Sorry-Grateful Celebration

Anything is possible when you're young. You're unaware, unknowing, unburdened. You're all Un and all in, ready to give anything a go. When I was 14 I visited the Sam Ash store on 48th street and bought a book of sheet music: All Sondheim. If I could play the Bach my piano teacher was serving up, I could master these pieces, which with my level of musical experience, looked accessible to me. I definitely bought something more embarrassing while there, a collection of songs by Asia, or maybe Kansas, hoping to appeal to some of the boys in my life then, but the Sondheim was for me. The lyrics of "The Miller's Son" spoke to my 520 year old spirit. I would take this book home, master the songs, and be the hit of the next school variety show (a daydream, since our school never did variety shows, we only put on drab choral productions).

Instead of mastering anything, I hamfisted my way through rapid key changes, chords that never seemed to resolve,  and unexpected turns of phrase. I tortured my parents with my voice full of teen misery belting out "Somebody crowd me with love/somebody force me to care." The feeling in the lyrics, humor married to sadness, all of Sondheim's acrobatic wordplay, the celebration of complicated relationships, of living, challenged me. I wanted to be able to sing the songs with experience. Play them with an agile mind and hands. Maybe even eat them. Why not? I felt consumed by them.

Sondheim was a mentor I never met. His songs carried me through my teens, and when I was a young adult, driving back and forth between college and home, I'd listen as the light switch of poetry flicked on and off and on again as I played "Someone in a Tree," or "What More Do I Need?" (hear the lovely pneumatic drill!) over and over. Those cassettes wore thin and twisted, and eventually melted in the car. I felt I was an artist then. I felt I was musical.  I felt I had potential as I bounced back and forth between school and the upright piano of home, where I returned to open up that sheet music and feel the exhilaration of language, rhythm, internal rhyme, and the complicated narratives of living.

Last night Twitter was alive with Sondheim memories, and Dan read me a few of the letters he wrote back to fans. I regret not having written him a letter. Why didn't I? I just gobbled up his music, and marveled at his brilliance, and took everything for granted, and everything I could from him as a teacher, and I never thanked him. 

My piano is out of tune now. This morning in the dark I pulled All Sondheim out of the piano bench, and opened it up to find the binding all botched, the pages shuffled so the lyrics of "Another Hundred People" mash up with "Send in the Clowns" to read this celebration:

Some come to stare/some to stay/

something for everyone/ a comedy tonight!

 

Woeman in the Wierld

Woeman in the Wierld

I shared this filmlet a few months ago at a professional development session. It took me way too long to make this (I fretted for months over what to share), and I was told I was brave, and that it was abstract, and then we were onto the rest of the professional development day of planning with educators. 

I feel better about it thanks to my friend Natalie, who wasn't part of that session, but later saw it projected on a shower curtain screen in the Wunderbarn and had kind things to say about the kind of bravery it takes to show process.

It is a poem of process. All of it. Life.

Thanksgiving

This morning, fog strikes  
even the centuries-old trees dumb.
There is nothing tender,
no great humility about my face anymore.
Was there ever?
At this hour, I love only words
that spark in air like filaments
of spider webs, wise as rooftops,
healthy as shadows on the wall.
I’m unworthy of whatever spills
out of this anthill, I know that much.
Prayer, gratitude, tears —
years brief and long,
a mist tightened around
my remembering.

Customer Service

I’d like to return these hands, please,
thumbs a replacement of my father,
veins roiling the skin’s surface belong to my grandmother.
My mother’s mount of Venus softness
doesn’t fit me yet, and the fingernails
keep growing as if I am already dead.
Finally, what I’ve always wanted,
I can polish them to a high gloss, but don’t.
I like the little space that opens near
the base of my thumb by the wrist
as if it were made for salt.

When I cover my ears with these hands
I hear the ocean. Is that normal?

