On Being Five (Part 2)

Last Monday, April 10th, we arrived home from school. She's in the back seat and I'm pulling into the garage.

Five Year Old: Mom, there's a spider in your hair.

Me: No there isn't. Time to get out now.

Five Year Old: For real. There's a spider in your hair.

At this point, I've parked and am getting out the car, she's carrying on about a spider.

Me: Ok, let's get out. (I unbuckle her)

Five Year Old: April Fool's, Mom!!

Oh, if I had known that April Fool's Day was extended this year, I surely would've gotten into the spirit.

However, it must be very liberating not to have a sense of time or propriety.

On Being Five (Part 1)

Driving home this evening from the store through a neighborhood. A small bunny rabbit darted across the street. I slowed down and was amazed at how quickly he saved himself.

Me: Oh! I just saw a bunny!

5-Year-Old: Where? I didn't see the bunny?

Me: Well, he went so fast, I didn't have time to tell you.

5-Year-Old: Did you see him?

Me: Yes.

5-Year-Old: Did he have a basket?

Me: Umm.. Umm.. I think he was going to get the basket.

5-Year-Old: OK.


Happy Easter!

Bubbles (My Poems): Greater Expectations

Greater Expectations
I would be led by a trail of dead flowers
through the woods
to where I needed to be.

Red leaves dripped from the trees.
The decay crunched underfoot,
setting a pulse
as I dashed
to freedom.
Mud and grass thickened my soles
and the bark grazed my arms,
releasing my blood.
The mossy air grated my skin until it pricked,
but sweat trickled down my face.
Like the Ferryman, the forest asked for a toll
and I gave until I was bare.

I looked to the sky for guidance,
but the trees extended formidable arms
to shield the moon from me.
It did not matter. The scent of independence
was leading me.

I kicked rocks from my path.
I felt empty and clean.
There was a wail in my ear,
the past will always be.
And so let it be.
I bore no Orpheum desire to look back.
A fire burned in my chest, igniting the way to
greater expectations
that I deserved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wrote this a few years ago for a writing exercise - Use the words "trail of dead flowers" in a poem. I actually saw a trail of dead flowers in my office that someone had accidentally dropped. So, I took it up a few notches. Any deeper meanings to this poem? I had the image of a slave running away in my mind. However, it could apply to anyone running towards freedom (e.g., a victim of abuse). I've actually used this poem to preface a short story that I'm working on. It's inspired a totally different interpretation in a story about a mother/daughter relationship. (The characters are great, the language is real, plot builds up, and then there's no climax. Just a fizzle. Need to revisit that story and revive it though.)

Movie Review: Brokeback Mountain

So, I wanted to get these guys' pictures up on my blog sooner or later.

I liked this movie, though I wish I had seen it a year ago, before the Oscar hoopla. It's a quiet story that makes you think.

People always raised it as a "love story," the focus on the love that couldn't be. However, I found myself zeroing in on the Michelle Williams' character. She was in a one-sided marriage. Her partner was not fully committed to this relationship and also to his family. From his point of view, he has been putting his family first and doing what he could do. However, she expected more. It was a bit sad when she said he never bought home fish when he knew how much she and the girls loved fish.
Anne Hathaway is good too - we know her very intimately as Princess Mia from "Princess Diaries" so it's good to see her grow as an actress. The last scene when she talks to Ennis on the phone is perfect.

As far as the lead actors, I had just seen "The Brothers Grimm" with Heath Ledger & Matt Damon, which was a fun movie. To see Heath Ledger pulling this character is amazing. The accent, the attitude, the mannerisms are flawless. I love actors who exercise diversity. Another favorite of mine is Johnny Depp, who can be proper JM Barrie to a foul-stinky pirate to a freaky Willy Wonka.

Dollars and Dreams

It's that time again. Big jackpot for Powerball or whatever in NJ. Sometimes it's in DE. Sometimes in PA.

People are work start soliciting for contributions to the lottery pot. Someone will go buy the tickets, photocopies will be made of all the tickets for the contributors. Presumably, the contributors will huddle around the TV that night with their copied tickets.

