 |
| Photo courtesy Manuel Barroso Parejo |
“It is easier to try
to be better
than you are
than to be
who you are.”
—Marion Woodman, Coming Home to Myself
I’m a practical cook by necessity. I don’t love cooking, but
I do love fresh, homemade, relatively healthy food. Naturally, now and
then I get utterly sick of cooking and need either a break or a new source of
inspiration. So when my friend Marianne
suggested a trip to Penzeys Spices in Sarasota, FL, I jumped at the chance. Our
excuse, if one was needed, was the need to buy a wedding gift for the daughter
of a mutual friend.
Marianne was familiar with Penzeys through her in-laws, but
she hadn’t been to the store herself. We took our time strolling through the
displays of everything from adobo seasoning to zatar (“a Middle-Eastern
tabletop blend”). Penzeys had vanilla beans, and freeze dried shallots, and
special herb blends for every possible cuisine you could name. Each one had a
jar for sniffing and we sniffed. We made two passes through the store, first to
choose spices for a gift box for Amanda, then to choose spices for ourselves. I
saw many that I wanted to try, but I limited myself to five, including Sicilian
Salad Seasoning, Ruth Ann’s Muskego Ave. Chicken and Fish Seasoning, and minced
ginger. With my purchase, they gave me a slim book filled with product
information and recipes. I’m already making a list of more items I want to
try.
Penzeys (no affiliation) might have a store near you.
According to the list in their book, they have 66 stores in 28 states, as well
as mail/online ordering.
Sometimes a field trip is all about exploring, sometimes
it’s a treat, and sometimes I look for inspiration to send me on toward my
goals. It’s a lot to ask of a few spices, but I hope they’ll help change
cooking from drudgery back into a simple pleasure.
Do you need inspiration? Where could you find some?
 |
| Photo courtesy Alex Drahon |
Introduction by Ted Kooser: In this poem by New York
poet Martin Walls, a common insect is described and made vivid for us through a
number of fresh and engaging comparisons. Thus an ordinary insect becomes
something remarkable and memorable.
Cicadas at the End of Summer
Whine as though a pine tree is bowing a broken violin,
As though a bandsaw cleaves a thousand thin sheets of
titanium;
They chime like freight wheels on a Norfolk Southern
slowing into town.
But all you ever see is the silence.
Husks, glued to the underside of maple leaves.
With their nineteen fifties Bakelite lines they’d do
just as
well hanging from the ceiling of a space
museum—
What cicadas leave behind is a kind of crystallized memory;
The stubborn detail of, the shape around a life turned
The color of forgotten things: a cold broth of tea &
milk
in the
bottom of a mug.
Or skin on an old tin of varnish you have to lift with
lineman’s
pliers.
A fly paper that hung thirty years in Bird Cooper’s pantry
in Brighton.
Reprinted from “Small Human Detail in Care of National
Trust,” New Issues Press, Western Michigan University, 2000, by permission of
the author. Poem copyright © by Martin Walls, a 2005 Wittner Bynner Fellow of
the Library of Congress. His latest collection “Commonwealth” is available from
March Street Press. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation,
The Library of Congress and the Department of English at the University of
Nebraska, Lincoln. American Life in Poetry ©2005 The Poetry Foundation Contact:
alp@poetryfoundation.org This column
does not accept unsolicited poetry.
Today is Labor Day in the United States, a day “dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers.” I’ll
be spending it caring for my horse, checking in on a vacationing friend’s cats,
making a birthday cake for my son, and puttering around the house doing chores
that make our lives run smoothly and happily. My husband is grilling chicken
and shrimp, my mother-in-law is visiting, and my son will be stopping by later
to eat that cake (and probably do some laundry). We spent the first two days of
this three-day weekend painting our bathroom and cleaning up after Hurricane
Hermine (no damage, just a lot of debris in the yard). This hasn’t been a
textbook example of a “relaxing” weekend, but it has been one full of family,
food, and many of the simple pleasures that bring me deep satisfaction.
