My Most Important Reading
02/24/2005 02:42 p.m.
My Most Important Reading
(Feb. 19, 05)

When I asked my brother-in-law,
on his deathbed,
if he’d like me to read a little
to him,
the selection he requested was from the Psalms.

My voice was shaky at first
though I’d done this before for him
(and numerous other readings, in my life as a poet

this one was tougher
than any other delivery
of verse, mine or someone else's, I’d ever made.

God’s and David’s words carried us through
soon coating my voice
with a sure hope and strength
steadiness and purpose,
the words he anticipated
coming to life again,
offering him peace
and the comfort of his faith
a comfort the world of medicine had failed
to be able to grant him.

He wanted to listen
to the Psalms
not to kill time
during his confinement
but in preparation.

Soon he slept,
restored, as I was.


(Just a draft of the experience, for now. A day of so after this reading, my sister and I were told her husband wouldn’t be able to communicate with us anymore due to a new medicine started to ease his congestion. But as it turned out, the same day of the new medicine, he passed away also. So I was glad he could make this request earlier. When he was more able, even within the past week, he was an avid reader and student of the Bible. His wife and a dear friend from the Church also read to him regularly, even when he was reading on his own still.
I am currently Depressed

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Mousing around
02/15/2005 09:30 p.m.
I feel like I have two homes right now. This may be the way for a long time in the future.
My center is divided. I’m the country mouse and the city mouse lately, and happy in both places, but when in one, miss loved ones in the other. And have friends, some new, in the country as well as the dear friends and net friends here and elsewhere I miss when off-line in the country. I'm away from this mouse a long time then. But it’s a growth period, even in a losing period. The closeness that is shared between three people living together, fighting the imminence of death, but with grace and acceptance if it must be, and trust in God, for a good death of one of these, and of course in a sense a death of a part of all of us in the family, is surreal and amazing. I haven't written much at all lately, just a few things, but I am not concerned about that right now of course. I know we are really seeing what time does and does not mean, and love and devotion, too. The extreme tests of love and endurance are upon us and we are answering the call in harmony and strength for the most part. Laughter and tears, memories of beginnings for the couple are fresh like yesterday in our minds, their minds, as they look back and praise the fact that they found each other, even if for ten years of togetherness on this earth.

Talk about your sofas and how familiar they and the people around them become! And missed when we're absent from them. I saw this mentioned in Bonnie's journal recently. I now have the benefit of the cozy one by the woodstove in Mare’s basement, by the fire, (my brother gave them years ago) with the brown and orange crocheted throw over it, and usually a little black cat (Meara) stretched along my legs, or the upstairs one in the sunny living room overlooking the birdfeeder with the jays, Downey and Hairy Woodpeckers, and squirrel picnickers to watch, and the three-legged Brewster black and white large cat who craves affection, and must be picked up to achieve his spot beside me, as well as the more ornate pink couch they inherited. But when I return home it’s to my dear familiar checkered brown, yellow and red couch we were given by our kids with matching loveseat. And my Penny Cat and daughter, and husband at hand there. Funny, what we miss, isn't it?

I’ve adapted well to the drill of caring for our brother-in-law, oxygen-servicing and all, and do fine with that and the wheelchair etc, but have discovered I’m somewhat electronically-challenged on other items. My sister’s been very patient, when I’ve temporarily disabled the microwave and the satellite antenna on her tv dish! But on the whole they seem to love having me at hand. Strange isn’t it?

We laugh after she straightens these glitches out, and over the weird things I do, as I keep them on their toes. I feel terrible when they happen though, but try not to beat myself up and just keep learning what not to do.

My walks there are down the country road, and we take very few trips, right now, to town or anything. But we’ve never been bored. I have my weights there, and do my yoga in my room, which has a tv with cable. And my books of course. I actually sleep very well there, with intermittent interruptions to collect a crying cat or something.

