Creature Bug

Week 207: Collecting

There is a woman
who never forgets anything
what people said,
what day of the week,
and what was on tv
from every day of her life
since she was a child.

Her memories make me thankful
for the grace of forgetfulness

like how many times
I raise my voice
or sigh in exasperation
or feel discouraged.

Our ability to forget,
especially for mothers,
is what keeps us sane
and helps us heal from
the guilt of every mistake
the imperfections of parenting
playing unceasingly in our mind
like an intolerable YouTube video.

We want to look back
at the difficult years
and remember the joys
not the sorrows
the sweetness
not the bitter.

But I wonder

If I could take memories
from this week
and store them on a shelf
in my mind
like teacups, or spoons,
or salt and pepper shakers

What would I choose?

The walk to the park,
the lunch with friends,
the afternoon sitting on the floor
with the girls
who made fish faces on the window.

 

The dash of light across Julianne's hair
The silly smiles from Sydney

I'd collect the sound of her voice when she says,
What a beautiful day it is!
Or the screech of delight when the littlest she
figures out the answer to,
How old are you?

The shelf would hold the feeling
of little hands, and big,
of precious kisses on baby soft skin,
and late night loving ones before bedtime.
Next to these
the feeling of curly hair wrapped around my finger
and the intangible sense of comfort.

All this I would keep,
hide,
horde away
in memory's closet.

My wish

May I be a woman
who collects
cups of sweet memories,
bowls of grace,
and
plates of joy

not the woman
who stores the sorrows
in a box
under my bed with ugly shoes
and unforgiving mistakes.

The woman who never forgets
helped me remember

the beauty of memories

both kept
and lost.

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Week 202: You Picked a Fine Time to Read to Me, Lucille (Clifton)

(last Thursday...)
Student: What are you doing on Sunday?
Me: Sunday? Church. Laundry.
Student: Want to go to Powell's and then hear Lucille Clifton?
Me: For real? Totally for real?
Student: Yeah. Some us from my minority lit class are going and Dr. --- has an extra ticket. I asked if I could give it to you.
Me: Rock on.

As an added bonus I got to give my student (photographed here) a tour of Powell's since she hadn't ever really been there. She's a newly minted English major, so of course it was quite a privilege to take her to the book mecca of Oregon. (Sidenote: on our drive to Portland, my student said she was interested in looking at home interior books "if they have any." I chuckled. "Yep, they'll have a few.")

That's what I got to do Sunday afternoon and evening. Wander around Powell's, (where I discovered there's a NEW Mo Willems book, The Pigeon Wants a Puppy. I was crazy with delight!), eat dinner at Old Town Pizza, and listen to Lucille Clifton read poetry.

It was simply amazing.

My confession is that I don't really like to read poetry that much, but oh how I do love to hear it. Ms. Clifton's voice is rich and resonant. She didn't have much of a plan on what poems she was going to read, so she just wandered her way through a couple of her books and loose sheets of paper. She introduced each poem with a story, and naturally she spoke a great deal about race. Certainly I couldn't relate to a lot of the difficulties that she has experienced, but hearing how the world has sometimes unkindly treated her--she a celebrated and honored poet--made me even more determined to teach my children the truth of Ms. Clifton's words: "I want everyone to be noticed."

I loved hearing her talk about her granddaughters, her experiences, and her opinions on education, religion, and politics. I laughed at her story about meeting President Clinton ("What an insult! He didn't once try to seduce me!"). I nodded at her descriptions of motherhood. My eyes filled with tears twice: when she read "lumpectomy eve" (about one breast comforting another before breast cancer surgery) and when she told about her mother burning all of her own (that is, her mother's) poetry because Lucille's father said, "No wife is mine is going to be a poet." Even now, the remembrance of Ms. Clifton talking about those things makes me emotional.

We almost got through the night without her reading "homage to my hips"--and I was growing increasingly worried that I wouldn't hear her read it--but during the question and answer time someone asked her, "Tell us about your hips, Lucille!"

And so she did.

Almost as soon as the last word was out of her mouth, the audience erupted with cheering. Because, honestly, the night wouldn't have been complete without it. I found an audio recording online of Ms. Clifton reading that poem that I was going to link here, but it's her younger voice, and as great as it is it's just not as powerful as the voice she has now at 71 years old.

