“Last Answers” by Carl Sandburg

I wrote a poem on the mist
And a woman asked me what I meant by it.
I had thought till then only of the beauty of the mist, how
pearl and gray of it mix and reel,
And change the drab shanties with lighted lamps at
evening into points of mystery quivering with color.

I answered:
The whole world was mist once long ago and some day
it will all go back to mist,
Our skulls and lungs are more water than bone and tissue
And all poets love dust and mist because all the last
answers
Go running back to dust and mist.

Come on Home

Have you ever listened to a song a few (or a few hundred) times, and then suddenly heard the lyrics for the first time? Years ago a friend gave me a mixed CD titled, “Bag of Silver for a Box of Nails,” and I never stopped to think about the title. The other day the Indigo Girls’ song, “Come on Home” came on my iPod while I was cleaning and I was blown away by the lyrics.

Excerpt -

“Dark clouds are coming in like an army;
soon the sky will open up and disarm me.
You will go just like you’ve gone before,
one sad soldier off to war with enemies that only you can see.

The dishes stacked, the table cleared;
it’s always like the scene of the last supper here.
You speak so cryptically but that’s not news to me.
The flood is here – it will carry you – and I’ve got work to do.

Come on home – the team you’re hitched to has a mind of its own.
It’s just the forces of your past you’ve fought before;
come back here and shut the door.
I’m stacking sandbags against the river of your troubles.”

Around here fall is falling – the leaves are methodically being blown off the trees, pears and apples are showering down to nestle in the summer-browned grass, the birds are going or gone, mist is creeping up around the low places, and the air is edged with coolness. And I am experiencing that peculiar, annual autumn sinking feeling combined with the tingling breath of excitement – something is happening! Something is coming!

This song is such a blend of tenderness and practicality (“I’ve got work to do”). This is the fierce kind of love that anyone struggling with mental illness or depression very much needs. Who among us doesn’t need a friend who will stack sandbags against the river of our troubles, and will acknowledge the struggle as real? The woman singing to her loved one is not swept away by the tide, but is there to wait and fight alongside, and to remind them, “It’s just the forces of your past you’ve fought before”. Thank you Indigo Girls for such a compassionate, gritty song.

Thoughts on Matthew 27

Pilate “took water and washed his hands in front of the crowd. ‘I am innocent of this man’s blood,’ he said. ‘It is your responsibility!’
All the people answered, ‘Let his blood be on us and on our children!’”

Little did they know what they asked, as they placed his blood-guilt squarely upon their own heads, and upon their little ones. But in his mind-blowing mercy, Jesus answered their request by indeed placing his blood upon them as a covering and a fountain to wash away their guilt.

Healing

The poet* was an old man in great pain.
This was written on his face.

We had walked a similar place once,
only he for longer,
and when he knew this, he told me,
“Some wounds will not be healed here on earth,”
and I was silent,
for he was far more destroyed than I.

He had not abandoned hope.
Only, he was looking for another country.

Now there is a boy who has lost his legs,
and I want to say to him,
“Boy for whom we weep,
boy who I do not know –
Some wounds will not be healed here on earth.

You will walk again in another country.”

12.21.08

*Bud Osborn

Meandering by the Sea

Meriel, Elijah and I spotted an extremely low tide this morning and took a stroll through Grant & Ronna’s beachy yard down to the water. It was amazing!

We encountered about six moon snails, enormous burrowing gastropods that looked just like this! We could spot them a ways off by the telltale mound of sand pushed up above them as they surfaced.

There were scads of stranded starfish – purple, pink, orange, brown or yellow, with myriads of feet, or sometimes only five feet, and of all different sizes. We “rescued” some of them back into the receding tide, with dubious confidence in our helpfulness.

Perhaps the very best part of the morning was the great blue heron who deigned to allow us observation of his morning fishing. He strode elegantly around in the shallows, hunting down an ample spread for his “elevensies”. Just about every minute he speared some wriggling fish or eel or such, jabbing into the water and returning with a flopping creature held aloft. Then with a jerk and a gulp he would swallow the fish, and we watched his throat with fascinated horror as the doomed flailed about spastically all the way down that long, dark tunnel from which no fish returns. Once in his belly, the thrashings were no longer visible, but I do wonder how long the flopping continued down there. The thought of having a bellyful of gasping, fluttering fish is quite a ticklish one, but our heron appeared aloof and unperturbed.

Elijah found it all most stimulating, and was sound asleep, keeled over and drooling in my palm by the time we plodded our soggy way home.

“The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be” by Farley Mowat

This book is hilarious. I have to share an excerpt. For background, Mutt is Mowat’s childhood dog and had taught himself the peculiar habit of climbing up random ladders, wherever they might be.

“On the way home we passed Couzinsky’s place and I noted with approval that he was changing his color scheme again, this time from green to puce. As I walked on I did not notice that Mutt was no longer at my heels… there came a frightful shriek from somewhere behind me. I spun on my heel and there, on the high wall of Couzinsky’s multicolored house, I saw a strange tableau.

