Güd wrtr

Nov. 9
(for Dickie)

You will think this overly
sentimental, but I miss being
able to stand at the huge
window at the gate where
the gigantic jet has just
pulled up, and,

as person after person
emerges from the jetway,
I search for your head,
the still-there hair I trim
every six weeks or so,
your smile, your eyes
looking for me.

And even though we
are too old and practical
for a running, rom-com
embrace, I know, if I were
still allowed to be there,
watching you return,

that my heart would
gather speed down its
own runway, find the
sweet spot where wheels
lift off into mere air,

taking flight, soaring,
even after all these years,
happy to be in your
airspace once again.

Nov. 8

Tuesdays I rise early for me, pull on
tennies and my Run to Feed the Hungry
T-shirt, and head over to Marilyn’s in River Park
to work out to the oldies, with the oldies,
of whom I am now one.

Shelley brings her turquoise mini speaker
and through the magic of Bluetooth
and iPhone plays upbeat songs
as she works us out on the lawn,
standing or sitting on folding chairs,
singing along now and then.

After a month of Tuesdays I learn
that she’s a professional jazz singer
and vocal coach, not to mention
a slender, upbeat, you-can-do-it
workout queen.

So when Shelley sings with Annie,
Sweet dreams are made of these,
she matches Ms. Lennox’s key,
as we all swing our hips, stretch
our stiff parts, practice tree pose
under a leafy canopy burnished
scarlet and bronze, soon to loosen
and fall—

we oldies a rainbow of autumn colors,
women of hidden depths, far more
than we appear, as each new song begins,
as we walk in place, hoist hand weights,
raising our voices when the chorus comes,

Shake it up, baby (shake it up, baby)
Twist and shout (twist and shout)
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, baby, now
Come on and work it on out.…

Nov. 7

I tuck myself in the car with tea and water,
head east 27.6 miles to Mom’s house
nestled beside a state park and a fine lake,
pick her up between 11 a.m. and noon,
drive her to the acupuncturist, then I
walk the park across the street, circling
five times around the playing field—
once an oak-filled corner on the way
to our elementary school—then she
settles back in the car with directions to
the jeweler, then to her new workout
place with dozens of ginormous machines
and buffed patrons (now that her Curves
has closed),

then to lunch at one of her favorites,
where the peppy server greets her
by name—“Hi, Dorothy!”—and brings
her a glass of sparkling wine, then to
the chiropractor for a quick tune-up,
then, when necessary, to CVS for staples—
Moscato, pistachios, cashews, a birthday card—
then home to take up hiking poles and
slowly walk around the block as the
November day darkens early and drops
at long last begin to spit from the sky,

where, in the long months without rain,
I drag the backyard hose to the potted
plants she forgets to water, the ones
my sister and I tidy up on the patio
around Mother’s Day, the ones sitting
in a cluster with a Chinese fu dog,
a small thunderbird totem that our father
put on wheels, a metal peacock in her
favorite blues and greens, not to mention
a couple of flashy spinny things that
catch the breeze and twirl,

as I stand, hose in hand, looking
at the sloping yard our father cleared
of weeds a lifetime ago, planted grass,
installed a couple of rope swings
on old oaks for city girls who
complained about the lack of sidewalks
for roller skating and bike riding,
sisters who took years—decades, really—
to appreciate the gift of a lake and
oak-strewn paths to wander, to be
grateful for this place, these people—
one of them still here in spirit—
who made us a home.

Nov. 6
(Daylight Saving Time ends)

Like the ride that takes you into the tunnel,
soundless but for water displaced by your small boat,
breath, heartbeat, and if you are lucky,

there’s a hand close by that might take yours,
a reassuring palm press, a reminder
that this is not just a time to be endured

but savored, that the darkness—hello, old friend—
holds you differently but holds you nonetheless
you and your tiny boat, floating, moving

slowly toward the inevitable light.

The way is not in the sky.
The way is in the heart.

—The Buddha

But we look there for it, don’t we?
Necks craned to watch the migrating
geese in their zipper formation,
taking note of how blue the blue is,
the clouds balloon fluffy or scudding
streaks. As we rake the backyard,
we look up at the stately sycamore,
its leaves brittle but not yet fallen,
knowing they won’t all journey
groundward till January, though,
with luck and rain, maybe sooner.

We forget to pause, lean the rake
on the trunk of that venerable elder,
place a hand to chest, to rough bark,
feel life pulsing within. If we close
our eyes, take a deep breath, and another,
and another, the way appears,
the ka-thump of reassurance
that this is how we practice love,
through stillness.

