Remember a few years back when the idea people came up with the Do Not Call Registry?
Remember the power and comfort in knowing that, once you said, “Please put me on your Do Not Call List,” they were never, ever supposed to call you again?
Remember the peace and quiet?
And then it turned out that it didn’t apply to Clean Water Action or the Police Officers fund or Hillary or Barack. Not that I’ve got anything against of those folk, but I’ve gotta say — a dinnertime call from any of them annoys me as much as one from the Home Shopping Network would.
I shouldn’t complain.
Our primary is long over, and I know it’s ya’ll in Indiana and North Carolina who have had to turn your ringers off recently. But honestly, these calls do not inspire love and loyalty in me. I understand the need to raise consciousness and money, and I know that marketing is a tricky balancing act — saturate but don’t irritate. Which is, apparently, easier said than done.
Last night I got a call at 8:05 from a city council campaign office. 8:05. Hello?? Bathtime? Bedtime? Book time? “Can our candidate count on your support?” the woman on the other end of the line asked me. “No,” I said. “Nobody who calls me at 8:05 in the evening can count on my support.”
Which, granted, is a little sour. But can’t they reach out without reaching in?
This weekend, one of my multitudinous cousins was in town. Technically, he’s my dad’s cousin but in my family we tend not to discern between 1st, 2nd or 3rd, once or twice removed. There are too many of us and we all like each other too much for it to matter.
He was here for a big Masters swimming event at UT, and we went to cheer him on. Our daughters came armed with handmade signs and lots of spirit. Tall one took one whiff of the air and uttered in ecstasy, “I love the smell of pool…”
One of the events Dan was swimming was a 500 meter freestyle. That’s 20 lengths, folks. At race pace. It makes you gasp for air just thinking about it. So, needless to say, a guy’s got enough to do just pulling himself down the pool and back again without drowning. Keeping track of mileage is too much to ask.
Which is where I came in. I got to be his official ‘lap counter’. Standing at one end of the pool, I was given a long paddle with numbers at the bottom. I dipped it in each time he came my way so that he’d know how far he’d come and how much further he’d have to go. In between, he’d pound two more lengths at mock speed while I scurried to change the numbers on the paddle. I may not be going to Beijing this summer, but I got my own little smell of victory right then, I assure you.
But here’s the thing that really got to me. Even more than my own moment in the sun, or Dan’s goal-shattering swim. All these zillions of ordinary folks, swimming their hearts out, for fun. For fun.
I mean, nobody requires that they take their vacation days in Texas at a swim meet or that they let their hair turn slightly green in the chlorine or that they wake up everyday at 5am to swim laps. They do it on their own, for health and sanity and competition and comraderie and passion and, well, for fun.
Some hold world records, others are cancer survivors. Some are fast, others are slow. Some are 26, others are 86. Seriously. And there they all are, in their Speedos and goggles, with their Gatorade and Gu, stickin’ to it and having fun.
I cannot be in the presence of that sort of people — whether they’re swimming or singing or writing or campaigning or dancing or teaching — without being brought to my knees. In admiration. And gratitude. For the entertainment and the inspiration. I may be a card-carrying sap, but I came home with a whole new oomph for the stuff that makes life better than good…
Lately, my tall one has been waking nightly, with growing pains and hunger. Her jeans all barely skim her ankles and she’d eat two lunches if I’d pack them.
Meanwhile, here I sit with a crick in my neck and a slight headache. I love my morning run but sometimes feel as if I’ll need a nap when I finish.
We are two bodies in a world full of bodies — brand new and aging, strong and tired, open and closed.
We are two bodies capable of, if you can believe it, breath. And when it comes right down to it, what else is there?
I’ve found a body poem by an old grad school friend of mine, the imaginative and luminescent Marlys West.
Read. Hear. Sit. Breathe. With your singular body on this singular Friday.
Namaste….
Here Is the Church
They had never spoken to me before, save one, once, when a basketball jammed its knuckle and for three days straight that finger
shouted and wept, wept and shouted, fat and purple, full of anger. This night
was different. I heard a tiny song from deep inside the neat, white bones, unlike any melody I knew and not unpleasant.
