Less Judging, More Loving

A bird does flit or fly or tweet
but the bird doesn’t hang on to every mean feat.
A laugh may travel across the sky
but the laughter doesn’t come at the expense of you or I.

I know why we need to value our own worth
and stop feeling that others have judged us harshly from our birth.
The shame cycle of ‘never enough’
causes us to defend the castle or to bluff.

For we are made for heroic jousts,
for the equal swordfight, not for the lion’s roar to the mouse.
Equal in battle, in fair play, in rhyme.
We are meant for love and understanding not for lying.

So set aside the buff, the cower, or the care.
We are opening a can of ‘lookee here!’
Follow the heart, open the breath.
For if we are judging — or fear judgment from others — we cause our own premature death.

Creativity, Doubt, Survival

The nipping of CREATIVITY at her heels.
All she ever wanted was to turn and soothe the beast.
At times she did. Painting, writing, dancing in the dawn.
And other times, the bark grew fainter 
to a whimper,
waking her in the night. 
Was that a call?
A dream, a spiderweb filament, on her face in the morning?
Nothing more. She cupped her ear to hear the bark. 

DOUBT grew from a soft kitten to a lioness,
proud, loud, nippier than CREATIVITY.
DOUBT silenced the dog. 

Alas, SURVIVAL, a deluge of biblical proportions,
drove both cat and dog away. 
"I matter," said SURVIVAL, "for planet, people, places, politics.
Let CREATIVITY nip and DOUBT roar. I matter more."

SURVIVAL set CREATIVITY and DOUBT 
to shelter, huddle, warm themselves, 
wait out the storm.
But the two embraced, allied, befriended, 
plotted to overtake, save SURVIVAL 
-- or at least pacify, soothe SURVIVAL's alarm --
to dance in the daybreak once more. 

February

February comes, a month of hygge,
squirrels burrow in the knots of trees,
stalks huddle in the too-cold shade,
waiting for the glimmer of a warming sun.
February kills my high,
bums me out.
with its soft slow snow, feathery fistfuls.
February, the heart-smacking,
lip-centered,
wait for longer days.
For the spring of birthdays,
of another hula hoop,
scoop around the sun,
for stronger days,
when the shoots doesn’t break in the brittle cold,
and the loon calls from the lake.
And even the Met opens her front doors, wide,
like a seamstress, ready to unfurl her crazy quilts.

inspired by Bill Christophersen’s February.

Namaste

After today’s second dose of the vaccine,
I feel freer but not free.
I will follow my bliss but ever so cautiously,
slowly.
And here’s something to know about me when we meet again,
I will not shake your hand or anyone else’s hand for that matter,
Never again.
Alas, I will hug you.

See, I met a doctor at Kripalu when I were there, from March 6 to 8, 2020, a few days before the world shut down.
She, the endocrinologist, told me that hugging’s safer than shaking hands.

Namaste, she and I said when we parted,
hand to heart probably safest still.
I signed up for an online Kripalu zoom class because I miss the vibe. The class began yesterday. And we were invited to
make a wheel out of the areas of our lives.
My wheel looked a little deflated.

I miss the walk down to the lake.

We will go again, hand to heart.
Namaste.

Be free. Follow your bliss.

My wheel of life
Doodling on the cover of my journal.

Torn Mask

Look what it is to ride out a pandemic
the tear of masks from a new pup, call him Brandy,
from the makers of masks in China or Russia via your school or workplace
not made for the bite of a dog who mistook the mask for a bone.
You noticed another pile by the entrance to the M5 bus,
comfort to know there is more by the door,
paper and cloth masks
in a glass bowl or on a silver hook.
And look what it is to give your mask away,
three times now, and to grab another,
in three different multiverses, oh tears
for the people, the older, the younger, or maybe born on your same birthday
birth year,
who forget their masks or must wear the oxygen mask
alone in a buzzing room with hazmat suits,
flowers by the door, pings on the hospital floor,
sirens closer or passing your home
where you left no room, only tears,
for the M5 ride or the dog walk or the recovery room, 
torn mask by the door
for the freezing long hauler.

Inspired by today’s Poetry Foundation poem Torn Coat by Gerald Stern

Real Cool

Because we were theater nerds — RJ and I and who else? Pam maybe — we were asked by Mr. Martello to clean the backstage area and scrub the bathroom because Maine South was hosting a guest speaker of great importance. This was probably 1979.

I remember cleaning the counters for her. And putting flowers in the bathroom. I remember hearing her read her poetry. She was diminutive and grand.

The speaker was Gwendolyn Brooks.

I was jazzed by her colloquialisms. By her direct language. Though small of size, she was huge to us, to us in the lily whitest of white suburbs. Her poetry sang.

