From My Journal: Moments of Being

As I wash the morning's dishes, I look out my kitchen window and observe an elderly lady walking down our street. She is charmingly dressed in a light purple jacket with a red cloth hat sitting atop her short silver hair. She stops, turns around and looks up at the flowering plum trees. A huge smile crosses her face and accents her sparkling eyes. Clearly she is absorbing this moment for all it's worth. Her happiness becomes my happiness, for I completely understand her emotions: Each day of living is beyond precious, when we enter our older years. I also find I carry an immense amount of gratitude for each leaf, each blossom, each ounce of beauty, I see.

Though I tend to believe that “this knowing life is fleeting and precious” message is reserved for our senior years, I discovered yesterday afternoon this may not be so. Dan and I attended the Eugene Symphony earlier in the week where the now grownup violin prodigy, Midori Goto, played Jean Sibelius' Violin Concerto in D Minor, Op. 47. I sat on the edge of my seat watching Midori completely lose herself and become one with her instrument. Her playing was breathtaking; the emotion she somehow shared with us caught me by surprise, and I felt hot tears rolling down my cheeks. It was announced that Midori has been undertaking a week long residence in Eugene, working with both the Eugene Symphony and the Youth Symphony. She has visited, worked with and inspired string classes throughout the local school districts, and on Saturday afternoon her presence in our community would culminate in a performance with our Youth Symphony.

So there we were Saturday, listening once again to the mesmerizing Midori and hearing first hand evidence of her inspiration upon Eugene's young musicians. It was between pieces that the director of our Arts Umbrella, an elementary string teacher and a young first year string student appeared on the stage. They were there to testify to Midori's impact. It was the third grade boy's words which caught my attention. “What was it like having Midori come to your string class?” he was asked. “It was a rare gift. It's something I won't forget. It's like the memory was written in pen and not pencil. It won't easily be erased.” Out of the mouths of babes come wisdom. This boy knew the treasure of time he had been given...it might not come again...it had to be savored and stored.

Memory and time are like a game being played by the trickster coyote. We think we can grab those moments, hold onto them, at least vividly remember them, until poof, we are onto the next remembrance. I try to cushion and preserve my memories via words. This briefly frames those amazing moments in my mind, recolors them in my mental coloring book, but then in the future do I remember to reread, reexamine these words? I have already forgotten so many past events I swore I would never forget. All I have I tell myself are these present happenings.

But this morning as we take a long walk through the lovely falling blossoms and feel the sun peeking through the clouded sky, we walk past these neighborhood apartments and I remember. I remember what lay beneath the current taller, ugly buildings. There on this corner lot was this modest shake-sided house with the sweetest garden. The garden was actually larger than the living quarters with rows of vegetables and flowers, miniature wind mills, castles, animal statues...a garden for the oohs and aahs of children and child-like grown ups passing by. And we did pass by, for I regularly took my daughter and the children from my preschool here as part of our magical neighborhood walks. This memory, the Virginia Woolf “moments of being” do live on, I think, as we round the corner and cross the cemented driveway. And all I have to do is to be aware, to be ready to open my eyes and to hold out my arms to receive all the preciously given gifts.

© 2012

Picking Flowers

(Here is a sweet, nostalgic essay written in 1993 when my daughter was four.)

It is one of those Autumn mornings where the sky, blotched with wispy clouds, is a deep cool blue and the trees' green leaves are tinged with yellow/orange hues. I suggest to my daughter, Aspen Louise, that we go for a walk. Naturally, my idea of a walk and my daughter's understanding of the word turn out to be completely different. I get out the stroller, even though Aspen is four, and envision pushing her along at a brisk pace so I can get some exercise. My daughter brings Carolina, her hand sewn cloth doll, and settles cozily into the stroller seat. What a lovely day for a fast walk, I think. We'll be back in thirty minutes.

