Christmas Morning

Despite the two-week vacation, my internal clock remains on work-time, so I am awake while the stars are out and the wind sings through still-hidden trees.

Sometime before seven, the sky turns a pale purple and edges of the neighborhood begin to emerge from the night. The week's frigid temperatures have given way to comfortable cool and the wind has softened to a quiet whisper. Too early for the day's activities, the morning is calm and peaceful, so I set out for a walk--down the driveway no longer covered in ice, past my neighbor's house where I'd enjoyed Christmas Eve just hours before, around the corner to the cove that sits to the east of my house.

It is a breath-taking view when you turn the corner--a hidden surprise, there around the bend and just off the main and busy road. A sliver of golden light outlines the horizon, reflecting softly along the shore of the small beach at the base of the hill. A gull or two dot the morning sky, quietly soaring above.

A small collection of cottages sits to the right of the beach, and I walk here often-in the off-season, when it is empty and still. At the edge of the property, where the last few cottages stand sentry along a cliff near water's edge, there is a wooden bench and I sit down.

Clouds the color of lavender and peach stretch out across the sky like brushstrokes on a pale blue canvass. The wind tickles the water and shoots goose bumps along its surface. A cormorant swims by, then disappears under the water, emerging out near a lone sailboat, moored and rocking gently back and forth. Gulls land effortlessly on the rocks the locals call "The Mermaids," while a giant wave crashes up with great fanfare.

And then, the sun bold and bright, rises up from morning shadows and casts a broad banner across the harbor, warming my face. Fall leaves dance in a circle behind me, and a flock of gulls sing out in unison from the cliff below--Merry Christmas!

It's All Greek to Them

My mother--
not content
with "grandcats"--
tries to set me up.

A nice man, she says.
Goes to church.
Works at a bank.
Drives a nice car.

"Does he write?"
I ask.
"Paint?"
"Travel?"

"I don't know,
you'll like him,"
she insists.
Hopes.

"I have enough,"
I tell her.
"My work, writing,
the house, friends."

"Think about it,"
she says.
"I have,"
I respond.

She asks again,
a week later.
Three weeks later.
"No, Mom."

"He doesn't understand,"
she tells me.
"You don't understand,"
I reply.

"You meet, no?"
says her boyfriend,
the older Greek
from upstairs.

"You talk.
You like.
You get married.
No?"

"No,"
I think to scream--
but am polite
to my elders.

"Honey," he says,
"You are alone.
You get married,
you are happy."

"I am happy,"
I insist,
no doubt in
Swahili.

Close Encounter

It had been six months--almost to the day--since I saw him last. Saw him in such close proximity. Close enough to touch. Instead of love, I offered up a friendly "hi," and we exchanged that colloquial hi-how-are-you-fine-and-you-good fast and without eye contact. Midway through I realized he wasn't alone and turned away before we'd finished, stepping to the counter--a thousand words in hand.

The shock swelled slowly--as it does with those sudden unexpecteds. Disappearing knees, shaking hands as they attempted to insert card here. Deaf and dizzy with pounding pulse, my eyes pleaded silently to the cashier…hurry, I am naked and about to explode!

I grabbed my bag and raced to the door wishing I'd put on make-up or pants that actually fit my ass. Was he watching as I pushed the automatic doors to open?

Keys, where are my keys, trembling, searching crazy in my purse across the parking lot without looking don't let me drop this get me out of here is he there? Don't look back. Though a pillar of salt would be better than this.

Keys. Door. Sit. Hold on. Reverse. Drive. DRIVE! What stop sign? Is it over yet I wonder as tears blur my vision.

Isn't it over yet?

Making the Bed

Wednesday,
2:00.

A crystal’s rainbows
dance about
in southern sun,
as I fluff pillows
and straighten sheets.
Its intention:
new energy
in this space we shared.

Why is it then,
I think of you, still?

Dream Sequence

Technicolor,
full-length feature—
he comes to me
each night.
Every night.

In patchwork scenes
from waking-life…
across the table
in a diner,
by the water
near the beach,
in an elevator
at the museum.

