of those who have touched a corpse by anointing them with the ashes of a red heifer. Eleazar the priest is commanded to sprinkle the heifer’s blood towards the Tent of Meeting before the heifer is burned and turned into ashes, which are stored outside the camp. Everyone who touches the heifer or its ashes becomes unclean by so doing, but the ashes are to be used for purification. It’s rather mysterious.
What draws my attention is that the blood sprinkling is to be done by Eleazar, the son of Aaron. Sometime between last week’s portion and this week’s, 38 years have passed. This week’s portion records the deaths of Miriam and Aaron, and we know how much time has passed because the Torah tells us elsewhere that Aaron lived 40 years after leaving Egypt. In this portion, also, God tells Moses and Aaron to take the rod and assemble the community and order a rock to bring forth water. Instead, Moses hits the rock with the rod, and is therefore condemned to die outside the promised land.
A changing of the guard is happening; the generation that left Egypt is dying off, and only Caleb and Joshua of that generation will survive to cross the Jordan. Those whose minds were shaped by slavery could not get the hang of following God’s laws and depending on God for food and water and safety. Only a new generation could trust in God enough to succeed in conquering the land and making it home.
We’ve been having something of a generational shift at Sha’ar Zahav, too. We’ve shifted away from a synagogue founded by and for single gay men to one that consists largely of families, of all configurations, and many of them with children – there’s an aufruf, a wedding, or a Bar or Bat Mitzvah nearly every week. Children of members are starting to co-lead services. Not to fear, the synagogue is still a good place to meet someone special; there are still some single members (such as yours truly). In fact, there are some liturgists among us who are interested in writing rituals for non-family occasions such as menopause and retirement.
A synagogue is a place for communal prayer, and is also a place to make friends, to learn about Judaism, to receive prayers for healing, to be comforted on a loss. Sha’ar Zahav has for 29 years been the place where we come to present ourselves to God in all our diversity and uniqueness. And it’s where we come to help each other with our life journeys, and to get encouragement and guidance in our task to help repair the world. Long may its banner wave.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Latest Writing Workshop
Yesterday I went to Alameda for an afternoon writing workshop using the Amherst Method of writing to prompts in a group. My favorite way of writing. There were three prompts, and I'm willing to share my responses to two of them with you.
Things My Mother Said to Me
"When I'm alone, I'm in bad company."
"Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional."
"Pray for potatoes and pick up the plow."
"You can do that; you're free, white, and over 21."
"That was an E-ticket ride."
"They tell me I was a cuddly drunk."
"That poncho is ugly." The one I designed and made for myself out of fake fur.
"I want you to complete the following sentence: Mother, I hate you because ..." I declined to respond, knowing that I wasn't ready to say, and she wasn't ready to hear, what might come up. My brother, not so canny, had replied - 'I don't hate you, but I don't love you either, since you weren't there while we were growing up.'
Because of her alcoholism, we were raised by grandparents, and didn't come to live with her until we were in high school. Anyway, after my brother's response, she turned against him for the rest of her life.
"Action is the magic word." As she put on lively music to help us with house cleaning.
What I really want to say is - we only spent holidays with her until we were teenagers, so it was an unusual and odd relationship, more like playmates than family. Then when we came to live with her, she told us in so many words that she figured we were grown up enough, and that she wouldn't try to raise us. She'd just make meals and write checks from money that our father had left us when he suddenly died, and she had finally stepped up to be our mother to the best of her minimal ability.
*******************************
If
If I could convince the crowd inside my head to all be on my side, at least most of the time, at least most of the crowd.
If I remember and love my inner child, and wish her a nourishing balance of play, structure, and security.
If I look to each new day with hope - if not instead of, then at least along with dread or numbness or boredom or shame.
If I pick up the phone and write email in the assurance that I am worth spending time with.
If I look in the mirror, if not with appreciation for what I see, then at least with compassion and a kindly curiosity.
If I set pen to paper every so often, knowing that either something interesting will come out or the practice will do me good, maybe even both.
If I walk, or dance, or yoga or tai chi most days, knowing that it's good for me and that I'll probably feel better for it.
If I pay attention to what I choose to eat, getting full enjoyment from it and letting my inner wisdom help me make those choices.