Yesterday I sat in on a roundtable designed to get at the secrets behind excellent teaching.
The talk originated with a really thoughtful dean, who does things like this.
(Peer reviews, retreats, roundtables.)
Imagine — asking teachers what makes for excellent teaching.
I love it when notions are totally sensible and radical at the same time.
So here’s what struck me:
How many smart, articulate, imaginative and totally devoted teachers there are — working everyday to make learning accessible, engaging, relevant and, ultimately, truly possible.
It’s enough to make me want to cry. Or cheer.
And it’s for sure enough to make me want to do an ever-more impassioned job myself.
I came home with a long list of ways my colleagues bring learning to life in their classrooms —
using games and patience and examples and compassion.
We talked about kids just out of high school, new immigrants, pregnant moms, and students overwhelmed by everyday roadblocks. And story after story was recounted of actually reaching these students. Of accomplishment. Empowerment. Humour. Joy.
And this was one intimate little group at one little community college.
For those of you who worried that I’d fallen ill or gone into the witness protection program, rest easy.
I’ve just been so flippin’ busy that blogging has had to take a back seat. (Well, okay, I put it in the trunk. Or on the roof rack. Sorry. Something had to give.)
But I couldn’t resist stopping by briefly to relay a school visit snippet.
(And I have faith that someday soon I’ll have a half-hour for a proper update, and twelve hours to read all of yours…)
Monday I visited with a bunch of first graders who were just beaming with enthusiasm, the whole lot of them. Plus, they all seemed to be missing their two front teeth, which is pretty much my favorite look in the whole entire world. I was smitten.
But, lest I get too cocky and comfortable in my authorial hat (or pocket vest, as the case may be), Little Guy stepped in:
Me: And your heart is a pocket full of love, sweet love. My heart is a pocket full of love.
Little Guy: Ma’am? That’s not technically right. A heart is a pocket full of blood. And blood filters.
Me: Um, uh, right. Technically.
Little Guy: (Silent. Satisfied.)
So. So much for metaphors. But, y’know, I often talk to my students about how our work has to ring true — to be true — even if it isn’t the least bit factual. This heart business didn’t ring true for Little Guy? Good for him for speaking up. Truly.
Recently, one of my mama friends told me about a conversation she’d had with her daughter. They’d discussed why we’re all attracted to different people and, in particular, what characteristics they truly treasured about their individual best buds.
I was inspired.
So, yesterday evening, my small one and I walked the dog and chatted.
Isn’t it funny, I said, how in this whole wide world full of people we all, magically, find these certain folk to be our friends?
Yep, she said, I’ve got a lot of friends. And it went from there.
I discovered that she really likes people who are kind and funny. Bottom line. Not actually all that different from my bottom line. I mean, if you can’t have a laugh now and again, life’s going to be a long slog.
And speaking of funny. Here’s my favorite moment from our conversation:
Well, I think my favorite thing about C. is how nice she is.
I agree, honey. She is really a kind, good person.
Yeah, like one time I almost killed her hermit crab, Mama. I dropped it between two seats in the car and it could have gotten crushed or cut in half. It almost did. And C. wasn’t even that mad.
Wow, I said.
Yeah, she said. Especially when the hermit crab wasn’t really killed.
Right, I said. That is really nice, I said.
(Hard to know how else to respond to all that.)
So today, in honor of all the quirky and peculiar little intimacies and reasons we have for pairing up with who we do, here’s a little ditty by Richard Brautigan. Happy Friday, friends…
If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
Yesterday I did the first of a two-day writing workshop with a group of local 5th graders.
The topic was poetry, and my take on it was this:
Poetry’s hard to pin down.
Is it short? Yes. I read from some books I’d brought and the kids had all written haiku before. So, yes, we had evidence: poetry is short. Always? Um. No. We talked about epic poetry. And I read to them that old ditty about James James Morrison Morrison. (They could not believe, by the way, that someone — an ordinary guy — had inventedWinnie the Pooh.) Anyway. The conclusion? Poetry is sometimes short and sometimes long.