She also got a question about the writing process, which I was keenly interested in hearing. How does she write poems? "It's a mystery," she said. "Poems know that I will say 'yes' to them, and so they come. They fill my whole body." Isn't that lovely? So perfect.

Oh! even before Lucille Clifton spoke, the night was already a treasure: Portland's own Ursula K. Le Guin gave the introduction. When the Literary Arts director announced who was giving Lucille Clifton's introduction, you could hear an audible gasp and squeal from the audience because, well, Ursula! Ursula K. Le Guin! Do you remember me cheering about her last summer? Or that I have her book Steering the Craft linked on my sidebar? It was already a treat that I was going to hear Lucille Clifton, but then to hear that I was going to hear Le Guin--even if just for a couple minutes--I could not believe it.

Suddenly, I had this image of classic video footage of girls screaming and fainting at Elvis concerts because I totally could relate to that. I had tears in my eyes and my heart was pounding and I actually uttered the words, "Ohmigosh ohmigosh. Ursula Le Guin and Lucille Clifton," and then I was speechless. I was in the presence of Literary Rockstars.

I totally wish I could have had them autograph my left boob. Ah, just kidding.

Clifton and Le Guin autographs on my jeans would have been way cooler. I could have worn them to class tomorrow.

*

homage to my hips

by lucille clifton

these hips are big hips

they need space to

move around in.

they don't fit into little

petty places. these hips

are free hips.

they don't like to be held back.

these hips have never been enslaved,

they go where they want to go

they do what they want to do.

these hips are mighty hips.

these hips are magic hips.

i have known them

to put a spell on a man and

spin him like a top!

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

slow beauty

To breathe in deeply,
Slowing down and being still--
There beauty is found.

(video 1:30)

Absolutely worth watching even if it is an advertisement. Beautiful.

(Thanks to my brother Tyler for giving the link to this. (Update: Ok, so Tyler informs me the link is from our youngest brother Jake, so don't worry Jake. Ty didn't take credit for your brilliance.)...Here's the full-length version of Cinematic Orchestra's "To Build A Home")

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

Not a good sign...

...when you try a new cookie recipe
that's supposed to be more healthy
than other chocolate chip cookie recipes,
and after working hard
at dumping in the brown sugar,
the chocolate chips,
the chickpeas
(that's the healthy part)
and assorted other ingredients,
after standing in front of the oven,
watching the seconds tick down
from the microwave timer
until she could finally exclaim,
"They're done!"
(with such joy that you wonder
why you don't bake cookies with her more often),
she takes a bite,
says,
"Ack! Ew! Get it out of my mouth! I Don't Like It!"
spits out the bite of cookie into your hand,
and runs out of the kitchen as if you had forced her to eat kidney pie.

And you realize,
at that moment,
cookies ought not to be healthy for you.
Lesson learned.
Momma will do better next time.

Precisely

Reading books,
fixing mac-n-cheese,
making chocolate milk,
finding the favorite blanket in the middle of the night.

Wearing the purple clip in my hair to the library,
singing Amazing Grace as a lullaby,
knowing how to fix curly hair,
smooshing the playdough between my fingers.

Administering medicine,
applying bandaids,
kissing owies,
sending to time-out.

Tieing shoelaces,
snapping seat belts,
playing hide-and-seek,
taking naps in the middle of the day.

Loving unconditionally,
practicing patience,
modeling compassion,
living a life dedicated to God.

It's part of being a mom.

I'm a mom because of Sydney and Jules. My girls.

Happy Mother's Day!

(This post inspired by the writing prompt at Parent Bloggers Network and Light Iris. If you can squeak in a post today (Friday), send them the link to be entered to win a spa gc. Mmmm...spa day...lovely.)

Stitched and Stitching

Okay, so finally here's my Women are Fantastic post. It would have been better to post it yesterday, since that was my certain someone's birthday, but I think she'll understand.

*****

Happy belated birthday, Aunt Jane!

Stitched and Stitching

With yards of fabric before me
I try to imagine them as curtains.
A pocket here, hems there--
thousands of tiny stitches to hold them together,
keeping them from falling apart.