I think I played it once at work. We didn't win. After that, I did not see the point and people knew not to ask me for lottery.

However, everyone's enthusiasm is what is striking. People are optimistic and excited. "Oh, you'll be the only here on Monday!" implying that everyone will win over the weekend, take their winnings and sail off to the Bahamas. And, I shall be the lone person in the office come Monday. Fine, I'll take that risk.

In one way it's admirable. In another way, it's very disheartening to think that this is the only way people feel their life can be changed. They are in their current situation because of external limitations - there would be too many to name. The lottery rage is not just in the ranks of the temp and hourly employees, but some managers also participate. What are they looking to change?

I enjoy going to casinos and playing roulette or blackjack (it's been years though!). I don't like slot machines though. I'm used to throwing in quarters and at least getting a can of soda in return. With the games, there's some sense of control over what you risk and how you choose. The lottery, when you allow the machine to choose for you, is like the slot machines. You take what you get. You'll win a small amount just to make sure you come back and bet more.

So, what is there to the lottery? Is it just a dollar and dream? Or is it just one dream and lots and lots of dollars spent to achieve it. My parents used to own a store which sold lottery tickets. They were surprised at the number of daily customers they had, usually retired individuals. They are on fixed incomes, but they have allocated enough to play daily.

I think of 'Cinderella' in all this. We all regard the story as a symbol of wishes granted magically. The fairy godmother will give you your designer gown, pimp your ride and find you a rich hunk. Yet, people forget that Cinderella did not win because she bought into the dream. She worked hard and stayed true to herself in the face of adversity. In the end, she was rewarded. Maybe I buy into that dream that you do what you must and hope that someone will recognize you for it eventually. It won't happen magically.

Movie Review: Rang De Basanti

Wow.

What an amazing movie.

I heard a lot of positive things about this movie, and actually tried to see it in the theater. (I haven’t seen a Hindi film in a theater since 1997 "DDLJ"; I’m quite fine with DVD and the power to fast forward).

Here's a link to the story (please come back and finish my review though!)

I thought the filmmaking by Rakesh Omprakash Mehra was impressive. I liked the juxtaposition of the present day characters with their freedom fighter counterparts. The editing was crisp and flawless. I don’t think I’ve seen any Hollywood movies with that kind of hip and sharp music and video editing.

You have to look at it in two parts and I think he went over the top at times. However, I think you may have to for an audience, which may not be accustomed to cinematic subtleties. So, sometimes it felt a bit forced, but I think the director needed that. The biggest complaint against this movie is the last part not being realistic. Agree, perhaps it would happen in China or in a repressive society, and not in India. However, it's the idea of it happening in India being more shocking. You have to think of 1970 shootings at Kent State Univ in OH, where student protestors were shot and killed by the National Guard. That shocked the country, and the film shows a similiar shake-up.

The AR Rahman music is good as always - slamming down on the perfect balance of hip western and classical Indian styles. Unlike other Bollywood movies, the music is tied to the movie, so it must be seen *with* the movie to be appreciated more.

The first part of the movie was fun, though I had to wonder how long the care-free depiction would go on. I was wondering, “Why are you guys sleeping in the sun? You haven’t been doing anything, but lounging around anyway.”

They really showed the beauty of India through historic sites and landscape. It would have created a richer depiction if they had presented the more common people of India as well. In a way, that’s the life the characters led – isolation from India and life.

However, the beauty of the friendship was the blending of religions and cultures, especially the way Sue was enveloped into their group. Maybe it was Aamir Khan, but it reminded me of the comradery portrayed in "1947 Earth" before the Partition, where they were friends and Indians before they were Hindu, Muslim, Sikh.

Watching the scenes of the freedom fighters was powerful and you cannot watch without being moved by it. I couldn’t help but think about the war in Iraq. Is it a matter of semantics - what do we call those that want to shake the occupation - freedom fighters, rebels, insurgents? Watching the torture scenes and prisoners who are not afraid to die reminded me of what is happening now. I don’t want this movie review to become politically entwined, but if the purpose is to show the story of freedom fighters lives on, then it would live on in different forms and countries. People always fighting for what they believe.

