Author: jeanne (Page 91 of 120)

I'm just your basic complicated simple red dirt girl who feels most beautiful when wearing skirts that caper and earrings that dangle. Entering into my Second Life (my tenured phase, I call it), I tell, write, stitch, and perform stories about this time of life when the mythological (and downsized) empty nest is now filled with aging pets, aging parents, a retired husband, and the knowledge that you're living on the finite side of infinity.

word

December 29, 2011 / jeanne / 23 Comments

Riviera1

It’s that time of year again: time to choose A Word. My Word. The One Word for 2012. I struggle with this.

I long.
I wrestle.
I yearn.
I resist.
And then ultimately, I avoid.

I pick up The Call by Oriah Mountain Dreamer, and about 3/4 of the way through wouldn’t you just know I get to a chapter called “Word”. My heart quickens. Oriah says “Look at what does not come easily to you, what you long for but find elusive. Think about what gets you into trouble, what gets you way down the road of doing something you don’t really want to do at a very high price. What internal habit or attitude or tendency repeatedly robs your life of joy?”

Look at what gets me into trouble? Oh, where do I begin? How shall I ever choose?

It can’t be something that comes naturally or easy to us, she says, and I’m fine with that. There are many things I want to learn. Like drumming, for example. And to dance with my entire body instead of just my shoulders and legs. And to sing without emptying a room.

I’m feeling better about this. Smiling. Even feeling a touch of – dare I say it – excitement.

Oriah continues: “Your word, embodying it in your life, in how you are with yourself and the world, is never about doing. It is always about not-doing, about being with what is. Your word is your key to stopping your war with reality.”

I slump again.

Oriah suggests we meditate on it, and since it’s dark thirty and I’d love to go back to sleep before dawn, I find this a fine idea. Staying in bed, I turn and lay on my back, take my three deep cleansing breaths, and before I can even chase away the first stray, unrelated thought, the word “stay” appears. Right out of nowhere it comes.

Fighting the urge to begin a sentence with the word “no,” I thank the sweet spirit of surprise that sent the word then add that I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’m really looking for something a bit jazzier. Something fun, with a kick. Let’s start over, I suggest, and this time how ’bout a word I can really sink my teeth into, eh?

Before the third breath is completely exhaled, the word “stay” makes a repeat appearance. Dammit, I say before I can curb my tongue, I’ve been married 38 years. That’s staying. Now give me something sassy, something sexy. Three more breaths and I hear a voice say with gusto “You’re supposed to be running for office” which I naturally interpret as the word “lead.” I’m encouraged to have another word make an appearance, but I find it pretty boring, and besides, I’ve had my fill of leadership positions, thank you very much. Another three breaths and I hear “Cheetos you have there,” and I think it fairly obvious how that translate into “open.”

But since I’m more than fairly porous, I toss “open,” and by comparison and by amassing points for tenacity, my word for 2012 word becomes “stay.” Once decided, in a rush I remember all the projects, blog posts, and journal entries I’ve started with great enthusiasm then left unfinished in my wake.

I could be onto something.

It’s still quite a boring word, though if you ask me, and even though I know that ego is bad and all, I still desperately want something I can sink my teeth into, something I might be able to teach or write about one day. Something people will find fascinating enough to ask me to find their word next year.

Not likely now.

I think of stay and how it’s synonymous with “remaining” – sticking to it – and how I’ve long yearned to do something every single day. Something like write a blog posts daily and number them so I can see and chart my tenacity. Or maybe fold an origami swan – 1000 of them seems about right. Or meditate daily and enjoy the benefits of having a windshield wiper run over my soul. Hey, do you know how slim and flexible I’d be if I’d stuck to a daily routine of yoga or walking or any other kind of exercise? If I’d gotten my money’s worth from all those gym memberships?

Not nearly the show-stopper I was looking for, but I sense possibility. I think beyond “remaining” and an image of a collar stay comes to mind. Stiffening. Holding in place. Straightening. Stays in girdles and corsets. Could I stretch this into history?

I stayed home. Stayed close to the family.

But I didn’t stick to traditions, and I’ve long felt guilty about that.

I stay stuck in the muck and mire of my relationship with organized religion.

Maybe I can do something with this word after all.

I google “stay” and oh my goodness: the first entry is a movie titled “Stay” about “the attempts of a psychiatrist to prevent one of his patients from committing suicide while trying to maintain his own grip on reality.” Wow. Now we’re getting somewhere.