I begin pushing my daughter down the sidewalk, pointing out this cloud and that tree, talking about the change from summer to winter. We notice cats lounging in the warm sun and squirrels chasing each other up twisted pine branches. I am beginning to work up a sweat and Aspen seems perfectly content to sit and ride. Then, after taking a shortcut through our fairgrounds, we come upon a street which borders a river canal. I promise Aspen we will see ducks. Yes, I promise her we will SEE lots of things. But I don't mean we'll stop and try to be part of the scenery we are passing.

Suddenly Aspen isn't comfortable anymore with just sitting. We put her doll in the stroller and she pushes it gently and slowly. Now we aren't going in a straight line, but rather we are meandering to the left and to the right.

“Watch out for bicycles and people,” I warn her.

She jerks to a stop and begins picking a few wild flowers.

“That flower is called Queen Anne's Lace,” I mention, sounding like a botany professor.

But before I can finish my mini lecture, she is excitedly telling me about the possibility that there might be blackberries.

“Blackberries are gone because summer has ended,” I reply with authority. I am starting to realize my exercise walk is deteriorating rapidly.

“Don't you want to get back into the stroller?” I implore. No, she definitely has other plans.

My dear daughter has found some purple thistle weed. She picks one stem and then breaks out into a wonderfully joyous smile as she discovers there are several more down the road.

“These are for Daddy,” she declares proudly after gathering five thistle weeds.

“Let's keep going. I'm sure there's ducks on the other side of the canal,” I suggest.

“But I want to pick blackberries,” she insists.

As a relatively new mother I never want to disappoint my child. “OK,” I say, “there's some blackberry bushes over there; but I'm sure the blackberries are all gone by now.”

Aspen strides undaunted to the blackberry haven on the edge of the canal. By this time I discover I am the one pushing the doll in the stroller. When I reach Aspen she is carefully examining each bush for its possible juicy remains.

“I'm afraid the berries are dried up,” I say trying to sound remorseful rather than right.

“Look, Mom, there's a berry.”

To my surprised eye I reach over and hand her the berry. We walk on and look for more. One, two, three, four five berries!

“Aspen, it's still blackberry season,” I say hugging her. A knowing smile of magic and self-assurance crosses her sweet face.

She climbs back into the stroller for a short ride across the street to the continuation of the river canal. On this side there are ducks and ducks and more ducks.

She gets up and ambles to the bank: “There's a hole in the river for the ducks to walk through.” I wish we had brought some cracked corn, but in my haste to get out the door I forgot it.

“Wouldn't it be nice to be a duck,” I suggest, “just floating and drifting in the lazy sun?”

“I want to be a bird and fly,” replies Aspen.

We wander slowly now and see what appears to be a baby blue heron. We pause and watch it strut from rock to rock. Then Aspen finds some beautiful blue flowers and picks five to go with her original bouquet.

Our walk is turning into a nature stroll and my hurry to have it end is subsiding. This time I point out to Aspen that up ahead there appears to be a huge blackberry bush. I believe my daughter's magic touch will certainly produce an abundance of the desired fruit. We skip and finally run to our destination. The many clumped together bushes are as big as a family of giants. Aspen and I both delightfully find and eat several ripe berries.

Our faces smeared with blackberry juice, we get home and it has been more than an hour since we have been gone. Aspen is beaming and I am beaming too. She insists on calling Daddy at work to tell him we have found blackberries. I wish I could have the faith and the belief of my child in life's ordinary, positive wonder. How can I forget so easily about everyday hidden treasures?

“We have to bring Daddy to the giant blackberry bush.”

“Yes,” I reply, “let's bring him there this weekend.”

“But we have to start from the beginning,” insists my daughter, “and do the whole walk and pick flowers.”

“Yes,” I smile.

© 2012

From My Journal: On The Streets

April 12, 2012: There's a note on the kitchen table: Expresso machine not working! I already plan to swing by the Eugene School District Education Center to drop off a book I no longer need and so going for coffee nearby seems written in the stars. Just as I reach the train tracks, the red light starts flashing and I think, “Damn! Caught by a train.” On the other side of the tracks comes this young father with his baby in a buggy. He looks down the track and motions me forward. I wave my thank you as I drive across the tracks and he gives me the hugest smile. My day is made.