At the very top of the ladder was Couzinsky himself. He was clinging by his hands to the eave trough, while from his right foot a gallon can of paint hung precariously suspended. Immediately below him was Mutt. Mutt’s situation was most peculiar. He must have attempted to turn around on the upper rungs of the ladder, but he had only succeeded in thrusting his head and forequarters through the rungs so that he was balanced on his midriff and helpless to move in any direction. Couzinsky was still yelling fiercely, but Mutt was saving his breath.

I ran to their aid and, having clambered up the ladder, managed to get Mutt turned aroun. Couzinsky put his feet back on the top rung and we three descended to the ground.

As Mutt’s nominal master I expected a severe dressing-down, but Couzinsky surprised me. Apparently his admiration for Mutt’s climbing abilities outweighed the effects of the shock that he had suffered. It must have been a severe shock too.

“I stand there painted,” he explained to me, “and nowhere looking when it comes up between the legs. Dat dug! Oh my, dat dug! I yomp, what else?”

What else indeed. I only wonder that he did not yomp clear up onto the roof.”

I am God.

Last night I popped my head into the bathroom to collect my daughter for the ride home from Nana & Poppa’s house. “I’m not Meriel!” she cried. “I’m God!” As we struggled with our befuddlement she struggled into her jammies. “Ow!” came the yelp. I looked up to see her fighting with her zipper. “I just zipped up my bellybutton!” she explained.

A Plug for Goodreads

Often my husband and I will be watching a movie together and I will jump into Bryan’s lap and shudder, “what’s going to happen?! Is he going to die?!” And Bryan will sigh and gently tell me, “Honey, we’ve watched this one before.” And I will say, “Oh, really? Well, is he going to die or not?!”

Embarrassing, but true.

So, if you are like me and forget everything that has ever happened in your life, you could use a helpful site like Goodreads! This site allows one to chronicle one’s reading, with an optional 1-5 star rating system and a synopsis paragraph.

A sweet trick for the old memory!

Fits and Starts…

We saw our dear friend Nate Saxe last night at a small dinner party. He asked if we had a blog, and I had to admit the dismal current state of affairs. I WANT to have a blog.. it’s just writing in the dern thing that trips me up!

So here I am, making a valiant attempt at a post. Let’s see.. what’s new?

We didn’t put up hummingbird feeders this year, but the purple columbine out our dining room window serves as the wonderful real thing. An emerald green-backed little flitter just zoomed by and took a few sips!

Besides that, a million years have gone by since my last post and we are now a family of four! Elijah Luke Griffith was born March 20, 2009. He has had horrific colic – mainly screaming from about noon until 11pm every night – since he was born. His birth was a bit traumatic. Elijah’s heart rate was dropping significantly with every contraction while in early labor, so at 3cm. he was removed by emergency C-section. It was an answer to prayer to have him born safe and healthy, but of course also a disappointment to undergo surgery. The next few days were a bit nutso, with heavy narcotics doping for both mom and baby, and Elijah screamed most of the time.

So, after a very difficult three months, our sweet boy is calming down and we are getting to see a lovely tranquil personality emerge. He is a fun, talkative little guy and will coo, gurgle and chatter away in his primordial baby language for a few minutes at a time. He has spent much of his life until now being bounced or in his swing, but we hope someday to transition to his crib!

Meriel has had a rough go of it, with moments of breakdowns and the cry, “Nobody’s paying attention to MEEEE! Who’s going to take care of me?” Which, sadly, was true. But she has soldiered on, and despite certain comments to the effect that she hopes Elijah Luke dies soon, seems to be generally an affectionate big sister. Sigh.

My delicious sister Melissa, or “Mimmy,” bothered to fly all the way from Iowa City last month to see her new nephew, and it was so lovely to see her. We took a day trip to San Juan island, and had a bounteous day of wildlife. On the ferry we saw Dahl’s porpoises, then stopped at Lime Kiln to catch a pod of orca whales going by! It was incredible to see them from land. Then we popped by South Beach and fed the resident foxes, who are terrible beggers (we stuck to apples and whole grains, guided by my guilty conscience). It was a fabulous inter-island adventure!

I should add that we never would have survived the first six weeks without my mom, who dropped everything in Hawaii to come to Orcas in reply to our SOS. She has lots of experience with colic (ME, hah ha!) and was a wonderful calm, patient presence in the midst of all the inconsolable screaming. She spent hours bouncing and walking to give us badly needed breaks, and taught us a few useful tricks before she had to go. Thank heaven for moms!

