Sabbath #152

A few days remain until I leave home for two weeks to enter a vortex of literary insanity between the White and Green Mountains of Vermont. I say insanity because I leave the familiar to return to the familiar. A small room, community meals, literary inquiry, immersion. I return to myself, my writer self where my thinking shifts with the landscape. I have been making this bi-annual journey for 17 years, first as student then as staff. Much has changed. I am changed.  And today I think I still do not have a book out. How could that be possible? This reality haunts me always but hits me hard when I arrive. Yes, I write and publish poems. Yes, I have a beautiful letterpress chapbook. Yes, I have a completed nonfiction book, yet to be published, three rejections. Yes, I passed one mss of poems around to first book contests. Yes, I have a new volume with over 50 poems in a file. Yes, recently an online journal published 5 poems. I have at least one poem forthcoming in the spring. A few more out for consideration. A startling rejection recently in my inbox offered no encouragement. Apparently a consensus could not be reached… something about tonality. The bed in my study is covered with hard copies of poems, some of which are not entered in this new computer. Some written three computers ago. I earn a living, I do the work. I earn a living , I do the work. I am no different than any other writer. Earning a living doing the work, day by day. I read, I teach, I see therapy clients, my day job. I have family and a dog. But when I arrive on campus I struggle mightily with the fact that I do not have a volume of poems published or forthcoming. I harshly judge myself. And I believe others may also. Last residency someone said tome, “don’t you have enough poems for a book?” I think about Jack Gilbert, a volume every 10 years. And I think this is the new year. This is the year I will compile and complete the new book of poems and send it out. Sometimes I meditate hard for the knock at the door, the invitation. Then I meditate or pray about the poems themselves. Can I write one good poem? One poem that stands alone. One poem that does all things… Yesterday I reread Eliot’s East Coker. I’m beginning another study on Seamus Heaney in honor of his passing. Can I claim the marsh like he claims the bog? Did I inherit the marsh, both East and West coasts? Am I more marsh than sea and sand? And I admit I am affected by what my colleagues think. Can I even call myself a colleague without a book even though I know I am part of the literary endeavor. And truly what difference does it make? I am committed to a life of letters, regardless of my own shortcomings and how others see me. Everyday, I know poetry saves my life. The pursuit of the right word, the turn of a phrase, time to sit and stare out of the window and as Tod Goldberg said last week, “work” by doing so. Yesterday I took the dog to the field. The temperature was 12. For Virginia that’s pretty cold. I loved watching him run and return the ball. Routine and ritual. That’s writing too. Routine and ritual. And entering a literary community for 10 days that has it’s own routine and ritual. I will settle in my room, open my notebook and begin January poems no matter what consequence. Although I look forward to the day I take the journey with a book published.

Sabbath #151

Radical Sanctuary

For the last week and several days I’ve been on sabbatical from working due to an unexpected surgery. I’ve taken to my bed and I find that it is difficult to remove myself even to go downstairs to eat the meager meals my stomach can tolerate. I have a night stand by my side of the bed which holds a lamp, photographs of loved ones and a stack of books. Upon returning from the hospital, my husband intuited that I might need an extra table. So he retrieved one from the kitchen and placed it by the bed. A live gerber daisy, bright orange. My phone and iPad. Magazines: Vogue, People, Vanity Fair,Consumer Report, Fortune. That”s how it began. The novel, The Illuminaries by Elaeanor Catton, winner of the 2013 Booker Prize, my journal, G. Lalo notepaper and envelopes, my good fountain pen, mug of…