So this is my winter away place, for important reasons, and I don’t wish to be in exotic or tropical places anyway right now of course. Fortunately my brother and husband are great for drives, and my daughter, so I can be a country mouse too. But always returning to my home base lest I be given up for gone.
I am currently Calm

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Love's Labour Lost
01/19/2005 06:55 a.m.
I have a date tonight - with my big brother, for dinner and a Shakespearean play (hence this journal entry title). It's a fascinating name for one of the plays I've always wanted to see, and haven't studied yet - and it's a comedy, fortunately for us as we both need to laugh more than cry right now. Don’s treating me with this delayed birthday gift (since Nov.) because he learned soon after my birthday that our National Arts Centre’s English Theatre were doing this one in January. November was also hectic but hey, so is January, but it will be wonderful to pause and relax tonight for that stretch. Hopefully the weather will warm up by then, as we’re busing part of the way there and part of the way home.

We’ll have supper on the Sparks Street Mall and then be sure to arrive well in time for our seating. Originally we had planned to go to Stratford some time this year or last for a play or two, of Shakespeare’s (Don’s quite the afficionado, former student and teacher of this specialty in University), and of course I am, with my theatre background and indulgence in his work since High School.

And we both deserve the evening off from pressures of the illness in the family - of course it never goes away and I’m sure we both feel strange and somewhat ambivalent about a pleasurable outing (as pleasurable as possible, that is) right now for ourselves, with our sister and her husband struggling so each day, but Don will probably drive me out there to their home, drop me off after he visits a while, on Friday, and I will try my best again to be their helper.

Meanwhile, I’m readying the house here, for when I’m gone again, have loaded up on groceries for this family, caught up on laundry, paid my hubby some well-needed attention (though he’s been terrific and unselfish and dedicated to them too), and I’ve also re-worked some poems for Jan. 31's resumption of classes. But they’re not ready yet in final form, all together (a haibun and two other pieces), and I should be back at it now while not sleeping due to my cough (not contagious I don’t think or I won’t even be going to my sister’s.)

Well, on that note I’d better try to get back to bed for a while. Brrr, freezing isn’t helping...I can’t seem to get warm in this house and then finally, after hiking up the furnace so much, to my husband’s chagrin, I get too warm. How many months of this left, I wonder? Still, I’ve so much to do in these next months, and little time to do it, (story of everyone’s life, I know) that I must be patient.

Love's Labour does often get lost, doesn't it?
I am currently Clueless
I am listening to nothing, absolutely, and loving it

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Readings
01/18/2005 04:59 p.m.
Was Richard B. Wright, (of St. Catherine's, Ontario) author of Clara Callan, ever a woman? If I hadn’t his photo in the bio blurb at the back of the Giller and Governor General’s award-winning novel that is holding me well in its grasp these days, I’d have suspected a female writing under a male pen name. He describes the biological and romantic feelings and reactions of our sex so convincingly, to my mind and personal identification. And in the novel he writes the journals, as well as letters, of his heroine, and the correspondence from her sister and a female friend, to her, all true to their individual characters, but also all vividly from the female mindset. I thought Nicholas Sparks was a rarity for this ability to react and show empathy for this gender side, but now I know he is not alone.

The novel, which I received as a birthday gift in November, along with A Complicated Kindness, (which I’ve begun and really enjoy too, by Miriam Toews) is assisting me and absorbing me well through a troubled and tragic time in life. So indeed it must be powerful. Throughout it incorporates snippets of historical setting, (Toronto, Whitfield, New York City,) etc. world and Canadian events, technologies, (even down to the acquiring of phones in the home and old party-lines on these) and the facts of the times, (mid to late l930's as far as I’ve read yet), into the fiction. In my first extensive novel m.s. I did this too, and in a similar (not to put myself in high standing) fashion, and though in some instances I do admit I feel a conscious “slugging in” which takes some of the naturalness away, he does a respectable job. It’s difficult to merge these without seeming like you’re trying to represent the token memories and historical trivia from the times, and not deter from credibility of characters and your own plot.

In any event, I thank the Lord for the gift of reading, and fine books and poetry, (like the book of poetry "A Signature of Leaves" (Penumbra Press) by our friend here and local mentor, past initiator of many arts communities in Toronto and Ottawa and author, Jane Jordan,(incidentally the first poet to encourage my work to me) music and painting, faith and community and family Samaritism, as we in my family deal with the threat of death at hand, it seems, for one of our members. But still he, his wife, and the rest of us so inclined, pray for and are doing whatever we can toward achieving a miracle. (As in James, in the Bible, with the section on the ointment of healing. Not that I pretend to be a biblical scholar.)