There’s also a dog hotel, people hotels, so we could venture into stay as hospitality.

Stay safe. There’s safety. Or, more to the point, perceived safety. Physical safety. Emotional safety.

Stay calm.
stay quiet.
stay strong.
stay still.
Stay by my side.
stay home.
stay another day.

The dictionary defines stay as a large strong rope used to support a mast. Sails. Support. Movement. Water. Freedom. Boats. Breezes. Direction.

Thesaurus.com mentions change, divergent, trouble, lucky happening.

Brace,
buttress,
hold,
prop.
Wait,
abide (I like that word: abide),
linger,
tarry (another good and pleasing word).

There’s
sojourn
perch
reside
dwell
live.

And
anticipate
recess
anchor
hold and be held securely
birth
slow
dawdle
amble
breathe.

Attend
bridle
obviate
persist
fritter
dilly-dally
wait.

Over at Dictionary.com we find: to spend some time in a place or in a group and to persevere to completion.

The origin of the word “stay” has something to do with “to remain” (I find etymology most intriguing, but I sure do have trouble translating all the abbreviations and all) and “Stem. To stand. To be.”

So yes:
“stay” could work.
Stay I will do.
Stay it is.

gifts

December 25, 2011 / jeanne / 24 Comments

Legaseecloth

the call
(in the form of a poem by jan l. richardson that has captured my heart):

Wise women also came.
The fire burned
in their wombs
long before they saw
the flaming star
in the sky.
They walked in shadows,
trusting the path
would open
under the light of the moon.

Wise women also came,
seeking no directions,
no permission
from any king.
They came
by their own authority,
their own desire,
their own longing.
They came in quiet,
spreading no rumors,
sparkling no fears
to lead
to innocents’ slaughter,
to their sister Rachel’s
inconsolable lamentations.

Wise women also came,
and they brought useful gifts:
water for labor’s washing
fire for warm illumination,
a blanket for swaddling.

Wise women also came,
at least three of them,
holding Mary in the labor,
crying out with her in the birth pangs,
breathing ancient blessings
into her ear.

Wise women also came,
and they went,
as wise women always do,
home a different way.

///

and my response:
(in my humble, jumbled, stream-of-consciousness-cause-it’s-christmas-after-all way)

to all the wise women
who stoke the fires
who don’t wait for a star
to guide the way
who walk in the shadows
knowing there
are many paths,
all Right,
all leading home

to all the wise women
who revel in the moonlight
dance in the checkout line
spill music with their words

to all the wise women
who trust their own
internal navigation system,
helping another up
when she falls,
whispering walking sticks
or knitting balms of silence
until she feels restored

to all the wise women
who ask their questions
knowing that sometimes
the only answers
are more questions
and still more questions

to all the wise women
who know
that sometimes
bandages are bindings
and other times
bindings are bandages
and that whether
bandages or bindings,
bands of cloth
can be removed and
woven into something
magnificent

to all the wise women
who come into
and with
their own authority
who sing
their own songs of
praise
and lamentations
who put on socks
of pure, unadulterated
love
every single morning
and dance
for insight
and laughter
who inhale
the goodness that surrounds them
and exhale
gladness and gratitude
who touch
with gentleness, tenderness, confidence

to the wise women
whose hearts
open like colorful
beautiful
sassy
unstoppable
flowers
night after
day after
night
after day

even though you rarely
draw attention to yourself,
i see you
thank you
love you
celebrate you
cherish you,
you and your genuine genius and gorgeous glory.

a recounting

December 22, 2011 / jeanne / 11 Comments

in the space of two scant hours, my morning turns undeniably magical.

one, i read:

The summit of the soul is like a mountain top which has been hidden in the clouds, but from which the clouds now melt away, leaving the peak free in the clear upper air through which it receives the full light of the sun.

~ Thomas Merton

two, i see:

Cloudmelting2

and this:

Cloudmelting3

3, i round the curve to :

Cloudmelting1

i love
when a day
comes together
and reaches
a solid
10
before 10.

solstice

December 21, 2011 / jeanne / 3 Comments

Bigmoon

good gracious, my lovelies
i have so much to tell you.
i sent myself notes
as we came back
up the mountain today,
but now that we’re here
the unpacking
and mail sorting
and washing of clothes,
has me plumb tuckered out.
i’m tired.
tired to the bone.
fighting shingles
diverts a lot of
energy.
and what little
energy is left
has been spent
on emotion
the past few days.
so i think
if it’s all right with you,
i’ll save the telling
for another day
and just share some
favorite
moon snaps
from my own lens
with you
and bid you
a fruitful
peaceful
solstice.