Extras walking
back and forth,
standing, waiting.
I don't recognize them—
or him.
He is the news anchor,
the clerk at the store,
Bill Clinton?
I laugh and turn over
in my sleep.

"Where are you?"
I ask.
"Are you OK?"
"Are you safe?"
He responds
as if reading a
script I wrote myself.
My words, my answers...
drop meaningless
on the pillow.

I can feel him—
his hand in mine—
and smile
before waking fully.
Small comfort
in the quiet
of this empty stage.

The Magazine Experiment

One of my favorite magazines used to be Martha Stewart’s Living. The photos, the tips and ideas, the recipes—I loved it all. What I loved most, though, was the illusion that if I owned this or bought that, my house would look like her house—color coordinated furniture and linens, flawless design, perfect accessories.

The antique, sterling silver tray that housed my olive oil and balsamic vinegar? A Martha tip. The cobalt blue bottle to store my dish soap? Martha. After all, who would want those offensive condiment and soap bottles sitting out on the counter without accoutrement?

Those little domestic embellishments were paving the road to my ideal—so beautifully laid out in the pages of Living. Those little domestic embellishments were costing a fortune. The silver tray? $75 to creatively display $10 worth of condiments. The blue bottle? $35 put the $1.39 bottle of Joy to shame.

The truth is, it wasn’t her house I was looking to emulate, it was her life. In the back of my mind, I thought that if my house looked like her house, certainly my life would look like her’s as well—joyful holiday dinners, warm and intimate family gatherings, copious friends celebrating around feasts for kings.

I can’t blame Martha for the illusion of the life I was striving for. The promise of its possibility was presented to me at every turn—on television, in newspapers, on billboards and the internet. Seducing me from the magazine racks prominently displayed at the checkout stands—“Create Your Dream Home,” “Give Life to Your Living Room,” “Bedrooms Like the Stars.” At one point, I was the proud subscriber to Living, Cottage Living, Country Living and Better Homes and Gardens. As a bonus, I was automatically added to mailing lists of catalogs from near and far—two dozen at last count.

Each month, these glossy tomes of dreams would arrive in my mailbox, reminding me that I wasn’t quite there yet. To achieve that life, there was more to do. More to do, and more to buy.

And then, something happened.

I can’t remember why or when. There was no watershed moment, just a feeling. A realization. I loved my little house. I loved my random knick-knacks collected over the years, the photos of family and friends in mix-matched frames, the worn-out quilt draped over the thrift store sofa. And yet, it kept feeling like it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough because each month there were these reminders that I needed more. I needed the trendy kitchen appliances. The curtains and carpets and pillow and throws in this year’s “hot color.” The beaded chandelier for the bedroom. The decorative soaps for the bathroom. And when I got too much of the stuff I needed more of? Purchase decorative—but functional—storage containers, of course.

Purchase this. Buy that. I was caught up in an unending cycle of getting more to have more, with very little satisfaction. The cobalt blue bottle did look pretty next to the kitchen sink, but it didn’t make life any more joyful or fulfilling. No one noticed the silver tray with the condiments, it just collected dust and needed to be polished every month.

And so, one day, I stopped. I canceled my subscriptions to the magazines. I resisted the urge to buy them at the grocery store. I tossed catalogs in the garbage without even looking at the covers.

It has been three years since those books of dreams cluttered my life, with interesting consequences. I rarely have the impulse to get and to buy. I don't go shopping every weekend, or keep a wish list of things I need to purchase for this room or that. I’m not seduced by sales fliers or advertising promotions—I simply throw them out. My credit card balance is near zero. My house is not fit for the spread of a magazine. But when gathering with family, or celebrating with friends, my house—my home—is filled with things I love, things that have meaning and memories. Filled with the life I was looking for all along.

Beautiful Foolishness

Bursting from the confines
of appropriate
and polite
and compliant,
I exploded!
Ran down the street
with arms and legs flailing.
Did a pirouette in the
produce aisle.
Stomped my foot
and yelled with a roar.
Rolled in the grass
like a playful pup.
Jumped in the ocean
fully clothed.
Sang wicked loud
in a crowded room.
It's not chagrin
this pink on my cheeks.
But flush
from the rush
of beautiful,
unrestrained
foolishness.