"There is more on this earth, Horatio, than is dreamt of in your philosphy." (Thanks again to literature and of course Shakespeare, for that often-relied on quote in my life.) We are now counting on there being much more on this earth and other places to look to over and above medical help, for healing and hope of recovery and winning this ugly and heartbreaking battle.

Good grief, spell-check just tried to turn Clara Callan into a Calla lily. That’s another thing that helps us through heavy trials - humour. By the way, does anyone know why my underlining of the novels disappears from my text when copied over onto Pathetic? Yet another annoying mystery, some of which create inaccuracies of correctness not the journal-entrant's doing. I suppose someone will speak of cookies and browsers or patron status to me again. Or html. Boy, I think I could go back to the 30's and deal with the newness of telephones. By the way, I believe my mom was the last central Ottawa homeowner to still have a party line. It felt like it, that's for sure.
I am currently Creative
I am listening to my daughter making lunch in between her classes

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Astray and Not
12/15/2004 05:56 p.m.
I found the draft, mentioned in my earlier entry this morning! It was safely parked on my binder in my study, away from all the Christmas paraphernalia after all. I've decided to get it down here, and will revise later of course. Some things do come home to us, to roost. Some don't.

Astray (working title)

The scent of orange pekoe tea bags
brings back to me
little glossy birds
of various Canadian species
in their authentic colours.

Two new stickers perfectly resembling
real birds, but in miniature
arrived in our home
in each fresh package of tea
my British father brought home
that year

The purchase and opening
meaning a surprise of which additions
would appear for
my sister’s and my collections
in the accompanying narrow, long
sticker book the tea company
included in the promotion.

Red-breasted Grosbeaks,
brilliant orange and black Orioles,
black-capped chickadees, lemon goldfinches,
crimson Cardinals became mine, to keep, in
their vivid imitations, from eye to wing accurate
in design, perched on a branch, or in wingspread flight.

We were entitled to one each
from every package, my sister and I

As soon as we dug in and retrieved
our respective additions,
I’d avidly search my book
for the correct matching place
with the species identified below
and lick the back, then lodge and press it in neatly
and smooth the shiny colored form down

My first hobby collection. Afterward,
I’d hold the book to my nose and enjoy
the benefit of the scent.

My sister seemed to prefer adhering hers
to the fourth drawer, of her pine bedroom dresser
dad had built, where she created an aviary
that remained secure for years of her birds,
some flying, some at a standstill.

My assortment of the realistic capture
of these friends, lived and grew in
my pages, within the beautiful slick cover
revealing the whole series together,
and was eventually almost complete.
(My dad drank a lot of tea, and as children
we were permitted also, and seemed much
thirstier for it that year).

The book traveled with me on the walks
to school and back, and to friends’ houses.
But in the cloak room at school,
or in a puddle on the trek home
one night, I lost it all, somehow.
The set became instantly extinct, and
the promotion series ended, before I could re-start.
And for days I would visit the school’s lost-and-found
but come home disappointed.

My sister’s remained the only tangible reminder
survivors flying in their stillness,
on the face of the dresser drawer
across the room from my bed
as I stared at them every night
imagining the fate of all of my birds,
gone astray.

I am currently Crafty

Comments (1)

Grinning and Baring it
12/15/2004 02:33 p.m.
I’m sorry, but whether one calls it personification or anthropomorism, and whether one thinks it’s a good idea to do or not, in a poem, I will not forego assigning trees (and for that matter stone, water, whatever) with human sensations, or nature, if the image strikes me this way, and seems valid and fitting. I say this not angrily but with conviction, following a sweeping declaration to avoid all that in Deciduous, my recent poem posted here, when brought to my local critique group in Ottawa. For me the use felt so real and true, the shame and loss they seemed to show hanging out bare branches in November, and in some of my landscape pieces it is so innate to the scene to me, to do this, I would be totally untrue to my inspiration to lose it. Some qualities or aspects of our own personal style we may have to just say “I did it my way” for, and keep. This is one of those cases for me.
Much as I respect and benefit from many critique comments and don't take it personally, I know I have to sift through what I accept and don’t in this process.

On a funnier note, an overheard excuse by a customer at the cash in a retail store yesterday made me smile. A man was trying to do a return, and explained “the dog ate my receipt.”

