shifting perspective

From my podcast on the way to work this morning:

"We're only as great as our ability to negotiate and take advantage of our limitations. . . so I've decided my limitations are not only okay, but they're an incredible opportunity to think about what it is I can do with what I have."

intellect and imagination

There's a song that wants to sing itself through me.
Am I listening
to hear the tune that I might not recognize
as it is different from all other
dances I see and melodies I sway to

it's not this seriousness
it's more yellow somehow
and lives at the intersection
of walking in the cold grass in socked-feet
and sitting on a stump cut flush with the ground
sort of crooked, but almost flat
so I turn to welcome the incline and not totter at it
with my baby curled into the seat made with my legs.

She picks up a pine cone.
I start to stop its move toward her mouth
and then stop myself
and giggle at the pursed lips
that taste woodiness and prickles
as she pulls it away
slobbery
back and forth, taste and away.
We sit as the sun sets
unable to shrug off the thought that
it's indulgent
to soak in this moment
as a slow breath
enlarges the space around us.
We should be inside
shouldn't we
maybe she's cold
maybe I'm cold
maybe we should have shoes on
or coats
or be on the human-made ground
and not this
not here

but we are
and the fragrance of impermanence wafts around us
as we sway to the music of the song that we're supposed
to sing with these lives
in a duet for a moment
harmonizing
as leaves crunch under my socks
and she learns the flavor of pine cone.

firstfruits

I'd plunk her down
On a blanket spread over green grass.
Newborn baby girl, squirm and coo,
So peaceful, idyllic as little one lay quiet beside
mother me, gloriously and carefully planting my beautiful garden. . .

Yeah right.

Charli--poop her pants and smile--Wusk
would look angelic on her little blanket,  
for a time.
But the real pastoral scene came in static bursts
between stoccato steps of momma feet wearing a path in the grass.

I'd begin to dig a furrow - wah!
  Pick her up
  Put her down
Plant some seed - wah!
  Pick her up
  Put her down
Finish the row - wah!
  Pick her up
  Put her down
Cover the row - wah!

Slowly, through action squished between slow stints of consolation
our first garden went in the ground.
Somehow cultivation followed frustration to lead to
Crisp color yums
from backyard dirt, sweat, and patience.

Firstfruits.

awake alive

today I sit

alive

awake

filled with desire

for creating

for living

for being

this me that is emerging

new job

horizon

new home

trusting

new

sweetheart sides

I sit heavy, next to her mechanical bed 

noticing its angle.

Her hospice tongue lulls in her mouth.

Ice will only satiate the need.

I wonder at the tired eyes of my mother,

watching her mother.

His distracted foot twitches as he prepares

to somehow be without.

How will he have tea alone,

without her to share the tea bag?

"Nan and I" starts every story

--A life side by side.

So young for her to marry.

All thought her knocked up.

But no.  Just in a hurry

with the war nipping their heels.

Poor and sick most her life, but with her Bud.

How do sweethearts live alone?

How do they be without?

a writer

As I have been reading "On Writing," I've found myself again and again drawn back to the idea of myself as writer.  I came to this realization of identity during the Nebraska Writing Project, and it was emboldened throughout the dissertation writing project.  I had a piece to work on, I was constantly jotting notes in my little notebook, and begrudgingly dragging my computer to the coffee house or my sunroom at early hours in the morning.  While I hated this time in my life, I've now found myself missing that piece of identity.  I've written a few blog posts, a few poems, but I have this burning need to be working on something bigger--to have a project.  I've planted a garden, made plans for creating a baby quilt, but nothing seems to satiate the need.  I need words.

"If God gives you something you can do, why in God's name wouldn't you do it?" 
- Stephen King


I certainly don't think I'm some amazing writer, but I keep running into books and articles online that leave me thinking, "I could have written this. . . but I never would have written this."  I want to write something that gets at my thoughts about life and living it well.  When describing how he made his living to his mother, Parker Palmer said, "Well, I spend half my time at home writing books and articles, trying to communicate with readers about things that matter to me.  Sometimes, people read what I write and invite me to give a speech so I can talk with them face-to-face. And… Well… That's about it..."

I've been reading Michelle DeRusha's blog, and her posts are more and more often about the journey into being a full time writer.  At this point in my life, I don't want to abdicate my position at the college, or my part time gig at the church, but I do want to settle into my writer self again. While my new little addition keeps me busy, she does spend a large amount of time sleeping throughout the day.  Just yesterday I planted half my garden in between her waking times.  I essentially have three months left of my leave time, and I want to steward that time.  I want to create something.  But what?  