Whatever you’re doing today, I hope it brings you joy!
 |
| Storm debris: Eleven bags, two trash cans and a branch (not visible) |
“To age gracefully is to experience fully each day and
season. When we have truly lived our lives, we don’t want to live them again.
It’s the life that was not lived that we regret.”
—Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and David Kessler, Life Lessons: Two Experts on Death and Dying Teach Us About the Mysteries
of Life and Living
Happy birthday to two of my favorite people: my son, and my father-in-law. They both are great examples of living life fully.
 |
| Photo courtesy Alexander Filonchik |
The internet has been humming with interesting stuff lately,
and I don’t mean the latest gossipy tidbit about a celebrity or political
candidate. I’d rather spend my time being inspired or taught (or looking at funny
animal pictures). Here are a few of my
favorite recent discoveries. Enjoy!
I spent too much time watching the Olympics over the past
couple of weeks. I loved the equestrian events, of course, but I also enjoyed
seeing sports I never watch: water polo, table tennis, volleyball (which I
loved playing in high school and college) and track events. There’s something
inspiring about watching people achieve their dreams after hard work and sacrifice.
I was also touched by this story, about the 10 athletes who are refugees, but
still have the drive and desire to compete.
Patience is an important quality to cultivate, but few of us
had someone actually teach us how to be patient? I found this post on Raptitude incredibly helpful. Remember, “Patience is really nothing
more than the willingness to live life at the speed at which it actually
happens.”
Simple but effective ideas from Sandra Pawula in “9 Ways to Find Serenity in a World Gone Mad.” I could not function without #8.
“11 Ways to Be Happy Right Now” combines simple physical
acts (“eat a piece of quality dark chocolate”) to more in-depth experiences
(“train your mind).
Check out these “16 Quotes That Show Us Life From a Different Perspective.” My favorite: “Growth is painful. Change is painful. But
in the end, nothing is as painful as staying stuck somewhere you do not belong.
It’s always better to be exhausted from meaningful work than to be tired of
doing nothing.”
How happy are you? Take a quiz to assess your well-being,
and learn more about how to thrive here.
Loved the takeaway message from Marie Forleo’s Oprah Supersoul Session: “Everything is ‘figureoutable.’”
Have you made any internet discoveries lately?
 |
| Photo courtesy sailormn34 |
Introduction by Ted Kooser: I’ve lived all my life on
the plains, where no body of water is more than a few feet deep, and even at
that shallow depth I’m afraid of it. Here Sam Green, who lives on an island
north of Seattle, takes us down into some really deep, dark water.
Night Dive
Down here, no light but what we carry with us.
Everywhere we point our hands we scrawl
color: bulging eyes, spines, teeth or clinging tentacles.
At negative buoyancy, when heavy hands
seem to grasp & pull us down, we let them,
we don’t inflate our vests, but let the scrubbed cheeks
of rocks slide past in amniotic calm.
At sixty feet we douse our lights, cemented
by the weight of the dark, of water, the grip
of the sea’s absolute silence. Our groping
hands brush the open mouths of anemones,
which shower us in particles of phosphor
radiant as halos. As in meditation,
or in deepest prayer,
there is no knowing what we will see.
 |
| Nikolay Okhitin, PhotoXpress.com |
In my reading this morning, I stumbled on a phrase that captured my imagination: terra incognita.
Terra incognita means “unknown territory.” It’s a term cartographers used to use to describe unmapped or undocumented regions. According to urban legend, these areas were sometimes labelled “Here be dragons,” though only one map survives with this wording (“Hic svnt dracones”). However, Roman and medieval cartographers did mark maps with the phrase, “Hic svnt leones,” which means “Here are lions.” (Wikipedia)
Why do we expect scary things (dragons, lions) when we face the unknown? Why not expect unicorns, or daisies? It seems to be human nature to expect the worst when facing the unknown, and to some extent, that’s what keeps explorers alive: expecting and preparing for the worst.