Anyway, I found it a bit disheartening that Blondie spoke better Hindi than I can with her two weeks of night classes. The Indian directors now are really talented. Once they are given permission to step away from the Bollywood formula, it's really exciting to see what they can do.

Images of Reality

I heard a reference to mirror breaking and bad luck associated with it. And, it got me thinking. The reason behind the bad luck and broken mirrors is related to the sacredness of the reflection or the self-image. Breaking the mirror meant the self-image was destroyed. It brought to mind how some cultures forbade photography because the self-image was sacred and the duplication of it was sinful.

So where are we now as an American society? We’ve released the sanctity of the self-image and allowed it to be controlled.

Flipping channels this Sunday afternoon, I had a selection of reality shows to choose: chefs, models, slackers, owners of condos that can’t sell, owners of 1980’s clothes. Not only have we unveiled the sacred image, once it’s manipulated by editors, it is ready for public consumption.

In a way, the mirror is shattered. People look at their image and think it is flattering.

Another important symbol is a person's name. By revealing one's name, we bestow a sense of power, a familiarity to the another person. Names represent us, our families, our cultures, who we are. When we introduce ourselves, we break the first wall of anonymity and allow another person into our lives.

Now, we have the internet. We hide behind handles, not revealing our names. Yet, we freely post our lives, our families, our bodies. We let our handles and nicknames speak for us - do they reveal who we really are or how we truly see ourselves?

So, the name is still powerful, even if the image is not.

"And it’s true we are immune
When fact is fiction and tv reality"
- U2 "Sunday Bloody Sunday"

Defining Oneself ..with food

I was on another site where someone posed the query - if you were a type of food/drink, what would you be?

Yes, we can certainly make this naughty. :-)

However, I started thinking about definitions and expressions. Since I recently wrote the chai poem, my mind wandered back to it.

So, I think I would be a warm cup of chai - sweet, but not too sweet, surprisingly spicy though not overwhelming. The caffeine can be invigorating and it can be soothing too. I feel like quite the cheerleader and pacifier to those around me.

I'd love to get feedback on what type of food/drink you think you are.

Movie Review: Just Like Heaven

Did I need to put a "Chick Flick" warning label on this blog?

I watched it last night and it was a sweet movie. Has a nice mix of true love goes beyond our bodies and is a meeting of the souls, fate, destiny, whatever. In case you don't know the story, as I did not until it started, it's about two souls bringing each other back from the dead. I'll leave it at that.

Reese Witherspoon's character Elizabeth is very well developed in comparison to Mark Ruffalo's David. He's got that average guy cuteness about it, which makes him fetching - "Thirteen Going on Thirty" and "View From the Top". However, you need to have more than that.

It got a little annoying in the last scene in the hospital, but I thought it was fun. Reminiscent of "Ghost" though a lot lighter, and less confusing than "Chances Are" (remember Cybil Shepard's husband comes back in Robert Downey's body?).

I would've given David a career in the first scene. At least make him a writer who has a nagging agent or something. Then you would be able to see his "avoidance" issues.

Anyway, I'm sure this movie will make the TNT/TBS circuit. I think Reese Witherspoon is stepping into the heels of Julia Roberts and Meg Ryan for the romantic comedy genre. I did think she did a fabulous job in "Vanity Fair" though.

In case my friend Dr. Manisha is reading this, I thought of you a lot since Elizabeth is a doctor running around a hospital on no sleep! It looked very realistic to me, but I've never worked in a hospital so I buy whatever portrayals the pop culture/media feeds me. I mean, don't your colleagues look like George Clooney and Goran Visnjic?

On the Job Training: Motherhood 11 - Play Dates

So this is the new dating game.

I've been seeing articles about this in parenting magazines so I'm reassured I'm not alone in this. There's a lot of anxiety involved. The kids like each other and are "new best friends," but does that mean I have to click with the mom too? I have enough friends, do I need more?

