excerpt from my NaNoWriMo novel

         Sometimes I wake up and I find that I can’t remember the way my father looked when he smiled. Or I struggle to trace the outline of our apartment building in Brooklyn. I couldn’t tell you what the sky looked like when I got the news that my mother was gone. But to this day I can close my eyes and vividly see Pierre’s face, his tailored jeans and black turtleneck sweater on that winter evening in Sydney. I feel the soft sweater dress I was wearing and the pressure of his hand on my arm as he leaned in to greet me with a gentle kiss on the cheek. I remember the darkening sky held promise of a coming storm and the breeze had picked up. If I tilt my head I can hear his rich baritone voice reflecting on any number of things. Even if I wanted to, I can’t forget any moment of that night.

NaNoWriMo Bio

who am I?
the wind doth cry
to stop the lie
that I must die
and so I try
to cry fie
and paint the sky
so full of why
that when I die
my work will fly
and none deny
what I supply
does please the eye
with words thereby
and so farewell

skeleton

it's chilly here
the wind goes through
my defenses are down
I'm open to stares
I know they're laughing
children passing
as I stand
exposed
I'm rooted to the ground
wishing I could hide
sink into warm earth
but I'm bound still
forced to wait
'til Kingdom come

late on a friday night

the bus is crowded with awkward faces
but it's not the usual portland weirdness
the lady across the aisle looks like death
or something warmed over with blood
and a skeleton just walked by
the girl in front of me has lines on her face
not from age but makeup in cow shapes
some hipsters complete with flannel got on
oh wait, that's normal

maybe that zombie apocalypse happened
or maybe it's just the end of october

joyful angst

fall has wrapped his arms around the world

blowing fire on the maples

breathing a cold edge to soft breezes

on the corner the chestnut shakes

dropping spiked burs to the ground

inside each hides a savory fruit

when roasted over crackling flames

a taste of snow to come

i stand beneath the chestnut

feeling the warmth of the dying sun

whispers of cold nights on the wind

my heart is torn with love of fall

his pernicious kindness draws me in

fed by the harvest of summer’s death

chilled by the wasteland of winter’s hope

can i tear open prickly capsules

yet not bleed to find life-giving food?

if it costs me nothing

is it love?

it cannot rain today
the weather must stay dry
clouds won't come along
but i can't tell you why

there will be sun today
and skies of bluest blue
dark clouds will hide their face
when you come into view

and even birds will sing
although you may not hear
and i will smile as though
the weather's always clear

it cannot rain today
still i am whispering
the wind ignores my sigh
and all the leaves are turning

in vain i search the sky
for what may never be
the sun has gone away
til you return to me

story cont.

Outside the light dimmed a bit when a sudden clanging jerked her awake. Disoriented from the sudden noise and the strong medication, she sat still, willing her mind to focus on what was happening. Only her thumb twitched nervously. As the minutes ticked by she began to relax, “just a dream,” she muttered, but the words barely escaped her lips when the clanging repeated. That sounds like the blasted doorbell but who would dare? She struggle to her feet, clutching the end of the sofa until her vision solidified enough to shuffle across the floor. Painstakingly, her arthritic joints protesting, she unlatched both deadbolts, the knob lock, but left the security chain in place. Opening the door she squinted in the gathering twilight. 

“Hi,” a voice about waist level said. “My name is Dafydd. Like David but the Welsh way because my mom thought it was cool. What’s your name?”

“Go away.”

“That’s an odd name but ok. Ms Away, would you like some cookies?”

“No, brat. I didn’t say that was my name I told YOU to GO AWAY. So beat it. Where’s those idiot parents of yours anyway? I’d give them a piece of my mind for letting their son disturb an old woman.”

“Oh, sorry ma’am, I didn’t mean to disturb. I just wanted to share my cookies. I kind of don’t have a mom and dad, I mean, they’re dead. Long time ago. But my foster parents are super cool and Mama--that’s what I call my foster mom--helped me back cookies for people in the neighborhood and so I thought I’d bring you some even though she said you probably didn’t want any because everybody knows you don’t like people but I thought you don’t have to like people just cookies and so would you like some?”

She took a deep breath. “Um...”

“I knew it!” David said, “You do like cookies! They’re peanut butter chocolate chip, my favorite. I’ll just put them here on the table.”

And before she could respond he had brushed past her and walked toward the kitchen table keeping up a running monologue. How many years had it been since anyone had stepped into the house? She couldn’t remember but she felt her heart racing and that old sense of losing control coming back.

“It’s kind of dark in here, you should let in the setting sun. It’s super nice tonight, the breezes would help clean up the air. Do you keep it closed all the time? Kind of seems like it. Hey, are you like Miss Havisham? We just read that book in school and I thought of you because no one ever talks to you and you keep yourself shut up. But Mama said you were married once so I guess that’s not the same. But hey, I could be like Pip. Would you like me to come and visit every week? I have time because school is pretty easy and there aren’t too many kids that live in this neighborhood.”

Dafydd paused here and looked at her. He waited. She gripped the edge of the couch and said, “I don’t, I, I don’t, I mean I think, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Why?”

How much is contained in a single word? All the whys came flooding back, all the reasons for shutting herself off, all the people who had failed her, and more deeply the people she had failed. 

“Because I’m a bitter dying old woman, kid, and you wouldn’t want to be around me.”

“It’s still Dafydd and everyone needs a friend. Please?”

She glared at him. Opening her mouth to say “No” she heard herself say, “Well, if you want maybe you could come around. Just once a week.”

“Great! Since you are getting old I can help out too. I like to help out!”

“Kid, I don’t need your help.”

“Well, maybe you don’t but your lawn does. I’ll bring the lawnmower next time and afterwards you can tell me some stories. Okeydoke, see you then!”

And without another word he was gone. She sat down, her breath coming in gasps, as if she’d just run a marathon. Before she could gather her thoughts the door opened and Dafydd’s head poked through.

“You never told me your name. What should I call you?”

“Ford. Ms. Ford.”

“Great. See you next Wednesday,” and the door shut again. 

christmas in august (a rough draft)

        It was Christmas 1986 when Molly’s life changed forever. Yes, thinking back on her life she realized that in one breathtaking moment she learnt that life takes your hope and crushes it, often when you least expect it. And often, sadly, the moment comes after all the signs had pointed to fulfillment of that very hope. 

That fateful Christmas she had asked for a special gift. Now, her family was by no means wealthy; in fact, to her shame, they often used food stamps and this very Thanksgiving had accepted a box of food from the food pantry. This was the same box of food they donated to on a regular basis at church (only the gross cans, like creamed corn and peas with scallions). But she felt so much hope that her family would make the sacrifice to give her this one gift. It wasn’t much, just a Barbie horse that sold for about seven dollars down at K-mart. 

Christmas Eve came and she kept eying the square box with her name on it under the tree. It was the right size, it clattered a bit when she discreetly shook it, and it was hers. The excitement mounted. It was Christmas, the season of excitement and shouldn’t she expect nothing less than hope, tangibly materializing in the plastic shape of a horse? No one knew how excited she was when she woke up the next morning.

Her father read the Christmas story as he always did but she had no ears for it. Then came the gifts and as she tore off the paper, she saw pink! and the Barbie emblem! It was...a Barbie knitting kit. Dumbfounded, she had burst into tears and thrown it down. Besides the fact that it wasn’t what she wanted it had to do with sewing, in her mind, and that was something she was less than keen about. 

Rather than consoling her, her shocked parents demanded that she show appropriate gratitude for a gift, even if the gift wasn’t what she wanted. She protested angrily but eventually lapsed into sullen compliance as a seed was planted in her heart. From that day on, hope shriveled. Sure, she hoped for many things in the coming years but always, whenever the moment of realization came--especially if it came with hope deferred--her heart whispered that no horse waited in the wrapping paper, only a clearance-listed knitting kit that no one wanted.

The seed sprouted new leaves with each disappointment. By the time she grew to adulthood, it flowered into a belief that no one loved her enough to make her happy. She learnt that to be loved meant to be needed rather than wanted and so she made herself into a useful person. Even so, hope dies hard. Deep, deep down, buried under the weed of unloveliness, the whisper came that no amount of being useful could counterfeit real love. Somewhere, it whispered, there must be someone who loves me regardless of anything that I do. And, it continued, that someone would be willing to do anything to convince me of that love. Could I just find them, I would see that. 

Funny, that it all started on Christmas. That search for a love that comes unconditionally and gives its all. 

How long have I been asleep? She thought to herself. The fly buzzing in the corner of the room had woken her with its irritating noise. As she reached for the swatter she felt a twinge in her back. Amazing how parts break down against our will. No, not really amazing. Frustrating. After killing the fly she shuffled to the kitchen absently noting the clock said 4.30. She figured from the dim glow it was afternoon, but since she kept the shutters down and the curtains drawn she couldn’t be sure. Didn’t really matter anyway since one hour flowed into another, interspersed with moments of pain and hunger. Now was a hunger moment and so she pulled out some bread to toast, wondering how much longer she could go without shopping. Once a month was her goal; her limited foray into the world of light and people. The one block to the grocers seemed interminable and the people so chipper that she could barely stand it. People, for her, belonged behind a TV screen, a written page or in her memories where they could never hurt her again.

She wandered back to the chair and put her feet on the ottoman, sighing contentedly to herself and then wincing as a sharp pain went through her body. Her pillbox stood ready at her side and she popped a couple prescription painkillers and waited for the blessed numbness. It was the only comfort she had, that and the solitude. Dying was a lonely business, and after years of painful living she demanded that the world let her do it her way. And so the world swirled on outside, little knowing the person within. The ones who had cared--if they had, she thought--had died or been so thoroughly rebuffed that they stayed away. The rest ran their busy, colorful, bright lives of noise and people, only occasionally wondering who lived in the small, quiet bungalow at the end of the lane.

thoughts on common knowledge

How often have you overheard someone begin with, “well my friend says that...”? We as humans are constantly re-evaluating fact in light of common knowledge and experience. This may come as a surprise in the digital age, but should all the experts denounce something and a friend enjoy it, we will be tempted if not succumb to believe that experience trumps. Of course, this is intricately tied to what friend is talking (how we feel about them) as well as our internal desire to believe one way or another. Good old subjective thought wins out over objectivity nine times out of ten.

There is hope, however. We can learn to suspend judgment and weigh the issues at hand, by firstly cultivating an awareness that we do assume with astonishing rapidity and frequency. Being aware of how often we are prone to stubborn belief even in the face of indisputable fact, we can then start to dissect in any given situation what is causing us to believe. This is not to say that our belief is wrong, or that we may be justified in our stubbornness, but rather to caution us from not weighing all the aspects of a given situation. Hope against hope is the exception, not the norm. We have been given a rational mind for a reason, we need not forego it because we are lazy. Faith and reason are not mutually exclusive. 

The significance blossoms further when we think of situations that perhaps do not have an objective answer. If we cultivate a open impartial attitude that cautiously avoids dismissive judgments, then we will not callously dismiss people, for example. We will realize that in spite of our subjective feelings there may be more ways to view the person than we have felt, and we can empathetically relate to them in more positive manners. Our feelings, while legitimate and to some extent unavoidable, need not dictate abysmal treatment.

We must also realize that our reactions, while emotionally justified, are not rationally consistent. We may take the opinions of a friend in one area yet not in another. And should the same friend criticize our actions, beware! we may then reverse our opinions in light of the status quo after all. To some extent we are all hypocrites and need be aware of this propensity. At the same time, we are always growing in our knowledge and relationships are key in this. As long as we are aware of our inclination toward undue weight on opinions, we can continue to evaluate, grow and explore our world. 

peaceful sentinel

noise and hurry like a distant hum
disturbs the peaceful grove
traffic below on busy streets
echoes of jet engines above
insistent carnival music winds up
ice cream truck peddling its wares
yet the tree is unmoved
except by the wind

over the months and years vandals came
leaving their mark in hieroglyphic paint
human attempts to cheat anonymity
scribbling something that can last
beyond their futile breath
ironic mortal strokes on living bark
yet the tree is unmoved
respecting only Immortal Hands

for a moment the world goes still
turning right-side up in peace
the tree reminding frantic creatures
that grasping and striving come to naught
eternity is close at hand, available
through no mere human effort
see the tree unmoved
honouring simply its Maker

poems for the board...at preschool...

February:
LOVE

what is this feeling
happy crazy churning
hoping I'm not alone
finding you on my mind
all the time...

March:
in the puddle

i am upside down
for the sky is at my feet
clouds drift by my toes
a bird flies up high in the depths
what new world i see
rippling with unfelt breezes
and unheard dreams
i decide to jump
find adventure in the other
but to my surprise
my feet just get wet

on extending grace

again my thoughts are percolating with the idea of extending grace and how as weak little humans we continually exert our limited control to refuse grace to one another, the shadowy grace (some picky theologians want to strictly use the word “mercy”) that echos true Grace--unmerited favor. 

two characters in my life have somewhat recently reminded me, in the negative, how i long to receive grace (there are probably more but those have glaringly demonstrated it). both choose often not to extend grace, instead insisting that i live up to an unrealistic standard of behaviour--often inexpressible as well--and when i fail, as i am wont to do in such an inevitable situation, they strike with all the self-righteous justification of one who sees that, yet again, i can never measure up. 

even as i feel the sting of their criticism, i realize that if they are truly self-aware it must be very hard inside their hearts. for them to refuse grace to others, they must live in some fear that the same will happen to them. living beneath the axe, as i know all too well (perfectionist that i am), is a dangerous and frightening place to dwell.

dwelling is just what i long to do. dwell in peace, security, and above all Grace. and while i cannot control what others think of me nor change them i can extend them grace and in doing so become better myself, more like the One who has given me Grace beyond anything i could ever hope to deserve.

what if we, immortally fallible as we are, stop keeping score. stop insisting that others build up a reserve of good deeds that we know never would manage to cancel out the wrongs inflicted? 

what if we, condemned ones set free, begin forgiving, begin loving beyond our limitations, beyond our human grasping?  

what if we, beggars befriended by the King, welcome and encourage, find hope and understand that “they know not what they do” and if they do, there but for the Grace of God go we as well?

what a world this would be if we shone this way...extending grace...

rain in july

in memory of Bill Daniel

sometimes things seem out of place
like a coat that no longer fits
or a rainbow on a hot day
the world still is turning
but the axis has shifted
it's July
it's hot
but there's rain pouring down my face
not a cloud in the sky but i'm blind
all this water in my eyes
your hand's not here to fix it
you can't turn this sprinkler off
June's gone
you're gone
and i find the world a bit smaller
the largeness of your affection gone
leaving me less secure
alone in this rainy sunny day
without your smile