To my knowledge, there are no more unknown and unmapped physical lands, though terra incognita is sometimes used metaphorically to describe an unexplored subject or field of research. However, there is still the unknown land, the terra incognita, of the future. None of us knows what the future holds, though plenty of dire predictions can be found as close as your nearest screen—TV or computer.
Since we will all navigate the unknown land of the future, what tools should we use? The same ones we use in navigating our known world: our good sense, our friends and family, our spiritual principles, our ability to learn, and a positive outlook that we can handle whatever lions life throws at us. While we explore, we should be on the lookout for the positive, not just the negative, because I’m more and more convinced we see what we expect to see.
While we certainly should prepare for negative eventualities in our lives, why not also prepare for positive ones? Save money not just for a calamity, but for a celebration once the promotion comes through, the report card contains straight As, or the grandchild is born.
Truly, every new day is terra incognita. We don’t know what it will bring. Whatever it holds for us—daisy or dragon, unicorn or lion—if we cling to our tools of navigation, we’ll come through safely.
I complain a lot about the heat and humidity
here in central Florida, but if I hadn’t moved here, I wouldn’t have my horse.
I think it’s worth it. I board him at a small, family-run barn just a few
minutes from my house. One of my simple pleasures is being around all the
horses at the barn, enjoying the personalities that emerge. For such large, powerful, and beautiful animals,
they can be remarkably silly. Here are some photos of a few of Tank’s friends
and neighbors.
 |
| Elsa (loves peppermints) |
 |
| Bella (more than a pretty face) |
 |
| Sensitive Leo |
 |
| Remy, playing with the broom |
In summer, I ride less and hang out more, and just watching the horses is entertaining. For instance, Tank (right) approaching the geldings’ paddock. Asia pretending he doesn't notice him:
 |
Tank: “Nothing much, just grazing. Out here. And you’re not.”
Tank: “LOL!”
Asia: [Squeals and stomps his foot]
See what I mean? Silly.
What simple pleasure has this summer brought you?
 |
| Photo courtesy Pedro Melo |
“Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability.”
—Sam
Keen
 |
| Photo courtesy Ian Dunlop |
I’m sure you’re not surprised that I’ve been watching the
equestrian events of the 2016 Summer Olympics. One of my favorites to watch is
the eventing competition, which has been described as the triathlon for horses.
Talk about some gorgeous, fit athletes! And yes, I am referring to the horses.
One of the horses from the Brazilian eventing team has an unusual name: Summon
Up The Blood. The announcers calling the competition noted that “summoning up
the blood” is quite an accurate image of what is needed for this grueling
sport. Though “Bob” (his much less
picturesque nickname) didn’t win a medal, he did complete the entire series of
events respectably. Click here to see photos and learn more about him and his rider, Carlos Parro.
Eventing horses are cared for and pampered in every way
possible: from optimum nutrition and carefully thought-out workouts, to
chiropractic care and massage, to liniment baths, “ice boots” to cool their
hardworking legs, and any number of high tech therapies. They are valuable
partners to their riders (not to mention just plain valuable), and no
one expects them to do their jobs without proper care.
Why do we expect any less for ourselves?
Yes, I am comparing myself to a horse. Bear with me.
In July and August, we’ve had punishing heat and humidity,
and I admit I’m dragging. The slightest effort outside (watering my orchids,
for example), leaves me soaked in sweat and ready for a cold drink. I’m tired.
I have no ambition. The idea of keeping after my goals, even my indoor ones,
does not appeal. I need to “summon up the blood”—find a way to motivate myself
all the way to the finish line. I’d love to skip to November when we usually
get some cooler weather and I get an energy boost, but I also don’t want to
wish away any of my life, not even the hot, sweaty bits.