History
With Annika's first friend T, it was good. Her mom, D., is very outgoing and social, and we found ourselves chatting up a storm. In fact, we went out to wine tasting dinner (sans kids) with D and her husband. We had a great time, and even the guys had a good connection. Think we've found a nice match. Girls are in the same dance class, so we chat every Saturday morning. Things are good.

Now, Annika's in the new preschool (and doing pretty well) and has a friend Allison. So, Annika & I went to Allison's house one afternoon, spent two hours there and Allison's mom and I had fun chatting. It was great because we shared training/discipline tricks, kindergarten information and other things. I felt more informed when I came out of there; she later told me she started doing some things I had suggested. I guess our daughters' personalities are similar so they would work.

Now we have a play date with Hannah. So, I coordinated with her mom and took her there one Sat afternoon. We stood in the foyer, and I kinda waited wondering if I was going to be invited inside or not. Then Hannah's mom, H. said, "Annika are you ok if mommy leaves for a little while." So, H. was comfortable with having the girls play without entertaining me. I was thrilled! I figured she'd be ok since Hannah has an older sister and both parents are teachers. I rushed off to Target and other stores to do errands. I was quite sad at how quickly 2 hours flew by.

At Our House
Out of courtesy, it was my turn to host Hannah and let them have 2 hours of peace. She dropped off Hannah last Sunday and let me know that she had been sick last week. She lived on juice and water for 4 days and is now ravenous. That's fine.

I told the girls, "Let me know when you want a snack." as they were playing. Fifteen minutes later, Hannah said "Annika's mom, I'd like to eat a snack." So I gave her some mini-muffins and Annika had some cookies - the two of them dressed up in princess garb.

An hour later, she returned hungry. I gave her more muffins. Annika did not want to eat at all.

About an hour later, she told me she was hungry and opened the fridge. It was almost lunch time and I didn't know what her mother had planned. I told her "No, your mom is coming soon and you'll have lunch at home."

I turned around to get Annika to start putting away her toys and I looked for Hannah. She was gone. I started yelling her name, running up and down, opening and closing closet doors, basement, garage. My heart was pounding -- I lost the child 10 minutes before her mom is coming! What kind of play date parent am I?! Annika was running around looking for her, too. I was getting a little furious at this hiding game.

Finally, I found her in the dining room. Under the farthest chair, her pink tutu revealed itself. She was crying and I pried her up. I asked her what was wrong and why did she hide?

"I'm hungry." she said sadly.

I quickly jumped up to make grilled cheese sandwiches. Her mom came a short time after I finished. She didn't take off her coat and made some small talk. By the way, I told her about the hiding and she said Hannah doesn't hide often (maybe new environment?) She said I should've called. Anyway, she was nice, but no chemistry between us.

So, is this what I should expect going forward? More to my nature, I'll just play it by ear and see how all this goes.

Social Calendars
So, every now and then Annika wants one of her friends to come over. However, by the time I coordinate with the moms and given everyone's hectic schedules, it could be tomorrow or it could be two weeks from tomorrow.

We have such a busy life - we've got friends and family commitments, home renovations (another topic for another blog!), work and the need to just chill out every now and then. I really didn't think a 5 year old could bring obligations to the calendar.

She's got back-to-back birthday parties this Saturday; actually will be cutting out of the Nature Center early to make it to the Dance party in time.

I, on the other hand, have no plans for Saturday night.

Bubbles (My Poems): Stepping Over the Mist

A lovely lady had whispered to me

tiny secrets she held
in her bosom. She pulled the slip of white
from her white chest, soft billowing
flesh. I must let you know.

This is so important and I hope you will remember.
I assured her I would.
She whispered with the freshness of summer
and sweet scents of roses in her hair pummeled through my senses.

How can it be? I asked.
Is it so simple?
Yes, she said. You must not worry.

For now you know.

There was something that
told me
you would come my way
walk down my path

and perhaps ring my doorbell
Should I answer it. I do not think I should.
Could you leave the flowers on
the steps and the kisses through the keyhole?