I laughed and said, just like homework, eh?

For writing, I’d started a poem I’ve been conceiving for a few weeks now, about my bird sticker book when I was a child, and wrote out the first draft late the other night, in bed, and now can’t find it. It must have gone the way of the pile of Christmas gift lists and gotten buried. Ironically, as it’s an elegy poem about losing something...but if I find it soon, and have the moments free which seem so rare now, not just because of Christmas but our sick brother-in-law, I will re-write it and polish and post it soon. But it needles me, pardon the pun, not having it at hand fresh after starting it.

I just learned my brother and his wife, will be joining us tonight after work, and my sister, who I knew was coming in for her appointment at the Civic, plus the hospital wants to send Jack home now and maybe today, so it’s another busy day ahead, but it should be nice and I feel optimistic. Good thing I started the housework early this morning.

I agreed to give part of the reading at church on Sunday, haven’t received the assigned passages information yet, though, and so readings haven’t stopped for me yet. But church is such a joy and consolation and inspiration, I’m happy to do that.

Well, back for a moment with those gorgeous trees, whose tops today in white are stretching against sunny skies, and true blues, and if I need to personify them, I will indeed. excuse errors, I have to run....

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Splendour
12/05/2004 05:13 a.m.
Splendour in the Grass

What though the radiance
which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass,
of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

-- William Wordsworth


After watching the old movie by the same title as the above poem, tonight, with my favorite actress the late Natalie Wood, I looked up the poem. It speaks hauntingly to me, after all the changes come and coming, in my life and that of close people to me, and by my age, I can truly relate to it.

I have my own take on it, and find it very soothing and wise, though sad. The movie incorporated it beautifully into the script. I was struck in my search through Wordsworth's works, at how prolific he was, as well as amazing in talent. Timeless, his messages.

I've also been reading a book by Anne Coleman that I am very absorbed with, an "I can't put it down" type of book, and I relate to her so closely. I suppose it's her skill to make the reader feel this way, and yet she uncannily looks at things much the way I did, when I look at my own diaries, and she takes me back to my own seven wonderful cottage summers in Quebec, in her I'll Tell You A Secret, A Memory of Seven Summers. Hers are spent in North Hatley, Quebec, in the Laurentians. Mine were at Sand Bay, Quebec, near Shawville (note of interest: I believe writer Joan Finnegan belongs to the family who ran our little cottage confectionery at the far side of the beachfront from our cottage) and that Joan may have been cottaging there when I was.

Coleman's story is about her cottage life just down the dirt road from Hugh Maclennan's. She delivers an evocative and often humorous, always tender, exciting and credible, but also sometimes disturbing, account of her young womanhood years, since fourteen, and her relationship with Canadian writer and professor MacLennan, to whom she dedicates the book. Within this context she makes witness to and commentary on issues such as women writers and how poorly they were recognized even in the 1950's, in our universities here, and several other social issues. Her canoe trips, nature descriptions, cottage and family moments, and the youthful voice of the narrator giving the story in the present as if it's still unfolding, (she is very skilled at sounding this young, and then more mature later in the book, and I'm sure she consulted back through years of her personal diaries to capture this).

Just my kind of story, my kind of way of "adopting" mentors and I can even relate to her bond with MacLennan, that broke through an age barrier of over thirty years, no problem.

Well, since I'm not sleeping and should be before church tomorrow and a full day, (I was hoping to go to one of my female leading haiku icons' Open House for a Third World Benefit in Bells Corners tomorrow, bake more cookies, after my faith ceremony at church, and do a ton of other things, like final prepping for a reading next week, final touches on homework, wrapping and buying...and should indeed be sleeping having danced away hours with friends last night until the wee hours, something I've not done in ages and the music and company cheered me immensely) I must head off to bed, and continue her story 'til I nod off after some heartfelt prayers.

