Tag: ruminations (Page 7 of 10)

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.

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.

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 . . .

gretel never had it so good

March 4, 2010 / jeanne / 18 Comments

earlier this week at unabashedly female, my darling julie says (among many other noteworthy things) “. . . this witnessing of story, of voice, of truth by one woman to another. This is where we find power.”

over at renegade conversations, ronna detrick writes about how coming out of the shadows requires two things: counsel and companions.

tonight i am going to see a rehearsal for “steel magnolias” performed by the senior apprentice company in the theatre company my daughter started back in 2005. my daughter is directing these 12 teenage girls, and oh the experiences she’s opened up to these girls. oh the opportunities. she divided the girls into two casts, and when cast a is performing, cast b is the backstage crew and vice versa, giving them hands-on experience in providing support and receiving support. each girl has also been assigned a production assignment, not only affording opportunities to learn new skills, but to see that any one production takes an entire village of people that are all too easily overlooked. without the steel magnolias willing to do production, there’s be no tickets sold, no press releases written, no web site updated, no programs, no concessions, no venue, no sound and lights.

three years ago, i played m’lynn to daughter alison’s shelby. to say it was a clarifying, once-in-a-lifetime experience rings hollow and falls way, way short. one day i will write about it and the context around that experience that made it all that it was. but today there’s something else on my mind . . .

“steel magnolias,” as you probably know, is a story of women who support and encourage and hold the space for each other, and that’s why my daughter chose this particular play for these 12 teenage girls: she wants these girls to experience (both onstage and off) the feeling of women coming together in support of one another instead of the cattiness, back-stabbing, nitpicking behavior that too often defines women’s togetherness. as i wrote in a note accompanying the holiday gift my daughter and i conjured up for the girls: Steel Magnolias are a special breed, and we need more of them. Steel Magnolias are strong women who delight and celebrate being female. They own who they are – even the polarities – without explanation or apology, and they encourage and cheer others to do the same. Steel Magnolias are not into woman’s inhumanity to woman, choosing instead to support each other without judgment or personal agenda; listen more than they talk; be available without hesitation at 3 a.m.

by exposing these girls to steel magnolias even before they have the life experiences to fully appreciate and convey it, my moxie hopes to teach them about theatre, leadership skills, communication skills, and perhaps most importantly: female friendship. she takes on big projects, my moxie, and this is one she’s willing to devote herself to because she knows it truly does take a village to make much-needed change, and she wants to do her part to change the way women relate to each other. the rest of us can do our part by supporting, encouraging, and affirming each other. by forging and forming the relationships we want to enjoy.

i am so so fortunate to have steel magnolias right here around me, women i turn to when i need help or retuning, to laugh or to vent. and today we have something the ladies of chinquapin, louisiana did not have: the internet. since rejoining twitter last december, my steel magnolia forest has grown rich and lush and bountiful. i don’t know when i’ve ever felt so supported, so encouraged, so affirmed. i grow as i find women who share my interests, and i grow as i am exposed to things i never knew existed. if i get lost in my steel magnolia forest, a trail of breadcrumbs readily appears left by women who have experienced the same or similar. if i stub my toe in this forest or if i am stung or bitten, healing ointments and remedies are generously offered. the trees in my forest rise above the little scrubs and ankle-biters, choosing fresh air and light over thorns and sticky bushes that want to draw blood and hog the sun. in the forest with these women, i grow comfortable enough to tell my stories and speak my truth, southern accent and all.

to all of you who are trees in my steel magnolia forest (and most, though not all of you, are on my traipse page), thank you.

