Tag: life (Page 8 of 13)

the graveyard shift

April 30, 2010 / jeanne / 5 Comments

yesterday
lindsey took herself to a cemetery
and pondered life in its beginnings and endings,
and
that got me
thinking and remembering.
cemeteries,
you see,
are my all-time favorite place to go.

whenever i get lost,
foggy,
or otherwise
kerflunky,
i take myself to a cemetery
and not once,
not a single time,
have i failed to find remedy.

in cemeteries,
i can pull off
my masks and armor,
and lay them down
alongside all the selves
i am not.
there is such relief in
just being me.
nobody to impress,
cajole,
entertain,
feed,
persuade.
in cemeteries,
i can ask questions
and surprise myself
by coming up with
the answers.

cemeteries
were affordable places to take young chiclets
to learn about multiple-digit math functions,
spelling,
history,
art, and
various and sundry other important things.
with no more research
than the information readily available on tombstones,
we’d generously, willingly resurrect
and grant second lives on the spot
through character sketches and
other products of our
imagination.

a few weeks ago,
i attended a grave marker dedication
conducted in a cemetery i played in as a child.
it was an impressive ceremony
to mark the grave of
an american revolutionary patriot.
men dressed in revolutionary garb,
women wore hats and gloves,
and we all showed respect
with our words,
our salutes and curtsies,
our presence.

one woman completely
forgot her upbringing
and stepped right on a grave.
when it surprised us all by caving in,
she found herself acting out the phrase
“one foot in the grave”.

years ago when my great aunt rene died,
my husband and i
found ourselves in the cemetery
at midnight
in the rain
pulling weeds
in the family plot
to prevent public humiliation
at the upcoming graveside ceremony.

carefully avoiding the
waiting hole in the ground,
we set to work on aunt lucy’s grave,
(she was aunt rene’s sister.)
(aunt rene got all the fun and nice.)
anyway,
bless goodness
if the lucy didn’t
behave in death
just as she did in life:
she held on to her weeds
with,
well,
a death grip.

because it was
tombstone-deep in snow
the january i graduated
from graduate school
in vermont,
i took my mother,
daughter,
and teenage nephew
back one summer
to visit
hope cemetery.

i discovered it one semester
when caryn mirriam-goldberg,
my faculty advisor-turned-friend,
(also the current poet laureate of kansas,
i’ll have you know)
took a small group of us there
to write.

shoot, i don’t find cemeteries
sad,
morose
places
at all.

quite the contrary.

yes, i highly recommend cemeteries
when you want
or when you need to
reflect
or write
or ruminate
or remember
or even howl.

with laughter, silly:

majestic cacophony

April 29, 2010 / jeanne / 5 Comments

so intricately,
delicately
assembled.
a coming together
of layers,
a plethora of unique parts,
made from different materials
in various shapes,
each part with its own designated purpose.

alone, there is no sound.

ah, but when the parts come together,
when they touch each other boldly
without hesitancy
or apology,
or even explanation, for that matter
such beautiful music
is born
and the world is
never the same.

prima volta: the first (or second, if you don’t count the unloading) surprise

April 28, 2010 / jeanne / 1 Comment

to repay andy for his kind assistance,
i started today by tidying up his shop.

just kidding.

~~~

today i
fetched tools
(so many phillips-head screwdrivers
and nary a phillips-head screw in sight.)

and i made my first
surprise discovery:
this piano once
served as a cabinet
for a bar of
english leather
soap.

perhaps there
was once a little boy –
an adorable, enterprising little boy, no doubt
who
did not want to practice piano
any more than he wanted to
take his bath.

da capo: from the beginning

April 27, 2010 / jeanne / 8 Comments

what do you do when an idea latches onto you?
you listen.
what do you do when you need a piano to take apart?
you ask.
it’s as simple as that.

i spend so much energy being embarrassed by myself.
apologizing for myself.
shushing myself.
shielding myself.
protecting myself.

but, i ask you: what good is a crazy idea
if it’s not harebrained through and through?
so i did it:
i asked on facebook if anybody had an old piano
they were looking to get rid of.
and within 3 hours,
a long-time friend i seldom see
answered back that she had one i could have
if i’d just pick it up.
and she lives less than 10 miles from me.

