When it rains

This morning brought yet another wet, cold, not-spring-yet day in Columbia. After my jazzercise class I met Wayne at the coffee shop where he jumped in the car out of the rain and presented me with an exquisite white rose. What a way to perk up a day. Later I found a small gift wrapped on my desk...a tin of bird stamps by Cavelli. I think he's gotten me every bird item they make (and that is not a few) but this item had just come out, at least where we are. So tonight I couldn't resist trying out a few stamps and ended up making a new batch of cards.

Eureka!

As in Springs. As in spring break, half of which we spent in Arkansas. My 9 year old wondered why we don't pronounce the "s" at the end. Hence she called it "Arkansauce" all weekend.
We peeled off layer after layer as we got closer to the sound of my complaint that although I'd checked in with weather.com that very morning I still managed to pack all the wrong things. The car thermometer read 82 degrees. However, the next day the temps had dropped to the 30s - 40's and the day was cold and wet. Again I complained I packed all the wrong things as we donned layer after layer of clothing in efforts to get warm. Not to worry: we were staying in a cozy little cottage made all the cozier by the inclement weather. We had fresh coffee, thick comforters, a stack of DVDs we replenished daily and, best of all, no agenda.


Eureka Springs in its heyday was home to something like 30,000 people and is now down to just above 2000. Nestled between green hills, the charming and historic little town is dotted with gingerbread houses, B&Bs, shops and quite an entertaining cast of characters.

A few miles down the road is a 450 acre refuge for rescued exotic animals--it's amazing how many people have procured baby tigers, lions, cougars and bears and attempted to raise them in basements, bedrooms and backyards before becoming confounded by how big and uncontrollable these animals inevitably grew. Many of these majestic animals became permanently handicapped due to owners who had no idea how to take care of them before they eventually offloaded them at the refuge.

One afternoon while carting some heavy ceramics we'd purchased up the very long hill to our cottage we were offered a ride by a car we'd spotted earlier with delight. Covered with fishing paraphernalia, it reminded us of Houston's art car parade which we loved to attend each spring. Turns out that not only did the woman driving the car know of the Art Car Parade, she'd participated in it for the last two years. It's an artsy little place.

And, to top it off, the largest sculpture in North America, Christ of the Ozarks.

Night on Cherry

Be ahead of all parting, as though it already were
behind you, like the winter that has just gone by.
For among these winters there is one so endlessly winter
that only by wintering through it all will your heart survive.

Rainer Maria Rilke from "The Sonnets of Orpheus XIII"

Happy Easter!

I've just finished a so-so novel called "Best Friends," having been drawn to the book by its title which is significantly better than the book turned out to be. The top cover blurb said, "A valentine to the staying power of women's friendships." That's all it took for me to part with my fourteen bucks. And spend 483 pages waiting for my Valentine. Thank you Cleveland Plain Dealer.

Anyhoo, Clare, the main character, an AIDS doctor, argues a couple of times in the book against Sister Mary Klein's belief that things always turn out okay, that things work for the greater good. Claire doesn't "have that kind of faith," believing herself a "realist" and that tragedy is worthless. I wouldn't argue that things always work out okay OR that tragedy is worthless. Things don't always work out okay. People get sick, people die. Terrible, ugly, wicked things happen. The story (as far as we can see) does not always have a happy, or even bearable, ending.
BUT.
But Easter. The redemption story, God reconciling the world to himself. It doesn't matter if you believe it, it's truth is neither propelled nor hindered by our acceptance, denial or even awareness of it. Without Easter, tragedy IS worthless. Pain and suffering, evil and death are not illusions, they are material realities, but realities that are subject to redemption. And therein lies hope. Easter is how God threw his arms around the world and promised, "It is going to be alright."

Girls noticing boys

"Mommy, why does it seem like boys are more special in this world than girls are?"
As we drove to her after school guitar lesson, my eight year old daughter (my mud princess) who is generously endowed with astute observations expressed frustration with this one.
"What makes you say that?" I tentatively inquired.
"Why do they talk about the 'first woman doctor'? Why did it take so long for a woman to be a doctor? Why is that a big deal? Why are there men's faces on all the money, except for maybe the queen or something? Why does everything seem to be about boys?"
Those simple questions were a reality check for me as I began to try to explain the "whys." She sees both a woman and an African-American male running for president and has no idea that that is the least bit extraordinary. I had to explain to her why it is. She has no idea how many "firsts" preceded this first or that she'll probably be paid significantly less for doing the same work as a boy. But that she should thank her lucky stars because she's still light-years ahead, rights-wise, of every woman who preceded her generation and most of the rest of the women around the world at this moment. Which is good news. Which is bad news. Which is hard to explain to my daughter.