It’s not a renunciation, I just want a refund.
No, not a refund, an acknowledgement
that my ancestors play “Pile on the Living”
and have the best laugh as I prove I am
pretty and stupid, petty and wise,
happy and angryugly as I reach
and grab, a garish consumer
approaching the checkout.

How Do I Write A Poem (O, The God Of It All)

about the fool and her robes

above the precipice with her dancing dog

across a vista no one can see

after the sun has turned ash white

against the yellow sky, which is

at noon, perhaps, or very early

before two in the morning when

below all sweet snoring and

between the folly of humanity

by the frenzied snail of dream images, oh

for what? How do I write a poem

from the edge of the escarpment

in this state of delirium, nullity,

into words that signify what you see

of the world, without knowing how you feel

on the bindle of language, the relationship of this word

to that word, the feather in your cap fed

up 

with the gaud of it all.

The River of Free Flowing Fear

 When I'm in a state of dread, I organize. I am not known for my excellent organizational skills, but when confronted with a dreaded medical procedure, my house gets sorted. Fear kicks me into a state of high level focus for the things I have put off. It forces me to take on tasks I wouldn't ordinarily pursue. If I'm feeling vulnerable, I take back control by rearranging the pantry, setting up shelves in the basement, getting shoes off the mudroom floor and into their own individual cubbies, and clearing areas that are piled up with the hodgepodge of life. 

I think I have an amicable enough relationship with fear, but I don't want to hang out in a constant state of it. First of all, it's costly in a couple of ways. I bought a shelving unit, banker's boxes, and one morning while dreaming of a tidier and cozier living room, I added a sectional sofa to my virtual cart as if we have unlimited funds. Constant fear and anxiety build up in my body. My lower back ached from all the uprightness. I think I can even blame my hip pain last week partially on this dread inside me, which cranked up my gears of impatience with myself, and resulted in the injury.

What was I dreading? A routine colonoscopy, the award you win for reaching your fifth decade of life. My husband went for his two weeks before me, and I was his wide-eyed guide and support, taking mental notes on the preparation, participating in the fasting required the day before the procedure to see how that felt and also offer some solidarity (who wants to eat in front of a loved one who is fasting?), and taking on the role of "required driver." I worried about him in the waiting room, keeping my eye on the board that announces what phase patients are in like a departures and arrivals board at an airport. I was relieved when I saw he was done, and as he was coming out of his "magical space nap," he had the presence of mind to crack a classic Dan joke that was a play on the word polyp. "What do you get at the end of a colonoscopy? A lollypolyp."

Even though I knew what to expect, and the overall procedure, it didn't keep me from worry. What if I never wake up? What if I'm just a walking sack of colon lumps? What if I'm allergic to the magical space nap, or Miralax, Dulcolax, or Pedialyte? I joked I was going to run away. Seeing everything, knowing I'd likely be fine, was not enough to keep me from wondering, worrying, and dreading, because I didn't know how it would feel.

So I set up candles in the bathroom for the evening of my prep, and had my favorite guilty pleasure reading material handy. Why not make it cozy, right? I busied myself with farm chores, and household upkeep. I followed the procedure, which I won't bore you with here, the likes of which we refer to as The Brown Detour. Then I set my alarm for 3 a.m. for "round two"of timed swill guzzling followed by reading in the candlelit loo.

Tired, but having survived the prep, I did some yoga, showered, and we headed to the hospital. I had my outfit all ready. My husband asked, "You're going to wear those boots?" Yes. They are my favorite shoes. They make me feel like I know where I'm going, even when I don't.

I just completed training for Artists in Healthcare Settings. During Dan's visit, I got the waiting area perspective. There were a few photos that were easy to ignore in the waiting area (the TV dominated), and some children's art in praise of healthcare workers during the pandemic. I saw little to soothe the patient in the hallways or entryway, or anything that actively engaged those waiting for loved ones.

