Now I've Gone & Said "Ifs, Ands, or Buts." Who Am I?

We took our 4-year-old daughter to watch our city's local fireworks Monday night. It was her first time to see fireworks and I was almost as excited as she was about sharing such a special moment. I loved fireworks as a child; heck, I still do.

So we arrive at our viewing point, the local community college. We find a spot on the concrete stairs. We'd have preferred the grass but earlier it'd rained just enough. Another family with a little boy was seated a few steps above, and he and Shannon struck up a conversation almost immediately. Within minutes they bonded over their overprotective parents, both of whom kept telling them to stop swinging on the railing. This kept her entertained since we'd arrived about 20 minutes early, which was all well and good. Until I told her she needed to come sit with us since the fireworks were about to start.

To which she replied with an emphatic stomp and a stubborn, "No, Mom. I wanna sit with my friend."

Laughter through Tears and a Little White Dog

This isn't a story about a dog. Not really.

It's Tuesday, a warm June afternoon and I'm sitting alone in my living room. Criss-cross-applesauce in the recliner, dreading the phone call I know is coming. Finally it rings, and reading my aunt's name on the screen, I answer. "You have bad news."

"Depends on how you look at it," she says, crying.

And then I'm sobbing, large shaking cries that actually make noise. Cries that give the "boo hoo's" their creed. I hold myself and rock, in a fashion done only by those who are truly devastated.

The Tree that Put Me at Ease

Back in February I had the good sense to attend a writers' conference offered on campus --- where I met many talented writers, bought too many of their books, and patiently began to nibble them in small, savory bites.


Except for Jennifer Horne's Bottle Tree. I devoured it that first weekend.


Which is interesting, because --- Horne being the only poet at the conference --- I expected to enjoy her the least. That sounds insulting, but up until that weekend most of my exposure had been to the big dogs --- Keats, Yeats, Frost, etc.  You know, the poetry that demands "work, work, work to understand me." I had the preconceived notion that Horne's would be much of the same.


But then she read her first poem, and I was spellbound.  I didn't know poetry could be like this! I remember thinking, I want to write like this someday. After hearing her speak, I wanted more. After finishing her book, I wanted more. Horne had given me the gift of poetic sustenance, when up until then I didn't know I was starving!  


Two months later I'm a regular in front of the single shelf at my local chain bookstore, picking up Alice Walker and Billy Collins. Thanks to Jennifer Horne I'm at ease with my pursuit of writing poetry, understanding that fancy words and complicated styles don't make a great poem. An open mind, a gift of words, and a sense of story-telling make a great poem.  At least it does in Bottle Tree.


With the author's permission, I've presented one of my favorites from the collection. Please visit Jennifer Horne's blog and/or click here to purchase a copy for yourself.  Trust me, you'll want more.


Monday Morning with Household Chores


Surprised into tears by an old song.
It's my mother, not a lover, I miss.
How she sang along happily. With abandon.
The words soothed her. Lifted her, too.
I stop in the middle of mopping the kitchen floor.
Nothing to do but sit down on the steps.
Let the tears have their way.


It's my solitude I weep for.
The never-again of it.
Changeable weather. A sweet old song.
Me aging with all these questions.
She not there to ask.


Isn't every motherless girl the same?
Still expecting her phone call.
Even after however-many years.
Mopping's regular rhythm.
Lemon oil on wooden chest.
Honor her with frangipani candles at Christmas.
Sing with abandon. Abandon. Abandon.




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Inspiration Comes in Raw Packages

There's nothing like finding inspiration in someone else. 
Thanks to friend Kyrsten from my creative poetry class, I've discovered Taylor Mali, a former-teacher-turned-slam-poet. I spent an hour watching youTube videos of him last night, spent another hour making my husband watch them, and after was so inspired I sat down and wrote something in under 30 minutes.

I love it when that happens.

So before you think, "Blah.  I'm not going to watch some guy recite poetry," I urge you to take a minute. Or three. Watch the clip below.

Listen.

If you like what you see (and I think you will), try these:

• On What Teachers Make
• The The Impotence of Proofreading
• Labeling Keys
• Defending American Interests

 But to tell the truth, I find his deeper stuff (listed below) to be breathtaking --- literally.  I found myself holding my breath. His willingness to bare his soul... I struggle with that in my writing.  I'm always aware of who I might hurt.  If I write about an ex-boyfriend, will I hurt my husband? The ex's family? If I write about my family, will it offend my grandmother? And so on and so on. My friend Mica tells me that I'm more honest than she ever could be, and perhaps that's true. (Read her guest blog, A "Clark Griswold" Holiday)

But I know it's not enough when I find myself censoring my pen.

Because when I read writing that's raw --- or hear it like Taylor does below --- that's what really packs the punch; they're the words that stick with me. Inspiration comes in raw packages.

• Depression, Too, is a Type of Fire
• Entire Act of Sorrow
• For the Life of Me

To sum up, it seems I recommend watching everything he's ever done on youTube.  I hope you find him as inspirational as I have.  And by all means, please share him (& this post) with your friends on Facebook & Twitter, too!


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I'm Not Ashamed to Mourn

Tomorrow is my husband's birthday, but today -- today I mourn a loss.

Yes, I've written about my aunt Sharon numerous times before.  I even questioned whether I should write about her again today.  But of course I should -- she was such an influence on my life.  Why should I sit silent because someone else may not want to read about it?

Is there an expiration date on grief?  After the first year, should we stop remembering the exact day? The exact place we were standing when we answered the phone?  Or is it five years? Ten?  Is it wrong to still weep for her sons' loss?  For my own pain?   Should my anger at the injustice of it all subside over time?  I can still hear her say to me, "Hey Em! How's math goin'?" and I wonder if I'll remember again next year.  I don't want to forget her -- I'm not interested in reaching the point where I don't grieve for her.  Yes, there are happy memories and I rejoice in them throughout the year.  But today it's okay to mourn, and I need that.

I'm okay with needing that.

Tomorrow I'll celebrate the birth of the most important man in my life, but today -- today will forever be a black mark on the calendar. I'm okay with that, too.  I'm not ashamed to remember a woman that I loved and to cry for her...

And I won't be ashamed next year.


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