I especially remember her reading, “We real cool.” And I remember reading it on the page — how she set out the way to read it out loud by the way she broke the lines. She made us pause. At that time, too, I was learning about ‘the Pinter Pause,’ and I was excited by the pauses that poetic language could invite.

 The “We”—you’re supposed to stop after the “we” and think about validity; of course, there’s no way for you to tell whether it should be said softly or not, I suppose, but I say it rather softly because I want to represent their basic uncertainty.

-Gwendolyn Brooks

So this is February, Black History Month. And I’m pretty much in love with poetry written in spoken language. And I thank God for Ms. Brooks, and Maine South for introducing me to her poetry. In high school, before I learned of Ms. Brooks’ work, I had fallen hard, as young people do, for Sylvia Plath and Emily Dickinson. We’re so lucky to have such a history of amazing women poets in this country. The dramatic work of poet laureate Amanda Gorman continues and expands this poetic tradition.

By hearing Ms. Brooks read her work, I discovered that poetry could merge with drama. That poetry allowed you to try out a new voice. Just as acting allows you to embody a new person. I celebrate the newness of voice and vision of great poets in this country.

Snow day.

100 Days of Poems and Pics

When I began that Church a Day writing project, I thought I might find God. I thought I would find out why my Great Uncle Bob loved being a Knight of Columbus. He’d dress up all in white and carry himself proudly as he made his way to his church, the Epiphany Cathedral in Venice, Florida.

My childhood memories are imbued with memories of happy church events — of my First Holy Communion, of my father reading at a podium of St. Joan of Arc, of my walking the aisle as a flower girl at my godfather’s wedding, of singing with a Sun City choir as a teenager.

And because I loved church, I started the Church a Day journey. I thought I might find out why I always felt better, coming out of a church than going in.

After a month of visiting churches ten years ago, I discovered — maybe it’s obvious to you — that God was not found alone in a pew. He/she/God was found, at the front door, in the people — the welcoming handyman who turned on the lights for me or the shyly smiling older woman in the row ahead of me.

The thing I hated though, as I sat in the pew, was the moment a priest, pastor, chaplain, deacon, or officiant began puttering around in the sanctuary. Or the altar. Or vestibule. As if a service might start at any moment and I’d be trapped — having to sing or recite some rote passage.

And then the other side of church would set in — my childhood boredom and teen doubt and adult acknowledgement of the ridiculousness and unlikeliness of the Christian faith. I didn’t want any part of organized religion.

I simply wanted to feel the wooden pew, sometimes padded beneath my seat. I wanted to smell the musty, dusty sacred air. I wanted to stare at the symbolism of the stained glass windows. And the way the light shone through them, catching the dust motes. I wanted to be alone with God.

So I must tell you, I won a little award for that Church a Day blog from the Religion Communicators Council. I felt proud and embarrassed. And I share this with you — why? To let you know that I did dig deep and I have had writing success.

Visiting a church a day was a solitary endeavor. I didn’t know what I would find. Didn’t know if I would need anything. Or anyone. And I didn’t want to have to ask. Well, that’s a theme in my life. Like I should know it all already. That I should leave the wisdom of the world to everyone else.

Sitting in a nearly empty church, for it’s true, the churches were almost always empty, I felt at peace.
And I’m embarking on a 100 day project and considered visiting a church a day.

But I have questions:
What if the churches are closed?
What if the people don’t let me in?
What if I get stuck in the middle of a service?
And who will I meet?
Where will I sit?
Will I find some calm?
Will wisdom descend on me? Or will I learn to be patient for the ways in which I am not wise?

Will, as in the earlier journey, I discover that faith is not found in places? It is found in people.

And so as not to hem myself in and so as to participate in #the100dayproject, I’ll simply call my church a day, thinking about god and beauty project, #100daysofPoemsandPics so that I can play with words and pictures.

I advise you too to start your day by visiting poems and gaining inspiration at the Poetry Foundation.

The Upper West Side prepares for a winter storm.

On the New

On New Year’s Day (Do I apostrophize? Note to self: check that.)

I citibiked to 100th Street. (Note to self: get a helmet. Also, note: how nouns become verbs.)

To get a COVID test. (Rapid or reliable? Reliable? The efficacious front desk clerks says, “That will be three to five days for results.” The breezy LPN says, “Expect results in two days. We have to say five.”)

Choose reliable. Wait longer for better.

In waiting room. (Or am I in exam room? Where am I? Note to self: find out where I am.)

I check my feed. (No, wait, note to self: you said you would do poetry first. Too late. You check your twitter feed. The world is falling apart. Has fallen apart. Note to self: stay together. stay in one piece. do not let the world dictate your mood.)

Now. Now. Complete your vow. The vow to write. Write daily.

