Saturday, August 29, 2015

Mary Oliver, On Not Being a Helicopter Parent

Flanna riding her big bike, with gears and a basket and a cute bell.
"To live in this world,
you must be able to do
three things: 
to love what is mortal;
to hold it against your bones
knowing your own life
depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go."
   --Mary Oliver, from "In Blackwater Woods"




Sunday, August 23, 2015

Do What You Love

art by my Great Aunt Elsie
Lately I've been giving myself permission to read and write more.  To let the laundry pile up and the dishes wait to be unloaded.  Because when I am stressed out and busy and don't let myself do what I love, I become a strange tense version of myself that I don't want to be.

Anywho.  One of the benefits of letting myself write more is having something to share on my little blog!   Below, I'm posting a poem I wrote about my Great-aunt Elsie. Enjoy!  (And by the way, what will you do this week that you just love?)


Card Castle

I never visited her,
my great aunt Elsie,
Never saw the life she built
out of the bad hand she was dealt.
Born to an overwhelmed father and an ailing mother,
with so many mouths to feed
in the Great Depression.
Not a single ace or king, nothing up her sleeve.

Her mother passed (Passed what? The final test?)
and her older sister (my grandmother) tried to care for them—
Elsie and her tiny twin brothers--,
but
her young newlywed husband (my grandfather) just couldn’t handle it. 
and so, it was off to the orphanage.
My grandmother stood tall, in heels and her best skirt,
uncertain,
watching small, wiry Elsie twist her dark auburn hair.
Finally, she signed the papers at the counter, so many words stuck in her throat,
and the clerk hurrying her with his eyes.
I don’t know much about the orphanage, 
except that that’s where my grandmother said
Elsie must’ve learned to be a lesbian.
Long years of living with so many other girls 
and no boys, she explained.
But I have the wisdom of time, 
and so many homosexual branches off my family tree.
Genetics are genetics.

My sister visited their apartment once, in Seattle,
Great Aunt Elsie and her artist partner.
They painted flowers and trees and laughed from a purple velvet couch.
They walked down to the farmer’s market every Saturday.
I like to picture them side by side,
Gray hair swaying,
pushing bicycles with baskets heavy laden 
through the shining streets.
I like to study her art hanging on the wall 
in my hallway in California.
The beauty she created smiles out at me.
I like to think of her, her head tilted,
considering the lines, the light, 
contemplating,
a cat sunning in her window.
I like to think of how she built a quiet castle
out of a bad hand of cards.