The quiet of a blue bowl...

I used to live in Toronto. The circumstances of my brief relationship with that city were difficult. I was being refined, yes, but most of it hurt like hell. Most of it felt like I was looking at myself under a giant magnifying glass. Every flaw, even the small ones, seemed insurmountable. It was painful learning to see myself so honestly.

During this time, I had few possessions that were exclusively mine. I lived communally--moving frequently from one apartment to the next, carrying almost nothing with me. Moving into spaces I did not own and could not easily adopt. Changing places with the weeks and wind. If you know me, you know that the details of this arrangement were in themselves painful ones.

During this time, I had one blue bowl. I carried it with me like permanence. The hollow shadow carrying bits of myself into safety. It was a refuge of sorts. A touch point in the sea of unfamiliar things, spaces, surroundings. It was for that time, my home. Almost everything I ate came in that blue bowl. Cereal, rice, noodles, soup, potatoes. All warm servings of nourishment and two kinds of comfort.

Once, in winter, it got so dark, I couldn't breathe. The girl I lived with was a companion not of my choosing and she carried darkness around in her pockets. It spilled out little by little until I was consumed. Lonely and strangling, I woke in the night to find it snowing. All the world was quiet. The snow fell and stuck to the pavements like light wings. In the quiet, I warmed milk and poured it into the blue bowl. I sat by the window crying and watching the snow. My cold hands wrapped around the warm quiet of the blue. The blue warmed my hands. The milk inside warmed my stomach. The snow, the quiet, the milk, the bowl punctured the darkness. I felt pieces of the great weight lift off and fall away.

The time in the city did not relent. The darkness stilled moved around me and with me, but wasn't as heavy and kept its distance. I carried the blue bowl home in my suitcase. It had weathered my journey so well; feeding both my body and my self. When I unpacked at home, the bowl was cracked clean through. Two halves, unrepairable. I sat with both halves in my hands and let a new quiet fill in the spaces of a new place more permanent. A new refuge. A new quiet.

Sometimes it isn't enough...

There are days when my life feels small. Not simple, just small. Like the things I do don't matter and all the time effort applied to doing something great are wasted. And today is one of the days. When I feel like I am wasting--time, energy, love--because nothing seems to be happening. Like I am moving, but not going anywhere. That is all I want to say. Tomorrow will likely look better.

The first poem I wrote for you...

If this silence is all we can muster--

sitting across the city
thinking of the other,

or sitting at this table where the warmth of our touching arms
is the only thing spoken,

or standing in the comfort of familiar arms encircled in a crowd
only echoing the other's patterned breathing;

Then let our mouths close on this quiet,
let these arms touch,
let us stand silent
and let this silence fill up year after comfortable year.

--mb

New furniture, maybe...

I haven't added any furniture here lately. There are lots of reasons. Time and excuses--bottled and stacked. Waiting and lonely. Words left on my desk. In my notebook. On my chair or cheek. Words used for everything but speaking. For teaching, for comfort, for bustling about, for filling up time with the art of being busy. I am very good at being busy. Still I feel it--the constant push inside. You should write something that means something. You should put it somewhere. You shouldn't let your life move on so rapidly. You should not move on in this silence.

So, for poetry month, I am going to try to move some furniture in. Even if it is just an excuse taken down from the shelf and opened.

A note on love...

There are things about this that are harder than expected--
the silence of friendship
the right to no claim
the unspoken lie that we are nothing.

Your secrets sit heavy with me
a stone on my tongue
a stone in my throat
a stone in my belly
and the soft rubbed underside of my fingernails,
so carefully chewed back to the quick.

I watch you sometimes and always wonder about this pairing--
an unexpected meeting
an unexpected love
and the message that changed both, but still kept us moving
in the same direction toward the other.

I worry about you and this:
can I love you enough to brighten these shadows
or unache these scars
or mend the unmended parts of your heart;

Or will this secret stay silent,
a stone, unclaimed
and nothing more than the lie.

--mb

P.S. A note for Stephanie...I was once again, inspired by your posts. I always admire how brave you are. Thanks for writing, posting, being. You are beautiful.

This life punctuated with loneliness...

I thought if I married

the loneliness punctuating my life

would evaporate,

would burn off like darkness in the morning.

I thought I would breathe

clear and still

and I would forget what it felt like--

not to be loved.