In my post-op room yesterday, there was a large, framed color photograph of a female purple finch. I kept my gaze on it as my IV was inserted, and when I needed to self-soothe. It helped me so much, this photograph that I'd probably not pay too much attention to in any other environment. The rest of the room and the hallway I had full view of was a sensory overload of beeps, alarms, sterile machines, chat about patients and routines. I overheard two nurses discussing a woman in labor and thought, "Oh! Someone is just starting their life today!" and I felt so much happier but totally overwhelmed by the feeling of being older mixed with that joy that I burst into tears. I didn't want that to be translated into fear, because it wasn't, and I didn't have the presence of mind to explain it, so I got it together before another nurse arrived. I would have liked to continue crying. It felt good.

I did not enjoy wheeling into the room where the procedure was done. It was devoid of art, and more like a set for a sci-fi movie, all monitors and glaring lights, and unknown and unexplained devices. My IV was connected to a drip of magical sleep juice, I was given a mask with oxygen, and when the doctor entered, I was told that would be their cue to start the drip. I'd smell something fruity, perhaps, and drift off. I closed my eyes, listening to my elevated heart rate on the monitor, my nose begging for fruity sniffs, and when I smelled the anesthesia, I thought, "It's happening." Then I was out, off, over, to wherever it is you go when you're given anesthesia.

I woke up, and said the word "spacey" about a dozen times. I felt like my mind was returning from having been on the moon. I felt floaty, not a bad headspace, but still eager for the booted feet of my mind to touch the Earth. When they did, I was given apple juice and the result everyone wants: colon as empty as a French Horn, and as musical as one for the rest of the day, too.

I am not a walking sack of polyps. I was not allergic to anything. I woke up. I survived. I don't need to return for another ten years. My dread and fear were replaced with relief, for now. I had the overwhelming desire to call my mother, and tell her I'm ok, and for us to share a laugh about the pregnancy test I was given before the procedure. 

When I return at 62 I will not get that test, but someone will be born that day in the very same building, their spirit in full float, then touching down as a fresh explorer in a new world.

Not So Funyun

We made a trip to Sam's Club yesterday, two initiates into the highgarglorum of big box wonderstores. Dan got us a membership when he saw the price of butter. We go through a lot of butter, flour, and eggs with our home baking business, Sunflour. The portal to bulk buying opened wide, and swallowed us.

It's way too easy to lose your favorite human in a big box superstore, with racks stacked almost to ceiling height with Pampers and Stove Top stuffing. While my interest was in produce, Dan was a bumblebee among, where was he now, sushi? Entertaining crackers? After losing him twice, I suggested we explore every aisle. We needed a tactic: Know the layout. Stay focused. A list was imperative for shopping here. As are your own bags, which we learned the hard way.

Produce was large quantities of white grapes that looked as if they were pumped full of steroids, and hefty sacks of untrustworthy, swarthy looking lettuces. The mushrooms looked fine, as did some bags of apples, and asparagus.

We wandered the entire store filled with seven foot televisions, Christmas gaud, fat shiny tins of holiday cookies made with coconut oils (I wanted some but no), and enough office supplies for several large corporations. The savings on frozen foods, if you have a large family, is significant. It makes it worth shopping there on the regular. But we are not a large family, so while it's impressive I can walk out of the store with four 16 oz. pouches of frozen broccoli for 6.48, I don't have the space to spare for that much broccoli at once.

 I did get three 5 ct. packs of banker's boxes for 2.71 each that will help me organize the prop room, and a couple of new toilet brushes that came with a warranty I passed on at the checkout.

The checkout attendants took everything out of our cart for us, and then put it back in, unbagged, so we were left to our own devices to pack and unpack a car full of hodgepodge -- 90 ct. flats of eggs, flaps of cheese, banker's boxes, butter. On the way out of the store, another attendant scanned our receipt and a few items in our cart to make sure they matched. No stealing from the Waltons! Then we were on our way to swearing the kitchen walls blue as we crammed an inflated bag of tortilla chips into our tiny pantry. 

On the wall above the checkout scanners was a quote from Helen Walton that rang up as hollow as a 9.25 oz. bag of Funyuns: "It's not what you gather, but what you scatter that tells what kind of life you lived." 