Discarded

She wonders if he remembers the night they found that cat? Left to fend for itself in the winter woods, it died by the trail--as if it waited for someone to come back. Collar with its name, no address or phone. Alone.

He carried it to the vet, along with his warped sense of humor. "Were you attached to it?" she mocked. "Yes, and then I abandoned it," he replied--each of them poking fun at the intimate confessions they'd shared. Achilles heels, laid bare.

Ironic, how easily they laughed at the inevitable.
In his absence now, she remembers . . . poor discarded "Love."

Letting Go

Every week, via email, I get my horoscope courtesy of Rob Brezsny (www.FreeWillAstrology.com). His words are wise and wacky and wonderful. I think they appeal to me most because they are symbolic, rich in analogies and mysteries you have to think about for a while.

This week, for example, he bid those of us born under the sign of Cancer "to make 'in the buff on the holy mountaintop' your power metaphor of the week. Blend sacredness and nakedness in any way that appeals to your imagination, especially if it's in high places or makes you high."

At first, I didn't get it. I thought maybe this was one of those weeks when my orbit just wasn't in sync with the rest of the planets.

And then, today, in a series of events that made me definitely "out of orbit" in an angry and I've-had-enough sort of way, I got it. Because, in the process of angry and I've-had-enough, a small whisper of realization got louder and louder.

"It is time to let go of this."

To be honest, it has been whispering it for many years, I just chose not to listen. I was afraid to let go. I was afraid of the consequences. I was afraid of what I might find, or not find, if I sloughed off yet another layer of something I'd been holding on to.

"It is time to let go of this," I heard myself say out loud.

And then I called my friend Martha to verify.

"Well, it's about time!" she said with much enthusiasm.

Apparently, she'd heard the same whispers and was wondering when I would get around to it.

About an hour or so later, a friend emailed to say she was trying "put faith in front of fear" today, and I breathed in her words, deeply.

"It is time to let go of this."

There is a certain synergy happening here, and I feel it. With that one simple, powerful sentence--there is change, and validation, and release.

I feel…lighter.
Naked, one might even say.

Kismet

In Nashville, she bought a rock star coat--black leather with sequin-flowered sleeves and a rhinestone, mid-calf hem. In the dressing room, she laughed--it was a perfect fit; "I'd never wear it," she told the saleswoman, "back home, we're all L.L. Bean and Talbots."

She bought it anyway and hung it by the door--her alter-ego, set in wait.

Then she met her new neighbors, Zach and Joe, walking their dogs. "This is Amy and this is Pacho," Zack said, "they have a cabaret act."

When they invited her to their house warming party, she knew exactly what to wear.

Unrequited, Perhaps

Identity Theft

I looked
in the mirror
and saw nothing.
Pieces of familiar fall away.
Sticks poke at what's left.

Start from scratch
or use a box mix?
Put square peg
in square hole...
that's never been my style.

I took a walk
to get answers.
Insert A into B, get C.
But all I saw was ocean.
Vast and unresolved.

IT doesn't seem
to need answers.
In. Out. Back. Forth.
Up. Down. [Repeat.]
I take my cue and leave.

It's OK. Really.
I was bored with her anyway.
If you please,
may I see something
in a polygon?

Tea Ceremony

We're sharing a cold this week, comparing our symptoms daily.

"Are you sneezing yet?"

"No just coughing. And I'm cranky."

"Yup, me, too."

I take her recommendation and make a cup of green tea with honey. Quietly, I stand at the kitchen counter, following the instructions.

1. Bring fresh, filtered water to a boil.

2. Place one filterbag in your cup, mug or gourd.

3. Pour 8 fl. oz. of water over filterbag.

4. Steep for 3 minutes while contemplating your favorite eternal mysteries.

I close my eyes and silently ponder, "Who the hell drinks out of gourds these days?"

Gone the Familiar

She arrived in '97 at the age of 10, after her first "Mom" died. After my Dad died, and life felt suddenly empty.

We needed each other, I think. I needed her, certainly.

