Reality Check

The past few weeks have been a roller coaster ride. My emotions, like eggs rolling on the coaster car’s floor between my feet. I try to stop them, but they crack and ooze with a gooey reality check.

I’ve been on hormone replacement for years, and I was under a delusion my emotions were under control – that I was too old and therefore no longer at the mercies of this monthly ride. How foolish we humans are, so easily sucked into our fantasies of power and restraint. A tiny pill, half the size of a pencil eraser, one milligram, zapped my myth. Between our insurance provider insisting on a generic medication substitution or pay through-the-nose, and our drug store closing because of Obama insurance restructuring, I was left for a month without my milligram of hormonal sanity.

I didn’t care at first. It comes on slow. The coaster moves away from the platform and chugs up a scenic incline. "Oh, LOOK. How beautiful. Maybe I don’t need that pill anymoreeeeeeeeeeeh." I fall headlong into a tantrum. Expletives fly like egg bombs. As I round a bend into a black tunnel, tears streak my yolk covered face.

The doorbell rings. FedEx. My meds delivery – expedited.

Only a few more loops now, and I’ll be back to the platform. What was I thinking? One lie or another. That’s what fiction writers do best. 
 

striations

            the grain of wood
            a tree’s life measure
            jagged and stained
            knotted beauty
            cut and sanded

            pillar and post
            sound foundation
            pressed over time
            striations of strength
            weather the storms
        
         

Goal Cleaning

I’m doing some spring cleaning – spring of 2009 to be precise.

We had company last weekend, and I had to clean my office to make room for an air mattress. I couldn’t believe how much stuff has accumulated since we moved here nine years ago. For the health and well-being of our guests, I hurriedly rearranged one shelf in the closet to shove all the mess laying on the desk, chairs, and floor, and promised to come back.

A few days ago, I stood at the Closet of Truth. “I will never save junk again.” I lied, when we moved. On the top shelf there was an expensive broken camera. On the shelves below were floppy discs with no drive, used (but still good) manila folders, a laptop I haven’t fired up since we got our iPad, wires that don’t connect to a computer, TV, or telephone we currently own, and on the floor (my personal favorite) those two large boxes full of 20 year old photos that “need to be put into albums.”

Today I’ve tackled my file cabinet. You know those antiquated boxes that stack in the corner with drawers. Evidently, I started these when I didn’t have a clue how to file (or spell). It’s all interesting, sometimes just from the curious. What the hell was I thinking?

I came across a file from a workshop I attended in 2009. Besides half used notebooks and a plastic baggy with out-of-date conference news, I came across a list of career goals. We had been encouraged to write a list of one year goals and five year goals. Ouch – 2013. All the things I was going to achieve. Humm, maybe I should have revisited these sooner –worked a little harder.

No, I am not going to share. Actually these look pretty good. No need to waste paper, I’ll just change the date and file it under 2018.

One of Those Days

Last weekend, I went on a two day road trip with three friends from the Bayou Writers’ Group in Lake Charles. We had the privilege to attend the Jambalaya Writers’ Conference hosted by the Terrebonne Parish Library in Houma, Louisiana. It’s a terrific small conference year after year, where they treat participants well for a great price. This year’s keynote speaker was Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried, and he didn’t disappoint. Listeners were treated to personal antidotes where Mr. O'Brien demonstrated his storytelling style of writing.

Several agents and editors from New York attended, and I wanted to take advantage of the one-on-one book pitch sessions being offered. From experience I knew these 10 minute appointments went fast, and I needed to sign up early. Not a good self-promoter, I usually shoot myself (or wished I had) during the interview process, so I rose that morning to meditate and prepare in my room.

I walked the short distance from the hotel to the library where the conference is held, thinking I had arrived in plenty of time. The woman at the table informed me, “There are only two editors left with times available.” I perused the names and asked about my editor of choice, Monique Patterson. The helper with the clipboard checked the schedules confident that Monica was already booked. To her surprise and my glee the name on the first slot had been scratched threw, not once, but twice, leaving it open for me. My confidence in prayer sored, as I returned to the hotel to meet my friends.

They were sitting in the lobby, where I discovered one of my writer companions had awoke having health issues that necessitated a wheelchair, or she wouldn’t be able to attend the conference. Being a Methodist, I had noticed a United Methodist church across the street from the library and hotel. The concierge called the number, but no one answered. Of course it was Saturday, I thought, listening to the machine. However, the pastor left his cell number.

