The rain has abated, now at dusk. The weekend of green revelry closes to Sunday night thoughts of Monday's reality.
St. Patrick, the long dead son of the Roman occupation of Britain, still remains a legend, even though research clearly shows there were no snakes In Ireland. The only snake type thing is a 'slow worm', actually a small reptile which, over time, lost its legs and now resembles a tiny garter snake, hardly in need of the power of a Bishop with his holy miter.
St. Patrick died a little over 1500 years ago today, a period of time long enough to cause his green legend to be left alone. The pictures of him driving snakes into the sea, in our children's book " The Stories of the Saints", stands iconic in artistic depictions even now. Another example of the necessity of Mythology in the course of the mundanity of the human experiment, because a good image is almost impossible to shake.
When I was small, and I drew shamrocks on construction paper, and we had special mass in the morning before school, it was not mentioned that this bishop opposed the Druids. Those Pagan people who did things like build Stonehenge to chart the movement of the stars. The word 'Pagan' was synonymous with ignorance, immorality, and a kind of dirty savageness. When the Catholics went around slandering other civilizations to puff up their own story, it is no wonder why people of other persuasions didn't always like them. Another case of a religion pouting myopic and defensive like an adolescent caught in a love triangle.
I attended the Orchard Society spring grafting fair today, and I really think I must be a Pagan. Being in that fairgrounds building with hundreds of people, all ages, gathering scions to graft to roots, talking to each other about plants and hundreds of different types of apples, or pears, or cherries, or grapes felt like a mass. Holy people who can get excited by what otherwise appear as buckets of twigs gave off a bright spirit, undeniable. This felt like the religion I might belong to.
St. Patrick, what will be left of you? Irish car bomb hangovers and discarded green mardi gras beads.
The house smelling like corned beef and cabbage. The green hurts-the-eyes grass of spring, taunting the lawn mower. The snow over the daffodils, and the luck of the Irish, the ones who escaped the potato famine from which the church did not protect them.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
The Heart Consists of Four Chambers
The Heart Consists of Four Chambers:
An atrium and a ventricle on the right
and an atrium and a ventricle on the left.
Blood returning to the heart from
veins all over the body flows
into the right atrium.
From there the blood flows
into the right ventricle.
The right ventricle then pumps it
to the lungs for oxygenation.
The oxygen rich blood returns to
the left atrium,
from there the blood flows into the left ventricle,
which pumps it at high pressure
into the arteries.
This entire process constitutes one
heart beat.
This in not a poem, and it is a poem. I think the body,
This human body is
a poem.
An atrium and a ventricle on the right
and an atrium and a ventricle on the left.
Blood returning to the heart from
veins all over the body flows
into the right atrium.
From there the blood flows
into the right ventricle.
The right ventricle then pumps it
to the lungs for oxygenation.
The oxygen rich blood returns to
the left atrium,
from there the blood flows into the left ventricle,
which pumps it at high pressure
into the arteries.
This entire process constitutes one
heart beat.
This in not a poem, and it is a poem. I think the body,
This human body is
a poem.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
What the Flower?
Ideas for bringing peace into the classroom:
This, quoted from the National Peace Institute course, "Teachers Without Borders":
"What the flower? One teacher spoke of how, in her work with high school students, their use of profanity, (the f-bomb) was getting on her nerves. She asked them if they would substitute the f-bomb with the word flower. Thus, instead of saying "What the f.....?!" They would say "What the flower?
She said that, much to her surprise, they really took to this practice. Not only did it solve the issue of profanity, but it also made them smile every time they said it, and it brought more joy into the classroom."
Small, simple, inexpensive ways to change the paradigm. I think this is flowering cool!
This, quoted from the National Peace Institute course, "Teachers Without Borders":
"What the flower? One teacher spoke of how, in her work with high school students, their use of profanity, (the f-bomb) was getting on her nerves. She asked them if they would substitute the f-bomb with the word flower. Thus, instead of saying "What the f.....?!" They would say "What the flower?