We are now living in a fixer-upper house owned by Burke & Barbara Thomas, on Alder St. at North Beach, right across the way from Grant & Ronna’s. There is a great pile of scrap metal and PCV piping laying on the grass outside, and it is calling to me. My next job is to throw it all into the Coke truck and get it to the dump! The Thomases have generously allowed us to live here in exchange for work on the house; it’s been a fun project and we hope to leave it ship-shape and squeaky clean. We’ll be here until the house sells, which is a great answer to prayer. It could be a few months. I love being in Eastsound, with walking trails around, and it’s such an easy jaunt into town.

So, that’s a brief synopsis of our last three months. Ciao for now!

Snow…

Last night we had another snow fall and our world is smothered in smooth white. Here is a snow poem I wrote a couple of years ago. It is for my Tutu, who lives in Hawaii and is slowly losing her hearing.

.

The snow has been falling around my grandmother
for a very long time, now.
I imagine her standing there in the dense whiteness,
cloaked in thick fur, a rich ruff draped around her shoulders.

She is a small form, but she is not cold.
Only stands there as the landscape fills with snow,
and the quiet mounts. She is thinking.

There is grace and dignity on her face,
but she cannot stop the snow from falling,
or strengthen the vibration of sound as it
leaps and becomes befuddled in the snow.

An infinite patience stills her.
She is looking for egrets and marmots,
waiting for the white-tailed deer to forget her and come
on tiptoe, slinging their long necks along
on fine, delicate legs.

When I speak to her, only the deer turn to look-
She is immersed in an immense quiet,
soon beyond any disruption by voice,
her cochlea aged and scarred beyond response to any echoes, now.

The snow is steadily falling, thickening softly the field.
I will stand here with her until the deer forget me.

A Shiggaion of Kris, which she sang to the Lord concerning Rita and Loralei, the Poodles

This one is a bit old.. I wrote it in solidarity with my dear mother, while she was living in a house overcome with the presence of poodles. As promised, for Grant & Ronna, here it is.

Oh, Lord, who hath a sense of humor,
Give ear to my words; consider my sighing.
Come quickly to help me, for on all sides I am surrounded by poodles.
Their snufflings rise up to my neck. They tickle.
By day and by night, their barking pursues me;
they are ever with me – when I sit, and when I rise.
They flood my bed with muddy paws, and my couch with fleas.
They hear cars drive past from afar.
Their eyes never cease roaming to and fro across the kitchen floor, seeking what they may devour.
The cat trembles.
The neighbors moan.
Is there no rest for the weary?
Why do the house pets conspire and the poodles plot in vain?
Surely, O Lord, you have heard my cry.
Away from me, all you who have long snouts and sharp teeth.
He who digs a hole and scoops it out will fall into the pit he has made.
I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.

(a semi-plagiarism of David)

“Cacophony” – reading for Advent @ OICC

They say your heaven is full of music,
every strain sweet and clear,
great swathes of angels pouring out caverns and canyons full
of resounding, full-throated song-

and yet, you stood perched
on the verge of earth instead,
back turned to all that beauty,
head cocked, poised and listening
to the pitiful cacophony of despair,
mixed with a little light,
spewing from our sphere
(mostly stormy cursing, stubborn defiance, self pity).

But when you whispered softly,
“Oh my people… how long?”
there were those who caught the echo and
unfurled it back toward heaven,
“Our Lord, how long?”

For Dana Mullan

We who live in this country
never become immured from grief.
Each time one falters it is the same:
the raw incomprehension
that this beloved could fade, or fail.

You might think that after a lifetime
of arrivals and departures, of birth and death,
there would come a slow kind of understanding;
we might come to see this place as a transit station of sorts
packed with merry passengers on their ways,
(relatively on schedule),-
“Next stop, Hampstead station!”,
and that sort of thing,
amid the clang of the trains
and the set face of a steady conductor.

With birth, it is one thing -
how easy to welcome the new ones with delight
and untiring awe
at their fresh and wrinkled, scrunched up faces.

But here it is. We grow old.
And still, we stand mute and dumb before a newly made coffin,
blind-eyed with salt
and too stunned to understand
that another has climbed those steps and made her way
to a far destination.

Advent ?

El-olam, God of everlasting time,
it seems frail to say we have waited for you.
But this is all we know.

There have been nights when all we desired was not to wake, and you.
Before such sorrow, there is no answer.
There are wounds that will not find healing here.

Yet what can we know of your sorrow, and your time?
when all we know of your pain,
oh you who long to gather,
is the other side of your silence.

The Bean Bag

Why, yes. The Bean Bag arrived! It was a day of joyous celebration. We have been watching Meriel take great flying leaps from couch to bean bag, working out all that rainy day toddler energy. It also makes a lovely snugglebug bed while she watches Winnie-ther-Pooh.

I thanked Tutu over the phone for the fabulous gift, and she is of the opinion that it’s a wonder any of us ever survived childhood without the benefit of a beanbag. She confessed that her way of coping with her dreary beanbagless existence as a child was to climb atop her school desk and perch there, much to the dismay of her teacher, who regularly phoned to inform Tutu’s mother.