At this point in the year, I’ve lost the momentum and
excitement of a new year, and the adrenaline panic of a waning year hasn’t yet
set in. (“Oh, no, it’s December and I haven’t reached my goals yet!) Until
then, how can I “summon up the blood” and maintain my motivation and momentum?
Though I’m not quite as well-cared for as Summon Up The
Blood, I am placing more emphasis on self-care right now. Since August is a low
point for me, energy-wise, now is the time to sprinkle in treats and rest
breaks. August isn’t the time for me to start major new projects. It’s the time
to set small goals, and break down larger ones into ever smaller, teeny, tiny
(easily accomplished) ones. In the ongoing bathroom renovation (yes, we’re
still working on it), I’m trying to do one or two things per week. This week I
ordered the replacement globes for the light fixture and called myself done.
Now is the time to use my imagination to make the same old,
same old more fun and/or easier and quicker.
To lighten up my schedule to allow for my lack of energy.
That energy will return, as long as I don’t overdo it now.
I’ve even visited my chiropractor and had a massage to
counteract the effects of stripping wallpaper and priming my bathroom walls.
But I do draw the line at ice baths.
Do you have any tricks to “summon up the blood”?
 |
| Photo courtesy Alexas_Fotos |
Introduction by Ted Kooser: Poet Ruth L. Schwartz
writes of the glimpse of possibility, of something sweeter than we already have
that comes to us, grows in us. The unrealizable part of it causes bitterness;
the other opens outward, the cycle complete. This is both a poem about a tangerine
and about more than that.
Tangerine
It was a flower once, it was one of a billion flowers
whose perfume broke through closed car windows,
forced a blessing on their drivers.
Then what stayed behind grew swollen, as we do;
grew juice instead of tears, and small hard sour seeds,
each one bitter, as we are, and filled with possibility.
Now a hole opens up in its skin, where it was torn from the
branch; ripeness can’t stop itself, breathes out;
we can’t stop it either. We breathe in.
From “Dear Good Naked Morning,” © 2005 by Ruth L. Schwartz.
Reprinted by permission of the author and Autumn House Press. First printed in
“Crab Orchard Review,” Vol. 8, No. 2. This weekly column is supported by The
Poetry Foundation, the Library of Congress and the Department of English at the
University of Nebraska, Lincoln. The column does not accept unsolicited poetry.
Let me explain. I grew up in a home with a single mom.
Though I visited my dad, I didn’t live with him. In college, I lived in single-sex dorms, and after I college I had one female roommate before getting
married. Life in our house was feminine. Since I didn’t have anything different
to compare it with, I thought this feminine way of living was “normal.” Living
with my husband, and eventually our son, proved eye opening, to say the least.
Here are some areas I’ve found living with men different
from living with women. (In case you are unclear, I’m about to make some major,
tongue-in-cheek, generalizations. Your mileage may vary. In other words, please
don’t send me letters.)
Men laugh at different things than women do, often involving
bodily functions or slapstick-y pratfalls. Most women I know don’t find The
Three Stooges all that funny, for example. Men’s humor tends to be insulting
and directed at others. Women tend not to tease as much for fear of hurting
someone’s feelings. We tend to prefer clever, witty jokes, puns, and stories—we
like to use humor to connect with others. (Hey, I told you I was going to be
making generalizations, didn’t I?)
Here’s a quiz for you: Which of these foods would typically
be ordered by a man versus a woman at a restaurant? Wings or quiche? A
double-decker cheeseburger or a large chopped salad? I’m not saying the woman
wouldn’t want the cheeseburger or wings, just that she probably will not
order either, especially if dining with someone else. What I cook for my
masculine family is considerably different from what I cook for just myself, or
for a female friend or relative with no guys around. Artichoke hearts and goat
cheese never figure in meals I cook for my guys. Velveeta is not a crucial
ingredient in hors d’oeuvres I serve my female friends.