When students faced me with this question, I was always quick with response. . . 
Tell the truth.
Write what you know.
Get your butt in the writing chair.
Get on Google.  Ideas don't just spring out of the air--even for the best writers.


Perhaps I need to take my own advice.

more convincing

I forgot that I had said I
would sub on v-ball
tonight at 615.  Should be
home around 730.  Love
you, maybe we can rent a
movie.

Holding my phone. 
The txt springs tears that I didn't know were bubbling.
New mom has them in full supply.
"Lovely" I want to type.  But don't.
I want to write things about selfishness
about responsibility.
I want to be a complete ass snob,
writing "Sure a movie is all I want from life"
but instead of send I click backspace. backspace. backspace.

I am sad that I'm not going to book club tonight.
I am sad that I didn't mention it yesterday.
I am sad that I'm not going to my friend's graduation tomorrow.
but most of all I am sad that I decided not to mention these things-
because I wanted to be home with my new little family.

The trouble is I wouldn't rather be at bookclub than home with you.
But I would rather be at bookclub than home alone.  again.

I wish you wanted to be home.
I know you do.
I know you're caring.
I know you love us.
I know I won't say anything, because I want you to want to be home.
I want to keep this relationship happy--after all it's the only adult convo I'll have today.
And the only one I'll have tomorrow.

It's just hard when all these hormones make me need a little more convincing.
And hard when my whole day is spent waiting for you to come home.

midnight in paris

"No subject is terrible if the story is true. If the prose is clean and honest, and if it affirms courage and grace under pressure." 

I just watched the most lovely movie. . . all by myself.  I wanted to try and watch all of the Oscar-nominated films before the big event on Sunday, but a couple of them are neither in the theater or out to rent yet.  Anyway, for a former English teacher this one was very fun with its allusions to writers and artists.  As I finished the film, two things keep ringing in my mind--renaissance begins now--we always want for another time, either living in the future or the past, but the real time is right in front of us.

"The artist's job is not to succumb to despair but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence."

Shrove Tuesday

Shrove Tuesday (or Pancake Tuesday) is a day of confession.

I must confess that I have been away from writing.  It was nice to rest in the needed hiatus following my dissertation, but I have decided that it's time.  Time to write again.  This year for my lenten devotion I have decided that I am going to write every day.  Something.  Every. Day.  While a large majority of this stuff will be crap (that is for certain), just the idea of writing every day means that perhaps something will come out in the writing.  After all, I like to tell my students that an important tool in writing is their butts.  A butt in a writing chair got a lot more writing done than most other tools.

So each day I will write.  Starting tomorrow.  I am not going to narrowly define my topics or wrangle myself into writing things that I hate.  Instead, I am going to simply follow the intent of this blog in the first place--to focus on how today is a REAL day--a day to live life to the fullest.  Within this lenten season will come the birth of our first child and the time that comes following that.  I see it as a good time to document.

I have debated about giving up FaceBook for lent.  I toss and turn the idea.  Just this morning I learned of a friend leaving youth ministry.  I wouldn't have without the good 'ole FB; however, I have come to see that each morning as I lazily scroll through posts--most of which are simply a waste of time--that I am missing the magic hour at the start of the day.  I am missing it.

Perhaps that is my Lenten devotion this year more simply--to stop missing it.

Want for movement

Fingers still I want for movement
and words
that haven't moved
in this hiatus
needed
but awkward
in its waiting and wanting
not feeling right or left
just off.

3 Preggo Poems

Body

You've always done things I don't understand.

as a scab fades to nothing

a banana turns to energy

and a 13-year-old skinny blonde stands two inches taller

Imperceptible change only measured in hindsight.

That doesn't bowl me over like it should.

Or force me to ask how . . . or why?

Instead I walk by you like wallpaper that's the ugliest

red

floral

catastrophe,

but I don't notice, after all

it's always been that way.  Hasn't it?

My hand fingered the mattress

Wrinkled the over-washed white sheet

Just like I told it to.

As I sat with Grandma--

Hospital sea-green sterile, enveloping chords and paper skin--

Trying to look at anything else but how she feels,

To soften fuzzy edges.

But you feinted . . .

. . . after I specifically told you not to.

But as I continue to round out with a new body inside

perpetually in the future

with the present invisible

except for this huge pairs of knockers

that don't seem to fit on this B-Cup diva

I wonder what you're up to.

And I've never understood less.

I never thought you were all that

shifty

shady

dark-alley walkin'

You've been a good employee

On time and pretty reasonable

Listening to me, your boss,

Index finger taps the letter "j" on keyboard

almost

before I can think it.