The Tide of March

Melancholy Part 2

Not to obsess or anything, but these unyieldingly leaden, cold, introverted weeks on end have taken their toll. I'm not the only one clawing at the walls and jonesing for spring. A lot of people I know are hanging on by their fingernails.
Today we had temps of over 70 with clear skies and bright sun. I felt like superwoman. On the way back from a meeting today, knowing tomorrow promises rain and falling temps, I hijacked my sweetie and took the very long road home. We had the windows down and music up, winding around the backroads till we ran across Ray's BBQ where we stopped for a late lunch. Need I say "bliss?" However, winter is not finished with us yet so here is another take (see Jan. 22 for "In Praise of Melancholy") on melancholy to cheer us all up as we endure its last hurrah: The Miracle of Melancholia

Post Aftershock

Over eggs and toast at Ernie's diner today, Hayley asked if Libbles was going to have any more kittens. "No, we think she's done." Three kittens, one already spoken for. Famous last words. We got home and discovered kitten #4, 39 hours after her big brother introduced himself. Are we finished NOW?

New Mama

Last night we had a surprise. Only hours after learning our cat's sister who lives down the street had been confirmed pregnant by the vet (as opposed to having a bad case of worms) and therefore surmised our thick around the middle feline probably was too, she dropped two kittens. I now understand the "ow" of "meow" as that was our signal another kitty was about to appear. Libbles had two within an hour. She delivered the placenta and cleaned them up as we got used to the idea our cat ownership had just tripled. Then, today at noon, 12 hrs. after the first kitten emerged, another series of loud, sharp meOWS and another one popped out. Hayley named it "Aftershock."
Anyone want a kitten?

State of Mind

I don't know if this explains it or if I've merely lost mine. But I hope to post again before spring. Of '08.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

I meant to post earlier about this film which I'd greatly anticipated for months. Wayne took me for a pre-Valentines Day night out which proved fortuitous since I was so sick on the actual holiday I didn't even know it was Valentines Day. The chocolate covered strawberries I'd saved for the day went to sludge in the fridge and the gifts I'd bought the week prior were weakly handed to my valentine in plastic shopping bags. He hates plastic shopping bags.
Suffice it to say that after almost a full week on the rack (was that really a mattress?), a second week that kept the girls home from school with two snow days and one holiday, and nasty weather that has trapped us indoors I've gotten a little stir crazy. In comparison to Jean-Dominique Bauby's "locked-in syndrome," my life is a rose garden, if currently a frozen one. And as much as I feel I could go mad with cabin fever, I can't imagine being locked inside my own body with only my left eye still functioning. But that's not true: I did imagine it, so convincing was Julian Schnabel's portrayal of Bauby's plight. You can't leave after seeing the movie without feeling tremendous gratitude for your life, your limbs, the physical freedom you take for granted. The ability to kiss your kids' cheeks, to feel your love's hand in your hair.
The film, based on the memoir Bauby tapped out with his one working eyelid in gorgeous prose is visually and philosophically stunning. There seems to be no level of human diminishment from which some measure of beauty and redemption cannot be wrung. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is a beautiful film--go see it, especially if you too dwell in a land of long winter and feel the walls are closing in. You can sometimes see the heavens reflected in the pupil of an eye. But only in the eye that's open.

Down with Flu

Four days captive at the Bone Crusher Inn. Will return once I make an escape.

Nature vs. Nurture (or Moses and Your DNA)

And he hewed two tables of stone like unto the first; and Moses rose up early in the morning, and went up unto mount Sinai, as the LORD had commanded him, and took in his hand the two tables of stone. And the LORD descended in the cloud, and stood with him there, and proclaimed the name of the LORD. And the LORD passed by before him, and proclaimed, The LORD, The LORD God, merciful and gracious, longsuffering, and abundant in goodness and truth, Keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the guilty; visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, and upon the children's children, unto the third and to the fourth generation. (Exodus 34: 4-7)

If it wasn't bad enough to have bestowed on you the 10 commandments chiseled in stone (the origin of the phrase "you do the math") it must have been daunting to find out that failure to perfectly comply would impact not only your own sorry ass, but also your children's and your children's children and your children's children's children (the origin of multiplication tables.) Having been expelled from the garden before we passed GO and in the knowledge of subsequent generations' ingenious variations on a theme (death,) this information could conceivably have struck one, in the moment, as redundant.