Now nights find me waking,

listening

to the slow even rhythm of your breathing,

the heavy weight of your chest rising,

the soundless exhale of its resolution.

I don't know where you dream.

The familiarity of you wakes me in the mornings--

the gait of your footfall,

the scratch of your razor,

the tune hummed while dressing,

your humming toothbrush--

And I wonder about being loved;

what is feels like not to be loved,

and while I'm thinking,

while my eyes are still closed,

you leave without saying goodbye.

--mb

And then there was something to say...

I have not written anything for months. Months. Remember the story about that woman in Idaho who didn't write anything for ten years. She said one day the words just ran out. One day she couldn't think of a single thing to say. Then one day, all those years later, the words came back to her and then there was something to say.

Maybe that is what happened to me.

If all this silence

was what it took to say goodbye.

Days of saying nothing,

so the wrong things would not get said;

would not be laid out on the table;

would not sit between us like so many other regrets.

Then I would quiet my mouth.

I would let the day drift by unsounded--

its clean, yellow light falling on the table

its warmth lying between us.

I would sit until the darkness came

and you had left the scene in silence.

--mb

A summer vacation...

I remember now that I have a blog. That I like to write. That I fill these spaces with random thoughts and millings. My only excuse is summer vacation, where all my best intentions were vacationing as well. Real life starts again tomorrow, friends, and so will the blog.

P.S. I'm buying a new camera and a learning to manipulate the blog. Hopefully, this year will be about nothing but improvements.

A random fact...

I love breakfast food. I love it for breakfast and for other times of the day. Breakfast for dinner is delicious. Breakfast for lunch a treat. For this reason, I like to frequent places where you can breakfast all day. I'm not talking about the greasehound chains either. I'm talking about local places, unique and lovely.

One of my favorite breakfast places anywhere is in New York on 27th and Lexington called Penelope's. If wall color says anything about a place, then the robin's egg blue there calls out, come in and rest...I've been waiting. The counter is white tile on dark wood. There are jars empty and others full of treats to eat and treats to take. They make the most delicious granola, hearty and ready for home. The menu is delightfully simple and I am always tempted to try a little of everything, while ordering the same thing everytime: french toast diagonally cut from french bread and battered with a hint of vanilla and a scuff of cinnamon, fresh seasonal fruit, homemade yogurt. The food, the feeling, the egg blue walls are something I look forward to on every visit.

One of my favorite places to eat in this city is the Park Cafe across from Liberty. They have lovely yellow edged windows and an eclectic smattering of art. Currently, the have a variety of music tour posters on display. Not the mainstream ones either. I feel like you have to be sort of schooled to know who the bands are. When I visit I usually, always, order the field goal with french toast: scrambled eggs with ham, park potatoes, thick sliced battered bread dusted with powdered sugar and sweet enough to eat without syrup, the park through yellow frames. Heaven. Simply heaven.

P.S. All breakfast foods being equal, I will always choose french toast.

Ordering Chagall...

I have this love of strange paintings. Strange colors, random combinations, a yellow square in the middle of a dark canvas that is supposed to be a window. Three colors on a slate. No rhyme or reason. Just color, bravery, madness.

There are few artists that fill all these needs. Rothko. Klee. But nobody beats Chagall. His paintings are like dreams, haunting and fluid, swirling with color, screaming and silent. Strange, and also, beautiful.

There are two huge Chagall murals hanging in the front windows of the Metropolitan Opera in New York. They hang behind the glass as tempting as the opera itself. They are covered during the day, but the late afternoon light is perfect for viewing.

I have wanted a Chagall print for a long time, but haven't bought one. There isn't a good reason, laziness, fear, apprehension in letting a part of my real self out, but today I ordered a Chagall. I can't wait for its strange colored love on my wall.

One more for day four...

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

...Mary Oliver...

And for 3rd...

O sweet spontaneous

earth how often have

the

doting

fingers of

purient philosophers pinched

and

poked

, thee

has the naughty thumb

of science prodded

thy

beauty , how

oftn have religions taken

thee upon their scraggy knees

squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive

gods

(but

true

to the incomparable

couch of death thy

rhythmic

lover

thou answerest

them only with

spring)

e.e. cummings

A poem for the second day...

