poetry

WILD WRITING – Slop Bucket in My Head

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Once in awhile I take Laurie Wagner’s free mini writing course on Wild Writing. She recites a poem. We listen and then write nonstop for 10 minutes. It’s a good practice. The poem I listened to this morning was Today’s Sermon by Cheryl Dumesnil. The poem, especially the first line ‘is slop buckets knocking against each other‘ really resonated with me. I feel somewhat like a slop bucket carrying everyone’s messy and tragic stories. Sometimes I feel like a mop sopping it up. Yes, I haven’t let go of the things that I should have. I can still hear the words of the neighbour from whom I sought commiseration. I’m still there, not letting go. I was in utter anger and distress at the time.

“Oh, Lily, you are just ripe for her. That’s just what she wants. That’s what she thrives on. I don’t know what I can say but you brought it on yourself. I don’t mind you coming over to visit but don’t bring your drama. This stuff is very hard on me.” A stillness came over me. I guess it was lightbulb moment. I said I was very sorry. She said she believed me.

The strangeness and stillness of the moment stay with me. Why strange? Because this woman have been living in my ‘hood for 20 years. We are in sight of each other but have not spoken or known each other’s names. That is until last year. By then we knew just that much and that was all. She had knocked on our door one day in October, gave us a card and burst into tears. The card was the funeral service for her son a couple of months prior. We did not know him or of him. She did not want to divulge the cause of death. We provided commiseration, hugs and offer of tea. The purpose of the visit was made clear moments later. Could we look after her house and plants when she will be away over Christmas? We gladly did. It was the right thing to do.

Then not long after I received a phone call asking me the name of my ‘ troublesome’ neighbour. She was at the polic station filing a complaint against her. Later, we listened to her long story for over an hour. Then we never heard from her again till late in December with offer of being ‘friends’ on FB. We accepted. Then the day before she was leaving for the Christmas holidays, a text message for me to come over for instructions. It was no small thing what we did for her. We checked her house every day for almost 2 weeks in the cold of winter. She has lots of plants to water all over the house. She just barely got back when I received at text at 11:pm telling me that her daughter had just died. I had not known she had a daughter. I wonder why she need to tell me and so late at night.

I texted condolences the next morning. I did not think it was appropriate for me to bother her at this time about returning the key. I did not have to worry about it for too long. She phoned me, requesting house sitting services again to tend to the tragedy. This time she will be away for 7 days. So how can one refuse in light of this? This was still in the middle of winter. She did thank us through a text message but did not come to retrieve her key as I had requested. I gave her time but in the end I delivered it into her mailbox. I texted her first of course.

I’m writing wildly, without censorship. I am writing wildly for clarity and healing. Obviously I was wrong in the assumption that I could count on her returning comfort and understanding. My drama was only one fold while hers was 3. I’m doing accounting but I am not mad or angry or even disappointed. I am just puzzled by the reception I received from her. She clearly showed me that we all see the same thing so differently. So I thanked her for a lesson learned. After all this tapping and bitching I’ve been doing, I discovered I do like myself. I like being open and vulnerable to others’ cries. I don’t think I am able to tell someone in their hour of distress not to bring their drama along.

I can live with the sound of slop buckets slopping in my head. I can sit with this discomfort, let it slop over onto the page, and or let it splash as art onto an index card. It’s much better not to sit with it. Being a drama queen is not such a bad thing. It’s not some terrible sin. It’s discharging distress. It just might save my life. But the next time someone knocks on my door, I’ll be more discerning. I like to help people but I don’t like being used.

THE BEST AND THE WORSE DAYS OF 2021

January 4th, Day 4 of the Ultimate Blog Challenge, Day 3 of the Positivity Challenge. It has been a challenging day. My positivity assignment was a date watching the sunrise or sunset. No phones. No devices. Just me and mother nature. The sunrise was rather bland as no sun came up. All I saw was the grey of the sky lightened by the white of snow everywhere. I thought I could kill 2 birds with one stone shovelling snow while watching. I was out in nature. Would you call a shovel a device?

The questions from the Unravelling My Year are:

  1. What was the best day in 2021? What happened?
  2. What was the most difficult day in 2021? What happened?

The questions are hard to answer. My 2021 was peaceful and tranquil. That is my thought at this moment. Of course I’m sitting here with a glass of red wine. What I know for sure is there were difficult moments but after they have passed, the difficult part is forgotten. What else I know for sure is I have grown stronger and more resilient with the years. I am a fighter. I do not dwell in darkness. I always fight my way into the light. I have always love winter, the cold and the snow. I love the darkness, too. It is a part of me. Sometimes the worse of times is my best of times. It drives me to create.

The Worse of Times

Doubt often creeps in
On fatigue’s uncertain feet,
Filling me with fear.
And I would have to reach
Deep into Faith’s pocket for trust,
And remember that often,
My worst of times are
The best of times.

Unbound Joy

Unbound joy, a girl and her dog,
Walking and running on the river,
Each lost in thought and dream,
Content, just being with the Universe.

God’s Land

Frozen expanse under blue skies,
My footprints in the snow.
Overhead a plane soars
On its way to Elsewhere.
I hear God’s voice calming me,
Shhhhhhhh!
All is bright, all will be right,
In God’s land we abide.

Free Spirits

Jumping for joy
on the river of life,
Naked in our happiness,
baring our souls.
Leaping and laughing,
free spirits in the wind.