She said that, much to her surprise, they really took to this practice. Not only did it solve the issue of profanity, but it also made them smile every time they said it, and it brought more joy into the classroom."
Small, simple, inexpensive ways to change the paradigm. I think this is flowering cool!
Monday, February 18, 2013
Louis
Louis I Miss You
My grandfather, Louis, he's been gone
38 years ago this month
Tall and quiet, his angular face lined and serious
I still wonder if
he would be less serious
had his life been different.
Last time I saw him he bought me pancakes,
at his regular breakfast place.
"A short stack," always the same order.
Later, saying goodbye
Grama told him,
"Louie, give her some dollars."
(She called him Louie and gave him orders)
He fished in his pockets and
handed me four dollars in earnest
I had to take them, guiltily
Being a grandchild even at 19.
The last gesture I would ever know
from him
it broke my heart
and still does.
His oldest son, my Dad, has survived to live much longer
At the dinner table I say,
"Tell me about Grandad"
"He went around to the bars
In Milwaukie and as far as Sellwood
Selling his father's cheese. Grandpa made
Cheese in his basement."
I wonder what that cheese tasted like,
and what my Grandad looked like in 1910,
A kid of 12
Driving a horse cart around town
They wrapped cheese in cloth then
I wish I could have been there.
What a trick of fate that life does not let
the children know the elders
except in memory and story
Grandad, this is your story,
Us sitting in the pancake house
I'm telling you about college.
You are telling me about the railroad,
The Southern Pacific, because I asked.
What a fine man you are,
able to drive horse carts and fix
trains.
My grandfather, Louis, he's been gone
38 years ago this month
Tall and quiet, his angular face lined and serious
I still wonder if
he would be less serious
had his life been different.
Last time I saw him he bought me pancakes,
at his regular breakfast place.
"A short stack," always the same order.
Later, saying goodbye
Grama told him,
"Louie, give her some dollars."
(She called him Louie and gave him orders)
He fished in his pockets and
handed me four dollars in earnest
I had to take them, guiltily
Being a grandchild even at 19.
The last gesture I would ever know
from him
it broke my heart
and still does.
His oldest son, my Dad, has survived to live much longer
At the dinner table I say,
"Tell me about Grandad"
"He went around to the bars
In Milwaukie and as far as Sellwood
Selling his father's cheese. Grandpa made
Cheese in his basement."
I wonder what that cheese tasted like,
and what my Grandad looked like in 1910,
A kid of 12
Driving a horse cart around town
They wrapped cheese in cloth then
I wish I could have been there.
What a trick of fate that life does not let
the children know the elders
except in memory and story
Grandad, this is your story,
Us sitting in the pancake house
I'm telling you about college.
You are telling me about the railroad,
The Southern Pacific, because I asked.
What a fine man you are,
able to drive horse carts and fix
trains.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Passing Sugar Tree Road: A Valentine
I want to live on Sugar Tree Road,
even though it is only a green highway sign passed in a blur
from I-70, Missouri -
Before the thunderstorm that dumps
sudden waters from a featureless sky.
Lincoln campground, Illinois,
we pitch the small tent.
Eat 3 bean salad and deli meatloaf with
wine from styrofoam cups.
Fireflies zip through the trees between
our campground and the endless cornfields.
How dear the night, your certain breathing,
miles from home in this
wet mid-western air
Lightening flash in rhythm
with the fireflies like a show.
I've never been here, I've always been here,
You are my heart's home.
even though it is only a green highway sign passed in a blur
from I-70, Missouri -
Before the thunderstorm that dumps
sudden waters from a featureless sky.
Lincoln campground, Illinois,
we pitch the small tent.
Eat 3 bean salad and deli meatloaf with
wine from styrofoam cups.
Fireflies zip through the trees between
our campground and the endless cornfields.