Visit the poetry foundation every morning. First thing in the morning. Read a poem and the poem, like an umbrella, protects you from the downpour.

What downpour?

(Note to self: avoid the news until you have written or read your daily poem.)

The LPN swabs deep to the brain. Checks the swab.

I wrote this a month ago. I have trouble finishing things sometimes. I am a sprinter not a long-distance runner. What can I say? The test was negative.

In other news, on Wednesday, I will receive my second vaccine shot. As a teacher, I was deemed ‘essential.’ I lunged at an appointment as soon as New York opened sites for educators.

I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a Church a Day post again. See, tomorrow begins #the100day project. I thought of 100 projects I could do:

  • creating abstract art
  • choosing mindfulness
  • simplifying
  • caring for my skin
  • accepting the world as it is
  • holding self compassion
  • noticing beauty
  • selling my stuff
  • writing thank you cards
  • calling old friends
  • wearing dresses and skirts
  • talking quietly
  • listening more
  • finding meaningful work
  • sharing positivity
  • traveling during the pandemic
  • giving hope away
  • slowing down
  • writing my novel and memoir

Yes, these are the ideas I had and then I took a bath. And it came to me as I was submerged under the lavendar water: I could visit a church a day again. I have the time. But are churches even open again?

When I embarked on that blog a million years ago, visiting a church a day allowed me to think about God and my life’s meaning and purpose. The daily pause could even ignite me to do many of the things on my list. And, of course, to pray for an end to this pandemic.

Sunshine Sparkle

Sparkle.
Shine.
Refuse to dull.
Refuse to cower in the shade.
Step into,
ride through,
bask in
the sun.

This morning as I biked through Central Park, hitting the bridal path. (Are those two not the two most beautiful words in the English language, say it with me — bridal path — conjuring up images of weddings and horses and journey), I bathed in the quiet. The loud morning sun shone through the quiet trees. Were they the American Elm trees? Ready to tap out, to hunker down for winter, spread their leaves like a blanket across the path. Like a gentleman in an old movie, laying his coat across the puddle.

See, I have to arrive to school by 7:50 in time to thermal scan (those two words — thermal scan — are not my favorites — conjuring up images of technology and disembodied temperatures). Biking is the fastest route. My heart gets pumping. Earlier, about 6:50 today, the cool in the air, I took a walk with Charlie (Charley? Does it even matter how you spell a dog’s name as they can’t read any way?) And the walk turned into a run, he and I along the Riverside Park sidewalk — this middling age woman and her frisky newfound dog.

What was the point I was trying to make?
Oh, I recall, once I heard at a 12 step meeting, “I don’t believe in God, but I believe in the sun’s rays. And every time I see them, I’m reminded of a Higher Power.”
Yes, this.
You may not believe in God,
but you may believe in the sun’s rays
and the way the leaves drift down the bridal path.
Believe in the shine, the luminescence
the ineffableness of the sun’s sparkle through the bowing of the great Central Park trees.

The sunlight, the trees, they ask for nothing,
Not even you for you to notice.
Run. Ride.
Scan. Shine. Sparkle.

That Vile Wall

“Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder;
And through Wall’s chink, poor souls, they are content
To whisper. At the which let no man wonder.”

Act 5 Scene 1
Midsummer Night’s Dream

We are so content to whisper our discontent.
Make enemies across the wall
rather than lovers.
Friends,
we create others.

Looped around the wall,
Wholey, holey, holy

“Wall, that vile Wall.”

How walls define this time,
this ridiculous point in time in history where this resident would rather
build a wall
than cure a pandemic.

This Met Museum wall — this red brick, peek-through
by Zamora, called “Lattice Detour,”
Curvy wall,
Porous, poor us, pour us another.
Stuck as we have been in our homes and in our walls.

And another — what, metaphor? — ricocheting pinball in the brain,
“A map is not the territory.”
Magritte explained Korzybski,
“Perception always intercedes between reality and ourselves.”

The map to victory,
to a restoration of civility,
to bridges over walls,
is not the territory of voters — the majority of us yearning to be free of this moment,
behind the walls of this travesty.

No longer gathered in a crowd,
we, still, ARE the majority.
Right beside that wall.
Of which we cannot overleap
But we shall overcome.

We can peek through the latticework
The simple squares made, it seems, of hand and Mexican-American clay.
Red brick sturdy
To keep the house aloft and keep the
big bad wolf at bay.

Wall, that vile Wall.
You do not define the territory.
The territory is where we perceive it to be
Up on a roof of a grand museum
in a city they said was dead.
No fear
No fear
No fear, vile Wall.

For where you stoke enmity, we choose love.

We choose to look through and see another whom we call friend.

The exhibit is up until early December. And then the Wall comes down. #cantorroof The Met.