A few millenium later we were rescued by the notion of tabula rasa, that we arrive as blank slates and have perfect freedom to chisel whatever we want to upon them. We author our own souls. This idea endured until the rise of the nature (innate qualities/DNA) vs. nurture (environment) debate where it was finally determined that these two influences work together to form us and that both contribute to the state of our health, abilities, dispositions and talents. While our genes ("genes as fate") determine such things as eye color, personality and whether or not we'll ever excel at the tango, we know our DNA can be altered by such things as exposure to radiation and alterations in the environment of the womb.

What we are now finding, as Ethan Watters writes in "DNA Is Not Destiny":

"a growing body of evidence suggesting that the epigenic [chemical switches and markers that help switch on or off the expression of particular genes] changes wrought by one's diet, behavior, or surroundings can work their way into the germ line and echo far into the future. Put simply, and as bizarre as it may sound, what you eat or smoke today could affect the health an behavior of your great-grandchildren."

He then quotes Randy Jirtle of Duke University (whose experiments in 2000 with agouti mice lead to this discovery,) "Epigenics is proving we have some responsibility for the integrity of our genome. Before, genes predetermined outcomes. Now everything we do...can effect our gene expression and that of future generations. Epigenics introduces the concept of free will into our idea of genetics."

It appears now that although our slates do not come blank, we do, indeed, write on them. And what we write will not only make a difference in our own lives, but for generations to come. We will bless our offspring or curse them. Perhaps if we could find the exact spot on Mt. Sinai where Moses stood we might find someone had traced a double helix in the sand.

Reprieve

Brain Freeze

Sometimes the idea of putting something new on paper seems as impossible as suddenly speaking fluent Mandarin. How do I write? I look at something I've written in the past and wonder where did that come from? Nothing inspires. Perhaps it's because I'm in the thick of hibernation season and my thoughts, rather than being coaxed out by the luxury of weather enforced seclusion, are on strike for a warm ray of sun. That, and the raging sore throat that has had me working in my pjs for the last two days, my throat feeling like it's been raked by the claws of a mad cat. It seems the whole world has contracted to the point it could fit on the head of a pin. I'm even bored of reading (that is a VERY bad sign) and it's only the first day of February. Note to self: next trip in for provisions, buy travel mags!

For those headed to AWP

Stop by the Packingtown Review table at the AWP Bookfair in NYC (January 30 – February 2). They are assigned table # 513 in “Americas Hall II” at the Hilton, which you can access from the third floor. The inaugural issue is due out in November and since they do not yet have a journal to distribute they are going to display my poem, "Memory of Water" at their table as well as hand out copies of it. So if you are going to AWP, please go by and pick up a copy (and tell the editors, Tasha Fouts & Snezana Zabic, hello for me!)

In Praise of Melancholy

If you've been subjected to the same interminable run of dreary, lead sky days as we have here in Missouri, read this and relish your seasonally enhanced gloom. Who says we have to be happy?

Eric G. Wilson writes,"American happiness is a temptation, one to which I've succumbed on several occasions. More than once I've grown weary of the pervasive gloom of my soul. Like millions of other Americans, I have tried to flee the sadness, attempted to escape, by any means possible, the weight, the fatigue, the fret. Let's be serious: Life, in any form, is terribly and irredeemably hard. Why shouldn't we all scurry from the heartache in the most superficial ways possible, through BlackBerrys and Lexapro and liposuction? Why shouldn't we bask in the gaudy glow of the pervasive American dream? What's lost in this collective stupor? What's wrong, finally, with wanting nothing but bliss?

At the behest of well-meaning friends, I have purchased books on how to be happy. I have tried to turn my chronic scowl into a bright smile. I have attempted to become more active, to get out of my dark house and away from my somber books and participate in the world of meaningful action. I have taken up jogging, the Latin language, and the chair of a university English department. I have fostered the drive to succeed in my career. I have bought an insurance policy, a PalmPilot, and a cellphone. I have taken an interest in Thanksgiving and Christmas, in keeping my hair trimmed short, and in meticulously ironing my clothes. I have viewed Doris Day and Frank Capra movies. I have feigned interest in the health of others. I have dropped into the habit of saying "great" and "wonderful" as much as possible. I have pretended to take seriously certain good causes designed to make the world a better place. I have contemplated getting a dog. I have started eating salads. I have tried to discipline myself in nodding knowingly. I have tried to be mindful of others but ended up pissed as hell. I have written a book on the hard-earned optimism of Ralph Waldo Emerson. I have undertaken yoga. I have stopped yoga and gone into tai chi. I have thought of going to psychiatrists and getting some drugs. I have quit all of this and then started again and then once more quit. Now I plan to stay quit. The road to hell is paved with happy plans.