INVITATION TO CHANGE

I’m suffering somewhat with this locked/shut down. Sometimes I feel as if I’m suffocating and can’t catch my breath. These times come with some tiny memories that drift in uninvited and unannouced of times before, of people lost and forever gone. They’re like mini panic attacks. I know now what it is meant by grasping at straws. Those times and people are gone and irretrievable. I feel such a loss, a hollow which cannot be filled. How callous I have been!

So here I have sat for the last while. I don’t know how many days. Immobilized, devoid of ambition, desires. I have not hula hooped, done my qigong, sew or painted. I cannot use being busy and no time for an excuse.  If not for Sheba, I would not have gone for any walks. My shame and guilt have been overpowered by lethargy. I’ve been caught up reading murder mysteries to quell my anxieties of uncertainty. After a long while, I’m nauseated and disappointed in myself enough to make a change.

What if I could just do one hard thing a day? It would be a start to rise up and out of this self-induced coma. There’s a whole slew of things that I need/could do.

  • Filing my income tax. It’s due June 1 this year because of the Covid-19.
  • Cleaning and putting away winter boots and clothes.
  • Cleaning and putting away the humidifier.
  • Showing up here again as a daily practice. It was keeping me sane and functional. I must keep what works for me.

This is enough to wake me up a bit and get me on my feet. I must not let this opportunity go for naught. I came across Mary Oliver’s Invitation yesterday. Her simple words have stirred me to thought and hopefully action.

Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy

and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles

for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air

as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude –
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing

just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,

do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.

 

WEREN’T WE BEAUTIFUL

I am having a bit of a struggle this morning just with the thought of being in ‘locked down’. My daily life activities have not really changed all that much. I do miss not being able to go to the library, swimming Saturday mornings and our Monday, Wednesday and Friday exercise class at the YWCA. The thought of not being able to get closer than 6 feet of another living human being (other than the ones you’re living with) makes me feel claustrophobic and breathless. It’s much like the time I accidentally locked myself in the car. I was in a  panic then. Even Sheba was taking up too much of my air. I had to roll the window down and stick my head out.

I had a talk with myself just a little while ago, put a load in the laundry, made myself a cup of tea and here I am with the poem of the day. The words are beautiful,  bringing to mind of different days and different times. I know the wisdom of being in the NOW. But it is also in our nature to look back as well as ahead. We are a sum of our total experiences. Our body registers pleasure moments as well as those frightful ones that come back to haunt us long after they are gone. It’s healing to recall those golden times evoked by photographs and poetry. I can close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, feel the breeze in my hair. I feel the vitality of my youth and the presence of my cousin next to me.

Now I’m soothed and smoothed, sipping another cup of tea. I’m no longer breathless and panicky. I can still feel the warmth of those sunny golden days and the presence of my cousin on this earth, knowing she is an angel in heaven.

Were’t We Beautiful

growing into ourselves
earnest and funny we were
angels of some kind, smiling visitors
the light we lived in was gorgeous
we looked up and into the camera
the ordinary things we did with our hands
or how we turned and walked
or looked back we lifted the child
spooned food into his mouth
the camera held it, stayed it
there we are in our lives as if
we had all time
as if we would stand in that room
and wear that shirt those glasses
as if that light
without end
would shine on us
and from us.

– Marjorie Saiser

 

 

STARTING HERE

William Stafford’s poem captured my morning moment with Sheba. Starting here, it is what I want to remember – the two of us in this room, sunlight dancing across the floor and her back. We are breathing as one. I could not ask for a more perfect moment in time. I could not feel a more selfless love than this. It brings back other memories of dust motes in sunbeams. These are the moments when I feel at peace with the world, when I feel we are all breathing as one.

You Reading This, Be Ready – William Stafford

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this 
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life –

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

HOOKED ON WILD

This is the thing. I get hooked. I see these free courses on Facebook. I can’t help it. I investigate and sign up. Doesn’t hurt anything. They’re free, right? I sign up for Laurie Wagner’s 27 Wild Days of writing to be delivered right into my mailbox. Each day contains a little video where she reads a poem. Then she chooses 2 lines that would make great prompts. It sounds too good to be true – 27 free days. And it was.

I’m excited. Love the poems. Love Laurie. She is so vibrant. The prompts lines are great, propelling me into writing and writing for 15 minutes. On day 3, I’m wondering why there are 2 videos.  The first video she talked about the exercises and her program which I’ve seen already. What I haven’t seen before was the  sign $49 to sign up. It puzzled me a bit but thought it was for a more in depth program. I was okay with this short one so I moved on to the poem. Another great one for wild writing. I was ecstatic. I was productive.

This morning I was pumped up, wild and eager, looking forward to another wild writing. I opened my mail for another video and poem. I scrolled and scrolled. No mail from Laurie Wagner! I scrolled some more. Nada! I went to YouTube. No day 4 video, only the end. I realized then, that I was teased and dazzled by a sampler. I wished that they had been more upfront. Had I misunderstood, overlooked? I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t find the original pitch on FB.

I went through a bit of withdrawal – gnashing teeth and clenching fists. I thought about signing up. $49 US is not a lot of money. I am worth it. It would be worth it. Then I thought of my year-long online art class. I’ve abandoned it after 5 months. It’s still there for another year for me to access.  It was a great starting point for me. It was worth it. Then I thought of the ebooks on writing on my Kindle app. I’ve barely glanced at them. I’ve had them for a few years. Maybe I could read them first.

I’ve decided that I will try to be wild on my own.  I will find my own poems and inspirations and those great opening sentences. I can experiment my own brand of wild writing. Emily Dickinson is an intriguing person. But her poetry doesn’t do it for me. I will check out Leonard Cohen and Mary Oliver. Suggestions, anyone?