To Waiting

I've told this story a lot. How Chapman can wait forever. How he doesn't know what waiting is yet, so he'll hang loose enjoying the scenery wherever we are. Meanwhile I "wait for the bus."

Before I tell the story----again, I want to share one of my favorite poems. Until recently, I thought it was a serious and meaningful poem. I'm now hearing and feeling its humor and paradoxical tones. It is a funny one, or one that makes fun of us if only we would lighten up. If only we will. It's called To Waiting and it's written by W.S. Merwin.

Here it is.

To Waiting

You spend so much of your time
expecting to become
someone else
who will be different
someone to whom a moment
whatever moment it may be
at last has come
and who has been
met and transformed
into no longer being you
and so has forgotten you

meanwhile in your life
you hardly notice
the world around you
lights changing
sirens dying along the buildings
your eyes intent
on a sight you do not see yet
not yet there
as long as you
are only yourself

with whom as you
recall you were
never happy
to be left along for long

What do you think? Is waiting this way familiar to you? Can you remember not knowing what waiting is?

So here's the story:

Chapman loves the bus. He ogles and giggles, smiles and anticipates riding the bus. A sense of wonder takes over his face, and his body constricts and his chest might burst. He's imagining the bus, Oh the bus. I'm talking the RTA bus, the New Orleans' Public Bus System bus.

With the blessing of his parents, I got to take Chapman on his first bus ride about 5 months ago. We were on our way home from the Aquarium. I was driving Mary Ashley's SUV which sits high enough so that when a bus pulled up beside us on Magazine Street from the back seat Chapman was knee high to the bus passengers. He could actually see inside the bus. And he gestured, "Me, bus, on," as he does sometimes with vehicles he wants to sit or ride on. He'll point at the vehicle and then press his palm on his chest saying "Me, On." Your heart breaks and mends when he does this. If you can do it, you are hero or heroine, saving the day. If you can't, you feel the pain inside and try not to show it.

But I knew I could, when Beau and MA said "Sure". So we had a date, me and C-man, to ride the bus. Upon my arrival at his house, he was decked out in his bus-riding outfit running to the door, his hat, his batman sunglasses. MA gave me packets of WetOnes for his hands along the way, touching railings and all. Beau offered to drive us to the bus stop, but I didn't want to pass up the walk, holding Chapman's hand for five whole blocks. If it took us an hour to get to the stop, the better.

Our walk started steady, one-handed down his front steps. We were on our own once we left the gate, and I remember a wide sense of responsibility and awakeness come over me. He was in my care, and I felt trusted in a broader way than I've felt in a while, if ever.

Chapman looked at birds, pointed at hanging plants on neighbors' porches, shouted at big trucks, also known as Doo-doos (Chapman's word for trucks) that passed by as we walked. Each step was a step in the direction toward the bus. My mind started wondering about our timing. Would we wait for a bus for two minutes? Would we wait for ten or twenty? Would people stare at us as we waited? How long would we have to wait?

Hand in hand, we walked. Chapman's hand grasped mine for assurance; mine grasped his for the same reason. We were a pair of travelers, our legs and toes, our arms and hearts our rutter and sail. I remember feeling adrift; it had been a long time since I had walked to the bus stop, putting myself in the hands of a bus driver. Do you know anybody who rides the bus for fun? Or because they have to? I also remember feeling scared, no one would know us on the bus; no one knew us as we walked the blocks. Why that felt so scary I don't know.

So we reached the corner at State Street and Magazine and I picked Chapman up so that he could be closer to and under the yellow "Bus Stop" sign. He, wide-eyed, laughed with blue eyes glowing, his cheeks and his nose and his belly laughed too at the sign or at the marvel of everything (I can't say for sure what he was laughing at, but I'd like to think it was the marvel of everything, so I do.) We were "waiting" for the bus.

Only as I watched and noticed Chapman, he wasn't waiting for the bus the way I was. His inquiry into everything glowed. He was in my arms happy to be there, without waiting for anything. His moment in being glowed. Open, he waited for nothing, everything available and perfect. Seeing this in him I experienced it myself for split seconds; and then I'd poke my head out far into the street, looking for the bus. Waiting for the bus. Where's the bus?