"She's grieving," said a Reiki Master, a few months later, as she held her hand above CJ's tiny six-pound frame. "Here," she said, then slowly eased her pain.

Later than night, CJ scaled the loft-wall above my bed and landed with enthusiasm on the pillow next to my head. It was the first time she came to me, uncalled.

Each night thereafter, she would come to bed with me, sitting by my head as I relaxed, tossed to the right, tossed to the left and began to fall asleep. She knew the routine. It was only after I'd tossed one final time that she would tap at the blankets for me to let her in, and curl into my stomach for the night.

In the morning, she'd get impatient. Four hits of the snooze button was enough for her, and she'd begin pacing up and down the bed as if to say, "OK, it IS time to get up now." When I didn't listen, she'd stick her face in mine--"Hello?"--her whiskers making me sneeze awake.

They say cats are either born from jungle cats or desert cats. If there were ever a species of water cats, those were CJ's ancestors. She loved to drink from the faucet, or neglected glasses of water. She took her place on the rim of the sink when I brushed my teeth or washed the dishes--looking ready to pounce. In later years, she began taking showers with me. At first, I thought she was being silly and senile. And then I realized she'd stopped grooming herself--no doubt the arthritis made it more difficult than a brief stroll through the tub. She even seemed to enjoy the morning blow-dry!

In the summertime, CJ would sit on the screen porch, watching the birds fly by and lounging in the sun for hours. In winter, she took to the warmth of the computer monitor and slept all day above me as I worked. She cursed the day the flat screen arrived--work hasn't seemed the same since.

When the day was done, I'd turn off the TV, shut off the lights and head upstairs--with CJ no more than two steps behind me, every night.

It's difficult to talk about her--and her sisters Emily and Crystal--without sounding like the stereotypical single woman, the "cat lady" and all that. But she was--they are--my constant companions.

CJ, though, was special. She and I shared a bond that seemed, at times, almost human. Familiar. Often, when we sat together, she would stretch herself out and rest her paw on my hand. When I was sick or sad, she'd pay special attention and snuggle in just a little closer.

On her last day, she went out on the screen porch. It was a warm March morning, and she sat for a while, under a blanket I draped over her. She seemed to enjoy the sun, bright in her face, and the sound of the birds making ready for spring. So, we stayed there a while, and I rested my hand on her paw, snuggling in just a little closer...one last time.


"As strong as you were,
tender you'll go.
I'm watching you breathing,
for the last time.
A song for your heart,
but when it is quiet,
I know what it means
and I'll carry you home."

- James Blunt

In Transit

They made love in his cabin on the train from Boston to DC. The jostle of the cars lent assistance to his old, tired body as he tried to please her. Later, she rested her head against his shoulder; he combed her hair with his fingers while she stared out the window. "I could love this man," she thought. In the food court at Union Station, she read his recent short story, relishing in the intimacy of the moment. "Do you like it?" he yelled above the din. "What happens at the end?" she asked; it was over too abruptly.

She Was My Daughter

I was there the night he raced home to welcome his new daughter. I was there when he got divorced; we toasted with champagne. And then she was mine--on weekends and school vacations for four years. I barely recognize her now. Her MySpace profile paints a picture hard to look at. She calls herself a loser, and worse. "Rebellion" inked large in the tattoos she boasts about. But it's more than that. She is angry and unabashedly telling the world with every self-destruction. It is my fault. I should have saved her instead of trying to save myself with him.

The Things We Do

She wasn't surprised, really. Like a feeble handshake, he'd made a poor first impression. A car salesman now starring in the role of entrepreneur. She could tell from the fake intonations and extraneous praise. She hadn’t heard from him since Jack was born a year ago. She'd gone into labor early and he hired another contractor because he couldn't wait. They needed the money, though, so she didn't hesitate. "Of course, we'd be happy to help you with that, Mr. Roman," she said, trying not to smirk as he handed her his credit card. It wasn't even his real name.

Can I Have My Technology on the Side, Please?

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I like my technology in small doses. A little bit of convenience here and there doesn't hurt, but I just don't feel the need to be plugged in all the time.

Sometimes, it doesn't make sense. Case in point: on Thursday, I needed to make a change to my checking account, so I called the direct line at my bank and this is how things went...

"Hello, thank you for calling your bank. How may I help you?" asked the customer service woman.

"I need to make a change to my account, and I'm wondering, is this something I can do over the phone or should come in to the bank?"

"Do you have access to our online banking?" she asked, which was not the yes or no answer I was looking for.

"I don't know." I responded.

"Well, give me your account number and I'll find out for you."

I gave her my number, and she put me on hold while she went to access my account.

"It looks like you set up online banking in 2005," she said, some five minutes later.

"Oh, I didn't know that."

"Do you remember your User ID and Password?"

"No."

"Ok, well, if you can answer your security question, then I can give you your User ID and Password."

Security question asked and answered correctly, she gave me my online banking info and explained, in detail, how to go to the website, which buttons to click, which numbers to enter where and so forth.

"Thank you," I said as I got online and hung up the phone.

Click this button. Now this one. Enter my User ID and Password.

"We're sorry, but this is not the correct information. Please enter your User ID and Password." read the screen.

Click this button. Now this one. Enter my User ID and Password, again.

"We're sorry, but this is not the correct information. Please enter your User ID and Password."

Click this button. Now this one. Enter my User ID and Password, again.

"We're sorry, but there have been too many attempts to access your account. We have now locked you account for security reasons. For the unlock key, please enter your email address here."

Apparently, "If at first you don't succeed..." does not apply with online banking.

Click this button. Now this one. Enter email address. Press return.

"Thank you. Your unlock key will be emailed to you shortly. DO NOT CLOSE THIS BROWSER WINDOW until you receive your unlock key."

So I sat and waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. No email. No unlock key. BROWSER WINDOW OPEN.

Elapsed time since initial phone call: 35 minutes. I closed the browser window and called the direct line at the bank.

"Hello, thank you for calling your bank. How may I help you?" asked the customer service man.

"I was trying to make a change to my account online, but I seem to have entered the wrong information and now I'm locked out. It's been 15 minutes, but I still haven't gotten an email with the unlock key."

"Sometimes it takes a while." he said.

"Is this something you can help me with?"

"No, you'd need to call our Online Banking Customer Service Department and they can walk you through the process."

"OK, well, let me go back to my very first question then. I need to make a change to my account, and I'm wondering, is this something I can do over the phone or should come in to the bank?"

He laughed. "Sure, give me you account number."

Tap tap tap, I hear in the background. Two or three questions asked and answered. Tap tap tap.

"You're all set. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

Elapsed time since second phone call: 3 minutes.

Women, Poets, Artists

Metamorphosis

Safely
wrapped
inside
the chrysalid.
Cloaked in
appropriate action
and matching
predictability.
Drone.
Dispassionate.
Dormant.

Until your ignorance—
of magic
and second chances
and love—
shattered
the false refuge.
And I,
laid bare
and fetal-curled,
with
old life seeping
from my eyes,
enough
to drown.

Choking, thrashing.
Retching words
of sorrow and
confusion.
Grasping helpless
in the murky
residue
of memory.
What light?
What life
beyond all this?

Until…
Colors
bold and strong
unfurled.
Beating in
singular cadence.
Defiant
in the face
of ordinary.
Hungry for
exultation.
Rising!
Reborn!
Resplendent!

What Sound, Change?

I remember
sitting on the front porch
that August night
my father died
thinking surely I would know.
Surely there would be
some sign
some sound
to note the if and when
of his passing

THIS IS THE DAY.

But
change needs
no fanfare.
No crescendo.

I remember
leaving you
two years ago
this day
thinking
“I will never see you again.”
No fanfare.
No crescendo.
Wet gravel beneath my tires,
winter rain against the window--
change’s only notes.

I remember.
Its aftermath
still echoes
like the tempest
that brews
overhead
this morning.

I want
the thunder to
crash loudly.
Rattle the roof
and windows.
Mark the anniversary
with ferocity

THIS IS THE DAY.

But
change needs
no fanfare.
No crescendo.

Joy Song

Every child is an artist.