BECAUSE OF AMOUR

AT THE HOME

The last thing she remembered was Brahms.

She lay peacefully under the coverlet

she had saved since the boy's childhood

in hopes he would return someday

and note her faithfulness.

"Brahms," she said, "my favorite."

Then her eyes clouded

the way they had been doing lately

when she took to wandering.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked.

No recognition, pulling away slowly,

stripped of the agitation

that marked the previous week.

Not knowing that death is nigh may be amiable, after all.

Who knows where she is--in a summer garden 

with the bees reeling

or in the stillness of a winter walk

or in a time travel escapade

back to overladen wagon trains

with their prospects of gold?

Somewhere in the mush of the brain's circuitry,

in her confusion and my helplessness,

it comforts me to think

she does hear Brahms.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Photo Credit: Robert Janz

My Teacher!

Melody Ross: Mission Statement

NOT SO CHANCE ENCOUNTERS

A Two Minute Friend in Eureka called me Flutterby. I seem to have more than the average under ten minute chance encounters worth writing up. Remember my poem written after an 9 minute encounter on a tour bus? Or  Twinkie's Chapeau? Last Wednesday, I arrived nine minutes early to the library to return my books. An elderly woman asked how long we would have to wait. I looked at my watch and said, "Nine minutes. I wish there were an outside drop box." She replied,"Oh, I need to get another book." I said, "I don't need another book. A writer friend in Albuquerque sent one of her wonderful YA books." The woman practically gasped, "I've been thinking about an assisted living place in Albuquerque. I'm from Connecticut but have spent most of my life here in the boroughs. I might go to the Bronx. I can't decide. Do you know anything about Albuquerque?" I told her how much I liked it from when I visited Uncle Henry who lived in an efficiency a few blocks from the university. He had a friend named Georgia who drove a van full of senior citizens to see the opera in Santa Fe. The woman then asked what YA books were and why I particularly liked them. I recounted how I had found Carolyn Meyer's Young Adult book Loving Will at the Eureka library. I mentioned how her story of Isabella had been a catalyst for me and the thing about YA's is their compactness, their research, their clarity. Our nine minutes were up and the library opened. Now this is a very small branch. I've never found a Carolyn Meyer book there but Wednesday, I felt a nudge. Sure enough. There was a paperback copy of  The True Adventures of Charley Darwin with my favorite cover art. I snatched it up and rushed over to where the woman was looking for a David Balducci. I said, "Here, have this. It's a sign. You are going to love Albuquerque! Say hello to Carolyn Meyer for me!" What a big smile! I said, "You see, your true adventure awaits!" Afterwards, I had to laugh. I never get anywhere early. I'm a right on time person. Oh, the Universe!  

IN THE MOON OF POPPING TREES

There were a lot of big grins in my family and perhaps the biggest belonged to my Uncle Henry, my dad's littlest brother. For my ninth birthday, Henry sent a coffee table style book about the Plains Indians. I immersed myself in the clothing, headdresses, and jewelry. To this day that influence causes me to wear not one bracelet but six. I mourn the fact that casual wear now means something akin to astronaut minimalism. Apparently, fitness attire has claimed first place for designers which is ironic as the American Indian's (Lakota Russell Means' preferred term) passion for dances probably ranks in my top five for weight, endurance, and strength training. I loved the Native American (I use both) names and coincidentally am reading a book with two characters named Moves Rivers and Moves Mountains. I appreciate other cultures with similarly descriptive names. What happened when egotists came along and a place to stay would be called Hilton instead of the Inn of Sixth Happiness? Another coincidence: I started watching Ken Burns' The West and who should be one of the men interviewed? Rudolfo Anaya, the author of Serafina's Stories in which Moves Rivers and Moves Mountains appear! Ken Burns. How I wish he had been around when I was taking history. I couldn't grasp the textbook. With Ken Burns, I could have understood the story of the Cherokee who welcomed the settlers, learned reading/writing/speaking English, and even had a newspaper until that tragic time of eviction. The long march on the Trail of Tears where 2,000 lost their lives meant a lot to me but watching the documentary brought it powerfully home. If only. If only the Cherokee could have remained. What a getting along example that could have been. I noticed how quickly the facts were absorbed. I suddenly realized  I might have the genes of an ancestry with an oral tradition as I don't learn by reading. I learn by hearing. No wonder my mother read to me every night and recited poetry every day. Did she know? As I am writing this, I am whispering the words to  myself. I need to approve the rhythm, catch the errors in the only way I can.

