The last time I saw my father, we were saying goodbye at the airport in Jacksonville. He told me not to cry as this was not goodbye. We would see each other again.
The next time I was in that airport, he was no longer in existence.
I wonder at times, do people who are going to die know? At the back of the mind, a niggling little thought, “Soon. Soon, I will be no more.” Or does it come as just as big a shock as it does to us, the left behind. The thirty-five year old child crying at the airport trying to be a “big girl” so her father would be proud.
Did I know? Somewhere at the back of my mind. But, I always cry at goodbyes – especially cross Atlantic, cross the Irish Sea, cross an ocean somewhere away from me.
The second Saturday discussion and creative prompts centered around natural phenomena: earthquakes, mountain formations, typhoons, etc. Interesting highlights of that discussion were the similarities in tales across mythology and the almost universal need to tell stories of how it happens. Especially the scary stuff. We talked about how in myth, there is a warning to others, a protocol established in face of the immense – Nature, God, what you will.
After we shared our pieces, I asked each of my fellow writers to describe the community in which their pieces took place. They were able to describe in detail the location and kind of setting and people. It always amazes me how much a storyteller has within, that is never directly shared, but is visible to the hearer nonetheless. Because they see it, we see it.
We also had a visitor join us for the final discussion. We think he was attracted to the warmth and color of those awesome pink socks! Anoles like stories too!
Just hanging out, listening to the myths.
Okay, so here is my tale. Please, feel free to share your own in the comments and/or any thoughts you have to continue the discussion.
Zephy and Phyr, Daughters of the North Wind
The North Wind had two daughters and seven sons. He divided his wind duties amongst his sons, giving each of them dominion over each of the seas. His two daughters, the youngest two of his mighty brood, were not assigned any duties. Blustering, bellowing, and blowing were not lady like endeavors, after all.
For the second youngest, Zephy, this was just fine. She wore light colored dresses and walked lazily through the long grass picking up dandelions, letting them drift along with her. She would kiss the faces of the animals she walked by and rustle their fur, feathers, and hair.
Now, Phyr, the youngest, was not sated by this sedate lifestyle. She wore dresses, yes, but they were in grays, blues, and black. She had talents as wonderful as her brothers, and, in some cases, she far excelled their skills. She pleaded with her father to give her more meaningful responsibilities than wearing dresses and walking through fields and forests.
“You are a lady, Phyr.” The North Wind sighed, “There are protocols to follow. I know you’re gifted, and I am proud of you. But, there are rules and dresses are a must for girls.”
“But, I want to do more, and dresses are too restrictive!” Phyr pleaded.
“I’ll tell you what,” her Dad relented, “You may exercise your gifts however you wish, but you must remain in the forests and fields and in a dress.”
Phyr knew not to press her father further and demurred. She went out into the fields to join Zephy. She was not daunted though, and decided to find out what she was working with.
She began to sway right to left and her skirts flowed and filled with air. The grass around her began to bend lower to the ground, swaying with her. Phyr’s heart began to beat a little faster. She raised up arms, stretching them out away from her, and she began to twirl. Faster and faster she spun; she lifted off the ground and her hair streamed around her. She laughed and laughed, and spun and spun. When she slowed and lowered to the ground she laughed dizzily and bent down to regain her composure. Then she lifted up, Zephy was standing in front of her looking a little disheveled herself.
“Phyr! look what you’ve done!”
Looking back there was a line of destruction – pulled up roots, flowers, and grass. Animals stumbled to their feet and looked around dazed. Phyr looked around, still panting, and stared wide-eyed at her sister saying, “That was awesome!”
On Saturday, I held my first writing seminar in a long time. It was outside at the beautiful Still Waters Retreat Center in Austin and started a four part series on Creating Myths.
We discussed a few known creation myths from Genesis, Greek Myth, and Ursula Le Guin. And here are the prompts:
1. Write your own creation myth.
2. Pick up from where the story left off and create an intimate look at what happens next? (Over the next few hours or days. )
3. Write what ever you like.
And as always, artwork, comic form, and writing of all forms are acceptable.
We came back and shared and got into a wonderful discussion on the let down and joy of having “no original thought” or, as I like to see it, a direct connectivity to all of humanity across space and time. 😉
Here is my piece. Create your own and share and, to my fellow writers from Saturday – feel free to add yours here and any thoughts from Saturday in general.
Refuge
Eve breathed slowly. Stepping in the mud with her bare feet, it was cold, mushy, and oddly soothing. She could not tell if it was pleasant or not. Adam had moved on ahead of her, not looking back. She quickened her pace and moved silently next to him. She worried what he might be thinking; was he mad? Who knows, she thought, this could be good, fun even . They had explored every part of Eden, and this was new, exciting, scary. Was scary bad? She did not know. Maybe. She knew not to ask Adam; not yet. Just in case. How did she know this? She felt it hovering somewhere near her stomach.
