Transitions

Transitions

This is me in 1995 when I first went to work at the Indiana Daily Student and newly back from my three month adventure in Scotland. I was 50 years old. It has been quite a journey, with a lot of positive forward movement and a lot of bumps and losses along the way.

I got that job at the IDS when I needed employment desperately. I found a home there with my co-workers who became dear friends, and the hundreds of students I worked with during that time. We survived the sudden death of our boss and kept cranking those papers out. I think he would have been proud. During those 17 years there was a second marriage, a second divorce, 911, breast cancer, my son achieved his dream of becoming a fireman, joined a writing community that brought amazing people into my life, the gift of going into the Monroe County Jail and holding a writing circle for the female inmates, the coming together of five friends who meet monthly to figure out how to be our best selves, a poetry discussion group established and thriving, a yearly retreat to Brown County where four of my dearest friends and I gather to tell our stories, the reacquaitance with some family members who have become very dear to me,  a reconnection with friends from school days, the loss of my brother, dad, mother and sister-in-law in a span of less than a year, and preparation for retirement.

It took a village for me to get here.  And what a village it was!  I’ve had the support of my son, who is always steady and calm, my childhood friend Sharon who has seen me through all of my journeys, a reconnection of another childhood friend, Terri, who welcomed me into to her home through my father’s long illness and passing, my long-time friends Barbara and Merry who have always been there for me with unconditional love, Vivian and Barbara who opened their homes to me for five months so that I could save money and retire debt free, my cousin Diana and her husband Jay who asked me to move in with them, making retirement affordable for me, my cousins Deb, Rich, Shane, Shell, Carson, Brian and Kevin who gave me a family again, Beth  Lodge-Rigal and Women Writing for (a) Change who kept me writing and gave me the wonderful gift of the presumption of goodwill and all the gifts that writing community has brought to my life, my friend Jackie who helped me found Poetry Detectives and has a wicked sense of humor, every amazing woman I’ve met through WWf(a)C , I treasure each and every one of you.  I hope I haven’t left any one out.  You are all precious to me and have helped me get to this wonderful time of my life. Retirement. I started working when I was 13 years old. I’m over it. I’m ready for the next adventure. These last 11 months have been all about me, something I’m not used to. Now it’s time to turn things outward again. It’s time for me to repay and pay it forward. And not stop with 26 acts of kindness. Time for lucky me to give back to the universe.

Rebekah for the Poplar Grove Muse

Be the Light

Be kind, for everyone you meet is carrying a great burden.

–Attributed to Philo

I came upon this attributed quote in Kayak Morning, Roger Rosenblatt’s second memoir of grief upon the sudden death of his beloved only daughter. (His first memoir, Making Toast, explores his grief and the mixed joys of stepping in with his wife to help raise their three motherless grandchildren.)

Philo reminds us how fragile we all are, all the time.

We are entering the darkest days of our calendar, as well as the season of several festivals of light and hope. The interplay of light and darkness at this time of year is always compelling, serving as a potent metaphor for the mix of joy and sadness, gifts and burdens, that life inevitably brings.

I have never felt the shared burdens of so many people in my life as acutely as I do this year. Dear friends facing disease, their own or that of close family members, pacing themselves with great courage and equal difficulty through treatments that bring their own terrible afflictions and uncertain outcomes. Acquaintances fighting visa issues that have shadowed their lives for years, and now finally bring them to face the starkest possibilities. The waters seem to be rising for friends who daily tread against the deep currents of depression and loneliness. Almost everyone my age is making some arduous trip to spend the holidays with failing parents, hoping to do what they can to ease day-to-day living while hedging against the ravages to come. And, as if these trials weren’t enough, our nation reels and mourns at yet another mass shooting in a school, this time of the very youngest schoolchildren and their teachers, who displayed unimaginable courage and resilience in the face of unimaginable horror.