Does it rhyme? Yes — and we read some very funny Mary Ann Hoberman to prove it. But, I mean, does it always rhyme. Oh. No. I guess not. This dreamy free verse doesn’t. OK. So poetry’s sometimes rhymed and sometimes unrhymed.
And what’s it about? Nature? Yep. Love? Check. Life, called out one student. Stuff, called out another. Death, said a third. And how about this? I asked, as I turned to Thumbs by Shel Silverstein. Right. Thumb sucking. Poetry can be about anything.
Sheesh.
This is what scares people about poetry. It’s hard to pin down. If you don’t know what it is, how can you read or write it with any confidence?
But, I suggested, what if we look at that as part of the adventure? What if we like breaking rules? What if use incomplete sentences and make up words? What if we lie?
Everyone perked up a little at this point. What if we lie??!!
And so we did. * Here’s the first effort, a collaborative poem full of untruths. I think it’s pretty swell.
And That’s the Truth
The sky is green. I don’t like to gamble, Miguel hates money and I hate chocolate.
Trees grow under the ground and camels have beaks. I’m a midget, buffalos have wings and horses fly.
People don’t sing and cats bark. We don’t go to the Austin Discovery School and the world is safe right now.
I have to admit, I feel like this month has been a bit of a steamroller. It’s hard to catch my breath.
Like today, I have at least seven things to say and it’s not even 9am yet.
Here goes.
1. The beloved Jules of Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast has woven together the most delicious post about the crown sonnet experience you read about here last week. She interviewed the whole bunch of us and then turned our individual ramblings into a conversation that is so fine I wish I woulda been there for it. Y’know? So go give it a read and thank you, Jules and Eisha, for being such hearty champions of all things poetical.
2. Yesterday was the first national Poem in your Pocket Day, a little stroke of genius especially near and dear to my heart since my first book was all about, well, pockets.
3. I carried two poems yesterday, one by each of little gals, in my pocket. What’d you carry in yours?
4. Austin’s Blanton Museum of Art, for which I wrote a villanelle this past winter, is planning to add a multimedia perspective to our ekphrastic endeavour. There will be audio and video clips of some of the poets reading their work, and discussion surrounding some of the art. Right now, there’s a fine little explanation of the project here.
5. This week we had a wild turkey on our roof. I kid you not. You guys, we live in the middle of a rather significantly-sized city. I haven’t written a poem about it yet, but I think I oughta.
6. If it weren’t for yoga this week, I think I’d have gone a little mad. Yoga, to me, is poetry of the body. It can save me in the same sort of way that reading an entire collection of poems while soaking in the tub can.
7. And here’s why I’ve needed it so badly. Our strides toward aesthetically pleasing and everlasting domestic bliss continue. This week we’ve been without power for 2-and-a-half days. I got some insulation on my hands and got all prickley itchy. It rained last night on our outdoor kitchen. And my husband and I haven’t always agreed on what we believed we’d previously agreed on.
You’ve heard of the many divorces that were kick-started by remodeling projects, right? Well, we’re not going there, I assure you, but there have been a few moments of… um… totally-flabbergasting-what-were-you-thinking-don’t-you-know-me-at-all-how-could-you-frustration.
In a nutshell, he knows what he’s doing. He designed the project, can picture it perfectly and has done a good bit of the building on his own off hours. I do not know what I’m doing, although I think it’s fun to look at different colors of linoleoum. My spatial understanding is remedial. At best.
So. We’re getting there. Thanks to yoga. And poetry. And, sappy as it may sound, love.
This one’s for him:
my love is building me a building — e.e. cummings
my love is building a building around you, a frail slippery house, a strong fragile house (beginning at the singular beginning
of your smile)a skilful uncouth prison, a precise clumsy prison(building thatandthis into Thus, Around the reckless magic of your mouth)
my love is building a magic, a discrete tower of magic and(as i guess)
when Farmer Death(whom fairies hate)shall
crumble the mouth-flower fleet He’ll not my tower, laborious, casual