One or two other people waited at the bus stop with us. They smiled at us; drivers passing by did too. I think others sensed Chapman's innocence and wonder; perhaps they intuited this was a fun bus ride, not a way of life. I don't know.

The bus, the bus, there's the bus, Chapman. We could both see it three or four blocks away. Its big window, high presence off the street, wide girth approaching. Again, Chapman's eyes widen, his giggles gurgle, his energy mounts; we can not believe our eyes! Approaching, it gets closer and closer and closer. And it's bigger and bigger and bigger as it moves toward us.

Its auditory presence could not be mistaken; its loudness, roaring tires and big engine noise awakened us further to its presence. The bus had arrived; we wouldn't be waiting anymore! The big doors divided and all of sudden, Chapman was standing on the bus, a whole new world. A driver, other passengers, purple seats (that held him bucketlike) that hold many sized people. Where were we going to sit was the first of many questions that occurred to me once we were on the bus. We had a marvelous ride and an incredible day that day, MA met us downtown and the three of us had lunch and walked around Jackson Square. It's a day I won't soon forget, and
obviously it's a story that I will build from as Chapman and Sadie, Beau and MA's children influence my life, and mine theirs.

How free I felt with this child, and yet, paradoxically, how responsible I had to be. More responsible and more aware and more conscious and awake than I normally am. With Chapman in my care, all of a sudden, I was waiting for nothing and there was nowhere to be but here where I am.

of a storm that blew us away & brought us together

a natural phenomenon, a conflict, a woman's name, a nine letter word, a conundrum, a warrior, a time period, a killer, a re-uniter, a one-in-a-million, katrina.

without doubt and with assurance she altered the course of many lives. very few we know. rich and poor, black and white, weak and strong separated us as she passed through the gulf of mexico, onto the shores of louisiana and mississippi. what kept us together was our lack of readiness, our innocence, our vulnerability, our common home.

who could be ready for her kind of reality? her kind of audacity? her personal attack?

within hours of her arrival, we were changed though and noticeably troubled. we experienced disorientation, whiplash. no one that i knew, no one that was near me during that storm had ever experienced the breadth, depth, or magnitude of her power. i doubt we will again.

all we really knew, beau and i as we played boggle and scrabble and read in our rooms at the holiday inn express was what was immediate and present. we relied on reports we overheard, resources not belonging to us, and telephone calls when we could get through. we became survivors. we speculated and tried on optimism when we got scared. we held on to each other a lot. i remember not wanting to be too far from beau.

for me katrina's impact seems to be an ongoing rite of passage. since she blew my house away, "all gone" says karen blixen as she watches her coffee farm burn down in the movie out of africa, i have been telling my story again and again and again and again. each time slightly differently but the basis is all gone. since katrina i have become more committed to discovery and married to mystery.

she didn't change my attitude about life at all. i don't think anything ever will. how else could life be but vulnerable, impermanent, infinite, tantalizing, demoralizing, awkward, fleeting, scrumptious, and deep?
but she did bring me to a place that i never imagined being: Asheville where seasons change and snow falls, where I walk more than I did because it's too beautiful not to; where I learn about growing zinnias each spring and summer; where I discover farmers at their markets that make the grocery store look archaic and backward.

Every day is a change away from how life was because Asheville, via Katrina, asks of me to be more grateful toward Mother Earth than I might have become in Pass Christian. I don't know. Here, too, I met this surprising and simple and singular man. Who makes me fruit relish and toast and hard-boiled eggs. Who shows me how. Who makes me angry and frustrated. Who hasn't given up.

I found out I am a good swimmer and don't have to wonder about that anymore. My Grandmothers give me reason to keep going, being beyond 90 and beyond their own abilities to understand life herself.

More since Katrina I've held Chapman and Sadie for the first time. I bought another house, one I don't adore as much as my first but that I do adore in an older, wiser way. And I have a more grown up relationship with my sister than I did five years ago. We get into it, we try harder, we speak our truths with more willingness and less fear.Since Katrina, my Dad and Marda visit each year; we eat dinner, maybe ice cream and we tell stories about our lives here and there. Since Katrina, hiking with Martyn in the mountains, sitting by a fire at their home in Cashiers, Mom and Martyn come close sometimes.Since Katrina, my friends are not all southerners or privileged or social.
Since Katrina, my way of life is not steady.