Reading this quotation, and observing the folks around me,  I am struck anew by how difficult, even impossible, the daily carrying of these burdens, much less into a season of celebration, can be.  While this interplay of light and dark has usually, for me, encouraged the perspective of light penetrating gloom (think The Little Match Girl and her impossibly upbeat appreciation for the light shining from warm family homes and from her few brief matches), for those living in deep shadow, the light may not penetrate at all, or may seem to shine an ironic, elusive spotlight on darkness.

And so back to the wise and simple words of Philo: Be kind.

Bring light.

When you think you cannot bear any more of your own darkness, try to lighten the burden of someone around you.

My current practice is to attempt to be present to the beloved friends and family members who need it, whether they know it or not, whether they are able to ask for it or not. To break out of my daily routine and invite a friend who needs a break to a matinee, and afterward, to stand in the parking lot as long as possible, laughing and crying by turns. To celebrate my friends in small ways; call someone I have fallen out of touch with; make eye contact with passersby in a way I usually don’t while walking; tell someone who doesn’t know I am aware of their existence that I appreciate the way they do their job all year.

Be kind. Bring light. Presume good will.

Mary for the Poplar Grove Muse

I am G

I am G

I sit in my garden, touched by the soft morning light.  My arms rest comfortably on my knees and my curved back is tucked into a prickly bush.  The thorny barbs do not worry my tough stony hide and I am content to survey my kingdom from this vantage point. My gray-pebbled skin has a blue-green cast that ripples and bulges into deep muscles and graceful lines. I am the gargoyle G, I am small for my kind but not the smallest of my brethren.  I am the guardian here and watch over my garden and all who live here. Some say I have a melancholy expression. I think it is my downcast eyes, but I am not melancholy, just watchful.  My ears, always alert, are tuned to the cadence around me and they never mistake the garbled language of the earth dwellers with the thrumming voices of the nectar seekers.

 

My garden sets like the centerpiece of a crown, fitting snugly into the setting of swaying bowers that tower above me. Penetrating shards of light dart through the emerald canopy, showcasing the jewels below. Purples and pinks careen with reds and yellows. Some hug tightly to the earth, needing to be securely nestled to its bosom. While others throw caution to the wind, sending capricious buds soaring into the sky. The stone paths attempt to contain the rioting shoots, but fail. The leafy stalks spill over, eager to offer their jewel-flavored blossoms.  I can hear their whispered siren songs calling to the winged ones. The preening blooms compete in a beauty pageant. They are eager to begin their reign as the most beguiling, most enticing, most sought after.

Like living petals the butterflies dance across the garden. Vivid counterpoints, they offer iridescent oranges and blues to the palette. Moving freely among the waiting blossoms they make their selections. Sampling those with the sweetest song before flitting to the next.  Engrossed in their mission the bees search each blossom efficiently; the striped, lumbering bumblebee’s rumble mixing with the honeybee’s soprano tones.

 

I feel the fast beating hearts of the feathered winged ones. They are brilliant rockets that zoom through the garden. Always rushing, always on urgent business. When they finally find their perch, they stridently share their story, determined someone must listen to their tale. Theirs is a complicated language full of drama and pathos.

Marching in regimented lines the tiny ones hurry across the stones. Laden with their bounty they slip into the crevices, finding the entrance to the sprawling city bustling below my splayed feet. In silent communication, they sing of the trail to treasures.  Their song vibrates in the ground and is heard as one voice.   

The darkness stills my garden but it does not sleep. The night dwellers feel safe shrouded in shadows. They come… and I watch.

                                           I am G, I am the Guardian.

Diana and G, for the Poplar Grove Muse

I dress every morning in my dead dad's sweater.

After dad died, mom asked every offspring, and there are seven of us, to take anything of our father's. Her heart was in pieces and this made the parting with his things a tiny bit easier.

 I shook my head at the shelf of birthday and holiday gifts given by me that were never worn. All those Dad gifts left neatly folded and unused. He was always the hardest to buy for since he never expressed a need for much in this mortal life. Any material needs appeared as weaknesses in his manly world. There were scarves, gloves, sweater vests, slippers, socks, blah, blah, blah most with tags still in place. 

     I took a grey cotton, zippered, cabled cardigan. I had often seen him wear this comfy looking sweater. His casual home uniform sans tie was a plaid shirt, yellow sweater vest and this grey sweater that made his quickly disappearing, silver hair shine.  I wear this totem every morning and every night especially those evenings you get into pajamas extra early to just declare: "day is over, i"m doin' nothin' the rest of this day". It fits me perfectly.

     My dad was an ex-marine bird colonel, always physically fit, walking every day after the earliest mass, especially after his coronary incident. He was an exceedingly disciplined man. He drank no stimulants: coffee, tea, alcohol, or sugary soft drinks. He never ate between meals. He loved hot chocolate and ice cream, which became sherbet post-coronary bypass.  He wore a medium but really a 'small' fit his frame better, especially as the average guy got larger with our fast food culture. He sired several children over six feet including one daughter. None of us wore anything small. But the move from men sizes to my womanly frame made this sweater fit just right.

     I hope some of his discipline will ooze into me via cardigan osmosis. But other than immediately going thru an old yoga routine every morning, I have little of his 24/7 vigilance and overdrive ambition. He retired from two jobs, had three very different careers (family mortician, career military, finally business professor). Dad fought in two wars, published one book and had 7 children and one wife. He never watched TV, but for Notre Dame football. Instead, he worked hard on articles for his various military alumni units. He had received his PhD at night while teaching at various war colleges throughout the east coast and was often stationed at the Pentagon. Dad was always studying something.  If we could only live our lives his way, we would have been better people. We were all college educated at much personal sacrifice. Education was THE one true thing; " communists can't take that away from you. If it 's in your head, it will stay," he would chant.

    

     Much useful and useless knowledge is dementedly stuck in my head, but maybe with his silver sweater wrapped around me, Dad's remembered steadfastness will help me greet the day with a starving dog's appetite for meat and end it with a satisfied mothers' sigh for her perfectly peaceful sleeping child. It is said that ‘clothes make the man,’ perhaps his sweater will help his still dutiful daughter.

Carole for PGM

Nate of Las Vegas Part III

“Sir, Mr. Roger sir…, may I ask, before we turn for home…, what’s with these rules of non-visitation…. It really seems unethical….

Nate continued with eloquence,

“With all the news around town, around the world really, of the new construction…, surely you allow curious visitors get a taste of the place…. What’s the meaning of sharing the news when there is no reciprocity?   Surely, with your rank here, Roger, you do have the power to make and enforce decisions like this…, don’t you?”

Roger’s posture changed immediately.  He puffed up, becoming twice as large.   Nate hit his spot--power.  Roger had taken a hit.  His eyes opened wide.  Nate remained calm, and continued….

“I would think a man entrusted to guard this entire property would have the power to choose who could and could not visit the school.”

Roger stoutly defended.

“Listen…, Saturdays are our visiting days, and that is the time when guided tours are available.” 

Roger looked like he was going to shake a fist at us.

Nate leaned quickly into me, grinning, he knew something I didn’t.  I was enthralled and betwixt.  Captive in company with someone who argued persistently about something he didn’t really care about, just to engage.  I felt like I was being shown something behind the scenes of the human drama through Nate.  And, I wasn’t even sure if Nate’s story about the construction was true.   Then I wondered how Nate would have even known about the construction or the building.  Seeing as though he thought it was a castle a few minutes ago....  Or was he playing me too?  Maybe he knew I’d be a person willing to go see a castle, but less willing to go see a school. 

I followed Nate’s eyes.   He looked back to Roger and locked with his gaze, direct.  He purposely hung in the silence for a few extra moments before saying,

“Well, great, today is Saturday, so…, let’s go”

Roger’s irritation was beginning to break through.  I was certain he was either going to get angry and swing at us, or break down.  It also crossed my mind that he might call back-up security to escort us away.

“Look,” he said through clenched teeth, “the students are on break, and so are the guides, so there are no tours today…. I - am – the - only - one - here.”

There was a very long pause and no one moved.  I felt like we were playing chess.   I felt myself beginning to lose patience, as the three of us exchanged stares in the thick silence.  The center of my forehead was getting hot and I started to tap my foot.

“Do you two understand me?”

Roger spoke solid.

“I - am – the – only – one - here.”

I was getting ready to speak, when Nate cut in.

“Well, certainly then the school entrusts you with the power to allow two curious and distant travelers….”

I felt my head spin and my heart leap into my throat as a laugh.    Surprised at this expression, I tried to contain this by coughing and covering my mouth.   But my laugh spilled around the edges.  None of us could keep gesturing anymore.  Nate didn’t even finish his sentence before the three of us began to laugh in unison.  No one knew who was laughing at what or why.

 “Alright you two hop on, for the tour!”

Roger’s angry face turned to a smile and he whisked his arms toward the jeep.

I was amazed.  The vanishing of the power play caused me to step back before forward.  Nate swung open the door and offered me the front seat, and jumped in the back.  Roger went up front and started the jeep.

“So where are you two from?”

I took a breath in to tell the truth…, and Nate chimed in,

“Argentina.”

Roger either didn’t care, or believed us, and drove through the security gate up the hill towards the main entrance.   I looked back at Nate from the mirror on the window visor.  He was smiling into the sky with his head bobbing back and forth.  He floated there in the mirror like every day of his life was like this, a wandering mystery of chance happenings all folded into laughter.  I was unsure right then if he was really a person at all.  Maybe he was a figment of my imagination, or maybe the sun was getting to me.  I did only have a few hours of sleep; I am at a high desert altitude.  This is the Land of Enchantment, after all. I looked back through the mirror until he recognized I was staring at him and he puffed his cheeks out and waved.  I smiled back.

Roger parked the jeep in the turnaround in front of the main entrance and we jumped out.  He led us up the marble stairs, unlocked the cavernous doors and escorted us into the main lobby.   The interior was massive, cathedral ceilings with glass chandeliers, ornate bric-a-brac on ever surface.  Roger closed the door behind us and pointed to the dining hall.  He walked in front of us and opened the dining hall doors.  We stepped through into another room twice as large, with blown class chandeliers and a black and white checkered floor.  The dining hall was filled with fine sturdy medieval-looking tables.  Roger walked us around the room, chatting with Nate the entire time.  He led us out of the dining hall, across the main entrance and into the “historical collection room,” a place with floor-to-ceiling books and portraits of important men.

I tuned in and out to Roger and Nate’s specific chatter, I only took note of the quality of their interaction.  Nate decided to milk Roger for all he was worth, pelting him with question after question about specific historical details of the construction of the building, and Roger was delighted.  It was as if he’d been waiting for someone to ask him so many questions about this place, which he knew everything about.  They became very close, very fast.  It was starting to feel as if I was watching old friends chatting, walking arm in arm, room to room.  I lingered behind them for a while, and then scooted out an open door on the balcony to get some space.   I stared for long time into the desert.   I stood, taking slow breaths of dry pinion and heat.  What was I doing here?  How did I get here?

I thought about going with the flow, and accepting the gifts of the universe.  I looked into the mountains and asked what I was supposed to understand from this.

I heard the balcony door close with a creak.  Nate came up behind me, and put a hand on my shoulder.  I turned around to face him and squinted. He smiled and turned away from me to Roger,

“And my wife here …. she’s one who likes to linger in beauty.”

Nate turned from Roger to face me again, still smiling,

“Isn’t that right dear?”

End Part III
Allison Distler

Route 6

For most of my childhood Thanksgiving was a singular memory: a road trip from my home in Northeastern Ohio to my grandmother’s home in the Allegheny mountains of Eastern Pennsylvania.  The drive took us 8 long hours as we followed a two lane state highway that meandered in and around the mountains of the region, and the tiny towns that dotted the hillsides and valleys of Northeastern Pennsylvania. 

I curled up with my comic books and pillows in the back seat and my father drove over mostly dry roads up steep mountains, around hairpin turns, and through small towns. We did hit a snow storm now and then, and I watched as my parents silently worried as they hit icy mountain roads and went across bridges in the rain and sleet and snow of the nascent winter driving season. 

I came to know and love the towns along that road: Coudersport, Wellsboro, Towanda, Wyalusing, Wysox.  Each had its own quaint charm: a river, a town square, a plaque honoring a civil war hero, store front diners and craft stores, an entire store dedicated to selling Christmas decorations.  Each town, always decked out for the coming holidays with wreathes and garland, seemed like they had a special welcome for us as we had to slow the car to accommodate the sudden drop to a 35 mile an hour speed limit.

We rarely stopped except to get gas.  Delicious food, including my grandmother’s special recipe sugar cookies, were waiting at the end of the line, no need for anything until we got there. Of course we were all impatient too.  I am sure I said, “how much longer till we get there?” the requisite 100 times, after every stop light and lane change.

Somewhere in my young adulthood when trips to Grandmother’s house changed to trips to my Aunt’s (Grandma died in 1984), my parents began taking the new interstate that opened up just north of Route 6.  It shaved two hours off their driving time.  It was then I realized that the long slow meandering drive through the small towns of Pennsylvania was probably the best part about our annual Thanksgiving pilgrimage.  Oh, I loved seeing my family and eating all that great food, that was always important, but the getting there by that slow beautiful drive became a touchstone for me.

Thanksgiving reminds me of those times in my parent’s car, watching the towns go by, wondering what it was like to live in Laceyville, Pennsylvania next to the Susquehanna river.  I can still hear the sound of the car as it slowed to turn the corner. 

Of course, all the drives we take now are fast and efficient. There is no other way to get where we go, and of course I miss the slow road: the anticipation of what waited at the end, the intimacy of small towns even for strangers passing through, and the sites and sounds of other places and times.    I have promised myself that the next time I take route 6, I am definitely stopping to shop at the Christmas store and reading that Civil War marker, and maybe even stopping for pie at some town diner. I really hope it is all still there waiting for me.

Amy for the Poplar Grove Muse

Bridge

Bridge

For my Daughter on Her 22^nd Birthday

I stood on a bridge near Durham.  You, inside me, growing, and I so large, so hot, bent forward, elbows resting on cool stone.  In the middle of that span I realized my life would soon change. Looking down on the trickling Eno River, late summer of my 30^th year, I was soothed.  And the water knew. 

I imagined every river journey that had brought me there—every boundary water paddle, every float down the Connecticut, every ride along the banks of the Ohio, with fiddle tunes playing and some sense of destiny humming underneath all those waters.

We followed the Kanawah North to where you were raised on mountain music, and suburban slang, took you to the woods often and once, you might have been 7, on a bridge beside a waterfall, you ran ahead, then stopped short, tempted to dash beyond to where we couldn’t see you, but you turned, at some half-way point, suspended between everything in front of you, and everything you could not yet leave behind. 

Today, I think of you, 22, on the bridge you walk from there…to here…to there.  And wonder what hums underneath your passage this fine morning.  I was your bridge once, from one world to the next, but you’ve been crossing your own for as long as I can remember.  In tiny red shoes.  Stilettos, and suede.  Boots for the journey and for standing still.

Listen to the waters running beneath you my child.  Follow the flow that carries you.  Be grateful for your strong legs, your arms, your sense of direction. Look back  at the love that served you, and bridge it forward.

Little Red Shoes   Jess Allen    http://www.badcocksgallery.co.uk/

Poem by Beth Lodge-Rigal   11/6/12