The two of them came to a willow near a river, and Adam lay down his staff. Here, they would rest. Eve laced her sack down and sat cross legged at the base of the tree. Adam parted the willow branches and went to the river’s edge to gather water. Eve felt the breeze in small, light gusts. Tiny pieces of leaves and bark dropped onto her lap and arms. A large black beetle scuttled quickly over and under the fallen leaves on the ground. She spoke to him, but he ignored her as he moved around to the other side of the tree. Odd, she thought, he didn’t even tell me his name.
Adam returned and offered her a drink of water. They had left in a hurry, but had managed to bring some useful objects from home. This skin container was one of them. Adam sighed as he sat down next to her. He took her hand and squeezed it gently.
“What shall we do for dinner, Eve?”
“Well,” said Eve, as she opened up her sack, “I brought some figs.”
” Then some children were brought to Him so that He would lay His hands on them and pray; and the disciples rebuked them. 14 But Jesus said, “[i]Leave the children alone, and do not [j]forbid them to come to Me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” 15 After laying His hands on them, He departed from there.” (NASB)
This passage from the bible has been playing in my head for quite some time, probably more than 4 years, but let’s say 4 years. Last night and today it has rung through my head in the more traditional KJV – “Suffer little children to come unto me.” As a child, that line had always made me feel uneasy. I didn’t understand how Jesus wanted children to suffer. You can imagine my joy when I discovered two things, 1. the words “suffer little children,” were aimed at the disciples, who thinking they were preventing their teacher from being overwhelmed, had tried to stop the children from getting to Jesus. And, 2. that the word “suffer” also translates to, “endure, to allow, to lump it already.” He is telling his disciples off. Don’t stop children from coming to me, for theirs is the kingdom of God, they are always welcome in the Kingdom of God. Not so, it seems to the kingdom of man and for those who proclaim Christianity. They are still “mis”-understanding the KJV translation as “make the children suffer.”
How else can we explain the closeness of this presidential race? How else can so-called Christians vote in massive numbers for a man, a party, a platform that allows children to be stripped from their families unjustly, lost in a system already overwhelmed by underfunding, how else do they justify people, human beings, nomads, like the Christ himself, to be placed in cages to be abused, forgotten, and die. On this one issue alone, and there are plenty, there should be no doubt, no call for recount, no space for tampering accusations, no question as to who should or rather most definitely should not lead the people. And yet. and yet.
My heart aches today, my thoughts have gone to dark places, not visited since I was much younger and lost. I have wept, and weep still, even as I know it looks as though his reign is over. But not so for certain Senators, whose dereliction of duty should land them in court, at the very least! Ah, but there is my old friend “should.” What is and what ought to be – why must they always be so distant from each other?
And do not give me the “pro-life” excuse. If you actually cared one iota for the fetus, the potential human being, you would not allow a single child actually living on this earth to go hungry, to be stripped from loving guardians, to be placed into cages based on their “origin” or, should I say, “papers?” You would endure each and every one on this earth, you would do as Jesus said and suffer little children, allow them in; you would not, like the disciples tried to, stand in the way of them and God – Read: Love, Compassion, and Hospitality. Samaritan goodness. Remember these, Dear Christian? And before you spout off about some asylum* seekers being adult- We are ALL children of God. Or does your Love, unlike His, come with conditions. Then, my friend, you break the singular commandment, “Love your neighbor, as I love you.” That’s it, that’s the one Jesus spoke of. I’ll let you sit with it for a bit; follow the logic and love through. Like I said, my heart aches today and I am angry. I can’t imagine what the Christ feels.
I wrote this piece when I was 15. I found it again in my dalliances through poems past.
Rosemary for Ophelia
Your body’s draped in flowers.
Neither had the chance to bloom.
You obeyed your father’s wishes,
Obedience that sealed your doom.
I wonder how you really felt,
Did he make you tremble?
Were you only trying to impress
When you used to jig and amble?
I know that I shall never see
The truth behind your eyes
I was not there to watch over you
I never heard your cries.
I sleep to see your body,
Floating down the stream.
No matter how I fight,
I cannot change this dream.
Your face is now my own.
Your heart beats inside of me.
Your thoughts flash through my mind.
This feeling won’t let me be.
Did you see them running,
Before you sank beneath the water,
And closed your eyes forever?
Even though your body's cold,
Do you hear the words he speaks?
Can you feel his arms around you?
Does your soul feel weak?
Or will you never know,
These words he did solemnly sound?
Are you only dust,
That has enriched the cold, cold ground?
I hope that your soul
Has finally found its rest.
So I can say to you,
Goodnight, my sweet princess.
I was looking through my poetry folder today, and I came across this misfiled note. and then I thought- maybe not?
Things that need doing. Spring 2019 found again in Fall 2020
Taxes Canceling the Y Creating Job descriptions Can C’s’ job include student behavior? Printing emails Talking to student – J, again. Teacher & Admin reviews for next year Get earplugs Clear the clutter Shut out the noise Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork Let the dog in.
How many times must I say this? How many times until you learn? How many times until you trust me? How many times is enough? How many? Ah, the frustration of repetition. I just said that! We have gone over this a million times. I have it figured out, why not you? Funny, you would think I would have learned by now… When I was finishing my PhD thesis, I submitted it for review by the department head. If he gave it the a-okay, it went to final submission and then to the Viva or oral defense. I had used my official name on the thesis, a name which very few people knew me as, including our department head. I don’t know if this would have altered some of the more abrasive comments about my lack of clarity or the missing elements, but I’d like to think so. I had been working on this thesis for 7 years and I had thought I was done. I was not. Once I picked myself up off the floor, and had a good cry at my Mum’s, I went back to my supervisor to see what was salvageable. The main issue was that I had left out a discussion of an intrinsic foundational argument. The lead up to or history of the subject if you will. At first, I was affronted, of course I had laid that foundation. It was all there in black and white, what was he talking about? Alas, sometimes when you sit with a subject for so long and you know the ins and outs of your thought process so intimately, you fail to see that not all of your ideas and meanings are self-evident to the rest of the world. Nor, for that matter, to your department head. I’ll admit it hurt. Deeply and emotionally to read some of the remarks made in an off-handed, dismissive tone. My first chapter and beyond peppered with “she fails to see” and “has she even read…?” What I had failed to see was that I had been unclear in my meaning. My foundation was rushed, so that I might dive into the meat of my argument, the areas that held my fascination and joie de vivre. I rush. I am impatient. I miss steps. Sometimes in my rush to the good stuff, I leave out a few steps. And it ends up biting me in the tuchus. Fast forward to my first year teaching – I told my students, “right. Over the weekend, you need to write a 2-5 page paper on the following topic…” I asked, “do you understand?” They nodded their heads, collected their stuff and went on their way. Monday arrived, I held out my hands for their papers and not one, not one student, turned it in. I was livid. “What on earth are you all thinking?!” “What is going on here?” A few brave souls put up their hands and said, “we didn’t know what to do! You didn’t even give us a handout!” It’s true; I hadn’t. I wasn’t teaching college students anymore. I was teaching high school Sophomores, and they needed a lot more guidance than I had given them. I had failed to see, again. So, I set aside more time for paper prep and as the years passed that time grew and grew. Writing isn’t easy, especially in the beginning! Oh, and the middle, and the end….
I am learning to become less frustrated with repetition. To stop and make sure the foundation is solid before jumping into designing the attic lounge area. Which brings me to another form. A poetic form that works on a step-by-step process of poem making. It is short, sweet, and specific. A good form to practice a “one foot before the other” process.
A cinquain is a five line stanza. There are three separate forms that qualify as cinquains and each holds a specific purpose.
The first form centers around word count for each line. It may be written about anything. It’s used to describe a person, place, or thing.
Line1: One word Line2: Two words Line 3: Three words Line 4: Four words Line 5: One word
The second form is strictly about a specific noun, but not (usually) a specific person–in rare occasions, I have seen them about specific objects. For example, it may be about a cup, a specific trophy, a work of art, ect.
Line1: A noun Line2: Two adjectives Line 3: Three -”ing” words Line 4: A phrase Line 5: Another word for the noun
This third form of cinquain is most easily adapted to various subjects. Its focus is on syllables. Feel free to use it any way you like, just stick to the form.
Line1: Two syllables Line2: Four syllables Line 3: Six syllables Line 4: Eight syllables Line 5: Two syllables
Finally, here are my attempts at each form of the form:
1. Love Pure Joy Quiet calm devotion Compassionate true fellow-feeling Empathy
2. Stream Strong, wide Flowing, Freeing, floating. It winds ever on – River
3. Thunder Growling in clouds Waking the sound sleeper Forcing its way through the night’s sky Silence
The blurb on the front cover of one of her collections reads, “far and away, this country’s best-selling poet.” And I think, no. That is not an accolade for a poet. That is not the accolade for her. Keep your consumerism far from our girl. She spoke of nature, and life, and the Divine. She spoke to us all.
I listen to her words still, I listen to her words again.
I, too, want to put into words feelings that swell, then rush away as I reach for them, as I stand in my garden and the hummingbird comes to demand that I refill the sugar water. A warning that perhaps next time, they will not return due to this slight of a half-filled feeder.
I imagine a younger version of a poet walking around her kitchen, on a lazy day, reading my poems aloud, like prayers to the Almighty, And sighing out in relief – Amen.
I went down to the lake to
wash my hands.
The waters from the stream
cleansed my feet.
Flowers uplifted my core.
The mountain air filled
my lungs,
and, closer to the sun,
my tears began to dry.
alltheformsblog 