We turn our careful attention
to this simple moment, as we reach
again for the rake, hear the geese
calling overhead, feel the connection
to these leaves, so glorious in spring,
so graceful in death.

Nov. 4

I pull on my comfy fleece,
encase my feet in tennies, even if
I’ll be inside all day, because leading
a writing facilitators’ training amounts
to a five-day marathon spread over
two weekends, and no matter how
many times I’ve done this, it takes
every brain cell to keep track of
so many moving parts.

Yet I do it with great joy, with
the help of fine colleagues who
believe, like the method’s founder,
that a writer is someone who writes,
that everyone has a voice worthy
of the page, that these new facilitators
will encourage others to push newborn
words from memory or imagination
out of sticky minds, let them breathe
fresh air, squall a bit, look around
and begin to live.

It’s intense, rewarding work,
encouraging others to write their art out,
to have faith that the words are always
there if you just loosen the lasso, let
letters and syllables spiral down the
arm to fingers poised over keys
or page, take a deep breath,
and let those youngsters run free.

(*from Pat Schneider, Writing Alone and With Others, Oxford University Press, from the five essential affirmations of the Amherst Writers & Artists method)

For Erma Bombeck, 1927–1996

And today I’m thinking of Erma,
the humor columnist from Dayton who,
typing from her kitchen starting in the 1950s,
elevated the role of the humble housewife,
who composed, she said, on a typewriter
that wrote funny, and who, on her funny
typewriter, wrote back to me—
a journalism major in the late ’70s.

And though she must have been swamped
with column and books, fan mail and family,
she answered my questions for a class
assignment, her humor bouncing off
the IBM Selectric’d pages about her
first big story for the Dayton Herald—
interviewing Shirley Temple in 1944.

And when I asked for advice, she urged
me to get used to rejection and failure
and even getting fired because how
you handle the rough stuff is what
determines your success as a writer.

And meet every deadline, she wrote,
even if you have to stay up all night.
And always write to fit the space you’re
given so some harried editor doesn’t
trim your best stuff.

And keep writing, even if you think
you don’t have to, she said, even someday
when you have to clean your own toilets.
I promise it’s worth it.

Nov. 2, All Souls Day

On the second day of Día de Muertos
I read that there really is a cookbook for the dead,
written, appropriately, by a Guadalajaran woman,

and immediately I want to buy it for you,
which is nuts, because you’ve been gone over
a year now, you who had the best cookbook

collection of anyone I know, a four-shelf
bookcase in the dining room, just around the corner
from the kitchen, where you could easily step

to retrieve a favorite. I, your cooking-impaired
BFF, now wish I had one of the books off
that shelf, remembering that one of your last

life lessons for me, as you lay within weeks
of the end, was dragging yourself up from
the sofa as we watched a cooking show,

you incredulous that I didn’t know what
it means to zest. Around the wall from
the bookcase, you retrieved three zesters

and a lemon grown on a tree in a pot
on your deck, and showed me how,
you leaning on the counter, me hovering.

How I’d love to transform that bookcase
into an ofrenda, an altar wearing marigolds
and a candle, offering hot cocoa dulce,

frijoles de olla—simple beans in a pot—
and a decorated sugar skull not
for eating—you’d chip a tooth—

and certainly something into which I’d
zested a lemon, trying to guess what
foods might lure your soul back.

Gonna try to write (and post) a poem a day in November… drafty drafts, but the practice of writing them is good for the writer’s soul… or mine anyway.

With thanks to superb scenic photographer Joe Chan, whose images convey the just-right mood.

***

Yesterday we dressed up as someone else
for Halloween. Today we come back into ourselves

embodied as we summon our beloved
companion spirits, and though it’s predicted

to rain for the first time in months, we’re tempted
to find a cemetery, bring tequila infused with marigolds,

tamales and pan de muertos to the graves of those
we didn’t know in life, wish them well in the after,

imagine them as graceful sprites dancing in the drops
just beginning to fall, like the leaves, fluttering

and spinning their way down, whispering hush,
listen, remember.

Thanks so much, Margo Fowkes, for asking if I’d ever written an essay about writing as healing. (I’d written bits and pieces here and there, but not an extensive piece.) I offered to write one for you, and you—creator of the marvelous Salt Water website for those in grief—have published it.

I’m deeply grateful for that, and for Salt Water, where anyone who wants to write about loss and grief can submit work. You’ve done exactly what I talk about here—turning grief into art—beautifully and with great compassion for yourself and others. What a gift!