In essence, Katrina made me look and feel and see and think and let go and hold on---all at once! She shook me up, made me cry and had me lose because it's not a race. It's a life, and we're on a journey, and there is no map except for the faces and the places and spaces of this moment, the ever-present.


THERE WILL BE STARS

There will be stars over the place forever;
Though the house we loved
and the street we loved are lost,

Every time the earth circles her orbit
On the night the autumn equinox is crossed,
Two stars we knew,
poised on the peak of midnight
Will reach their zenith;
stillness will be deep;

There will be stars over the place forever,
There will be stars forever;
while we sleep.

SARA TEASDALE

coxcomb

dear friend, it is never enough to be anywhere. we are not satiated. we aren't meant to be. e v e r. do you think the universe stops wanting? wishing? living? dying? "tut tut," says its heart. you are meant to continyou.

we adore you. you adore you. you adore we. the house that dave lives in is the house that z lives in right now. does it matter that he built it? what isn't yours? what isn't you?

congratulations to waking work and play. you're living. what else could you be doing except dying and you're doing that too! Your youness teases me with deep affection. we need some time together.

It's an adventure. Miss you dear friend while simultaneously feeling you everywhere. Til soon, all my love and worship,

me

We love our strange beauty and amazing pain. We love our hungry soul and extraordinary games. We love our flaws, our gaps, our fears. We love our mysterious dazzling frontiers.

My friend writes,

Been spending an amazing time in a little town named Rico Colorado. It is a rustic little mining town with mainly dirt roads. A mix of run down shacks, and some really fine homes/buildings. We are staying here with friend of G's who has down well for himself by pure chance, he followed his passion for dodge power wagons. His name is D. and he is a really good guy, I like him. Was nervous to meet him, but it's all good now.

G. has some really good friends. People he trusts, people who are genuinely happy for him, people who know him and they tease each other with deep affection.

Here are some shots of his home:
I enrolled myself in a WD online course. It is $129. They recommend one lesson per week. I downloaded my first pdf of lesson #1, and as I read the glossary of terms, I began to weep.The initial phrase that got me was “Awakening: The lifelong process of realizing who you are in your totality and living your truth in whatever ways are natural for you. Awakening is the process of maturing into your own full expression as a divinely human creature. ”

I want to live my truth! And feel I am not living my truth So much, So badly, so SO SOOOOOO aaaaarg!!!!! je suis one passionate bump on the log who occasionally jumps off because it rains and the tide picks me up...
I do believe I will get my money's worth. I am putting my heart into it and am looking forward to m un-windings.

I went to Facebook, and was cruising around. I went to your page, I saw 56 profile pix..wow! I looked at this one,
and began to weep. Weep for you because I love you, I love exactly how you are in the world, the curve of your cheek, your athletic way, your laugh, your style, your sadness and your joy. And why is seeded watermelons so hard to find?

What am I gonna do with my life ("exactly what I'm doing" well, that doesn't help (why do you need help) it feels like I need help, the occasional arising tension in my belly tells me so. I AM the princess with a pea.

I love you, my wonderful dear sweet human friend passionate and giggly T!!!


Your Z girl in Colorado.

boxes inside boxes

Russian dolls, those little dolls within dolls fascinate our imagination. The big doll is the momma of the next doll and the next one and the next one. Like her, I am the daughter of the daughter of the daughter of a woman I don't know at all. Sons are the babies to the fathers who were once sons, babies who had fathers who were born babies.

Stories are stories within stories within stories; and no character was born in a vacuum. We do not live our own lives. We are always taking care of our historical mothers and fathers, having fights with siblings we don't even know. Enjoying the manna of a world more mysterious than the pictures outside our windows.

Literature is a source of inspiration and reflection for people. My friends are those who love a good story. Who doesn't love a good story?

Reading allows us to make sense and unsense of our lives. We do this well: making sense or making unsense of that sense. We identify with the lives of fictional characters. Sometimes their intelligence or wisdom guide us. Sometimes we are awed by the authors who write these stories. All of it is part of why we read.