thank you.

~~~
about the photos:
i tend to commemorate things in cloth, as i did when i took to the stage as m’lynn back in 2007. woven strips of blue sky torn to find the true grain. images of tears born of both laughter and crying – often at the same time. enough raw edges and stray threads to make it real. sparkling beads laid down in the shape of a heart in shades of shelby’s pink. on the back side, we have an earthy fabric, fertile, a place for love to take root, and we see the seemingly randomly-placed stitches that hold it all together. all bound at the edges with soft pink shibori dyed by talented friend, a digital steel magnolia called glennis.

rightful sound

March 1, 2010 / jeanne / 25 Comments

in her memoir, grand obsession, perri knize writes of her year-long search for The Perfect Piano. she eventually finds The Piano, refinances and remodels her house to accommodate it, but alas: when it arrives, the magical sound is gone. but the memory of that sound and the way she felt when she played that particular piano fuels her as she embarks on a journey that takes more than three years years, fills her with a plethora of knowledge about things she’d never heard of, and enlists an impressive cast of characters to “fix” her piano, to restore it to its rightful sound.

its rightful sound.

last friday, i started writing a post about the arts, and as so often happens when writing, i wound up writing something totally different. instead of a little ditty extolling some of the oft-overlooked benefits of participation in the performing arts, i crafted what i can only call a flapdoodle on what, exactly, constitutes power. is it letters after a name? a title? a hat? the number of people you have on staff? your appearance and how you carry your pocketbook?

perhaps it was the spring fever of writing that had me feeling near ready to explode, to break out, to lose the lid. in person, i’m, well, not to jinx it into dried-up dust, but i’m funny.* and a bit on the irreverent side. the things that other people are too nice to say have a way of parachuting right out of me. that’s when i’m audible. when i write, i’m ever cognizant of who might be reading this and how it might be received, so when i turn funny in writing, it kinda’ goes flat on account of over explaining every teensy little ole’ thing.

i like making people laugh, and i happen to believe there can be much important stuff like perspective and philosophy cloaked by humor. anyway, there i was, writing seriously serious about the often unseen value of performing arts when my fingers turned flapdoodle on me, and i have to tell you we had ourselves a big time, my fingers and me. then i up and mashed the “publish” button before i could talk myself out of it, and i smiled my way through the rest of the day.

see, usually i’m a little too tentative, too scared of smackdown to post anything i feel like isn’t going to be well received. but since being on twitter, i’ve met women who make me feel comfortable enough, safe enough to mash “send” because i know they’ll be patient and accepting . . . even though they might actually wonder if i’m in dire and immediate need of an exorcist.

still smiling and riding that wave of powerful confidence, i read julie daley’s post and cut loose with my heartfelt comment before i could stop myself from sharing a story that has chapped my butt since it happened. julie sure nailed it when she said it sounded like i was having a fireball day. fireball friday: yes, yes it was.

i rode the night out feeling this surge, wondering if it was really power i was enjoying, not caring what it’s called, just delighted to have it trespass. friday night i happened upon an upcoming writing workshop that required participants to submit some 20 pages of a memoir for discussion, and i – the one who consistently says “pass” when it’s my time to read, to share – i printed out the registration form, determined.

but then came saturday morning. oh lord.

i had to make a decision, and i made the wrong decision. wrong because i didn’t listen to myself. i heard that songbird of confidence – i even stopped the guy’s hand as he was going to note my selection – but i talked myself out of it, and let me tell you: i crashed and crashed hard. for 24 hours i replayed the scene over and over and over, knowing i could not undo it. it was nothing short of agony.

the good news is: it’s an inconsequential decision. totally, absolutely inconsequential as far as end results go.

the bad news is: that sweet surge of confidence is questioned, diminished, and bruised. the full-body smile is gone, dissolved into a vague memory. i listened to myself on friday and soared. didn’t listen to myself 24 hours later, and splat.

what went wrong? did i cross the line from confidence into cocky? i don’t think so. did i over-rate friday’s post? well, maybe it wasn’t my best writing – it reads a bit on the manufactured side in spots – but no. was it just the full moon? i certainly am positively affected by the full moon, but no, this was clear: i took a risk. i did something i wouldn’t normally do, and i was absolutely okay if it wasn’t well received. for the first time since becoming a word traveler, it was enough that i wrote and published it.

what do i do, i asked my manchild last night. the first paper i wrote in grad school cracked the faculty up – shoot, they asked me to submit it to literary journals for publication. (i didn’t.) do i forget funny and stick to serious, reflective tones? do i keep trying the funny, knowing that writing humor is different from doing humor? do i do both ’cause i am both?

can both humor and reflection be my rightful sound, or do i have to choose cause it’s now freshly documented: choosing is not something i’m ‘specially good at.

* now that i’ve called myself funny, we both know i’ll never again get so much as a smile. sigh.