starting over, day 3

I’ve been temporarily derailed by jury duty, which I got called in for last Friday. Not that I mind doing my civic duty. I was empaneled, sat on a jury, and we were able to deliberate and return a verdict just in time for dinner.

I’ve been playing catch-up all weekend, and just now am getting around to more poetry.

***

0-0

Chalk shrieks
down blackboard
too shrill
to ignore

coated in
gypsum
my hands
underscore

over
and over
and one
hundred more

till white
buries black
and I’ve
lost the score

time to
forgive I
can’t count
anymore.

starting over, day 2

In trying to dig deep, I may have dug too far. I know I’m still far too close to this to write a poem about it and work on it objectively, but here it is–for better or not better.

***

And Change

It’s been a month
And change
since my womb emptied itself
disgorged the bloody leavings
of what would have been
my child

some days I still see through
shades of blue and gray
curtains of rain and fog
some days the sun
shines so bright
it too makes me cry

I see my two children
with quick minds
perfectly formed bodies
reminding me I should feel lucky
so lucky that what wasn’t perfect
will never be

it’s been a week
and change
since my womb began again
its appointed ebb and flow
reminding me I’m not ready yet
to try again.

starting over, day 1

I haven’t written anything new in quite a while. It’s definitely time.

Last night I stopped by Read Write Poem, was reminded of how much inspiration I’ve gotten from their prompts, and decided to take a chance by doing their newest “mini-challenge”. I’m fully prepared to really suck at this, but I think it will be good for me to write a poem every day for a week.

***

The Amnesty of Today

It doesn’t matter that yesterday I
hit the snooze button instead of working out
forgot my morning prayers
called in sick when I wasn’t
yelled at my kids
did 45 mph in a 20
flirted shamelessly to get out of a ticket
backdated the check for my phone bill by a week
ate two chocolate glazed donuts for lunch
went back for thirds
gossiped at the grocery store
didn’t tell the cashier when she gave me a ten instead of a one
looked the other way as I walked by a homeless man
yelled at my kids again
procrastinated scrubbing my toilet
lied about my weight on my new driver’s license
dined by drive-thru
told a friend what I really thought of her fiancé
slammed my front door in the faces of two young missionaries
watched TV instead of reading bedtime stories
yelled at my kids again
ignored a sink full of dirty dishes
and told my husband I had a headache

it doesn’t matter because that was yesterday
and today I won’t hit snooze.

confession tuesday

I’ve only done yoga once before today, and it was over five years ago. A friend gave me a post-partum yoga tape as a shower gift after my son was born. Eager to whittle off some pregnancy poundage, I gave it a go–and was in agony for three days after. Needless to say, the tape was immediately relegated to the darkest corner of our video shelf and has been collecting dust ever since.

Lately, though, I’ve been getting more realistic about the limitations of my schedule, specifically when and how I can squeeze in exercise while it’s still too dark to walk alone in the morning before my husband leaves for work (so I don’t have to try and cobble together child care every time I want to go for a walk).

In trying to be open-minded, I considered a home-based yoga work-out might be a good fit, and especially beneficial for my arthritic hips, so long as I steered clear of those pain-inflicting Kundalini poses (like the ones on the post-partum tape) until I knew a bit more about what I was doing.

So yes, I admit it: this morning at 6 a.m. I rolled out of bed, put on my thermal underwear (because the thermostat was turned off in our living room), fired up the DVD, and worked out to… Yoga for Dummies. Better safe than sore.

queue theme music from fiddler on the roof…

Revision!

Revision! (beat)

Revision!

***

Okay, so I really shouldn’t blog late at night because I always start thinking of movies I’ve watched and tying in very obscure references that probably make sense to no one else. But I wanted to post the most recent revision (with which I’m very pleased) of a poem that first appeared in a rather different form on my other blog. I wrote it for NaPoWriMo, and then a couple months ago, my poetry group partner suggested removing it from the larger poem and making it a stand-alone. Which immediately seemed very right to me. I’ve been tweaking it off and on since October, and I think I’m getting close. Now I’m trying to decide whether to submit it somewhere or sit on it until February and enter it in a local juried poetry contest.

(cue music)

Decisions!

***

Gooseberry Pie: a Disappointment in Three Acts

Hidden in the tall grass
gooseberries grow wild
along weather-silvered fence rails
low bushes heavy with translucent globes
of pale-veined, whiskery green
warm from hanging all day in the sun
my fingers pluck through prickly branches
weaving a delicate dance
to the soft one-by-one beat of berries
plunking against the bottom and sides
of my battered plastic bucket.

Nana measures butter, flour, sugar
levels each cup with the straight side of a table knife
rolls out a delicate crust
eases it into a blue glass pie plate
weaves a fragile lattice to crown the mound of berries
at last commends her masterpiece to the oven
and for a delicious hour
four walls strain to contain
the burgeoning aroma
of buttery crust and bubbling berries.

No sour scent forewarns
that I’ve braved thorns for bitter fruit
I suck my cheeks in hollow
after a single sharp bite
poke once at the sugary crust
and with a sigh
leave the rest still steaming on my plate.

whoa

I knew it had been a while, but I forgot it had been quite so long. Let’s see… since I last posted:

• 10/8/09–I turn 40. Love 40; it suits me.
• 11/12/09–Found out my dad has kidney cancer. Stage one. Prognosis good. Still sucks.
• 11/15/09–Pee on a stick. Two lines. Over the moon!
• 11/27/09–Turkey Day. Not long after dinner, start spotting and cramping. Miscarriage; not feeling too thankful.
• 11/30/09–Catch a cold.  (This is the 4th or 5th cold I’ve had since October. I’ve been sick so much this fall that I lost track.)
• 12/20/09–Heard from Every Day Poets. They will be publishing “Waiting for Charon” on 1/15/10. Ah, good news.
• 12/25/09–Have a lovely, mellow Christmas. Hallelujah. Then I catch another cold. Sigh.