Noise. When my son was still tiny, I bought the following
saying, framed, somehow divining the truth about boys: “A boy is noise with
dirt on it.” Most women I know go through life with the tread of a cat burglar,
do not slam cupboard (or microwave or bedroom) doors, do not clang spoons and
clatter plates on the counter. My husband is an exception (thank you, Dear),
but I’ve found that once a man is awake in the morning, so is everyone else.
In a family composed primarily of men and boys, family
outings tend to be activities you do (mountain biking, swimming, hiking,
fishing), rather than passively observe (movies, window shopping). And you will
likely never get your family of guys to partake of high tea, complete
with scones and little crust-less sandwiches (see: Food).
 |
| Hiking in Yellowstone National Park |
Which brings me to energy. The energy of men has a different
feel to it—a combo of testosterone and Funyuns, perhaps? Women don’t have less
energy (some have considerably more), but it has a different feel, sort of like
an underground power source, always humming in the background.
Physical strength. While I pride myself on being
strong—opening jars, lifting 50-pound bags of horse supplements—it’s nice to
have someone who can do it for me, and do it easily. Just because I can do
it doesn’t mean I always want to.
Tolerance for smells. ’Nuff said.
To this woman, men can be puzzling, exotic creatures,
sometimes exasperating and insensitive. But they can also be wonderfully tender
and loving, and hugs from my husband and son bring me pure joy. While I often
feel more understood and accepted among my female family and friends, I value
the different perspective my male relatives and friends bring to life. Living
with men has made me a stronger, more balanced, more adventurous person. I
wouldn’t trade this everyday adventure for all the scones in the world.
What differences have you found in living with the opposite sex?
 |
| My men |
“Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or
consumed. Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with
love, grace, and gratitude.”
—Denis Waitley
I enjoy Beatrix Potter’s children’s tales with their
detailed and charming illustrations, but after reading a biography of her a few
years ago (Linda Lear’s excellent Beatrix Potter: A Life in Nature, see links below), my
respect and admiration for her grew until she became one of my heroes. In honor
of her birthday yesterday, I want to share with you a little of what could be
called “The Tale of Beatrix Potter.”
Once upon a time...Helen Beatrix Potter was born 150 years ago on July 28, 1866
in London. She was educated at home by governesses, as was the custom for girls
of her social class. She and her younger brother, Bertram, kept a number of
pets in the schoolroom, including rabbits, a hedgehog, mice, and bats. She
observed these pets closely, sketched them, and wrote stories about them.
During family holidays in Scotland and the English Lake District, she explored
freely, spending hours observing and sketching what she saw. From 1881 to 1897
she kept a journal (in a code that wasn’t cracked until 1958) where she wrote
down her observations.
She loved the study of natural history: archaeology,
geology, entomology, and especially mycology, the study of fungi. Scottish
Naturalist Charles McIntosh encouraged her to make her fungi drawings more
technically accurate, and her studies resulted in a scientific paper on how
fungi spores reproduce. Fungi expert George Massee delivered that paper on her
behalf at a meeting of the Linnean Society, where women couldn’t even attend
the meetings, let alone read papers. (Though I’m not enamored of mushrooms
myself, I always think of her when an interesting one pops up in my yard.)
Her earliest published works included greeting card
designs and illustrations for the publisher Hildesheimer & Faulkner. Her
work on other people’s stories made her long to publish her own, so she adapted
one of her earliest stories she’d created for a picture letter sent to the son
of one of her old governesses. In 1901, Beatrix published The Tale of Peter
Rabbit herself after several publishers turned her down. After seeing the
success of the book, in 1902, the publishing firm of Frederick Warne & Co.
decided they would publish it after all, if Beatrix would redo her black and
white illustrations in color. After that, she wrote two or three little books a
year, until 1930 when the last one, The Tale of Little Pig Robinson,
came out.
Beatrix was also a smart marketer, and created the first licensed literary character, a Peter Rabbit doll. She invented other toys, a Peter Rabbit game, and painting books for Peter Rabbit and Jemima Puddle-Duck.