Asheville7 13 11

Orangebeachal

2 28 10

by the power invested in me, i now pronounce . . .

December 18, 2011 / jeanne / 7 Comments

Becomingwhole

a rash
on my back.
pain
excruciating pain
intermittently,
thank goodness.
burning
itching
feeling of
general malaise.
headache
fever
tiredness
pain –
did i mention pain?

i read a book –
totally unrelated –
and note a sentence
about how this man
had endured a
bout of shingles.
i think nothing of it.
days pass.

can’t sleep.
spend hours
trying to isolate
and define
the source of
the cause of
the pain.
does it hurt
when i press here?
how bout here?
does it hurt
more when i push my arm
against some immovable object?
does it make a difference
when my palm faces up?
when i twist this way?
on and on it goes,
this inquiry.

then
one night
i wake at
3 a.m.
knowing
that this is
shingles.

my family,
concerned about me
and not wanting
to see me in
pain,
demands
i go see a doctor.

surely there’s a pill
or a shot
that will make this
all go away,
they say.

let’s be clear about this:
they care about me.
they don’t want to see me suffer.
i get that.
i appreciate that.
but i know my body.
i haven’t always,
but i do now.

for far too long,
my body only existed
to carry my head around,
the head being the royal chambers
of my brain,
the canvas
for any beauty
i might have: my face.

it might take up
more space
than i’d like,
this body of mine,
but oh
the wisdom
i carry
in my bones
in my cells
in my blood.

i know my body
better than any
doctor
knows my body,
regardless
of how many
letters trail
after our
respective
names.

don’t get me wrong:
there are times
i will seek
information
and remedy
from doctors,
but today
i ask my body
and it says
just rest.
move slower.
slather on
the anti-itch ointments and lotions.
take over the counter analgesics.
heed my whispers
and this will eventually pass.

if i don’t
visit a doctor,
the only one
with the authority
to declare me
ill
or healthy,
i must keep going
and i must not
complain.
ever.
those are the house rules.

rather
those have been the house rules.

there’s change
brewing here
as i recognize
and honor
the wisdom,
the knowledge,
the authority
that clatters
in my bones,
that emanates
from my cells,
that flows
throughout
this frame.
my head
becomes
part of my body
and the
wholeness
feels like a
homecoming.

just call me elf

December 12, 2011 / jeanne / 5 Comments

Gifts

whether you’re a card-carrying member of the fabled 1% or not, you don’t have to spend a lot of money for presents this holiday season. you know that, right? we can’t keep spending money we don’t have. what you may not know or may not have thought about: when you give from your deepest creative self, you not only save money, you gift your self and the lucky recipient. it’s just one of those magical inexplicables – like writing every day doesn’t deplete your word pantry, in fact, just the opposite: the more you write, the more you have to write.

allow me to introduce the personal shopper member of the committee that is me. she loves to conjure fun, one-of-a-kind, inexpensive gifts . . .

WORDS

write love letters. give the recipient a tour of the real estate they own in your heart. don’t hold back – this is the gift that will keep on giving. every time they read it – and they’ll read it often cause they’ll keep it forever – will be a gift.

my grandmother canned food in green glass ball jars. she sweated in a hot kitchen all summer so we could eat well all winter. find an old jar and fill it with pieces of paper containing words that come to mind when you think of this person. trust me: they’ll feast year-round.

get a t-shirt, pajamas, scarf or any other wearable and grab some fabric markers then decorate the clothing with story kindling and punch lines of favorite memories.

know their shoe size? buy them a pair of plain white sneakers and decorate them with colorful words and phrases of love to lighten their step.

fill a blank journal with favorite quotes – yours and theirs.

do you owe someone an apology? write it out, attach it to a blackboard eraser, and deliver it.

cut a snowflake from folded paper and turn it into a gift by writing “like a snowflake, you’re one of a kind” or something similar that would melt a real frosty.

cut out words from magazines and instead of creating a ransom letter, create a you-are-special letter.

create a calendar of compliments by noting compliments in a calendar.

get your camera out and find things containing letters of the alphabet needed to spell out words that describe the recipient. (for example, the end of a swingset resembles a capital A – that kind of thing.) (have fun with this – remember: you can rotate and crop.)