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Sabbath #151

For the last week and several days I’ve been on sabbatical from working due to an unexpected surgery. I’ve taken to my bed and I find that it is difficult to remove myself even to go downstairs to eat the meager meals my stomach can tolerate. I have a night stand by my side of the bed which holds a lamp, photographs of loved ones and a stack of books. Upon returning from the hospital, my husband intuited that I might need an extra table. So he retrieved one from the kitchen and placed it by the bed. A live gerber daisy, bright orange. My phone and iPad. Magazines: Vogue, People, Vanity Fair, Consumer Report, Fortune. That”s how it began. The novel, The Illuminaries by Elaeanor Catton, winner of the 2013 Booker Prize, my journal, G. Lalo notepaper and envelopes, my good fountain pen, mug of tea, half full. And Dog Songs by Mary Oliver, gift from friends at  the field where our dogs run free very morning. I do miss them. And my calendar and list of 30 something clients and writing students I had to contact to reschedule their appointments. A life on a table. Today, some items torn from the Sunday NYT: a picture and a poem, a review of Flannery O’Conner’s Prayer Journal. Someone last week wrote you must have needed “forced rest.” And I did. For the first time in my life, because of varied circumstances like NO SICK LEAVE, compelled me to work regardless of condition. But not this time. I’ve taken to my bed ceremoniously. At first the rest was drug induced but that stopped days ago. Never a napper, I find myself napping, morning and afternoon. And ready to turn out the lights at night around 8:30pm. The doctor warned me of fatigue. And indeed I have it. What’s missing is adrenaline. Before I was released from my short stay at the hospital, my husband and family pleaded with me to stop for at least two weeks. “Be still,” they said. “Use this as a spiritual retreat.” “Meditate twice a day.” “Read.” “Write.” I heard their pleas for me to take care of myself. I needed to accept and receive the help my physical body dictated. Inadvertently, I relieved the stress of loved ones. Graciously, I am still learning to receive. It doesn’t come naturally to me. So for these few weeks, resting and receiving are my practice. That’s all. I’ve deemed all other suggestions as work. 

An adjacent avenue for this sabbatical: walking. So when I’m not in bed, I began walking, slowly. First laps around the house, then laps around our circular driveway, then around the block, extending a block each day. Yesterday, my longest walk, one hour: cross the street, by the filed at the old school, around the neighborhood, Mt. Prospect, and back. This time accompanied by my husband and out dog. The red maple leaves, the creek unmoving except for the tide, houses decorated for the fall season: pumpkins and pansies.

How lucky I feel to posses this luxury of time even if it was forced, unplanned. if I let myself, I could feel sadness creeping in. Why so late, this lesson? Or does it even matter? We learn what we need to learn when we can. More acceptance, not so much of my limitations as what it means to honor ones body and spirit.  

 

Sabbath # 150

My days, so steeped in variance and variety. Today it’s the preacher’s wife, serving communion along side her husband at the eleven o’clock service. The Blood of Christ shed for you. Seriously. Everyday I wear the buddhist prayer beads from Petaluma. A gift from my daughter. Yesterday it was poetry, ED and Lucie Brock Broide. The Writer’s Studio poets reviewing poems, reading  round robin in my small office. The one with the wicker furniture. O’Keefe, Bonnard, and an original by D. Short on the walls. We always have good pastries from The Corner Bakery, grapes and apples. Coffee from Janet’s.  The day before yesterday, client consultations via phone. And of course, my on-going work with the Writing Seminars which presently is consumed with reunion planning and social media. And this week, six poems taken for publication, a record for one week. And work on the manuscript of poems, revising ordering, the collected and uncollected. And my haiku practice matching my husband’s stunning photography. The new printer arrived in the rain. It’s still sitting on the floor of my study. And everyday the dog and I venture to the field to play ball. I’m still working on Come when he’s distracted. I didn’t get to see my grandchildren’s halloween costumes (via FaceTime) and that sent me into two days of not despair but certainly disappointment which translates into moping around the house feeling the immense 3,000 miles between us all. I too have a place for everything but am constantly forgetting where I put things, like the links for my new watch. This morning at breakfast my husband made fun at my exuberance expressed when finally arriving at the bed to sleep for the night. Oh, how I love my bed and the way it pulls me in and then holds me through the night. Yes, I’m exhausted, but not bone weary of years ago. Dare I say a good exhaustion? This morning he said, ” You need to go to the Monastery. Let me know when you mark off four days. I’ll make the arrangement.” Yes, I need silence. I need to be still. I need to listen to the leaves falling shortly before winter. I need to limit distractions. I need to walk down that long farm road and watch for eagles by the river. I need to sit by a window with the book I am presently reading and read, nap, read. In the sunlight. By the lamplight. I need to not be afraid of disturbing anyone. I remind myself that these are indeed first world problems. The temperature dropped last night. I’m ready for winter, hibernation. A hot fire. Gingerbread. Brunswick Stew and my brother Tim’s, oysters. I’m hoping the wind dies down on the creek this afternoon. Dark clouds are rolling in and the sun shines and then does not. The church bells ring, announcing the conclusion of the first service. 