~~~

we picked the piano up on a
fine sunday afternoon,
and i can’t tell you how quietly
excited i was.
i’ve been craving an adventure,
you see,
an adventure that fit my
pocketbook and my geography.

this was big.

in the 3 weeks that passed between
when i first saw the piano
and when my husband
could go with me to pick it up,
i fantasized
romanticized
visualized.

i imagined getting the piano into the shop
where i’d take pictures, lots and lots of pictures,
and keep a journal within arm’s reach,
ready to capture whatever
insights bubbled their way to the top.

what i looked forward to most of all was
taking the lid off.
i’d remove it
with great reverence and tenderness
then peer down inside
to see what secrets
were hidden there.

i’ve long wanted to know how the pedals
on a piano work.
to know how one sustains the sound
and another dampens, softens, quietens the sound.
before long,
i’d have my answer.

yes, yes.
symbolism and metaphors
were already ripe for the harvesting.

i’d take the lid off
then work my way
through to the pedals,
taking it apart from the top
to the bottom,
from the inside out.

~~~

my husband backed the truck
up to the shop double doors,
getting as close as possible.
it’s a spinet piano,
not nearly as heavy as a baby grand
or that old upright player piano we once owned,
but still too heavy for me to be of much help.

i offered to call my brother,
but husband said no, no need.
he’s an engineer, you see.
he knows all about leverage
and things like that.

he got one end off the truck,
sat it down,
then asked as he walked out of the shop,
“you’re going to take it apart, right?”
and with that,
he
drove the truck out from under the piano.

the front cover fell off.
some small decorative, accent pieces
flew off.
the pedal mechanism
separated completely.

“that was easier than I thought it was gonna’ be,” he said,
delighted with his accomplishment and ingenuity.

i excused myself to come upstairs
where i would remind myself that
literally, he was right:
i was just going to take it apart.

when i went back down to have a look,
with hopes of seeing that it wasn’t really
as bad as i’d first thought,
he proudly told me about how he’d just
taken off the lid
and beckoned me to have a look down
inside.
“isn’t that an amazing sight?” he purred.

~~~

epilogue:
he’s still the one.
oh yes, he is so
still the one.

just so you know.

overture

April 26, 2010 / jeanne / 15 Comments

i can’t explain it.
it’s just one of those things.
one of those crazy things i have to do
i just have to:
disassemble
a piano.

yes, a piano.

i’ve tried to get to the bottom of it
to satisfy inquiring brains
that work and wonder
that way.

maybe it’s because
i read
grand obsession: a piano odyssey last year . . .
but i don’t really think so because
perri was looking
to purchase a piano
not deconstruct one.

maybe it’s because
i need a hobby . . .
but i don’t really think so because
i have trouble stuffing everything
into my days as it is.

maybe it’s because
i need an outlet
for my frustrations . . .
but i don’t really think so
because i’m not looking
to destroy the piano,
i just want to take it apart
carefully
attentively
inquisitively
and
con grazia . . . with grace.

metaphor mewsing

March 30, 2010 / jeanne / 17 Comments

every night between 10 and 11
a cat appears on our deck.
a totally, no-hair-excluded black cat.
a cat that is the same size
the same color
has the same eyes
as our indoor cat, godfree.

our indoor black cat
is not amused
and our dog snaps effortlessly
and loudly
into her role as protector.
(that’s how i know the outdoor cat has arrived.)

i take food out,
and each night the outdoor cat
gets a little teensy bit closer.

but the indoor cat
remains unamused
and vocal with his
displeasure.

they sit
with only a window between them,
one cat feasting
one cat fussing,
the outdoor cat fearful
the indoor cat fierceful,
and i know – i just know –
there’s a metaphor in progress.

waterfallaholics

March 28, 2010 / jeanne / 5 Comments

i’m not an outside girl.