STORIES

use your computer or camera to record your favorite stories about the recipient. ask others to participate by sharing their favorite story, then compile them into one album of love.

scan photos of the recipient and drop the digitized version into a document containing the story about the photo. OR keep the digitized copy for yourself and glue the original into an empty journal, penning the photo particulars (who, left to right; where; what they were/are doing; and any other details you can remember) to create a special album of memories.

do a little research on your computer and create a year-in-review book of things that are of interest to the giftee.

for loved ones, commit family legends to paper (digital or otherwise). add photos and maybe even genealogical information to create a family tree album.

fill a jar with questions written on slip of paper – things like “tell me about your childhood pets” and “tell me about your first job” and “what stories do you remember about your parents” and “of all the things you’ve done, what are you most proud of” and “tell me about your hobbies.” around the lid to the jar, tie ribbons on which is written several dates throughout the year when you’ll get together and listen to their answers to the questions you’ll draw from the jar. (oh, and you’ll probably want to take a tape recorder on those listening dates, too.)

TREASURES

have something you plan to leave them in your will? go ahead and give it to them. they’ll get to enjoy it longer, and you won’t have to dust it. oh, and be sure to include the provenance, telling where you obtained the item, how and when you used it, maybe even how much you paid for it – things that will tell the story about the item.

personally, i hate to cook, but i have it on good authority that not every is like that, so gather recipes and create a cookbook. have a section of perennial favorites and a section of new recipes for those who love adventure in the kitchen.

keep ’em warm and stylish: embellish an inexpensive scarf or wrap with words of love and mirth using needle and thread.

give them a bib, a fork and a calendar with particular dates circled and tell ’em not to make plans on those nights cause those are date nights when you’re cooking for them.

plumb

December 11, 2011 / jeanne / 4 Comments

a day of weaving
and stitching.
and reading.
and writing.
and feeling.

feeling deeply.

plumbing the depths.

darkness

December 10, 2011 / jeanne / 5 Comments

sometimes you
blow the candle out
and watch
until the last
ember
joins the
darkness.

sometimes you
fan the flame
to keep it
burning
and
stave off
the darkness.

either way,
whether you
find the darkness
or it finds you,
darkness
is a part of
life.
without it,
we don’t know
stars
or sun
or nearly
as much about
ourselves.

///

just spied this quote
(that seems quite appropriate)
over at the e-home of my
talented and generous
and generously talented
friend
illuminary:

“Knowing your own darkness
is the best method
for dealing with
the darknesses of other people.”
~ Carl Jung

tis the season for ho-ho-hospitality

December 9, 2011 / jeanne / 7 Comments

when my brother called from afghanistan this morning, we pulled off the picturesque backroad to talk rather than risk losing cell phone coverage and playing a really, really, really long distance game of telephone tag. mountains wrapped around us, brown leaves danced to the tune of wind blown by bare trees, and right there just a few feet away, water poured from a small pipe, splashing on a rock before freezing on the ground.

the hand painted sign above the re-routed waterfall read: “Please help yourself to our water . . . but Please don’t litter.”

now that’s what i call hospitality.

southern hospitality, since we’re in nc, y’all.

Forgetting is Not an Option

December 7, 2011 / jeanne / 7 Comments

Flaghalf

We did what we could.

I heard that over and over again from the lips of each of the four Pearl Harbor survivors at Sunday’s memorial service. Now in their nineties, these men may not be able to tell you their children’s names or where they parked the car, but they can still tell you with absolute certainty, with absolute clarity where they were, what they did, and what they were thinking the morning of December 7, 1941 – 70 years ago today – when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

///

“My buddy and me were trying to decide what to do about breakfast,” remembers one. “Did we want to go to the mess hall or did we want to go to the church around the corner where the pretty ladies would feed us free doughnuts and coffee? We never did decide – we never got breakfast anywhere that morning. I was a 20 year old Clerk, and when I heard that first bomb hit, I thought ‘One day somebody’s gonna’ ask me who was here and how many survived,’ so I ran down to the office, squatted down, and got the muster from the bottom file cabinet drawer. About that time my second lieutenant came in. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked me, and when I told him, he said ‘That’s a good idea.’ It was the last thing he ever said cause right then, a strayer came in through the screened window and killed him. I would’ve been killed, too if I’d’ve been standing up. I just thought to get the muster. We all did whatever we could think of to do.”