Yellow Bowl

If light pours like water

into the kitchen where I sway

with my tired children,

if the rug beneath us

is woven with tough flowers,

and the yellow bowl on the table

rests with the sweet heft

of fruit, the sun-warmed plums,

if my body curves over the babies,

and if i am singing,

then loneliness has lost its shape,

and this quiet is only quiet.

...Rachel Contreni Flynn...

I feel like I should say...

It is National Poetry month and I feel like I should say something, or write something, or be something because I am a poet and this is a time for poets. I have been out of the habit of writing poetry. There are perhaps a million excuses for why. Regardless of the reasons, it is, by all measurable means, a tragedy. Not to the world or to the readers, but only myself. Poetry has always been, for me, an anchor; it has been too long since I felt its calm. So, I am redeeming by putting a little poetry up everyday for the rest of the month. Somedays I'll even put two, so by the end there will be thirty poems here. Thirty anchors. Thirty points of calm, even if the words aren't all mine.

One thing I can remember...

Driving to your house in the winter

your house iced blue

and the snow to your door

two feet thick.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

This is just to say...

I love nicknames. They are so personal and endearing. If I have given you one, it means I love you.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

A little life music...

I'd like to think I have a life filled with music. My ipod is a constant companion. I hum to myself. I sing. I play the guitar a little and pretend I am Gillian Welch or Patty Griffin. I play the piano and think I missed my chance at true greatness. I listen for life's underpinings, for the melody of things, for the songs running underneath. Sometimes in the stillness I can hear the earth humming and I can hear the song of sparrows in their black fall and flight.

I listen to a variety of music and I guess I have, what you could call, exacting tastes. I tend prefer girl voices. I always prefer acoustic. I like songs heavy on guitar, piano, and discorded melodies. Poetic lyrics, a certain amount of angst, a certain amount of hope, a message that means something to me will be played more often than others.

There are a few songs I listen to at least once a day. I have listened to them hundreds of times, which means I have literally spent hours listening to the same song. I never grow tired of them. It makes me think they mean something or they say something I want to say, but can't. Either way they make me happy and that is about all someone should ask for.

P.S. If you want to try a few, some of my daily staples are:

Wait by Alexi Murdock

Falling Slowly and Low Rising by The Swell Season (If you don't know this band, you should)!

Mother of God by Patty Griffin

How Will He Find Me by Deb Talan

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

A happy reunion...

My grandpa died last Thursday. It has been a sad time. We were always close. I spent a few weeks every summer with him and my grandma. There were visits throughout the year as well. From him I inherited my dry sense of humor, my love of things growing, my tendency to collect and keep things beyond their usefulness, my real laugh. He called me, his sweet girl.

Since my dad died, I have felt even closer to him. He has been, more than before, the father figure in my life. Talking to him was almost like talking to my dad and though our conversations were different, I didn't always tell him everything, I could hear my dad's voice through him. I could hear what my dad would say as if I was actually talking to him. It made losing my dad more tolerable. Now, I will miss those conversations.

My grandpa's death is easier to understand than my dad's. He was eighty-seven, which by most standards is a good, long life. He made it a good life: doing many things, going many places, being many things to many different people. He was ready to go. A few weeks ago he told me, I've been away at school, now it almost time to go home.

I am also comforted by the fact that his death was also a happy reunion. He was reunited with my dad, my Uncle Val (who died a few years before my dad), my Aunt Pauline (who they lost as a baby), his parents, and many others. It too must have been a time of tears, just a different sort. It too must be a time of reflection and memories. I cannot be sad about that.

Happy homecoming, Grandpa.

Monday, March 14, 2011

A lesson from the single life...

I don't usually begrudge the fact I'm in my thirties and single. This is largely due to the fact that I feel like my life is full and beautiful. I have many talents. I've been given many gifts. I am industrious and hard working. I learned long ago the quiet joy found in being alone. I also learned to be alone. I am generous. I am honest. I know myself and I like keeping company with myself. I have wonderful family and many friends.

The above self realizations make my life fulfilling, even if it isn't exactly what I planned for it to be. I do still want to be married and to have babies of my own, but I am also content to know that they will come in their own time, in their own way.