I'm sure I'll be looking for more Coleman treats soon. If only there were time to do everything... but look what Wordsworth did

*excuse any typos please, it's very late.
I am currently Blue
I am listening to nothing

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Firsts, with some Second Glances
12/01/2004 04:37 p.m.
The first day of December and a day of firsts - the first real snowfall of the season, decorating the branches in my backyard and the drabness of yesterday’s backyard now icing sugared.... my first cold of the season coming in the same morning, and caught on my birthday from a dinner guest who didn’t realize she was coming down with one...the first day Canada and the world is facing without one of our most renowned authors, Pierre Berton, and now probably the first year we can’t expect another book (usually history pieces of our country)to appear from him, though the uniqueness of a writing career is that one sometimes publishes post-mortem, as Carol Shields did, and the movies of the books still continue to be made, so we can’t say that for sure)...oh, yes, also it's the end of President Bush's first official visit to Ottawa. His flight out was delayed twenty minutes due to the snow. I won't say much about this visit right now.

This Christmas, for the first time in years we won’t be at my mother-in-law’s table for Christmas which isn’t making her too happy, right now, as our sister-in-law and their brood can't make it either, but there will still be several other family members round the table, and I’m sure she’ll understand. She’s a kind soul, and we’ll see that family in the morning and at dessert Christmas Evening. It’ll be the first supper in years that we’ll share with my Mom and the Matley clan on Christmas day. We usually squeeze in our get-togethers on the off-days, though Mom always comes over here for gift-sharing that morning or Christmas eve. If we could have clones of ourselves of course we wouldn’t miss either meal, and if we could eat like that!

Speaking of eating, on my latest weigh-in yesterday, I discovered I’ve reached my weight goal. I set out on this plan, after discussing it with my beloved late friend, Tom, who when I told him what I wanted to do, in the summer of 2003, while visiting him at the nursing home, said calmly with a smile "well then, you'd better get started." If he knows my results, he's seen them from Heaven. It was for my health and energy and agility, more than anything else, I wanted to do this, and to enjoy my clothes more. As of July ’03, I’ve lost 31 pounds (and now just want to maintain and tone) via yoga, more careful but not stringent, eating choices, and walking. The bike got fixed up but I didn’t use it much, this fall, since I had my hand operation and my palm wasn’t ready for biking pressure of handlebars, but next year. But I’ve added workouts on my daughter’s Ellipsis machine in the basement family room, now that we’ve loaned Jack, our ill brother-in-law and uncle, the reclining chair that was down there, and have more room. We also have the new exercise bike I bought my husband last year and he still hasn’t tried, but promises he will, once he gets the rabbit ears on the tv and we get the channels coming in. Then he and my daughter will use the exercise equipment too (well Ernie wouldn’t use the Ellipsis, as he’s a little too disabled for that one). They want to watch tv while they work out. I will prefer it too.
I need the arm and aerobic movements of that, or something like it, plus small weights, as my doctor is concerned about a dramatic loss of muscle mass I’ve experienced. I don’t mind doing that, but am a little short for the platform of our Ellipsis and so the stretch makes me a little sore in the hips and back afterward. Always something, right? I don’t want to solve one problem, ie preventing osteoporosis, and gain sciatica!

It was fun the other day looking back in my journals, from the year l999, when I was recovering from cancer and writing with a fresh vengeance. Boy, did I fill of my hardcover workbook companion to Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, which I used as a journal mostly. Morning Pages she’d call them. It’s almost exhausting following the entries now, I was trying to do so much and grasp so much, produce and create greedily. I know I was making up for lost time but also excited, in the Maslow-described kind of reaction after a close call or spiritual awakening in and to life again. I was devouring A Simple Path by M. Teresa as well. I'd borrowed it, so took notes on my favorite parts and entered them in my journal.

It was also the period when I returned to Sasquatch Reading Series, and performing poetry, and sharing with fellow poets there. That was when I met my dear C.S, (funnily enough, in some ways much like C.S. Lewis, he seemed to me) and I see looking back in the notes, (fortunately all documented) the treasure and spice he added to my revival.
And often, the sanity. Sometimes in our friendship we’ve acted less sanely, as most close relationships have their sparks, and some of ours were pretty bad, but there were many more moments more positive and contributory to joy, growth, hope and strength in this friendship when I so needed it, and this is evident in the journal as a vital page in my life, and my recovery. And development as an artist.