 I will be visiting Eureka, California this June and hope to finally see the Hoopa Valley, home to California's largest reservation. The basketry and  jewelry on the tribe's website will get a close inspection from me. And, in honor of Uncle Henry, the greeting cards. From my early childhood, he sent postcards of the Hudson River School of artists. My enchantment with California undoubtedly began with Bierstadt. Henry didn't romanticize The People. Yes, there were outstanding accounts of peacefulness such as those of the Yosemite and the welcome given to Cabeza de Vaca but there was, unfortunately, constant warring, brutal raiding. "Dog Soldiers" were highly esteemed, ruling the hearts of the women left behind. The beautiful Cheyenne, Lakota, Comanches, Pawnee fought one another relentlessly when actually they had much in common. The introduction of horses caused constant temptation. I'm not one to deny this  In every cosmology, there has always been evil but I "look for the good."  I'm thrilled by the Idle No More successes, a protest group started in Canada which has rapidly become worldwide.

Apache Ten Commandments--attributed to Sitting Bull, found on http://tipiheaven.wordpress.com/

1. Treat the earth and all that dwell thereon with respect,
2. Remain close to the Great Spirit,
3. Show great respect for your fellow beings,
4. Work together for the benefit of all mankind,
5. Give assistance and kindness wherever needed,
6. Do what you know is right,
7. Look after the wellbeing of mind and body,
8. Dedicate a share of your efforts to the greater good,
9. Be truthful and honest at all times,
10. Take full responsibility for your actions.

 I suggest you remember the names, the spirit animals, the totems. Listen to the myths such as the seven sisters who became a constellation in the night sky; the creation tale of darkness and void;  the emergence of Grandmother Bear. (See http://wearewalkinginbeauty.org/Walking_in_Beauty/Grandmother_Bear.html). Rejoice in the beauty of the land.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cree 
 "Just before it was too late, the Indian would regain his spirit and teach the white man reverence for the Earth, banding together with him to become Warriors of the Rainbow."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your  coat of rough grey blue warms my chilled bones,

dear alpaca, spirit friend.

THE SOURCE OF ALL HEALING

There are wonderful sayings and quotes rumbling around in my head that I enjoy when I have my hour on Facebook each night. However, my new favorite quote came from a TV series I picked to watch because it was set in Scotland and starred Susan Hampshire. I was so taken with her when she was in the pre-Masterpiece Theater production of The Forsyte Saga playing "Fleur." I loved that name and amongst the many nicknames I gave my daughter, one of them was Jennifleur. I was pleased when Susan Hampshire starred in the first Masterpiece Theater as she had been the catalyst for its long run. I hadn't seen her in decades and wondered how she had turned out. Did she still have those penetrating, soulful eyes? I digress, as usual. The quote came in a scene in which an actor played a sort of guru/shaman/NewAger who wants to bring his holistic practices to a grand house in the highlands. What he very quietly said to the young laird (who didn't go at all for this nonsense) was this: "There is no healing in denial." I was knocked out by that phrase. I paused the video and replayed it at least ten times. I've thought about the truth of it most of my waking days and may have even dreamed of this solution. It was like the Theory of Everything for me. Of course. There is no healing the earth if we deny climate change; there is no healing from unrequited love if we deny the impossibility of hope that change could happen; there is no healing from the brink of death if we deny its coming; there is no healing of a family if the parents won't acknowledge their children's shortcomings. It seemed to me that the problems of the world didn't boil down to science or religion which upon analysis could be fixed. The problems required facing squarely what we don't want to know. I became interested in looking up Susan Hampshire and was delighted to find an interview in which she has taken this solution to heart. Her enchanting globetrotting husband began sinking into dementia. At first she gave over the nursing duties to caregivers while she went on the road. When she returned from one of these assignments, she was appalled at how her husband had declined under the "care" and she embraced bravely what she needed to do. She left acting behind and began to spend all her time as caregiver. She learned not to raise her voice and watched how he responded when playing card games or doing puzzles or chatting or having her fix his favorite dish. He took Aricept which is apparently successful in early stages. They walked in the fresh air of the garden and Sir Kulukundis improved. I will probably forget the plot of "Monarch of the Glen" but I will remember the Scottish hills, the music, and the manner Susan Hampshire taught me to go forth. Cheerful. Kindly. Persevering. Denying nothing.