My basic instinct is toward melancholia — a state I must nourish. In fostering my essential nature, I'm trying to live according to what I see as my deep calling. Granted, it's difficult at times to hold hard to this vocation, this labor in the fields of sadness. But I realize somewhere in the core of my bones that I was born to the blues."

Read an except from his book Against Happiness: In Praise of Melancholy, being published this month by Farrar, Straus and Giroux here.

Artrageous Fridays

This is the poster I designed for Columbia's quarterly art crawl. Our cool little town boasts an event that:
"blends a classic gallery crawl with a quirky downtown festival" wherein "local galleries and downtown businesses merge to highlight artists’ talents and the city’s quirky, growing visual arts center. It's more than just a crawl, it's an experience."
If you happen to be in the Columbia area, join us next week for some serious fun!

the lion weeps tonight

Some bird had quite an aim.

Do Something Beautiful

This Sentence

(does not seem to contain a main clause)

As though it interrupted the rain, this arabesque
kick of silver. Spun sand-veil, in the storm.
Its broken bodies
disjointed.
Light. As though the small across the dimstopped
the road. Or as if shyness surrendered its torture, in order
to laugh. As though a war heard its name, and listened
to prayer. As
though last light would wait for my own entrance,
skirt hem dirty but so utterly available.

If light, used, as an old idea, fractured shard plunged in
as a murder undeserved and terrible. And told as often as
the death of Christ, this is how it is, this is how it was.

If light crashed and Iwalked in it, insistent,
if I entered and if it hurt.
And if the dark were no heroine with a tragic flaw,
not strange.
As though a simple stop. Mere veil, to save it. Light,
I mean, broken, as a spine. Light, at the borders of
our sentence, living on the train of the gown
as we do, available for lifting.
Here is what it has led to.

I don't know where I first stumbled upon a poem by Margo Berdeshevsky but once I did I was smitten. I googled her name and found no books but discovered she was a Chelsea award winner so I ordered that volume which featured 5 more of her poems. They were so stunning I located an email address and wrote to let her know what her poems had meant to me and to ask where I could find more. This was several years ago. We've been in touch ever since and I have eagerly awaited the arrival of her first book of poems "But a Passage in Wilderness" which finally came out from Sheep Meadow Press and arrived last week. The cover features one of her photo montages as she is not only a poet but a photographer (as well as an accomplished actress.)

Her broken sentences and syntax encase beauty, grief and rage at the spoiled world, the violence and brutality woven into lavish and wondrous creation. She bemoans our impotence, physically and spiritually, in thwarting the bewildering havoc and destruction imposed on innocents by man as well as nature. And yet in her furious complaint is a pleading, for light, hope, praise, reconciliation, love and the implication we can achieve such. From "Who Were Those Pretty:"

Five billion nights of fixing. The repaired sky hangs loose
as old men's flesh. How being a human invokes ritual, grief

for spiritual breakage, do I mean breakthrough? Nothing will help you
brace for the broken mind, the fall of the fair jester, the too sad man
in a Paris chair, wailing. Nothing will help you sew solace into the skin.

Our hope is torn from the scrape of God's womb.
Bless the broken, scars, all over this sky.

Berdeshevsky's frustration lies in the interstices between what is and what should be. Although the world simmers with beauty and offers solace, it whispers loudly of another world, a kinder rendition of the one we know. Reading these poems is like wading through the wreckage of a storm after its receded, seeing what you loved floating in ruin, each remnant a reminder of a of past love, a meal, a child, a face, a place, and as you fill your arms with as many salvaged pieces as you can carry away to start anew, you feel the sun's warmth on your face and look up, once again, into that now familiar and washed blue sky and in spite of yourself can't keep your heart handing over the keys.

Lastly, from one of my favorites:

But a Passage in Wilderness

i

But a woman prepares to cross the perfumed
river, little crying.

She has left candles placed like birds with folded wings.
When they are lit, she will watch their heartbeats burn.

Sings,
night-sphinx of rivers, am I eye to eye with your light,
or closer to your claw, tell me this.

Sings the thousand prayers like ponies vying with winners, how
they know the course, but cannot stretch their white-downed spines
to gallop, can't span the fathoms with kicked light.

Broken-eyed roses, colts, don't fall!
Dark matter of the daily heart, do something beautiful. Do this.