i’m not.

i just don’t like going outside. give me a window-laden, temperature-controlled room then leave me alone to treat the great outdoors as my own personal aquarium, and i’m good.

now i don’t know why i don’t like the outdoors, and i know i should be ashamed of myself because, really, what kind of person doesn’t love being outdoors? maybe it’s residual trauma from the time my mother insisted that i, the adorable little teensy jeanne, go outside to play. “no thank you,” i told her as i continued adding to my word collection which, for reasons that escape me to this very day, incited her to hoist me up, march outside, and sit me in my ruffled panties and ruffled socks and patent leather baby janes in the first mud puddle she came to. maybe it’s memories of my life as a miserable human bug magnet which resulted in summer legs covered in never-ceasing-to-itch bug bites. or maybe it’s because i have this, well, let’s just say unique eye thing going on that deprives me of depth perception meaning i don’t see a hole in the ground until i’m down in it.

it could be because we are hugely in love with waterfalls, but whatever the reason, something came over me yesterday, and i heard myself say an enthusiastic “yes” when hubbie asked if i wanted to make an impromptu stop and hike to glen falls.

i do lean towards authority issues, so that could be why i insisted we heed the advice carved into the post of the large bulletin board instead of availing ourselves of the plethora of printed information covering the actual board.

the hike started out easy enough with a rather gentle slope and relatively smooth ground. but soon enough came the trees and the accompanying exposed roots – which are interesting to look at, but can make someone with no depth perception a tad unsteady. on the up side, though, my small feet fit nicely into the little nooks and crannies created by the roots on the ever-increasingly sloped ground. (i also noticed that it was easier to walk when i put my feet down like i meant it instead of letting them tentatively feel around the ground before each step. just as in life, there’s something to be said for confidence.)

the sound of the falls grew louder until eventually we came to what surely is glen falls. while my husband took pictures from the paved and heavily-railed prepared-for-the-public photo spot beside the falls:

i made my way down to the cutest little spot between two trees right at the tipytop edge of the 200 foot drop – a spot where only two size 5.5 feet will fit – to take my snaps:

good news: footing was easier to come by on the trek back.

bad news: the trek back was all uphill . . . and i declare i think somebody stood that mountain up a little straighter while we were taking pictures of the falls.

i flunked out of girl scouts, so i’m always a little reluctant to move slowly or breathe loudly when on the rare outdoor adventure with my former eagle scout husband which meant i moved up the trail at a pretty fast clip. when we eventually came to a little ole’ bitty clearing, you’d’ve thought i’d never seen mountains, trees, and sky as i took umpteen pictures as a clever cover for catching my breath.

i’m certainly no expert on trail etiquette, but when we met the folks going down to the falls, it seemed the only courteous thing to do was to step aside and wait quietly to let them pass by. (okay, i would’ve said “hey” but i didn’t have enough breath. shoot, i barely had enough breath to smile at them.)

we made it back to the parking lot in the same day, i’ll have you know, and today i have only one teensy little double bug bite on my arm to show for my woodsy efforts. (don’t mistake that for a complaint.)

what did i learn from this little impromptu adventure? number one: pack those dryer sheets cause somebody told me to rub myself down with fabric softener and bugs will leave me alone. number two: step like you mean it. and number three: is there a mountain hike game for the wii fit cause honestly, i have to tell you that i much prefer looking at a waterfall from the heavily-cushioned rocking chair on our deck.

communication gone to the dogs

March 26, 2010 / jeanne / 18 Comments

i’ve spent a good deal of time with my dog lately, and i’ve noticed that we communicate differently . . .

me: i need to start walking.
phoebe: what’s wrong with right now?

me: time to cook supper.
phoebe: 4 of my favorite words.

me: i can’t explain it, but i kinda’ want to take apart an old piano to harvest the keyboard.
phoebe: count me in. that means we can spend more time in the shop.

me: time to pay the bills.
phoebe: sweet – that means time in the jeanneararium. hope the turkeys come by to say hey.