Things that Worry Me

In no particular order:
o Third anniversary of the invasion of Iraq

o South Dakota

o My senator Rick Santorum

o Intelligent Design becoming a scientific topic. If we roll back Darwin, should we roll back Galileo too?

o Tom Delay winning Texas primary

o Dakota Fanning movies

o Having had 20" of snow dumped on a Sunday in February and having it melt by Thursday's 57 degree weather. Feels great, but can we enjoy it without conjuring hurricanes and droughts and wildfires due to global climate change?

o Bird flu - when do we stop serving chicken nuggets to our kids?

Bubbles (My poems) For the Third Anniversary of the US Invasion of Iraq

I wrote these poems on March 19, 2003 11:30 pm, as the invasion would begin March 20, 2003 . The first poem is what I imagined it would be like to be an Iraqi in Baghdad, just waiting for the war to start.

We have fear
to pull over our heads at night
to shut out the prying eyes,
the fingers that crawl through the blinds.

We have fear
to protect us from the
Invisible Evil that
may fall from the sky

or hurt as we breathe.

let the fear harden our lungs
so it may not let out the
cries of anguish,
the turmoil we feel inside
should be hidden.

Tell me how one strikes
upon a city
that sleeps.

A city in a stupor
of silence

Do you feel stronger and braver
knowing you have concrete targets?
Had someone thrown the first punch
and you fought back with that awesome
left hook,

I would understand.

I would know where it came from -
a fire inside sparked.

Yet how do you light a fire
when there is only ice in the air?
Sand in your eyes?

We cloak ourselves in answers
knowing what we do not know
but say we do.

Is it all Right?

We will find out tomorrow
if...

Bubbles (My poems) This Afternoon

Come to my house for a warm cup of masala chai.
Not a powdered Starbucks mix,
but a tawny brew of foamy milk, water and
teas, harvested on the green hills of Ooty,
picked by women swathed in cotton saris.

I’ll lace it with a blend of spices
made from my mother’s recipes.
A gingery grind of
cloves
cinnamon
cardamom
pepper
and other spices you didn’t
know could even be added to tea.

I’ll serve you in pastel Ikea mugs
on a Pflatzgraff tray.
It goes well with ginger snaps and
khari bisquits.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Editorial: I don't understand how Chai Latte got coined. It's so mismatched - Asian and Italian words to describe an American concoction.

Bubbles (My poems): Art Begets Art

Yesterday, I was fortunate enough to attend a women's writing workshop at the Pen and Brush in New York City. For me, it was a day to feed my soul - I had a chance to write and interact with exceptional people, all who share a passion for writing. I definitely came away feeling elated and optimistic, and found wonderful support.

The Pen and Brush is an amazing place to be and full of inspiration. It's a historic brownstone and they have an exhibit of women's artwork around the room. Since we were there from 9 to 5, the sun cast light and shadows. I saw the paintings actually breathe with the changing light.

We did two writing exercises that tasked us to view a piece of artwork in the room and let it reveal itself - actually "reveal you to you." So, for a change from the motherhood posts/poems that I have been recently posting, I found myself writing about me. (Yes, I remember her!)

The third exercise was to draw conclusions from the first two poems.
I was thrilled to find images of these two beautiful pieces online.


Exercise one: She, Me.

(Inspired by Nikki Moore's "She" a collage of torn magazine paper)

Pieces of you and others

make me.
Dress me up, tell me who
I should be,
wearing hats, wearing boots
draping myself in all that
is around me.

But really, my soft curves,
curvier, linear
interior lines
are my true self. And
if you care to step closer to
me, you'll see the hues of me.
I am not
just one shade, but
colors that glow
and fade
and sparkle
and change.


Exercise 2:

(Inspired by Min Sin Kim's "Room 502")

If you sit long enough,
You will become one of them:
Helpless, hapless statues.
Embraced by a stale air,
unable to reciprocate,
only hesitate.
You will be paralyzed by your anger,
holding for an eternity what
you need
to throw now.
Your soul will become
a cool polished stone.