In 1905, Beatrix became engaged to her editor, Norman Warne,
but sadly he died of leukemia before they could be married.
After Norman’s death, Beatrix used income from her books and
a small inheritance to buy Hill Top Farm in Near Sawrey in the Lake District.
Hill Top became a sanctuary for her, and she wrote and painted some of her most
popular tales there, including The Tale of Tom Kitten and The Tale of
Jemima Puddle-Duck. If I ever get back to England, I’d love to visit Hill Top Farm, which is part of the National Trust and open to visitors.
 |
| Potter and Heelis on their wedding day |
In 1909, she bought Castle Farm, the property across the
road from Hill Top. Beatrix wanted to preserve the Lake District from
development, and this was one practical way to do that. During this time, she
met solicitor William Heelis who helped her with her property purchases. They
married in 1913, when Beatrix was 47, and moved to Castle Cottage on Castle
Farm. Happily married for 30 years, the Heelises were deeply involved in the
community. In addition to her writing and art, Beatrix grew fascinated with
raising Herdwick sheep, becoming a respected breeder and winning prizes at
local shows. When she died in 1943, she left 15 farms and more than 4,000 acres
to the National Trust.
Beatrix Potter’s work and life inspire me. I’m amazed by
what she was able to accomplish at a time when not many options were open to
women. I hope you’ve enjoyed learning about this remarkable woman, and that you’ll
check out some of the links below.
Do you have a favorite Beatrix Potter story?
“I have just made
stories to please myself, because I never grew up.”
—Beatrix Potter
More Fun Stuff:
Many Beatrix Potter stories are available on Project Gutenberg.
Miss Potter (fictionalized movie version of her life)
Introduction by Ted Kooser: Faced by a loss, and perhaps by a loss of words, many of us find something to do with our hands. Here's a poem about just that by Arden Levine, published in 2015 in an issue of Agni Magazine. Ms. Levine lives in New York.
Offering
She tells him she's leaving him and he
bakes a pie. His pies are exquisite,
their crusts like crinoline.
He doesn't change clothes, works
in slacks, shirtsleeves rolled.
Summer makes the kitchen unbearable
But he suffers beautifully, tenderly
cuts the strawberries, pours
into the deep curve of the bowl.
She hadn't missed his hands since
last they drew her to his body.
Now she watches them stroke the edges
of the dough, shape it like cooling glass.
When the oven opens, his brow drips,
he brings his hands to his face.
American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry
Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also
supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln.
Poem copyright ©2015 by Arden Levine, “Offering,” (AGNI Magazine, 2015). Poem
reprinted by permission of Arden Levine and the publisher. Introduction
copyright ©2016 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser,
served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of
Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.
Welcome to summer reruns! About once a month, I’ll be sharing a post from the archives. I hope you enjoy this one, from 2011.
 |
| Photo courtesy D. Sharon Pruitt, Pink Sherbet Photography |
Comparisons. I can be feeling perfectly fine about myself and suddenly crash and burn because I started comparing myself to someone else…my neighbor, a fellow freelancer, a friend, even my husband! I look at my personality and accomplishments and feel inferior. How does she achieve so much in the same time I have? It sure looks like he is having a great time while I’m over here tongue-tied and sweating. You get the picture.
This is where my shaky self-esteem reveals itself. I tend to denigrate what I’ve done—“Oh, it’s not that hard to do such-and-such (because if I’m able to do it, anyone can)”—or compare what I perceive to be my weakness with someone else’s strength.
Comparisons in which I come out ahead can be dangerous, too. I become less empathetic—because, once again, if I can do it, anyone can! It’s easy to become critical of others when you “compare down.”
Guilt. I must have some sort of overactive guilt gene, because I fight guilt feelings all the time. Even when I’m occupied in something “productive” I find myself feeling guilty about not doing something else that’s productive. Crazy, huh? And the guilt alarm bells really go off when I do something just for me, which I do quite frequently despite the guilt. I may do whatever-it-is, but the guilty feelings shadow my happiness. It’s far too easy to let guilt become too large a part of the emotional landscape.