And I think that about wraps it up for the end of the year.

The repeated colds have kept me from writing much, as has the unexpectedly sharp grief from this miscarriage, which was my first. It was pretty rough for a couple weeks. Some days are still hard. But I was able to get together with the other member of my writing group just before Christmas, which kick-started me doing some more revisions, and the creative outlet has been very healing.

My dad’s surgery is scheduled for 7:30 a.m. tomorrow, so hopefully everything will go smoothly with removing his tumor.

Fingers crossed for no more bad news in 2009. With just 24 hours left, I’m praying I can squeak through!

confession tuesday

In the past month, I’ve gotten three rejection letters, the most recent last night. That one in particular really chapped my hide because it was a from a religious magazine and while I rarely write religiously themed poems, I felt genuinely pleased with the one I submitted. I had taken particular pains to make it unsentimental yet inspiring (or so I had hoped). And so I took especial offense because, while the rebuff email itself was tactful and encouraging, it was addressed to “Dear Author” and the subject line had been assigned a tracking number. Could it have killed them to cut and paste?

The good thing about repeated rejection is finally I’m developing a thick skin. That initial sharp sting fades a little more quickly each time and I’m finding myself much more realistic about the limitations of my work and myself, and realizing that too often in my exuberance to be published I’ve submitted poems to magazines that are not a good fit for me or my style of writing.

***

Just to offset the horse-pill of repudiation, this morning I heard back from Everyday Poets. They accepted “Waiting for Charon”, though the date of publication is yet to be determined.

***

I turn 40 on Thursday. Depending on the day or even the minute, I do or do not feel old. I’ve gone back and forth over the past few years about whether or not to dye my hair. What can I say? I’m feeling a bit vulnerable about this milestone, so me and Clairol colored my roots yesterday. Even an old barn looks better with a fresh coat of paint, eh?

new day dawning

During the summer I started getting up at a quarter to six and walking several miles before breakfast. The canning frenzy of the past few weeks meant a lot of late nights, which in turn meant sleeping in and no early morning walks, but I’ve been getting back into my groove this week.

I’ve never considered myself a morning person, but when I put in the effort to get up, I’m always rewarded one way or another. This morning, it was with inspiration for a new poem.

New Day Dawning

Passion’s rosy flush
spreads along the east horizon
clouds swollen, aglow
consummated
with the first flame of day
before it has begun

and just by witnessing the wonder
of this passing moment
I am pregnant with
its promise.

confession tuesday

I’m an obsesser. I know it’s part of my addictive personality and I’m trying hard not to judge myself, but rather to just observe and be aware of what my trigger situations tend to be. Recovery has illuminated in a way I’d never imagined that food addiction is only one facet of my obsession, and when I cut out one thing (say, sugar), I can always find something else to obsess about if I’m not careful.

***

Back in July I mentioned I had heard back from Boston Literary Magazine: they accepted my poem “Stardust and Solace” for their fall issue.

So, Sunday night I checked in (which I’ve been doing daily since the start of September–well, actually, since the last part of August–I know; see above). The fall issue was up! Thrilled, I clicked through to their poetry section to see my name in black and white and there it… wasn’t.

Composing myself after a brief fit of hyperventilation, I sent a quick email to the editor, just checking in to see if she had reconsidered. I heard back from her first thing Monday morning. Oops; she had sent it to her webmaster, who had apparently lost it. Not to worry, she had just resent it, and I could check back later in the day to see if it was up.

Commence obsessive refreshing of their poetry page. Multiple times an hour. Except for the hour of school time I spent reading about dinosaurs with my son on Monday afternoon.

Today I limited myself to once every two hours. So. Hard.

But I checked in again just a bit ago after watching the season premier of NCIS, and it’s up.

***

Just one question now: what will I obsess about next?

Don’t worry. I’ll find something.

confession tuesday

Adrift.

That’s me in a nutshell, at least for the past few days. I’m still readjusting back to my usual mode of being, one which doesn’t require me to be so strong, so focused on the needs of others to the exclusion of almost all my own.

It still seems surreal that exactly a week ago, this time today, I was riding an ambulance to Harborview Medical Center in Seattle after my daughter’s accident. And now she’s been home for more days than she was in the hospital, completely herself except for a fading black eye, the remains of a large scrape starting to peel off her forehead, some small scrapes on her right elbow and fingers, and a small bruise on the right side of her belly that marks where her liver was injured. Things you would probably never notice unless you got her to slow down long enough for a good look. Surreal.

I, on the other hand, do not feel like my old self. I am acutely aware, in a way that feels like a new wound that keeps getting touched, of the fragility of life, how precious my children are to me, and my own powerlessness and utter dependence on a power greater than me.

After so much of my attention going to caring for my daughter and supporting my husband, it feels as if I’m suddenly not needed. And I don’t really want to be needed; in fact, I don’t even want to answer the phone. I feel like I need to stay busy, but it’s a supreme effort to even load the dishwasher. I feel guilty for doing things for myself, and yet starved to do them. Overarching all this rollercoaster of emotions is an unwavering, humbling sense of gratitude that my daughter is alive, happy and healing.

I cry now. For no apparent reason. Several times a day.