There is a light, you see.
A window. Jump
through it.
Take me with you.


Exercise 3: Gather the pearls, the necklace will come

A grain of sand
found itself into an
Oyster. It irritated.
It burned. It let her know
it was there.
The Oyster wanted to
rip it out. Let it free.
But, she liked it.
In time, her shell hardened and
she grew into it.
she felt the irritating sand was
gone, and a smoothness bubbled
Inside. It lolled about the folds of
her belly and her heart,
but it stopped short her mouth.
When would she be able to release it?

These are a few of my favorite things (Appended)

Let's be self-indulgent shall we?
(bit of a rhetorical query since the blog is a self-indulgent medium!)

- Fresh sheets from the dryer are wonderful.. you lay them on the bed so nice and clean. (Fresh jeans from the dryer are not a good thing. You lay on the bed as you pull them on.)

- Waiters who kneel next to you when answering a question on the menu. Even better are waiters who pull up a chair and sit with you at the end of a shift.

- A kiss on your cheek. It comes with the purest intentions.

- Deep dark chocolate. If it weren't for the bitter, you wouldn't appreciate the sweetness

- The Carpenters

- Pulling a book off the library shelf and inhaling into the pages.

- Standing in sand on the beach. The water crashes at your feet. The ocean pulls back her waters, and with it takes the sand under your feet. You feel like you're being pulled also, but you're really not. You're still stationary with your feet firmly planted in wet sand.

- Indulging in the most sinful, tallest, gooest, chocolate dessert with girlfriends.

- Listening to "Sleepy Hollow" on the WXPN radio on Sunday mornings, and going through the Travel and Entertainment sections of the paper with hot cups of coffee.

- Stepping on snow - making fat crunchy sounds.

- Singers with voices that bring up images:
* Lata Mangeshkar has a timeless voice. When she sings, it reminds me of a red satin sheet fluttering in the wind.

* Sarah McLachlin voice reminds me of bubbles floating and then just popping, releasing a note (The song "Angel" especially).

* Jewel sings and it sounds like she's skiing - going up and down over the snow mounds, and then just gliding along.

* Natalie Merchant is like a hot cup of peppermint cocoa - rich and smooth.

Poet Laureate Ted Kooser

I heard the Poet Laureate Ted Kooser on NPR the other day. I wish I could find that interview though, I found these clips of his interviews.

What stayed with me was his comment about the rewards of poetry. He said he had a poem in Atlantic Monthly magazine recently. It was a 5-line poem and he got $5 per line. A whopping $25.

So, he said because the financial gains aren't there, "poetry is more pure." It's written from true feelings with real intentions.

Actually, this makes much sense to me as I'm struggling with 2 poems. I'm writing them for anthology, which has requirements for theme. I can certainly write a poem on this theme, but I'm not feeling it. So, it's become very dry. Not at all fluid. I feel like the words are bricks that I'm laying on top of each other to form a tall structure. Conforms to the themes, but doesn't serve any purpose to me. A building that doesn't even shelter me.

Anyway, I like Ted Kooser and was fascinated by him during a tv interview. First of all, something about him reminded me of my grandfather, who always encouraged me to read and write. Maybe it was Kooser's round and kind face with prominent ears?

The other thing I liked about him was that he worked for an insurance company for years. He would rise at 5 am and write poetry. Then, proceed with his day.

I don't have any set time for my poetry writing. I tend to squeeze it in during the day. Our weekly production meeting is an excellent time for me to write. Else, if I'm waiting for an an application process to be finish, I'll pull out my notebook or open a Word doc.

It's encouraging to hear this from Kooser; he's an academic now, but that's what I keep worrying about. Must you be in academia to get published?

Enough of my fretting. Enjoy Kooser!