And it’s so amusing to read of my first meeting with him. Our director Juan was making the rather gullible me nervous, when he set up my first meeting with Chris, a fine writer, he said, who’d happened to volunteer (or were you drafted, Chris?) for publicity, coincidentally the same area of work for the Reading Series at the University of Ottawa campus pub where we have live readings, as I had chosen. I was also joining the Board of Directors for the first time I’d ever be on a Board, and Juan had told me he’d have to put us through our initiation, the two new board members and I wondered what, pray God, would that entail?
One of the first things I did when meeting Chris was to ask him what we might have to endure, with initiation, and he laughed and said "I think Juan's just kidding us" and I felt better. Looking back, I was still pretty naive, even at 46 years old!)
It was the same day I’d been celebrating my birthday at my brother’s, I’d had only a half-glass of white wine there knowing I had a meeting afterward, and pulled out of learning Euchre with the family (Jack was a patient partner, teaching me) to go downtown to the Oak for the first session with Chris and Juan.

My notes in the journal afterward describe Chris S, who I soon referred to most often as tomcat in the journals, as seeming “quite savvy” about things, had been a Director of Tree Reading Series before this comeback after a few years away from running a live performance series, and "savvy" ( I seemed to like that word, for him)especially also about electronics etc. which was good, because I was quite new at the world of e-mails and faxing, which we’d be taking turns doing for the media releases, etc. and promos to regulars. I was also in the adjustments to what I realized later but never was told by doctors about, the side-effect of chemo fog, so concentration, memory and focus were very demanding for me. I found an article in the paper later that explained my experiences with all that. But I worked very hard and the exercise of publicity was useful, and hopefully, I was of good service - I kind of over e-mailed tomcat a lot at first, and even Juan, (accidentally sending out one message six times to Juan before I was officially on board, so he had full warning) but I learned so much, and a lot was from Chris who was very patient and never seemed to notice. I didn’t like to say I was learning everything still.

Soon he was exposing me to non-Sasquatch work benefits of his awareness, in particular, the world of internet poetry. He had so much on the net of himself I didn’t imagine I’d have such confidence in risking putting up personal poems for the world, nor the worry of my poems being stolen, (even though looking back they probably weren’t in many cases in much danger, not ready to be stolen, even).

He welcomed me soon into the Jury Room, and in many ways became innocuously my mentor, (and in some instances, in various ways, I like to think, I also mentored him?)though I’d been in critique groups before, never a poetry one, and that began years of this process. And he introduced me to his friends Julie (a poet and musician) and Don, (a sometimes poet, naturalist, athletic-type, outdoorsman, and her life partner ) for which I’m always going to feel very blessed, as well as Heather Ferguson, Sharon Liu (who was on poesie.com too and in our Jury Room, etc.) and many others. I gradually introduced him to other writers I knew in the area, that he hadn't yet met.

The story of Chris and I (my first working partner in an endeavour such as this, let alone one of my first really close male friends) would be too long to divulge here and isn’t finished anyway, still a work/project/pleasure-in-progress, for sure. But its role especially in the Nov. l999-and 2000 year (yes, we faced and survived Y2K year together) and especially that first winter into spring, (interestingly enough in the short period since we met, the world endured several key turning points and crises too with huge impact)is always going to be a turning point and precious marker in my life, personally and as a writer and artist. As we quickly overcame initial shynesses (well, I was not too shy by then) I enjoyed working with him or sharing readings, and welcoming artists and open setters at the venue, and soon delving into his poems on the net, growing in my art and friendship experience, and then putting myself out bit by bit with new friends worldwide on poesie, many of whom I still know on here and love, and many I miss from the past.
One of Chris' poems, among so many I’d earmarked as favorites in my journal book, was "A Heart’s Desire". It opened up more of him, and inspired me a great deal with its excited positivism and compassion. It’s recently posted on here now.

On a totally different topic, I thought today after reading Carl Walker’s Journal yesterday about dealing with difficult people, in the example he gives, in the church committees, I think he means, when I’d been thinking of reprinting this portion of my journals soon anyway, I’d share something I found precious at that time. I was reading a great deal in recovery, particularly inspiring writers like Cameron, Maslow, and Mother Teresa, and found this. It was a year of some very high family tensions, mixed in with the blessings of hope in health, some real tests for all of us in our own growth and health here, and temperaments in readjustment. I was in many ways a much-changed on the surface person. More outspoken, more demanding of a better world on the large front and at home, but also full of idealism and love and yes, need to verbalize, orally and on paper. Many of my masks were gone, and I was so open I was kind of raw, I think my family found.