Boldly, I called and identified myself (like he’d know me), explained our problem in one sentence, and asked if the church had a wheelchair they might loan us for the day. He immediately said, “Can you come right now?” He was on site, preparing for a funeral.

We shuffled to our waiting SUV and drove across the street. Pastor Don Ross, wearing his blue suit and tie, met us at the front door, wheeled the chair down the walk, and helped us load it. We exchanged a few pleasantries with simple return instructions and waved good-by. In ten minutes we were at the conference, on time with a rolling front row seat.

Listening to the morning greeting, I knew the interview would go fine. Calm and professional, I met the challenge and my fears with confidence—someone smarter than me was in charge.

I Haiku – Do You?

Haiku – a three line poem consisting of 17 syllables, 5 in the first line, 7 in the second, and 5 in the last line. This simple Japanese art form was first created in seventeenth century by a humble teacher named Basho. The purest form of this ancient poetry creates a snap-shot of nature. 

Like delicate flowers,

     Haiku appears simple – mundane.

Truth is its nectar. 

 

Daisies wilt and fade.

    Poetry preserves the mind,

Time in its blooming.

 

To get a real feel for excellent Haiku read some Basho http://oaks.nvg.org/basho.html, but remember in English the Japanese doesn’t always have the 5,7,5 syllable translation.  

Master Basho Haiku

old dark sleepy pool…

    quick unexpected frog

Goes plop! Watersplash! 

Now try it yourself and slip one in your pocket www.poets.org. You never know when you might need a poem to share.

Baldauf Haiku 

Chrysanthemums paint

       a color pallet for spring.

Brushstrokes for the eyes.

Poetry in Your Pocket

April is National Poetry Month, according to the Academy of American Poets, and they’d like us to celebrate by carrying a “Poem in Your Pocket.” It’s a fun idea to energize a flagging spirit. You find a cherished poem from childhood or write one yourself, keep it in your pocket or purse, and gift it to someone. If you’re a teacher, it’s suggested you make class more exciting in April by giving extra credit if someone can produce a poem from their pocket. http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/406

I took a Leisure Learning class at McNeese State University in February. Our lovely instructor, Connie McDonald, inspired us with her enthusiasm and knowledge, dragging our winter weary minds into spring with some fun poetry exercises. My middle-aged mind hesitated at first, then grabbed the rope and took a step. Swinging out over the river of imagination, I let go and enjoyed the metaphor and mechanism that poetry embraces. When our four weeks were over, I wished it could have been a few nights longer.

For the next few months, I’m committing to blog about different types of poetry and encourage you to carry in your pocket that Shell Silverstein poem you read your kids a million times, or the Langston Hughes or E. B. Browning poem that gave you goose-bumps the first time you heard it. http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets.html  When you see a long face at the grocery store, or that special person at work who makes you laugh, gift them with a poem. Let’s celebrate. Happy Easter.

       The Swing                                                             

       by Robert Louis Stevenson

How do you like to go up in a swing,

    Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
    Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,

    Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
    Over the countryside—

Till I look down on the garden green
     Down on the roof so brown
Up in the air I go flying again,
     Up in the air and down!

Athletic Indifference

I don’t like to exercise. I’m not an athlete. Competition makes me nervous. If you want to be first and win, I’ll gladly step aside. The concept of sweating for pleasure is foreign to me. I’d rather sit and read, exercising the muscle between my ears. But recently an ugly truth has surfaced in my miry brain—if you don’t step up and play some games, you run the risk of becoming a pawn.

My weight, like most Americans, has increased with my age. In the past two years, I cringe to admit, I’ve started taking prescriptions to battle the side effects of obesity. Of course the doctor never says lose weight, he just hands me another script.

I was teasing our daughter the other day about being an exercise fanatic, and she reminded me she’s an athlete, training for a triathlon. This got me to thinking; I’m in training for a stroke. My mouth keeps saying I’m going to lose weight, but that muscle between my ears lies. Sitting there in the dark, it’s only fooling me.

So—enlighten, what do I do? “Run the race with perseverance,” is the Apostle Paul’s encouragement to disciples. Disciple being the root of discipline, I’m lacking. Not being an athlete, I never quite grasped that running metaphor in the past. Maybe because I didn’t want to lay down my idol worship of food and join the race.

Hum…, I need to keep my eyes on the prize and sweat a little more.