Tattoo

What once was meant to be a statement—
a dripping dagger held in the fist
of a shuddering heart—is now just a bruise
on a bony old shoulder, the spot
where vanity once punched him hard
and the ache lingered on. He looks like
someone you had to reckon with,
strong as a stallion, fast and ornery,
but on this chilly morning, as he walks
between the tables at a yard sale
with the sleeves of his tight black T-shirt
rolled up to show us who he was,
he is only another old man, picking up
broken tools and putting them back,
his heart gone soft and blue with stories.

from Delights & Shadows, Copper Canyon Press, Port Townsend, WA 2004

Flying at Night

Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations.
Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies
like a snowflake falling on water. Below us,
some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death,
snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn
back into the little system of his care.
All night, the cities, like shimmering novas,
tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his.

Published in "Flying at Night

Bubbles (My poems): A Child Is Not a Poem. A Poem Is Not a Child.

This is a metaphor.

How do you learn to spell?
Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,your first naming,
your first name,your first word.
- Spelling by Margaret Atwood

Your first Naming.
Naming your First.
Feeling the power and
privilege of raising a human
Child
to grow into a human
Adult.

One who would make decisions
based on answers
you provided and birthed in
hidden memories.
The burden of parenting
is not in the nightly
Awakenings.
The physical demands of motherhood
can be handled
She was created by an invisible hand.
yet she will be raised under my
Words.

Do I know the words?
Aren’t I still seeking to form
the vowels in my mind that build the world
into words I can consume?
Yet those consonants are like thorns in my throat.
I cough up words and hope
they will spring themselves into an umbrella
for my child to use in downpours.

Quote on Love

Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. - James Baldwin, author

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

This was on our corporate webboard today. It really drives home that love is about being honest, being the authentic self, and the acceptance of another person wholly.

I always believed that when people are dating, they're eagar to keep a certain face, say the right things, be a bit careful with the other person. Once the couple decides to commit into marriage, then it becomes real. All the skeletons spill out of the closet: the credit card bills tumble first, the family members that were hid in the corner are now taking center stage. It's as they say on the "Real World", "people stop being polite, and start getting real."

So, you could be dating for 2 years or 2 months, it's only when you commit do you become real.

By the way, speaking of love, here's another cliche for you. Unconditional Love of a Child. Wait - don't click "Next Blog" so soon. I can't believe it is true.

Annika is horrible eater and tends to dawdle and chat incessantly through dinner. It's very frustrating that it takes an hour to eat. Then, while goofing around, the dinner spills over on the floor. Now, I lose it. I get mad and send her upstairs and she starts crying. I feel bad about all this. When I come upstairs and tell her it's time to read a book, she finds her book and climbs into my lap. I apologize and ask her if she understands what happened. She does and reiterates it to me. Then, we read our book and it's a wonderful bed time.

So, that is unconditional. No matter what you do or say, she loves me so much. Un-condition-al-ly. Without condition. Without a reason.

Mind you - lest you walk away thinking we're all happy and kissing all the time, she has slammed the door on me, yelled at me for being a bad mom, etc. So, she can get mad at me. But, then we come back together.

Bubbles (My poems): Step by Step

Why didn't they tell you how
complicated it would be
when they handed you a little girl,
aflush with life and your blood,
a swaddling of soft white cotton with
black marble eyes that never leave you
though they dart about you,
looking to see more.

Why didn't they tell you that
you are her mother
and she will turn to you for everything -
how to be a girl,
to be a woman,
to be a person of her own,
even though you are still learning the steps yourself.

She will look to you to show her,
but then she’s also going to shut

you out when she thinks she knows everything
and then you have to watch her
walk alone...

She may make the choices you taught her she wanted,
or will you watch her go astray
or will she shut the door
and keep you from seeing

her repeat your mistakes,
because she thinks she knows the answers

just like you knew everything
when your mother tried to tell you.

****************************************************************

Speaking of motherhood, I read recently an observation. When father is converted to a verb, "fathering," it means providing a sperm (e.g., he fathered 2 children and adopted 1). When mother is converted to a verb, "mothering," it means so much more (e.g., she questioned her mothering ability) The word itself conveys feelings of warm laps and convenient shoulders for tears, nurturing of the body and mind. So, again, the mother bears the bigger burden.

However, "mothering" is one letter away from "smothering." - So, please keep that in mind!