If I read my email like it contains buried treasure, and I can find new people, places, and activities that will enrich my life,
If I choose to go to workshops and demonstrations, and dances, giving myself permission to make the choices that seem good at the time, and knowing that there's no blame in deciding to make different choices next time.
If I allow myself to have dreams about how I could share my experience and abilities to add beauty and justice to the world.
If I can enjoy reading my mind candy and occasionally read some non-fiction or literary fiction, or magazine articles that I allow to make me think.
If I dust off my music collection and allow the notes to touch my emotions however they will.
If I really live this part of my life, who knows what could happen?
Things My Mother Said to Me
"When I'm alone, I'm in bad company."
"Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional."
"Pray for potatoes and pick up the plow."
"You can do that; you're free, white, and over 21."
"That was an E-ticket ride."
"They tell me I was a cuddly drunk."
"That poncho is ugly." The one I designed and made for myself out of fake fur.
"I want you to complete the following sentence: Mother, I hate you because ..." I declined to respond, knowing that I wasn't ready to say, and she wasn't ready to hear, what might come up. My brother, not so canny, had replied - 'I don't hate you, but I don't love you either, since you weren't there while we were growing up.'
Because of her alcoholism, we were raised by grandparents, and didn't come to live with her until we were in high school. Anyway, after my brother's response, she turned against him for the rest of her life.
"Action is the magic word." As she put on lively music to help us with house cleaning.
What I really want to say is - we only spent holidays with her until we were teenagers, so it was an unusual and odd relationship, more like playmates than family. Then when we came to live with her, she told us in so many words that she figured we were grown up enough, and that she wouldn't try to raise us. She'd just make meals and write checks from money that our father had left us when he suddenly died, and she had finally stepped up to be our mother to the best of her minimal ability.
*******************************
If
If I could convince the crowd inside my head to all be on my side, at least most of the time, at least most of the crowd.
If I remember and love my inner child, and wish her a nourishing balance of play, structure, and security.
If I look to each new day with hope - if not instead of, then at least along with dread or numbness or boredom or shame.
If I pick up the phone and write email in the assurance that I am worth spending time with.
If I look in the mirror, if not with appreciation for what I see, then at least with compassion and a kindly curiosity.
If I set pen to paper every so often, knowing that either something interesting will come out or the practice will do me good, maybe even both.
If I walk, or dance, or yoga or tai chi most days, knowing that it's good for me and that I'll probably feel better for it.
If I pay attention to what I choose to eat, getting full enjoyment from it and letting my inner wisdom help me make those choices.
If I read my email like it contains buried treasure, and I can find new people, places, and activities that will enrich my life,
If I choose to go to workshops and demonstrations, and dances, giving myself permission to make the choices that seem good at the time, and knowing that there's no blame in deciding to make different choices next time.
If I allow myself to have dreams about how I could share my experience and abilities to add beauty and justice to the world.
If I can enjoy reading my mind candy and occasionally read some non-fiction or literary fiction, or magazine articles that I allow to make me think.
If I dust off my music collection and allow the notes to touch my emotions however they will.
If I really live this part of my life, who knows what could happen?
Monday, January 20, 2014
Doing It For Myself
I've been participating in this effort called DIFO, Doing It For Ourselves, since the first focus groups. It's a federally funded health program for lesbian and bisexual women over 40 who are at risk for weight-related illnesses.
It's not a weight-loss program, but a holistic approach to mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual health through peer-led group discussions. Every session involves gentle movements, sharing of some information from research about lesbian and bi women, consideration of how homophobia and fat phobia mess with our self-image and adversely impact our health, and suggestions of techniques we can use to find areas we want to work on and to maximize our chances of continuing with any good habits we manage to form.
I went to a lot of meetings that tried out some of the materials to be incorporated into the program. I also volunteered to be filmed while learning the program of stretching and strengthening that's included in our online materials. On top of which, a still picture from the session is on the group's poster. Look ma! I'm the poster dyke for DIFO!
The actual program began a few months ago, and next week is my last session of the formal series. I haven't made any profound changes to my eating habits, but I have started going to dance classes. At two to four hours a week, this begins to resemble aerobic exercise. And it's a whole lot of fun, too.