Anyway, here’s my portion from A Simple Path, by M. Teresa, that I found and still found, very helpful especially when I’m dealing with the many aspects of others’ personalities, and with my own failings or quirks as they deal with them. Mother Teresa included in her book a poem by a recent(at the time) Aids Patient in San Francisco in which he has the lines:

“The hymn to beauty, written on his face....
your friend is your
needs answered” *
Page l80

And from a sign on the wall of Shishu Bhavan, (I hope I’m reading my own handwriting correctly) - the children’s home in Calcutta
she includes this piece Carl Walker’s entry reminded me, of called

“Anyway”

People are unreasonable, illogical and self-centered,
Love then Anyway

If you do good, people will accuse you of
selfish, ulterior motives,
Do Good Anyway

If you are successful
you win false friends and true enemies

Succeed anyway

The good you do will be forgotten tomorrow,
Do good anyway

Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable,
be honest and frank Anyway

What you spent years building may be
destroyed overnight,
Build Anyway

People really need help
but may attack you if you help them,
Help people Anyway

Give the world the best you have
and you’ll get kicked in the teeth,
Give the world the best you’ve got
Anyway

Of course I’ve experienced errors, disappointments and missteps even since then, of my own and others I’ve loved, in different ways, and struggled to learn new lessons about people and getting along, as I do practically daily. I’ve settled somewhat (though not that happily about it) on my seeming extreme enthusiasm to correct and make a better world almost instantly, (my Poem To Change the World reflected this passion) but still working humbly at my efforts to contribute to this and encouraging everyone to come on board. I couldn’t keep my mouth quiet over any injustice shown no matter by whom, and I’m glad of that spirit in me, though it got me into some conflicts and raised a few eyebrows, it’s something I always had and became more openly adamant about post-illness. But I’ve learned to temper with empathy and understanding and hope and faith that people do move with you more if you’re not seeming to be preaching at them or seeming sanctimonious, holier-than-thou (which I never felt I was) or pretentious even in your altruistic and moral goals. And that silence and listening are as viable a tool sometimes as verbalization.

In my fifty-first year, just begun, with the fresh first snowfall, I look forward always to finding news ways to try things and to learn, and new words to acquire and share.


*Page l80 A Simple Path, by M. Teresa
I am currently Cheerful
I am listening to Seasonal songs on the radio

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First Dates
11/28/2004 02:42 p.m.
The first time my sister and I
dated best friends
John, and Ron, can you believe it?
they chose the same day
and a weird way
to break up with us
after about a month

the guys were in a group, a duo,
just themselves
and they were indeed
we found out, really into themselves

but early on
in the happy stages
they loaned us some of their albums
of the more famous bands
rock ’n roll and even one
of a cousin’s of Ron's, in a well-known
local group gone big

I met John first, at school and he was
a brief and fumbling
initiation into having a boyfriend
not very pleasant or gentle-natured

but soon we introduced Ron and Marilyn
and brought them into our scene

good thing, because she and I
kept each other company a lot
watching those two perform
at gigs, or consoling
and encouraging each other
when they got too pushy
afterward, in the front and back seats
and we put on the brakes

poor John wasn’t in for much fun
anyway, with me
only fifteen
and soliciting advice on kissing skills
from my sixteen year-old sister
when he wasn’t looking
though she was a novice too

but when she and I we were apart from them
how we shouted to each other and giggled
at sudden sightings
of John’s blue volkswagen
and watched for it around town
knowing it meant the guys were near

within a month
she and I were on the verge of
giving up on our tempermental
hormone-plagued teen escorts
and hadn’t seen them in weeks
by the time they called up and met us
on our doorstep,
the pair, like Mutt and Jeff
just to request in united voice
their albums back

without spelling it out
they made it obviosu that half
of this group was pulling out
from us
(and we knew why)
They gave us quick brushes of kisses
and slunk away into that blue volks

though we’d already guessed it for the best
and were frustrated with their sexual pressuring
advances
and their irritated reactions
when things didn't go their way
my sister and I shed a few tears together
bought more of own music
and later, had a lot of laughs over it

the other day a friend of mine
invited me out to hear
the renowned local group from the past
with the frontman
whose cousin Marilyn dated
in that period of our lives
sending us into reminiscence