I carefully thread the machine
remembering the instructions I learned
years ago from Aunt Jane,
she who taught me that a sewing machine
can create amazing things.

The curtains I sew are blue
the same color as all the tiny squares
I ironed when Aunt Jane and I made a quilt.
We pieced it together, and I learned about
squares and patterns and diligence.

I set out to sew a straight line,
stitching forward, stitching backward,
in order that the stitches don't
unravel--
important stitches that make things last.

So many afternoons I spent with Aunt Jane
making a quilt,
a summer dress,
a prom dress,
a bridesmaid dress.

From childhood to middle years
through adolescence and college
I walked the field to Aunt Jane's house
to sew and have dinner,
to play with my cousin,
finding a second home, a second family.

And mixed with the sound of sewing
were conversations of living
of family and friends
of boyfriends and bothers
of new schools and new places.
Hundreds of thousands of tiny stitches.

When I heard the sound of labor
as my daughter began her journey of birth,
I called Aunt Jane to come
To be by my side and hold my hand
that felt so much like her sister's--
my mom--who was stuck states away.

When my daughter arrived,
Aunt Jane was there to hold her,
rocking forward, rocking backward,
stitching this new life with love
and permanence.

I finish my curtains,
and notice as I hang them
the seams don't unravel.
This I owe to Aunt Jane, who taught me
the art of permanent stitches,
and how to make beautiful things that last.

Reading Maps

  Sophie invited me to participate in a new meme she's started called "Women are Fantastic" Friday. I think this is such a great idea, and I'm thrilled to be in on the inaugural week for such an encouraging project. Join in if you'd like!

For this first week, I picked my grandma. While I was lucky enough to grow up with three grandmas, I was extra fortunate to live next door to my mom's mom. My grandma is one of the bravest and most amazing women I know, and even though the last couple years have been hard without my grandpa, my grandma keeps on going. She keeps going so much that she and I (along with Jules) are going on a fabulous vacation together in June.

One of the blessings of Sydney going up to my parents' house every week is that she gets to see her Grandma-Great. Sydney adores Grandma-Great, and I have no words to adequately capture how grateful I am that Sydney gets to spend time with all her grandparents. It's one of the great blessings of my life.

-----

For my grandma...classy, sassy, and super fantastic.

Reading Maps

I reach under my daughter's chin
and gently drum my fingers--
a movement I learned from my grandma
who in doing that would look into my eyes,
smile,
and strum her fingers beneath my grin,
playing a lovely tune.

No matter how old my grandma gets--
and she's nearly 93--
I always picture her hands the same,
wrinkled and worn with love,
like a map that has been folded so many times
in searching for directions in getting from here to there.

The map on the palm of her hands
gives directions on how to raise four children
moving from place to place, year to year,
following the orders of the military.

Hands that held my mother's hand
as they crossed the Pacific Ocean
on an ocean liner full of sea-sick people
(except my mother)
traveling from Japan to home--
yet another,
in a whole memory of homes.

I can smell on my grandma's hands
the scent of lavender, of vanilla,
of roses and detergent and baby lotion.
I know no one who can clean like she does,
get laundry as white as she can,
make blankets smell as wonderful as
the smell that I smell in her hands.

I hate to wash the clothes, the blankets,
the towels, the coats, the aprons that she
passes along from her hands to mine
for fear that I will wash away the smell
that I love so much.

In her left hand I read the path that says
you must be right-handed
you must give up your native language
you must stay home from school at 13
to work
to clean for others
to help raise your six siblings
on this farm in North Dakota.

Studying her right hand I see the roads
that led her from North Dakota
to Oregon California Nevada Japan Hawaii
and finally Washington, the Family Farm,
where she holds me and teaches me the directions
and stories of her handy maps.

I see her hands together
holding her granddaughter as she rocks her to sleep
holding the pie dough and slapping it into a ball
holding the book she reads to my daughter
holding the bucket of August's blueberries
holding the flag that the soldier gave her
when my grandpa couldn't hold her hand any longer.

She opens her hands, and I see the roads
that lead to faithfulness and love
and all the places I want to go someday.
I press my hands into hers
hoping my palms memorize the paths my grandma took
in getting from there to here.

Wishes

Hug O' War

I will not play at tug o' war.
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses,
And everyone grins,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.

--Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends