This morning the sun was so bright, as it angled over the snow banks, it made them glisten--like they had been coated with a fine dusting of diamonds I wish I put this much attention into the rest of my day, but I'm trying. Today is Chip's birthday. He calls it an unremarkable one (no 5 or 0 involved), but there are no unremarkable birthdays with Chip, that is for sure! My wonderful sister-in-law said something to me this morning that resonates deeply with me. She said that trying to stay in the moment, really being mindful of what is happening right now, can be very tricky--scary, overwhelming, exhilarating, all of the above. Right now is a very spacious place and lots and lots can be going on at once--mentally, physically, every way. She is quite a sage, I believe, and I am glad to call her my friend. Perhaps this is some of the reason we don't stay in that moment easily. I do think the space is there if we look for it. What an interesting idea to think about. I am going to put some effort into focusing on all the myriad feelings that are present at any particular time. One of the exercises in the poetry workbook goes like this: think about some moment or some experience in your life. Run the tape of that moment in your head, then write down all the details you can rememer. Then, write down the rest of the details you think of after you've begun to write them down (writing them down always seems to stimulate more memory). Then you write a poem about it. Here is an example that will stop you in your tracks. Her ability to give you the details in just a few images is wonderful. We don't need a lot of words to get so much information. Think of the information we really have at our fingertips if we could just mine it!
try this:
The Tooth Fairy (Dorianne Laux)
They brushed a quarter with glue
and glitter, slipped in on bare
feet, and without waking me
painted rows of delicate gold
footprints on my sheets with a love
so quiet, I still can't hear it.
My mother must have been
a beauty then, sitting
at the kitchen table with him,
a warm breeze lifting her
embroidered curtains, waiting
for me to fall asleep.
It's harder to believe
the years that followed, the palms
curled into fists, a floor
of broken dishes, her chainsmoking
through long silences, him
punching holes in his walls.
I can still remember her print
dresses, his checkered Taxi, the day
I found her in the closet
with a paring knife, the night
he kicked my sister in the ribs.
He lives alone in Oregon now, dying
of a rare bone disease.
His face stippled gray, his ankles
clotted beneath wool socks.
She's a nurse on the graveyard shift,
Comes home mornings and calls me,
Drinks her dark beer and goes to bed.
And I still wonder how they did it, slipped
that quarter under my pillow, made those
perfect footprints...
Whenever I visit her, I ask again.
"I don't know," she says, rocking, closing
her eyes. "We were as surprised as you."
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