But we still shake our heads
and how difficult and strange they were

The next time my sister and I
dated two best friends
it lasted many years

I am currently Creative
I am listening to oldies Sentimental Journey with Dick Maloney

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A Talent
11/22/2004 11:28 p.m.
Almost only counts in horseshoes, or so they say. It was lovely in a painstaking way to learn today from a phone call that though I didn’t get my prospective job at the Japanese Embassy, for which I was interviewed recently, I was one of only four applicants who made it to the interview stage out of 250, so the application resume was strong. It would have been a fascinating place and mandate of work, and was the first job interview I tried where poetry writing and writing talent in general was so respected and attention highly paid to it as a skill for a job.

I’m reading a book I bought at our church sale of religious books yesterday, a book I’ve wanted for a long time, by C.S. Lewis called Surprised by Joy. In it he refers to people having or not having “the talent for happiness.” I like that approach. While I never put it in those words, I have written about and considered the role of our responsibility and duty to try to create our own happinesses as individuals. The book’s about his coming into Christian faith after being a long-time atheist, but I’d also thought it would refer to Joy, his wife who he found later in life. I suspect that relationship will be well-treated too. I have to read the bulk of it still, but am excited about it.

These are times when building individual happiness is crucial for me. As a child, I had a very happy existence. We found our joy in simple things and the pleasure of family life, and the arts exposure our parents so naturally and unobtrusively treated us to by their love of them. We were not spoiled by material things, in fact, though dad made more money than most of my friends’ parents, we were given more in other ways, than in objects. I remember we received look-a-like Barbies or imitations often of the latest “real” items everyone was getting. But I never felt deprived by this. Possessions weren’t overdone at all, but we cherished what we got, and a simple notebook of paper was like gold to me.

I’m glad for this, so often in life as I look back. We didn’t go to Dairy Queens, or eat egg rolls or pizza, or ice cream sandwiches, which I discovered later in my teens at my boyfriend’s house, and we had coke and ginger ale usually at Christmas or for Grey Cup football parties and when company came.

But we had the treasure of a strong family life. And we had a tv, which our neighbors and my best friend in that family didn’t have, and we hosted them on Grey Cup day or the day the Beatles were on Ed Sullivan for the first time.

Home movies were our biggest treat, and summer vacations to camp and the cottage, which were heavenly and provided some of my greatest memories in life really.

Dad’s listening to Gilmour’s Albums, Live at the Met (ropolitan Opera House) every Saturday was almost a religious event, and we knew to keep the living room quiet but we liked to absorb his fascination with listening to this. In the mornings, with the coffee perking in the metal pot with its exciting bubbles building up to a frenzy and that warm, delicious scent, Mom would be reading a book and so would dad, in the living room. He read at night too, in bed, and we knew when he’d fallen asleep because we’d hear from our bedroom (my sister’s and mine) across the hall, that book crash to the floor every night.

Some of these gifts are the best I received at home. But also the fact of not being splurged on with fancy bed canopies or the latest fashionable clothes or toys. We used our imaginations constantly to make what we wanted, and my brothers put on puppet shows or made mysteries for us to solve. Like the time my brother, I guess bored, or thinking we were, ran a can-opener over a quarter to make jagged designs across it, unbeknown to us, and tossed it beneath the cedars by the front steps where my sister and our best friend hung out. Gullible suckers as we were, we discovered the strange coin and deduced it was foreign, ancient treasure!

What fun, so simply had.

At my age I've really learned, especially in the past decade, that it is best to not want for too much and to savour the little things and moments, and make them big enough. Which of course, they always are. And to be satisfied with that and to cherish all the blessings life bestows on us. Edith Wharton knew about all this. In her novel The Age of Innocence toward the end her protagonist, Newland Archer, at 57 and remembering his past, mulls over the issue. "The difference is that these young people take it for granted that they're going to get whatever they want, and that we almost always took it for granted that we shouldn't. "

I guess, especially after the Depression years, my mom and dad knew too. I used to wish I’d taken my dad to the Met in N.Y., once in his lifetime. But my mom says he was content to listen at home on Saturday afternoons. An example in point. He had a talent for happiness.


I am currently Creative
I am listening to tv in another room

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