“What people think.” How many times do we do things—or avoid doing them—because of what other people think? Women especially have a hard time with this because we’re often raised to be people-pleasers. We want to be liked and we want to fit in. That’s not bad unless it causes us to give up essential dreams and parts of ourselves to do so.
I wish I could say I’ve conquered these happiness busters, but I’m still working on it. At least I’ve learned to recognize when they appear, and sometimes I even manage to banish them. It helps when I remember my belief that we’re basically all doing the best we can. Sure, we fail and make mistakes, but we’re human. At times, failures and mistakes are the best we can do while we stretch outside our comfort zones.
What are some of your happiness busters? How do you handle them?
“Make treating yourself a priority and always remember
your life is happening now. Don't put off all your dreams and pleasures to
another day. In any balanced personal definition of success there has to be a
powerful element of living life in the present.”
—Mireille Guiliano
“Sometimes letting
things go is an act of far greater power than defending or hanging on.”—Eckert
Tolle
I’ve done it a thousand times, but this time something went
wrong. I was bringing Tank out of his paddock to go up to the barn, when another
horse squeezed between us, pulling Tank’s lead rope tight. In response to the
pressure, Tank pulled back, jerking the lead rope out of my hand. Because I
didn’t have the good sense to drop the rope when I first felt a tug, the result
was a severe rope burn on the palm and middle finger of my left hand. I spent
the remainder of my time at the barn with my hand wrapped around an icy water
bottle, and the rest of the week healing.
While this was an instance of literally needing to
let go, it reminded me that there are plenty of attitudes, expectations, fears,
worries, opinions, burdens, and limitations we—I —should let go of. We’re often
taught about the importance of persevering—not so often about letting go.
I’m now of an age where letting go is taking center stage.
My son is grown and my role in the family is changing. I’m becoming less
interested in what others think of me, so I’m reevaluating what I do and how I
do it. I’m setting aside certain desires and dreams to make room for new ones.
None of this is easy, and it starts with letting go.
As you might have guessed, letting go does not come naturally to me. I’m more inclined to cling, to fight change, to stay rigid. What am I so
afraid of? Pain? Discomfort? Chaos? Pain, discomfort, and chaos are part of
life. Holding tight to that lead rope reminded me that holding on doesn’t
protect me from pain. Sometimes it causes it. And here’s the thing about
letting go:
It reduces the pain. If I’d dropped the rope as soon
as I felt Tank pull against it, I wouldn’t have gotten hurt. I don’t know why I
was hanging on so hard—there was no real reason for it. Sometimes we hang on so
hard, and for what?
It allows us to regroup and move on. Tank trotted off
only a couple of strides and the other horses did nothing but sniff noses or
flick an ear in his direction. I was easily able to collect him and resume our
walk up to the barn. Sometimes it’s only when we’ve let go that we see the way
out of our difficulty, or the excellent alternative to what we were clinging to
in the first place.
If we’re in a situation where we’re clinging hard to a
person, belief, or outcome, and we’re miserable and frustrated much of the
time, perhaps it’s time to at least consider letting go. Take a few minutes,
close our eyes, imagine what it would be like to let go. Do we feel relief?
Panic? Deep sorrow? Visualizing letting go might offer us the breathing room we
need to see a better option for moving forward. If our attitudes and
expectations rob us of happiness, we should let them go. If we’ve tied our
happiness to a particular outcome that we just can’t seem to produce, it might
be time to let that go, too.
In a case of perfect timing, yesterday, our yoga teacher,
Tina, finished the class by reading us the following poem as we lay in final
relaxation pose:
She Let Go
She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.
She let go of the fear. She let go of the judgments. She let
go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head. She let go of the
committee of indecision within her. She let go of all the “right” reasons.
Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.
