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.

 

 

Sage Advice

My mother-in-law is visiting for a few months to escape the late snows that are plaguing the Midwest. Her birthday is next week. She is going to be 92, but you’d never guess. Always ready for “an adventure,” she slides in and out of my sedan like butter. I can see arthritis has knarred her knuckles and one knee now bends in, making her walk hobbled. Not quite as fast as last year, she still cuts a path—cane and all. I’m glad she’s here. It’s hard adding another adult to your space, especially a parent. The first week took some adjustments, more to my attitude than my schedule.

In January I committed to coordinating a fundraiser for The Open Door, a women’s prison ministry and re-entry center, where I volunteer. Some days I feel like the sword thrower’s assistant, strapped spread eagle to a colored wheel being spun around. Thunk. Thunk. The knives whizz past my skin and hit the board. I try to smile, but feel like throwing up. In the evening, I stumble down from the stage to sharpen the blades and make my to-do list for tomorrow.

My office is upstairs, and I feel guilty sitting at the computer for hours or making a bazillion phone calls, leaving my guest. Her son’s at work, and I’m a poor excuse for a host, but she beams happy as long as there’s coffee in the pot. She likes to read and alternates this with The Days of Our Lives and doing her “stretches.”

Wednesday, I decided we needed to do something fun. After four quick call backs, we escaped to shop. After ninety minutes tottering the long aisles of JC Penney’s, we hit a bistro for soup and a sandwich. On the way home in the car, I brought up her obvious arthritis and mentioned she never complained. In my shallow mind, musty with fiftyish youth, I figured it didn't bother her since she never mentioned it. Her German, mater-of-fact comment broke the cartoon light bulb hanging above my heart. “No, why complain? No one wants to hear about that anyway, so why bother.”

I look at her humor and willingness to wait – to do whatever opportunity presents itself with a smile, and I wonder, if I start practicing now, can I be this gracious to my daughters at 90? We’ll see.

Winter Paradise

The north wind is wrestling with a warm front, as gray clouds jockey for position. The air is electrified with a cacophony of birds. Like the dissonant noise before a symphony, the musicians warm up. Winged sections flutter overhead. Dozens of sporadic flocks moving, migrating, chirping hello to their southern cousins as they hurry past, using their invisible GPS.

Across the river, the audience of one hundred foot pines and bare armed cypress stands and waits. A few have dressed in their early chartreuse buds of welcome for the traveling orchestra. The resident mockingbird sits silently on the fence, waiting for his cue. The cheep of the local cardinal couple announces their morning fly by. No seed in the feeder, they move on with a titter.  

For a moment the air stills with anticipation. The hawk conductor has spread his wings. He sores on the updraft. Slowly the music of spring begins to rise, wooing the blooms and chlorophyll. A fish jumps. The slap of tail to water creates a percussive ripple.

The north wind tickles the hair on my neck. A chill runs down my arm. I must leave the porch swing and my winter paradise to fill the dryer and make the beds. Snowbirds of the human variety are coming to call.

February Blues

It's amazing how a little company coming for a visit can create so much dirt. I see fingerprints and cat hair in places where, I'm sure it wasn't last week. I've washed sheets and blankets until the washer groaned. And who spilled that sticky mess in the refrigerator?

Okay, so what? Take a deep breath. If the weather has you stuck inside (or you're sick of cleaning house), and you can't take that refreshing walk, here's an exercise to turn those February "blues" pink.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_popout&v=yEH4Yum4nN4