The above self realizations have also made me picky in choosing a partner. Maybe because I have found contentment in my life as it is, I am not rushing towards a life that isn't just as satisfying or beautiful. In other words, I am looking for an asset, not a liability. I am looking for a partner, not a piranha. I am looking for an equal, not perfect, but at least equitable. I will settle for nothing less.

This resolve was reinforced on Saturday night when I attended the party of a friend. I knew almost no one there, except for the girls throwing the party. So, I was fortunate enough to spend the time talking to them and watching everything else going on. What I observed was a room full of beautiful, educated, articulate, successful women with degrees and professions and self awareness trying to make conversation with sub-par and very awkward men. Two of them couldn't stop talking about Star Wars. One of them made up some persona about being a make up artist. (In Utah, really)? The others stood awkwardly silent unless asked a question. From the conversations I heard none of them had valid or valuable professions or interesting lives. In fact, beyond their membership in the church, there was not a single attractive thing about any of them.

If this resonates as bitterness, I promise it isn't. If it sounds trite and contrived, it isn't that either. It was just an evening of observations that reconfirmed my resolve to find an asset and not settle for anything less. Because, dear hearts, do you really want to spend eternity, or even a lifetime, with a doldrum?

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Quotes from Kindergarten...

Today, while coloring, the following conversation occurred...

Kindergartener: Miss B, today we will go to church after my mom comes home from work.
Me: Why are you going to church today?
K: I don't know...to see a boy.
Me: A boy? What boy?
K: I don't know his name. He is up on the wall.
Me: You mean Jesus?
K: No, I don't think that's the one.
Me: Are you going to see a man who is hanging on the wall?
K: Yep, that's it.
Me: Okay, well the man hanging on the wall is Jesus.
K: No.
Me: Yes.
K: Really? Do you know him or what?

Do I know him? That is a question best saved for another post.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Vomit and pink eye and lice, oh my...

I consider it a real low point in my teaching day when I have to deal with bodily fluids of one kind or another. Working with five year olds, one realizes that a few boogers and messes and germs are in the mix. Kids have a fondness for the inside of their noses. Some even have a fondness for the inside of other kids' noses, but that is a story best left for another day.

So, even though this isn't the first day of kindergarten cooties, it is, so far, the worst. It all started with a little girl puking all over her desk. This makes her third puking incident in the last week. All at school. All disgusting. Her dad seemed annoyed that he had to come get her again. She was crying because she didn't want to leave school, but I have a strict throw up policy. If you do it, you're out. It seems simple enough.

Fast forward to rotations where my assistant notices lice rampantly crawling around another little girl's hair. As a result, I spent my lunch hour checking the rest of the kids for the white horror. They used to have people to check for you, but now they consider it a health hazard. So, like so many other things, it falls to the teacher to do the checking. Fortunately, the rest of them were bug free.

After my short five minute drink a Dr. Pepper sit in the staff room break, I returned to my room and a little boy with swollen, red, and oozing eyes. His parents were unavailable and so he spent the afternoon quarantined at the thinking desk with a cold rag on his eyes.

The day ended on a low note where a kid, who only comes to my class for the last 45 minutes of the day, actually wiped his snotty nose on my arm as he was filing pass. Not my shirt mind you. My arm. I was so disgusted and furious that I had to quarantine myself at the thinking desk. There, I actually had the thought that pink eye would be better than someone else's snot on your arm.

I am with Alexander on this one. It was terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Here's to hoping tomorrow will be a better one and that no one will be sick!

P.S. On the bright side, I finished ESL endorsement class number two, I saw my ESL crush and forced myself to flirt just a little, and I made brownies just because it is Wednesday.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Congratulations are in order...

Today one of my kids drew a picture of me. This happens often enough that I have come to appreciate looking like an alien with an oversized head and enormous misshapen eyes. What made this drawing really memorable was the conversation that followed. I should have named this post quotes for kindergarten, but I thought it was little more noteworthy.

Natalie: Miss B, I drew this picture of you.

Me: Oh, let me see. I look lovely. Who is with me in the picture?

N: This is you. (Pointing to the drawing with long hair). This is your husband. (Pointing to the slightly taller figure).

Me: That's nice, but I don't have a husband, sweet girl.

N: CONGRATULATIONS!!! You got married today!

She announced the marriage to the whole class and told all the kids to be nice to me because it was my wedding day. Hilarious and adorable. This is life with five year olds.

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