me: okay. time to change the beds.
phoebe: funny things come out of your mouth when you can’t get the bottom sheets stretched over the last corner.

me: how does my hair look?
phoebe: what hair? oh, i hadn’t noticed you had any.

me: i know it sounds crazy, but i’d sure love to crochet a little dress and attach these broken shards. . .
phoebe: cool. the cats are so cute when they play with string.

me: i’m tired.
phoebe: let’s nap.

me: do these pants make me look fat?
phoebe: what’s fat?

we go on a walk, and there’s nary a smell she doesn’t notice. she is totally there in the walk.

when her back itches, she rolls around on the grass or the carpet, she walks under your foot or the chair to scratch it – and she never once apologizes or whines or complains, she simply scratches her back. period.

i look out the window and see limbs that need to be picked up, leaves that need to be raked, mulch that needs to be topped off. phoebe looks out the window – the same one, mind you – and sees deer and turkeys and woodpeckers and squirrels and possums and raccoons and owls and cats and bats and sometimes even a wandering bovine.

i see squirrels on the birdfeeder and mutter “pesky, thieving squirrels.” phoebe sees squirrels feasting uninvited on the birdfeeder and chases them away then stands guard so the birds can eat.

notice anything?

phoebe never once says “yes, but” or “are you sure?” or “say what?”

she’s grounded in the present, content wherever she is, and lives in a state of constant readiness.

and she has a keen sense of right and wrong and doesn’t hesitate to address wrongdoing.

me: i miss blogging, but there are toilets to clean, weeds to pluck, houses to get on the market.
phoebe: sit. write. i’ll lay on your feet to keep you in the chair.

i think my dog is my best teacher.

coming to term with our grips, 2

March 9, 2010 / jeanne / 15 Comments

“The blueprint isn’t the building.”

Mary Pipher

“actions speak louder than words.” shoot, if i had a nickel for every time i’ve heard my mother say that, we’d be having this conversation in person, and i’d be picking up the tab. laboring, trusting, noticing, speaking, writing, yearning, connecting, pondering, desiring, building, standing, dancing, surviving. these are all actions that julie mentioned in her post. her post reads to me as a segue, a bridge from talking to doing.

caring is an action. so is caregiving, tending, pondering, deciding, preparing, singing, trying, loving, wiping, cooking, nurturing, hugging, listening, crying, seeking, writing, bearing witness. see, actions don’t have to be global to be valid or worthwhile.

many women who are career caregivers and family hearth keepers eventually find themselves stepping over the threshold of their front door, and all too often, it’s like leaving a darkened theatre and stepping right smackdab into the sunny parking lot. there’s an acclimation that must take place. many of these are women can tell you in the blink of a gnat’s eye what everybody around them thinks and feels, but ask them what their opinion is on something, ask them what gets their blood churning, and they draw a blank.

Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends.

~Virginia Woolf

knowing our own thoughts and passions takes a little longer. discovering, defining, and clarifying personal voice are actions. so is supporting ourselves and others as we move through this stage.

we talk, write, listen. we poke around, visiting blogs to see what resonates with us – all actions – and while there are books and plays i want to write, i’m itching to do something that involves moving more than my fingers. i’m ready to live into my word of the year, ready to do something JustBecause.

some women go spend time at the ocean. other women get a job doing something they’re interested in. others collect, paint, draw, yarden, train for marathons.

but me? right now – as of last week – my action involves finding an old piano and deconstructing it down to the keyboard. all i want is the keyboard. a full keyboard. 88 keys. and once i have the keyboard, i want to hang it on the wall in my studio. it’s a desire, and desire is an action.

when this crazy idea came to light, i smiled (a good sign) and said to myself, “okay. so where do i find a piano?” i have a piano, mind you – music is in our blood – but i don’t want to take it apart, so i did what i always do: i asked my friends. within 4 hours of posting a note on facebook, a woman i seldom see even though i’ve known her for decades, commented that she had a piano i could have. the plan is to look at it tomorrow, then find a way to get it from there to here, find some tools, and let the deconstruction begin.