 I hope this post will be as revelatory for you as the quote was for me and we can heal the world together. 

dogs leap on the street

birds scatter by the lamposts

springtime in winter

artwork by D. de Letta

THE READERS WRITE

Most of the comments from readers come in the mail not in the Comment section of the blob. I enjoy reading these because they tell me if I have succeeded in my writing. What is success? Clarity, brevity, and warmth are what I like in aiming to please. This past week, Kathy asked if I wrote the poem first. Why yes, I did. Poems are usually the inspiration for prose for me. Marcia (pronounced mar-see-ah), who knew me when we were twelve, marveled that she hadn't heard about my living in Jerusalem only a few years previous to our meeting.  As I have said, I was a quiet child; I preferred to be mysterious rather than to tell anyone anything about myself. Stephanie was curious about the Jewish family. Harriet's note was short and appreciative with decorative flowers and hearts attached. Caroline wanted to know how I pick my topics and was there any particular, consistent catalyst for my postings.

Each case is different. This time it was coming across a name which brought a rush of memories. What prompted the Lizette post is that I was intrigued by a writer, not the writer of the book, the character. In The Nobodies Album the main character is a writer, Octavia Frost. The whole book is basically her description of how a writer would react to the events in her life. Commentary within commentary. I was reminded of Chinese nesting tables or Matryoshka dolls. So what I decided to do was write a poem (the underlying foundation) and then add  details in prose (the colorization).  What was important to me then and now is that Sister Marie Mignonette be painted as the person I wanted to be. Whimsical, persevering, imaginative. Your comments have shown me I succeeded in illustrating my message and I thank you. 

Gratitude spoken or unspoken

can never be underestimated.

It is the spark illuminating

the night when the pen rises to the occasion

and contact is made.     

 

OO LA

We sat in a circle on the stone floor while the young nun talked to us about the fruits of the spirit and the evils which caused the fruits to decay. She had a sweet little mouth and turned up nose. Her habit weighed more than she did, I'm sure. Someone said her real name was Lizette and she had been hidden by Jews in a long trek from France to Jerusalem. That was a switch. It didn't seem a likely story to me but, on the other hand, here she was in the Holy Land and she did have an extensive knowledge of the Torah. When she read from the New Testament the words became branded on my heart as the way to write--simple, exquisite, humble. She mixed in  Yeats and Keats as though they were part of her sacred texts.  Her attitude was plucky personified. She tossed envy, hatred, grumpiness, into an invisible bin with flicks of her bird hands. Often, her remarks were followed by, "Oo la" as though the nutty world was something to marvel at. Who would want to be competitive, anxious, clawing to the top of a corporate mountain?? Oo la. Such crazies! I loved her French accent and her certainty. I wondered if she really thought her students would escape the lure of worldly temptations. I'd like to think she rests in peace now in a convent garden full of the lilies of the field she liked so much. I would wish her to know that the circle had flawed admirers but I bet many of us will catch ourselves once in a while, exclaiming, "Oo la" feeling a little burden lifted, hearing the sound of sparrows. 

Sister, Sister, more!

Tell of banshees, dancing goats,
sailing galaxies.

Corrupt governments? 
Famine? War? Catastrophe?
"Press on!" Sister smiles.

Recollection's strange.
Not one child's face can I see.
Only oo-la's ring. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~