Even before my interaction, as I observed this young father out walking his child, I was already thinking how far fathers have come in their participation as parents. My mother, of course, did it all while my father lounged in his leather chair waiting for dinner to be served. But now I see young men throughout my neighborhood with babies strapped to their chests or bouncing in their backpack carriers. There are several women in my women's groups who are the main breadwinners of their families while their husbands hold down the household and care for the children.

On the way home from getting my coffee, I see this young father once again and we both broaden our expressions of happiness as we knowingly greet each other. I love my neighborhood streets. I love running into transient-appearing Peter on his bicycle who stops and tells me all about his family... a family I have never met. Peter has medium length, unkept hair, wears grungy clothes and lives with the help of food boxes. But he is the nicest man and I know he'd help out if neighbors needed him. Then there is/was this old hippy a few blocks down who “became sober” as he put it and started an imaginative garden. This garden has evolved over the years with tiny ponds and bridges, pieces of glass and found stones, all while incorporating the natural trunks, roots, grass of his surroundings. I haven't run into him this year and my intuition tells me he has passed on. But his garden remains and this is his legacy to the neighborhood.

One of my major hang ups is ever yearning for family and community. I feel estranged from my siblings, my parents are no longer here and though I know my daughter loves us, she is in her twenties, in the the middle of working, attending college, discovering who she is, not sleeping, having a girl friend, etc. So my home, my neighborhood, my community is where I am. And on these positive, bright morning days, I see that my family is here.

I decide to buy a travel mug from our local Wandering Goat Coffee since I gave one mug to my dear husband and the other to my dear daughter. I'm waiting for my latte when in walks Dan with a surprise kiss. He is definitely my family...even more than family...he is my soul mate and I know I am damn lucky to have found him over thirty years ago. We sit briefly at one of the tables with the sun streaming in through the window, sipping and connecting; then he walks back to his work truck and I to my car. My new travel mug fits perfectly in the container by my seat and I'm enjoying a swallow of coffee each time I come to a red light. Eugene, Oregon is such a down home town. Wandering Goat has dread locks, long hair, short and cropped hair, hippies, straight...I'm dressed for teaching with my black jeans and blue jacket and look so much more professional than most in the cafe. But we earth dwellers are really all the same and I never feel uncomfortable except when I am obviously with the very rich.

My sometimes hang ups about family extend to my hang ups about the upper class. My dad was a working man and we were a working class family. So I suppose this is the reason I gravitate to your everyday, average Joe or Jill. My sister would be appalled by the street people I have conversations with and she wouldn't be comfortable at Wandering Goat Coffee. But here I am creating divisions when basically, as I stated earlier, human beings are full of the same wants and desires: love, hope, dreams, purpose.

I guess what I'm after when I talk about neighbors and friends and community and family is caring for one another. “All you need is love,” is not an idle refrain. Daily my students and I have constant conversations about racism and hatred and wars. These young people inspire me, fill me with hope. They, like myself, do not understand why the color of our skin or our ethnic backgrounds cause so much discomfort, animosity and segregation. They don't understand why we can't sit down with each other and work out our differences...use our words rather than our weapons. Why haven't we evolved far enough to quit killing, torturing, hating each other? I am ever the idealist, even at 64.

I look out my kitchen window and there is another family pushing a baby stroller, sauntering down the sidewalk. Cars are whizzing passed, the students at the corner alternative high school are playing a pick-up basketball game, the sky is wiping away our usual deluge of rain and replacing this with wispy clouds and possible sun. With the final sip of my coffee I know how fortunate we are to be living in a neighborhood, on the streets we do.

© 2012

Thank You Adrienne Rich

“Though your life felt arduous
new and unmapped and strange
What would it mean to stand on the first
page to the end of despair?”

Adrienne Rich died last week at the age of 82. For some reason, as I read about her passing in the New York Times, I found myself catching my breath and felt, with the sting of tears, my surfacing grief. During my twenties, I came in brief contact with her words and then later in my thirties, I enrolled in a graduate course on Women Poets, with Adrienne Rich at the forefront of the syllabus.

