Do you know what it feels like to be suddenly caught in a moment where you are no longer participating in what is going on around you, but observing every detail and recognizing that this is a perfect moment, that things could not be any better than they are right now? Well, I had one of those moments last Sunday. Betsy, her sister, her parents, our old landlords and an old friend were having dinner in our old landlords' wonderful carriage house, and there it was. A moment of such joy that these incredible people were together laughing and talking and sharing as if they had not been separated by years, and years and years. We stumbled over our future landlords just before we were married. We had no idea that my room-mate had been born in their house, that they knew my dear friend Betsy from birth, that we would become life long friends of theirs and drink their wine for the next 23 years of our married life, etc, etc, etc, connection, connection, connection. Life is a wonderful thing when it gives us these moments even amidst painful backs, changing therapies, sore feet, evil demon teenagers, a dog with a tumor, aging parents, and perpetually green tomatoes. Time for some poems! The first from a poet I love about connections, and the kitchen table. The second is one from my workshop leader, Sandra Beasley. See what you think.
Perhaps the World Ends Here (Joy Harjo)The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table so it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite. CHERRY TOMATOES Little bastards of vine. Little demons by the pint. Red eggs that never hatch, just collapse and rot. When My mom told me to gather their grubby bodies into my skirt, I’d cry. You and your father, she’d chide – the way, each time I kicked and wailed against sailing, my dad shook his head, saidYou and your mother. Now, a city girl, I ease one loose from its siblings, from its clear plastic coffin, place it on my tongue. Just to try. The smooth surface resists, resists, and erupts in my mouth: seeds, juice, acid, blood of a perfect household. The way, when I finally went sailing, my stomach was rocked from inside out. Little boat, big sea. Handful of skinned sunsets. cheers to all! Lissa |