I'm also trying to get into a tai chi class. I tried one at the LGBT center a few months ago, but it wasn't my cup of tea. Last week I tried the class at the 30th Street Senior Center. I made it through about 25 minutes before my feet started hurting too much. But I made an appointment with my podiatrist and plan to go back to the class and see if I can last a few minutes more each time.
For me, the secret to getting out and doing something is having someone to do it with. I can drag myself to some places alone, but would much rather have a friend for company and motivation.
The grant also supports a number of community-building events that take place at the LGBT Center. The last such event, a party, included an open mike segment at which I made my debut as a stand-up comic, with a mini-act lasting less than 90 seconds. I figure one has to start somewhere.
Another change I attribute to being involved with DIFO is my engagement in more home decluttering. I pared down all my possessions three and a half years ago, before moving down a floor in my building in preparation for retirement. Now, after three years of retirement, my books and papers, and pretty much everything else, was starting to get away from me - multiplying in the corners when I wasn't looking, and forming piles on every horizontal surface.
I'm dating again, and hoping to become just a bit more hospitable than my usual hermitlike self, so I'd like not to be ashamed to invite someone into my home. With a little nudge from my involvement in DIFO, I invited my space organizer back for a second round of decluttering.
We've been at it for about four sessions. We started with clothes and musical instruments, and swept through my food cupboard in the kitchen. Then I sorted through all my recorder music and every book in the place. I unloaded some eight carton boxes full of books alone. Now I have spaces in my library wall of built-in bookcases for my recorders and my tote bags full of recorder music.
My living room and the papers will be last - I've been working my way up to the areas I find hardest to tackle. Then, look out world, I might just invite you in for a cup of tea.
It's not a weight-loss program, but a holistic approach to mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual health through peer-led group discussions. Every session involves gentle movements, sharing of some information from research about lesbian and bi women, consideration of how homophobia and fat phobia mess with our self-image and adversely impact our health, and suggestions of techniques we can use to find areas we want to work on and to maximize our chances of continuing with any good habits we manage to form.
I went to a lot of meetings that tried out some of the materials to be incorporated into the program. I also volunteered to be filmed while learning the program of stretching and strengthening that's included in our online materials. On top of which, a still picture from the session is on the group's poster. Look ma! I'm the poster dyke for DIFO!
The actual program began a few months ago, and next week is my last session of the formal series. I haven't made any profound changes to my eating habits, but I have started going to dance classes. At two to four hours a week, this begins to resemble aerobic exercise. And it's a whole lot of fun, too.
I'm also trying to get into a tai chi class. I tried one at the LGBT center a few months ago, but it wasn't my cup of tea. Last week I tried the class at the 30th Street Senior Center. I made it through about 25 minutes before my feet started hurting too much. But I made an appointment with my podiatrist and plan to go back to the class and see if I can last a few minutes more each time.
For me, the secret to getting out and doing something is having someone to do it with. I can drag myself to some places alone, but would much rather have a friend for company and motivation.
The grant also supports a number of community-building events that take place at the LGBT Center. The last such event, a party, included an open mike segment at which I made my debut as a stand-up comic, with a mini-act lasting less than 90 seconds. I figure one has to start somewhere.
Another change I attribute to being involved with DIFO is my engagement in more home decluttering. I pared down all my possessions three and a half years ago, before moving down a floor in my building in preparation for retirement. Now, after three years of retirement, my books and papers, and pretty much everything else, was starting to get away from me - multiplying in the corners when I wasn't looking, and forming piles on every horizontal surface.
I'm dating again, and hoping to become just a bit more hospitable than my usual hermitlike self, so I'd like not to be ashamed to invite someone into my home. With a little nudge from my involvement in DIFO, I invited my space organizer back for a second round of decluttering.
We've been at it for about four sessions. We started with clothes and musical instruments, and swept through my food cupboard in the kitchen. Then I sorted through all my recorder music and every book in the place. I unloaded some eight carton boxes full of books alone. Now I have spaces in my library wall of built-in bookcases for my recorders and my tote bags full of recorder music.
My living room and the papers will be last - I've been working my way up to the areas I find hardest to tackle. Then, look out world, I might just invite you in for a cup of tea.
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