How dear the night, your certain breathing,
miles from home in this
wet mid-western air
Lightening flash in rhythm
with the fireflies like a show.
I've never been here, I've always been here,
You are my heart's home.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Quinceanera Para Todas las Muchachas ~ una fantasia
The Mexican tradition of quinceanera is a little girl's dream. On or near a girl's 15th birthday she is given a party which includes a very fancy Cinderella dress, several handsome young male attendants who can dance plus a gala for all the relatives and friends. The party lasts for hours, giving the guests lots of time to offer recognition and applause.
A few days ago in Zehuatenejo I watched this kind of party from a restaurant next door. The D.J had turned the loud speakers up to '11' if you get my reference here to off the charts loud. I know this party was for a young woman named Stefani Vargas. It was an extravaganza held at a beach front restaurant which I figured must have cost over 2500.00 dollars U.S. Lucky Stefani, her parents had to be part of the upper middle class in Mexico.
After watching the dancing and adorations from a distance, I went up to the cashier desk and began a conversation with the young woman who was working there. In the course of our talk (her English was very good) I learned that her name was Isabel, and that she was going to school during the week, and working at the beach on the weekends. She was eager to practice her English, so I was bold and asked her if she had had a quinceanera. She shook her head with a sad little smile.
"My family could not afford it." Our eyes met. It opened a conversation about life. We talked about our childhoods, and we shared that neither of us got parties like this one.
Her deep brown eyes radiated positive and kind energy. She, of all girls, deserved to be celebrated. The unfairness of the world intruded into my beach day.
In my own childhood there were financial limitations, and of course a grand party on this order was never even in the cards. It is not a Germanic trait to spend money on frivolous parties, which last for a day and then are just a memory. It is not practical, especially when there are nine children who would all have to get one.
A few days later in the park in Mexico City my friend Liliana and I were just about to start our yoga practice together. She pointed to a group near us, some boys and one girl who were dancing. She told me "They are practicing for a quinceanera dance."
"Ah", I said, "Yes, I just saw this."
I asked her if she had one of those parties.
"No." she said, with a shy little tip of the head. " My family could not pay for it."
As I write, my thought tonight is this: if I were queen of the world, I would give a giant party for all the girls who never got a quinceanera. We would all wear whatever fantasy dress we wanted and there would be lots of handsome dancing men. We could have crowns, corsages, giant cakes each with our own names. We would dance for days, while every name was spoken, every woman given the greatest attention for a moment, even for one moment. Una fantasia - a fantasy, my fantasy.
In the small dusty town of Kapula, known for its pottery, a little girl about age 5 smiled at me while I sat in the sun waiting for my friends. She wore a shirt which read: 'I believe in Fairies'. I pointed to her shirt and read the words in Spanish, except I didn't know the word for 'fairy'. (It is 'hada'). She didn't know English, and seemed not the understand that I was telling her what her shirt said. Maybe that does not matter. Little girls must believe in things one cannot see, in other worlds and magic. How else can we exist in this messy place which, at best, minimizes the feminine, and at worst denigrates it?
So, tonight my fantasy is to lift all the women up, all the poor, all the vulnerable everywhere. You all have been invited to my fantasy party where we are princesses and queens, where we dance as the belle of the ball, where we smile our beautiful faces from our lovely selves, where we know we are special because we are women with the power to nurture life and the world.
Good night all sweet princesses who never got your shining party. You have been invited to my fantasy. It is yours too, amigas mias. In every step we take into the future, we can take it with the thought that we are royal, important, gorgeous and strong.
A few days ago in Zehuatenejo I watched this kind of party from a restaurant next door. The D.J had turned the loud speakers up to '11' if you get my reference here to off the charts loud. I know this party was for a young woman named Stefani Vargas. It was an extravaganza held at a beach front restaurant which I figured must have cost over 2500.00 dollars U.S. Lucky Stefani, her parents had to be part of the upper middle class in Mexico.