I came of age during the late sixties, when “consciousness raising” was all the rage among women around me. Growing up in an overprotective, father-dominated household, all I knew then was that I wanted to be the first in my family to graduate from college and I wanted to have a life different from my submissive mother's. Many of us raised-during-the-fifties women yearned for strong, adventurous female role models, while simultaneously fearing the “radical feminist label.” How strange and mystical this decade of my twenties appears to me now from the vantage point of my sixth decade! As that young girl, I understood absolutely nothing at all about Lesbianism and had little interest in finding out. Forty years later, I consider myself a resolute feminist and have an amazing, beautiful, twenty-two-year-old Lesbian daughter.

Perhaps I am lying when I state I had little interest in understanding the roots of Lesbianism. Back in my youth Lesbian and Radical Feminist were terms held far away from us, as if in a forbidden land. But I was a curious nerd, always writing, reading, pondering, squeezing out every fiber of meaning I could from this life I was given. And my path continually led to an involvement with women's groups. As a vulnerable, sensitive, “out of place” individual, I wanted to know where I could fit in or if I could fit in.

I didn't “hate men;” I only hated how controlling my father tried to be. Believing he wouldn't let me grow up, I knew I had to get away. College and working my way through college changed everything. Most importantly, the right women and the right circumstances presented themselves and I grabbed both.

There was Megann and Shauna; they introduced me to a group of women who gathered monthly to talk about our lives as women. There was the time in my German language class that the “boys” talked about women only attending the university to find husbands. I stood up and stated, “This is simply not true...I came for an education.” The professor backed me up, and I walked across campus a bit straighter that day. Majoring in English and German Literature, I discovered my bachelor of arts degree rarely included women authors. I made up for this by starting my own study of women writers and later teaching classes on Virginia Woolf, Anais Nin and a multitude of women poets.

And then there was Adrienne Rich...there was always Adrienne Rich beside me, but I just didn't acknowledge her:

“I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.”

My dad started appearing on my apartment doorstep unannounced, his face haggard, his face belying his loneliness. We were so alike, my father and I. He too was an intellectual and physical explorer. He too was a man of words. My mother was not. But, as in my childhood, I began feeling smothered by his attention. The twenty-something me wasn't wise enough to see that his visits represented his overwhelming need for companionship, and were not threats of over protection. I quickly disposed of him and tried to create a buffer of independence between us. Our final separation came when I chose to fly thousands of miles overseas to become a study abroad student in Germany. I was gone for a year and a half...a year and a half that symbolically felt like three years and was the ultimate severing of my umbilical cord from my family.

Europe gave me freedom that I never had in the United States. I could travel alone; I could hitch hike. I could sit in a park or by a river and write, undisturbed, to my heart's content. I could have intellectual, philosophical, spiritual discussions that had nothing to do with gender expectations and everything to do with becoming an authentic and complete human being. I brought my liberation home to the final tumultuous wave of the sixties. I brought my liberation home to the rise of women's power.

“I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed”

And I began to embrace my feminist spirit; and I began to acknowledge that what I wanted from my life was to be respected, to be accepted on equal terms with my brother, my coworkers and my future mate. I didn't want to become “like a man” but rather, even though I am not a woman of color, I wanted to become like Alice Walker's definition of “Womanist:” “A black feminist or feminist of color...Usually referring to outrageous audacious, courageous or willful behavior. Wanting to know more and in greater depth than is considered 'good' for one...A woman who appreciates and prefers women's culture, women's emotional flexibility and women's strength.”(From the Introduction to In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens)

Finally I turned around and saw how Adrienne Rich had been behind me all along my journey. And how her words had given me and so many other voiceless women a voice, had given me and so many women permission to simply be ourselves.

“We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.”

Thank you, Adrienne, for writing your words, speaking your truth, taking me under your wing and flying me to this more open space. I still have a lot to learn, but your poetic legacy has given me a sound beginning. Again, thank you!

© 2012