///

Pete remembers trying to get his bearings, trying to decide what he should do when another soldier appeared, his left arm dangling from the shot he took to the elbow. “What should I do?” the wounded soldier asked Pete. “Get in that truck over there,” Pete told him, pointing to an abandoned truck. “By the time I got to the truck, it was full of fellas needing medical attention. It was chaos. A nurse came out and started directing traffic. I’d never driven anything but a ’37 Chevrolet, but I drove that truck that day. I was grinding those gears – never did get it in second gear. Drove all the way to the hospital in first. I just did what I could.”

///

“Chester was a radio operator,” his wife tells me. “There was a drill scheduled for that morning, but it was canceled, so Chester left his post to stretch his legs and that’s when the first bomb hit. He went back to his station and radioed ‘Pearl Harbor under attack. This is not a drill. Repeat: this is NOT a drill.’ It was the only thing he could think of to do.”

///

The two-star General who served as emcee for the ceremony told me about going back to Pearl Harbor for some training once he made General. While there, he happened upon an old friend, an Admiral in the Navy. Knowing his friend was the son of a man who served as Commander of one of the ships stationed at Pearl Harbor on that fateful day, the new General asked “Where’s your father now?” “Down there,” said the Admiral, pointing to the water where the ships and so many other bodies are interred.

///

Mark1

“He didn’t really want to talk about World War II,” Mark told me, “so I asked him to tell me about his scariest memory, and he told me how he was flying a mission to snap some reconnaissance photos. He looked down to turn his camera on, and when he sat back up, he was surprised to find this big silver plane flying wing-tip-to-wing-tip with his plane. ‘Where’s that guy come from?’ the American pilot was thinking. ‘Why didn’t he shoot me? Did he shoot my gunner? How in the Hell does that plane fly without any propellers?’ Questions like these whizzing through his brain, the fella looked back over at the strange plane (it was a German jet – the Germans had them, but the Americans had never heard of them), saw the German pilot salute him and then zoom off in that strange-looking plane.” Mark was so captivated by the story, he painted a picture of the two planes and presented it to the pilot. It’s now back in the museum at the Dixie Wing, the local branch of the Commemorative Air Force.

(Note: That’s Mark in the photo above, standing in front of the painting. Hard to see on account of the glare, I know. Guess you’ll just need to visit.)

///

Survivors3

Survivors4

My daughter travels around the country portraying Betty Grable at events like this. “You should’ve seen those Pearl Harbor survivors when you walked by,” someone told her as she took her seat before the service began. “They were all hunched over looking at the floor, but then Betty Grable walked by, and those shoulders straightened, those heads snapped up, and those eyes never left you for a moment.”

As she greeted the survivors, she asked what she always does just before thanking them for their service: Would it be all right if I plant a Betty Grable kiss on your cheek? She’s never been turned down.

Not once.

///

“Do you have as much trouble keeping your seams straight on those stockings as we always did?” one of the wives asks my daughter.

///

Vetsalutes

We went outside where the flag was raised then lowered to half staff followed by the ringing of the Navy bell. As the survivors stood before the flag, one instinctively raised his arm to salute, but his arm wouldn’t cooperate . . . until, that is, his wife quietly slipped her hand under his elbow and offered her support for his salute.

///

The stories from the two governments are not nearly so clear. There’s much finger pointing and enough questions to last eons. Theories abound. Heads are scratched.

Zenji Abe, a Japanese Raider, was surprised to find out on the 50th anniversary of Pearl Harbor that the United States considered it to be a sneak attack. It was then he discovered that the Declaration of War had not been delivered to the U.S. authorities in a timely manner. No wonder it was considered a surprise attack.

Information is withheld, stories are constructed – and I mean on both sides. When do we cross the line into propaganda, I wonder.

But most importantly, I see once again the power of stories – and I don’t just mean the telling but the bearing witness, too. When we tell our stories, and when we bear witness to the stories of others, gaps are closed. Healing occurs. And, if we’re lucky, history doesn’t repeat itself.

Typewriter