will harvesting the keyboard of an old piano save the world? shoot, no. will it cure cancer or restore order to haiti or stop domestic violence and rape? don’t i wish. no, i expect this is nothing more than one woman who’s itching to do something, doing something. nothing more, nothing less.

and i’m doing it with the help of friends. some i haven’t seen in years. others i’ve never seen (in person) at all. helping, listening, giving, picking up . . . those are all actions. and every action leads somewhere.

even the teensy little action of clicking on the name of a woman who left a comment on julie daley’s blog. there’s one more piece to this post, but i’m about to be late to a very important writing date with a friend i met when she came to audition for a show our theatre company produced last summer, so till soon . . .

~~~~~
my great aunt rene (and i mean “great” in terms of lineage and as an adjective) was a career caregiver. she never had children, but she took care of us, her brother, her two sisters, and countless others. in her younger years, she took such good care of a sick, elderly man that when his father died, the son deeded the house to her in appreciation. she then build a small house on the back of the lot and created an apartment on one side of the house, and the rental income fed and clothed her when her youngish husband died. laughing, playing canasta, yardening, and flirting were some of aunt rene’s more noteworthy actions. she took care of people and plants, and she tended them – us – well. the azaleas in the photo are in her yard.

coming to terms with our grips

March 7, 2010 / jeanne / 27 Comments

“I’m not sure where this post is going to go, but I trust it will take us somewhere” wrote my darling julie daley. she stepped out on the digital page that day, not knowing where her fingers would take her, and oh what a journey she set in motion. earlier in the week, she wrote about voice – about finding hers, me finding mine, others finding theirs. two days later she found herself writing about connections. connecting. the digital currency of the internet, she calls it.

“As we tell each other who we really are,
we find the people with whom we really belong.”

Christina Baldwin via @creatingwings on twitter

the comments after julie’s post are filled with women tracing their digital lineage, paying tribute to women they’ve met online, women who have been and who have found breadcrumbs leading to a forest (or desert) of women ready and willing to bear witness, encourage, cajole, dance.

in our journey to voice, we gather around the digital well of blogs and comments and tweets, telling our stories and speaking our truths (perhaps tentatively at first and at times), and an entrainment takes place. we find women with whom we resonate. women who inspire us, tickle us, enkindle and excite us. we gather around the digital well, knowing that encouraging, supporting, cheering on other women does not diminish us in any way because this is a well of abundance.

as i scrolled down to leave my comment at julie’s place, i came across a comment left by a name i’d never seen before. debra notes that women finding their voice is an “old, old” theme, one that’s been “grappled with” for centuries – which is true. she goes on to point out that actions speak louder than words, and, on the topic of voice, asks the good question “how will you use yours?”

feeling a quickening, i click over to her blog, eager for a chance to learn more about her, to have a conversation. I find that she’s written a post elaborating on her comment, but alas, there is no place on her blog for comments. though i take exception to her use of the word “soppy” because it reads judgmental, i do see how if it’s your first visit to some of the blogs i call our digital well, they could be received as soppy. sometimes when i write a particular post, it feels soppy. necessary, but soppy nevertheless.

i’ve only been on twitter three months, and the first time i called someone “sugar”, it was scary. i knew there was a chance folks would recoil and unfollow me in droves, but i did it anyway because it felt right. i am fluent in english and southern – it is who i am. now several of us have sweet pet names for each other, and it works. for us, it works. for a while, my son (who’s knows his way around the digital social scene) would read the comments on my blog and call on his way to the office, offering feedback. “mom,” he said more than once, “when you tell people you love them, when you call them ‘sugar’, when you use ‘xo’, and compliment them profusely, you sound needy. cut it out.” he read a few more weeks, then one day i got a call saying, “mom, about the way you reply to people in the comment section of your blog . . . that’s not neediness, that’s caring, and they’re two different things. i see that now, and it works for you because it’s who you are. you care. you really care.”

i do care. and the way i see it, caring is action.

it’s where action starts.

it’s the ember, the kindling for action.

to be continued tomorrow . . .