After watching the dancing and adorations from a distance, I went up to the cashier desk and began a conversation with the young woman who was working there. In the course of our talk (her English was very good) I learned that her name was Isabel, and that she was going to school during the week, and working at the beach on the weekends. She was eager to practice her English, so I was bold and asked her if she had had a quinceanera. She shook her head with a sad little smile.
"My family could not afford it." Our eyes met. It opened a conversation about life. We talked about our childhoods, and we shared that neither of us got parties like this one.
Her deep brown eyes radiated positive and kind energy. She, of all girls, deserved to be celebrated. The unfairness of the world intruded into my beach day.
In my own childhood there were financial limitations, and of course a grand party on this order was never even in the cards. It is not a Germanic trait to spend money on frivolous parties, which last for a day and then are just a memory. It is not practical, especially when there are nine children who would all have to get one.
A few days later in the park in Mexico City my friend Liliana and I were just about to start our yoga practice together. She pointed to a group near us, some boys and one girl who were dancing. She told me "They are practicing for a quinceanera dance."
"Ah", I said, "Yes, I just saw this."
I asked her if she had one of those parties.
"No." she said, with a shy little tip of the head. " My family could not pay for it."
As I write, my thought tonight is this: if I were queen of the world, I would give a giant party for all the girls who never got a quinceanera. We would all wear whatever fantasy dress we wanted and there would be lots of handsome dancing men. We could have crowns, corsages, giant cakes each with our own names. We would dance for days, while every name was spoken, every woman given the greatest attention for a moment, even for one moment. Una fantasia - a fantasy, my fantasy.
In the small dusty town of Kapula, known for its pottery, a little girl about age 5 smiled at me while I sat in the sun waiting for my friends. She wore a shirt which read: 'I believe in Fairies'. I pointed to her shirt and read the words in Spanish, except I didn't know the word for 'fairy'. (It is 'hada'). She didn't know English, and seemed not the understand that I was telling her what her shirt said. Maybe that does not matter. Little girls must believe in things one cannot see, in other worlds and magic. How else can we exist in this messy place which, at best, minimizes the feminine, and at worst denigrates it?
So, tonight my fantasy is to lift all the women up, all the poor, all the vulnerable everywhere. You all have been invited to my fantasy party where we are princesses and queens, where we dance as the belle of the ball, where we smile our beautiful faces from our lovely selves, where we know we are special because we are women with the power to nurture life and the world.
Good night all sweet princesses who never got your shining party. You have been invited to my fantasy. It is yours too, amigas mias. In every step we take into the future, we can take it with the thought that we are royal, important, gorgeous and strong.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Yellow Butterfly
Yellow butterfly, touching
touching down, rise, touch, rise,
over the hot sand.
This body I inhabit longs to follow
look closely into yellow wings for shapes like
conversation with a stranger
This body, she knows
if she follows you will be fast gone
and so
she sits, she waits with longing.
Night terrors, she lays, quiet and still
asking
Divine mother, the butterfly of the mind
flying cosmos flight for certain, to touch this mind reeling
She knows - I know you are there
We call out, llame', rock me, find me,
tell me I am all fine, just as I am.
Then the night comes to cover the mind in sweet sleep
and the dawn brings better thoughts
and yellow butterflies as bright as the clear sun.
touching down, rise, touch, rise,
over the hot sand.
This body I inhabit longs to follow
look closely into yellow wings for shapes like
conversation with a stranger
This body, she knows
if she follows you will be fast gone
and so
she sits, she waits with longing.
Night terrors, she lays, quiet and still
asking
Divine mother, the butterfly of the mind
flying cosmos flight for certain, to touch this mind reeling
She knows - I know you are there
We call out, llame', rock me, find me,
tell me I am all fine, just as I am.
Then the night comes to cover the mind in sweet sleep
and the dawn brings better thoughts
and yellow butterflies as bright as the clear sun.
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