 

Pain and Professional Vanity

I'm pretty sure I have an anterior labral tear, and the root cause is professional vanity. The pain was so intense last night I got anxious which started involuntary shuddering in my legs. I felt lightning bolts when I sat, moved laterally, or bent over, and a peal of shattered glass when I leaned against the kitchen counter. It didn't begin like this. It's been gradual. There's been overall tightness in the hip flexors, which I've tended to with yoga. Yesterday, I had slight pain in the morning during my practice.

The day before yesterday, I was eager to jump back into practicing "The Six Hoop Box," which has been out of my regular rotation of practice, and I like to use it in performances. I tested it out with success. Not just success, but I did a half turn while the hoop was still rotating on my left foot. Which means the leg was outstretched in front of me, then to the side, and then behind. I was using every lateral rotator I think. Did I warm up enough? Nope. I had just finished the usual practice, and was moving into the "play time" period of practice where I tinker with new ideas, or challenge myself, or rework sequences I like to keep in regular rotation.

Now I am doing this move: prone. I cannot sit. I cannot go up steps. I am in one position, with a bag of frozen mixed vegetables on my hip, this laptop on my thighs, wondering how I am going to manage a 1 p.m. meeting when I should not be in bed.

The pain I feel is also deeply connected to my aging and the athletic part of my profession, which I believe may be starting its last, slower twirls like a coin spun on a table. I've been feeling this for a long while, looking for a direct sign. I may have given myself the direct sign by injuring myself "trying to keep up." My own vanity and ego are doing me in. I want to keep up, I love what I do. I love the personal challenges, the proof that I am not only capable but have become quite accomplished at something athletic and very physical, the look of surprise and delight from audiences, the attention my reply of "I'm a circus performer" gets when I respond to the question "What do you do?" 

What a pain it will be to let that all go one day, and maybe also a relief.

How To Take Candy From Strangers: A Style Guide

One Year and Under

Your adult caregiver will dress you as the world's most adorable ghost, dinosaur, or pumpkin. You will be strolled along the sidewalk to the oohs and ahhs of all. Sure you have no grasping skills yet, and a full set of teeth is still a dream, but the adults will fill up a sack on "your behalf."

Two to Five

If you're anything like me, and I know I am, you'll end up the sidekick to your sibling. Wear that chicken costume well, vamp it up, and steal the show. Your method for candy grabs is "Polite Random." You're still learning the etiquette from your elders. Pinch a single treat between your thumb and pointer finger, look up at the giver, and when they purl "You can take more than one," DO NOT LOOK AT YOUR PARENTS. Just go for it. A full skill crane grab.

Six to Twelve

You have an obligation now to be entertaining. It's a lot of work, because it was going to be good and now it's all ruined because your chicken sister is stealing the show with her clucking at everyone and what have you got? A plaid shirt and a cowboy hat. Whatever. Let the chicken do the work, and while she's vamping, you can sift through the proffered candies like you're looking for a very important government document. You're no longer a cowboy, you're counter-intelligence. You've been contracted for this job, it's important. Don't just get any candy. Get the RIGHT candy, and bring it back to headquarters. If you screw up, trade it for "better information."

Thirteen and Up

No one knows what your costume is supposed to be, just like they don't understand your poetry, your drawings, or your slang. Everything is just the way you want it.  You've been practicing and working your way up to this moment. All you have to do is amble over, mumble "What's up" or some version of a greeting, and since it's later in the prescribed Trick-or-Treat timeline, you can pretty much take whatever you want. This is your night, you're the CEO of Halloween. It's why you wore your backpack, instead of bringing a pillowcase or one of those plastic Jack-o-Lanterns.

Tip for the Middle Aged and Up Givers

When you run out of your puny candy bars, wear the empty colander on your head. Instant costume! You're a conspiracy theorist concerned about harmful gamma rays, but you're not stupid. You bought a whole bag of peppermint patties for later, just for yourself.