Sabbath #149

This morning I’m late to my desk after arriving late at the field because I slept until seven. For the first time in a very long time. With adequate sleep, one’s relationship to the world shifts. Rest. I teach Yoga Nidra which is divine rest based on ancient yoga teachings. And this morning I’m thinking that most of my life I’ve suffered from weariness, bone tired weariness sometimes from lack of actual sleep but sometimes a tiredness that derives from my own struggles and challenges and the  pain and suffering of others. Most days I can leave my office after six or seven therapy sessions and quickly move on to my own life; my dear husband waiting, phone calls from my daughter on the other coast, FaceTime with grandchildren, a call from my brother Gary during his long commute. There is a house to clean, laundry, food to prepare. And of course exercise: walking the dog, yoga, spin class. And reading and writing. Poems, new and revised. Collected and uncollected. Yesterday I had news that a  poem was selected for publication. Does that mean I’m back in the flow? On the bed in my study there are six stacks of poems. I’m searching for the best ones. When I submit poems , I always include one that is completely random. One that I don’t give much thought to, unusually one least revised. Yesterday, that one was chosen… and it wasn’t the first time. Often I don’t realize the weight of worry that I carry. I don’t factor in the depth of suffering I witness day to day. I review titles of poetry books: Stay, Illusion: Picnic, Rain; Come, Thief; The Great Fires; my own, Hunger for Salt, Double Solitude. So I teach Divine Rest, iRest, Yoga Nidra. I always include poetry in my class as bookends, announcing rest and awakening. Solace and salve. Ointment for healing: poems and meditation. Listening to a calm voice, spoken or written.  And once again, I’m reminded: I give what I most need. 

Morning Before Work

This morning, a double rainbow at the field and then the dog disappears. He has taken to running wild and not coming when I call, only at the field. He finally comes up from the creek but for about 15 minutes my friend Dick and I search for him. This moment he’s asleep on the bed and I tried to have a conversation with him. I do think he understands. My friend says we should try a shock collar with our dogs. He is concerned because his dog always follows mine. Not sure about that idea, but I agree to research the subject. So instead of going to yoga, instead of writing a poem, I’m writing about the dog and field again. I only have a few minutes before showering and going to my day job which runs into the night on Thursdays. Messages are coming in on my  cell phone as I write, texts, email and the house phone rings once. I ignore all to write these few sentences that no one will read. Practice. Commitment to the page. Devotion to language. Reminding myself that I am a writer. I write. And today I see clients. And tomorrow I lead a class in yoga nidra. I’ll begin with a poem. Mary Oliver. Everyday I begin with a poem. It’s part of my practice.

 

 

Sabbath #148 and a Few Days Later

Rain and strong wind, more than breezy. Not a good day to paddle on the creek. I’m reading Facing the Wave: A Journey in the Wake of the Tsunami by Gretel Ehrlich published by Pantheon Books, New York. The cover, two ink brush strokes. A study in survival, grief, and recovery. Surprisingly I’m walking again with Basho and under the influence of the Buddhist way. The Wave, a lesson in impermanence. And this morning at the field in a downpour, a few feet above sea level, the creek as border I cannot bring myself to imagine the devastation. The loss of life, lives, and living. Tragedy of epic level. I cherish routine and rhythm now that I am living in one location. Ehrlich relies on testimony, description and relationship to led her reader through the devastation. The most haunting, ghosts attaching themselves to people. I wonder what ghosts are here in Onancock attached to us, this house, the church, the land.

It’s no longer Sunday. Several days have passed since I stopped writing. Now the sun has returned and temperatures dipped. The air still.  The level of discourse, somewhat low. Friends from the other side of the bay want to know if I can meet for lunch or have tea. I’m two hours away, so not likely. No one mentions driving over here. Why should they? I’m still too busy with other activities other than writing, revenue related. I’m beginning my writing day at 2:40 pm with the task of completing this bog entry. An exercise in prose, working at the level of the sentence. No actually, I revised one line of a poem today. A small adjustment. I’m avoiding the larger task of creating another manuscript of poems to send out once again. Already I have 60 pages of verse. Some better than others, of course. But written over a period 14 years or so. I’m thinking about Jack Gilbert who published a volume every 10 years. So much has changed in those years. The poems will read as narrative for a lived life. The closing of one marriage, aloneness, then another marriage. Exile, relocation and dying. Urban to rural. The taking off of rings, new rings, putting old rings back on. Last week I decided to wear the beautiful ring Barbara Mason of Stonemasons made for me fifteen years ago. Then it was a love story. Now it is a story of a life, passed. I have three of her rings, made in two years. Each lovelier than the other. How can I not wear them? They belong with the older poems. Newer poems belong to my left hand.