You're good.

You're quick.

Dependable you.

Turkey Bacon

I like to think about you.

As I turn over and run my right toe across the quilt edge.

Hair tither wiped away

As I squint out the window at bare branches

Hoping for Spring

And you-you and me-different.

Lucie wags her tail and shakes her collar

so loud

saying "get up or I'll piss all over"

I call her bluff.

Linger and scroll my finger across my phone

delaying vertical.

She puts a paw by my one open eye and

harumphs

as her head flops down curling over you

and over the thin line of me that separates

As I open the other eye

Half the world is dark and the other light.

I don't think she knows, but it's fun to wonder wish

that she's somehow sensing the magic

of new life waiting inside.

The doctors say you know our voices.

I don't even recognize mine on a recording, but you--

you know it.

I like to point out to the daddy voice that you're going to be both me and him

Somehow 50/50.

He just smiles and says the part like him

is Filet Mignon

and the part like me. . .  

. . . is Turkey Bacon.

And he laughs.

I hope you laugh like him.

And someone hears it the way I hear his.

I hope you're just okay with you . . . whatever that might be.

You'll just have to explain to your dad.

If you end up liking Turkey Bacon.

Motherhood

The sign by the highway reads

Windmill Farm

in faded black

paint on white

The "m" is hard to read, and no windmills turn for miles.

            But they did.

The parents sit wraggled

eyes tight after errands

the giving--oh the giving

that they could never prepare for

The sexy in them wrung out, and she doesn't drop F bombs anymore

            But she did.

Teenage heart throbbing

She escapes parents

blunders through identities

making new ones

and wears faces

She's independent now, and she knows she doesn't need them after all

            But she did.

Old mother

reminisces on poems

she wrote before wrinkles

wrote her.

Her first pregnancy totters on rusty memory, a vapor

The writer seems a stranger, and she knows it would have all been different if she didn't.

            But she did.

Christmas Letter 2011

"Release the tension in your shoulders.  Now in your back . . . "  At the end of each of our pregnancy classes the teacher leads the class of six couples through a relaxation series that always leaves me feeling refreshed and a little like my legs are full of Jell-O (in a good way).  Last week at our class I was just starting to feel relaxed when I heard it.  It was getting slower . . . and deeper . . . and louder.  Ralph's breathing was starting to sound like it does each night just before he goes to sleep.  I felt the sense of panic begin to rise in my previously calm body as I realized what was about to happen.  I decided to squint through my right eye to see if the other couples in the class were noticing.  None seemed to catch on until his breathing went from loud and breathy to an all-out snore.  The peacefulness of the dark room was gone for good, as I got the worst case of church giggles in my life.

Gosh, I love being married. :)

Yes, Ralphie and I are expecting a little bundle of Wusk joy toward the end of March.  We're hoping it has Ralph's charisma and my study habits.  Each time the baby kicks, Ralph takes it as evidence of its impending athleticism.  I guess we'll just have to see.  The little one will grow up as a Sterling Jet as we just moved to the booming metropolis in August.  It is a bit ironic as Ralph and my relationship started with me talking extreme smack about his small hometown . . . I guess maybe there was more flirting going on there than any real hard feelings.

Life Lessons Learned in the "Real World" Vol. 6

·      All pants should have elastic waistbands. (I might just wear these pregnancy jeans for the rest of my life.)

·      It doesn't take long to accumulate way too much stuff. (Thanks to everyone who helped us move all our junk!)

·      The best dissertation is a done dissertation.

·      Living in a small town IS all it's cracked up to be.

·      Making sauerkraut isn't as tough as you might think.  (Thanks to my in-laws and their good teaching!)

·      Gas is expensive.  (Ralph is commuting to the Department of Veterans Affairs in Lincoln, and I'm cruising east to work at Peru State College while still helping out with confirmation classes on Wednesday nights in Lincoln).

·      Seeing the Harry Potter movie at a midnight showing is exhausting.  (Thanks to my sister for reminding me that I'm not too old to stay up late).

·      With a FULL beard and long hair Ralph resembles Joaquin Phoenix during the time period when everyone thought he was going crazy.

·      The waiting time before a baby is full of joy and excitement.

I can always tell Christmas is here as Ralph starts talking about the end of his Fantasy Football League.  How does he always make it into those championships?  Yes, 2011 has been a year of changes, and like every year, we're continuing to learn.  While this year had many turns that we didn't anticipate, I have a feeling that next year might have even more to teach us.