Who are we not to wonder about our lives and making sense of them? What else are we supposed to do?
Paul Harding won a Pulitzer Prize for his first novel last year. Tinkers enlightens and entertains in equal measure. It's a short book so I read only five or ten pages before bed each night, without fail, to make it last. I am nudged forward by George's imminent death, 8 days away, as the story begins. He processes his life, making final connections between himself and his father before he steps into eternity. Both tinkers, these men sell the miscellaneous and the precious, thread, twine, tobacco to men and women before our time. We don't have their lives, but George and Howard, son and father, are as knowable as our own families since their story is not only theirs.

I'm finding gems like this: O, Senator, drop your trousers! Loosen your cravat! Eschew your spats and step into that shallow, teeming world of mayflies and dragonflies and frogs' eyes staring eye-to-eye with your own, and the silty bottom. Cease your filibuster against the world God gave you.

Have you ever noticed yourself engineering a filibuster against the world? Or thinking that you must stop the filibuster someone else has against the world?

Reading an interview of Harding, I fell harder for the novel because he admires Emerson, Whitman, Melville. If you know me, you know how I swoon at their mention. (Who does that for you? Who has you swoon and wonder and buzz?)

Intensity and honesty are two requirements for literature (and people) for me. Highlighting was necessary here:

The distance between Howard and his house lengthened and, as it did, segregated him from his life as if it were time. The smell of the wood oil and kerosene from the wagon made him think of the rooms and stairways he already knew he would never enter again and he realized that what he sat upon, the swaying cart full of products for cleaning, scrubbing, patching, organizing, maintaining domestic life, was a house. I am perched on a house, he thought. He thought, God let us perceive that there is nothing better than that a man should rejoice in his own work. God hear me weep because I let myself think all is well if I am fully stocked with both colors of shoe shine and beeswax for the wooden tables, sea sponge and steel wool for dirty dishes. God hear me weep as I fill out receipts for tin buckets, and slip hooch into coat pockets for cash, and tell people about my whip-smart sons and beautiful daughters. God know my shame as I push my mule to exhaustion, even after the moon and Venus have risen to preside over the owls and mice, because I am not going back to my family---my wife, my children---because my wife's silence is not the forbearance of decent, stern people who fear You; it is the quiet of outrage, of bitterness. It is the quiet of biding time. God forgive me. I am leaving. *from Paul Harding's Tinkers

Mesmorizing is the way Harding collapses boundaries between time and space. Readers are tempted by the way these lives mirror our own. What happened when and how does it influence us? My great, great, great grandfather, who was he? A man as parched by his marriage as Howard? Probably not, but I love the idea that I am living parts of his life that influence me in ways I cannot know. His mysterious hand tinkers in my life, and ah yes, this is life and I give up eschewing and filibustering against it.

Thank you Paul Harding.

eec kiss

e.e. cummings always gives more than he asks from the reader of his poetry.

13

being to timelessness as it's to time,
love did no more begin than love will end;
where nothing is to breathe to stroll to swim
love is the air the ocean and the land

(do lovers suffer?all divinities
proudly descending put on deathful flesh:
are lovers glad?only their smallest joy's
a universe emerging from a wish)

love is the voice under all silences,
the hope which has no opposite in fear;
the strength so strong mere force is feebleness;
the truth more first than sun more last than star

---do lovers love?why then to heaven with hell.
Whatever sages say and fools,all's well



from 11

yours is the light by which my spirit's born:
yours is the darkness of my soul's return
---you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars

great expectations

spring is over, summer is here, and the tomatoes that others planted are ripe and ready. i hear that the asheville farmer's market sells a box of hybrid tomatoes for $7. how is that possible?
somehow it is possible and over the fourth of july weekend, i got to share one with reeves. yum, melt in my mouth, and a bit of nutritional yeast on it or brown rice vinegar. try it, you'll enjoy it on things you might not think to put it on, but please try it.

reeves' two community farmers shared with him lots of cucumber, and two kinds of squash:
i made some slaw with the squash and the vinegar (+ other ingredients) , and reeves ate a chicken that someone else made (with seasoning that made the house and scootie's nose notice).
we have great expectations of ourselves and our vegetables and mostly they come out great, though mostly there's something wrong, too. we can always find that there's something wrong.

but these great expectations keep turning out, and by golly, it's already the second half of the year and i know there's something wrong and maybe what's wrong is that i can't include what's wrong in what's right. except maybe.

maybe i have the perfect mix of right and wrong just like you! you who....thanks for reading!