I read, ” Here at the coast, there’s no difference between, river and field, tree and ocean.” Here in Onancock it rained for five days straight. Pine needles gather on the roadway and mark high tides. Northeast winds push the bay waters inland. There is no comparison, no likeness. I imagine feet of mud, structures dislodged, families dispersed and dead. Ehrlich writes, ” A sultry stillness hardens.” The coast dropped. What happens when we lose our bearings, our footing and ghosts attached themselves to our backs? We desire much: a safe place to sleep, fresh vegetables, a cool breeze, a dry shirt, shoes, gravestones intact. We want to reside close to our children, hear their voices in the distant room or field behind the house. Tomorrow the church will open at eight in the morning and stay open until to eight in the evening for prayer.  What can we be certain of?

Sunset on Market Street

October Morning: Note to Myself

Today I’m gifted with time. So I stayed longer at the field with my dog, exercised, attended a yoga class at the Y, helped my husband pick photographs for a juried show and now I’m at my desk. I’m wearing my yoga clothes, my hair is pulled back and I haven’t switched the button so that my phone will make sound.  The floor in my study still has the books  stacked next to my desk. I consulted theses books yesterday when I worked on a new poem. My morning tea, cold. The dog, napping from his morning run. The rain, steady and remnants from the storm yesterday are evident: fallen leaves, pine needles, a branch here and there. I’m resisting housework and laundry to write this note to myself.

Be determined. Be unbridled. Be compassionate and loving to yourself, as well as others. Stand strong with your heart’s desire. Imagine receiving all that you wish for. Do the hard work. Write from that place of knowing. Listen to the sound of  the word, heart-balm. Feel the salve working from the inside out. Continue to read what you love. Watch how good sentences are made. Study line breaks. Donnee, caesura, surrender. Salt marsh, east coast, west coast. The Beloved. Loved ones. Do what is necessary to finish projects:Three Ridges, Hunger for Salt. Look closely from the Third  Eye. Find that laugh, that moment when laughter overtakes all else. Remind yourself about the meaning of ease. Continue the quest of writing one good poem.

Sabbath #147

Last Sunday I drove from the Eastern Shore to Dulles Airport and back. It was a long trip. A beautiful day returning my daughter back for her flight to the West Coast. We teased that I might as well fly back with her since I was driving all that way. We laughed. We say we are tired of airport goodbyes. We say our airport days are numbered. We say we are sick of living on opposite coasts. Upon my return, people say I looked so happy when my daughter was visiting. And it is true. A lightness. A lifting. Laughter. I don’t believe I will ever take the company of my children for granted. I live in a small rural town where entire families live in separate houses on one farm, where grandmother’s routinely take their grandchildren out for lunch or keep them over night. The teenagers travel easily back and forth between a number of houses. Today when I attend church there will be many families of three and four generations sitting together. I take my shower and dress early so perhaps I can get in a visit per the computer, as my grandchildren are waking on the West Coast, before their morning show, before breakfast. Most days we miss each other. I’m tempted to sit and wait. Our attempts to arrange a specific time usually fail for one reason or another. I rely on still pictures taken throughout a random Saturday or Sunday: street fairs, parks, hikes, siting on porches, farmer’s markets, bicycle rides, scooter rides, dress up, lego building. I always feel better when I purchase a ticket, trip planned and paid for. I imagine the arrival, the greetings, the quiet and noisy moments. I think about the departure only in relation to the next time I will see everyone again. My days begin early and are full. Today is no different. Time spent at the field with the dog, time spent reading, time spent preparing and having meals at the table, time spent on the creek. I heard that skates entered the creek last week. Today I am hoping to see them. Indian summer. Last Saturday I paddled with my daughter on the creek. Today she is absent. Last Sunday I drove to the airport four hours away. When we stopped for lunch, we made sure we embraced each other before we buckled our seat belts to reentered the beltway. We knew the parting would be short at the terminal, our goodbyes rushed. Even then we lingered to the last possible moment. And I drove away, looking back several times, catching a last glimpse, her backpack and her father’s old Navy duffle, checking in to catch her flight. My on my solitary return home.