She didn’t ask anyone for advice. She didn’t read a book on
how to let go. She didn’t search the scriptures. She just let go. She let go of
all the memories that held her back. She let go of all the anxiety that kept
her from moving forward. She let go of the planning and all of the calculations
about how to do it just right.
She didn’t promise to let go. She didn’t journal about it.
She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer. She made no public
announcement and put no ad in the paper. She didn’t check the weather report or
read her daily horoscope. She just let go.
She didn’t analyze whether she should let go. She didn’t
call her friends to discuss the matter. She didn’t do a five-step Spiritual
Mind Treatment. She didn’t call the prayer line. She didn’t utter one word. She
just let go.
No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or
congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing. Like
a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.
There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn’t good
and it wasn’t bad. It was what it was, and it is just that.
In the space of letting go, she let it all be. A small smile
came over her face. A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon
shone forevermore.
—Rev. Safire Rose
What are you clinging to? Is it time to let go?
 |
| Photo courtesy Maurice Muller |
Introduction by Ted Kooser: We hope that you will
visit, from time to time, our archived columns at www.americanlifeinpoetry.org,
where you may find other poems by the poets we feature. Today's is the third
we've published by Sharon Chmielarz. a Minnesota poet with several fine books
in print, including The Widow's House, just released by Brighthorse
books.
Fisher’s Club
A roadside inn. Lakeside dive. Spiffed up.
End of a summer day. And I suppose
I should be smiling beneficently
at the families playing near the shore,
their plastic balls and splashes and chatter.
But my eye pivots left to a couple;
he is carrying her into the water.
He's strong enough, and she is light
enough to be carried. I see
how she holds her own, hugging
his neck, his chest steady as his arms.
I have never seen such a careful dunk,
half-dunk, as he gives her. That beautiful
play he makes lifting her from the water.
And I suppose I should be admiring
the sunset, all purple and orange and rose now.
Nice porch here, too. Yeah, great view.
But I have never seen such a loving
carrying as he gives her. Imagine
being so light as to float
above water in love.
American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry
Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also
supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln.
Poem copyright ©2015 by Sharon Chmielarz, “Fisher's Club,” from The Widow's
House (Brighthorse Books, 2015). Poem reprinted by permission of Sharon
Chmielarz and the publisher. Introduction copyright ©2016 by The Poetry
Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet
Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do
not accept unsolicited manuscripts.
If I could pick one writer whose writing “voice” and persona
I would most like to emulate, a top contender would have to be Jean Kerr. It’s
entirely possible that you’ve never heard of her, so let me introduce you.
 |
| Jean Kerr, bottom, with Barbara Bel Geddes Photo via Flickr |
Jean Kerr (1922-2003) wrote plays and essays, and was most
popular in the 50s and 60s. Her essays were gathered into collections such as Please
Don’t Eat the Daisies and How I Got to Be Perfect. She was married
to the Pulitzer-prize winning drama critic Walter Kerr, with whom she often
collaborated on plays. They also had six children, five boys and a girl!
Somehow I stumbled onto her books when I was a pre-teen in
the 1970s. Why I should have found a middle-aged playwright and mother of six
so irresistible is a mystery, but I was immediately enamored. Her essays made
me laugh out loud. (Once I remember reading something of hers while in church
and muffling my giggles while my mother glared at me.) I think I identified with her because of the
picture she painted of herself: tall and less than graceful (that was me, too),
smart but slightly awkward and unsure of herself (also me). Despite “those
children, and that dog,” her life seemed full of challenging work and a loving
family. I wanted that, too.
She sounded happy.
Kerr met her husband, Walter, when she was still in college
and he was an assistant professor at a different university. They were married
in 1943, and in 1946 they wrote The Song of Bernadette, a drama that
closed after only two performances. Their later collaborations were more
successful, including a revue called Touch and Go and Goldilocks,
a musical.
Kerr’s most popular play was 1959’s Mary, Mary, a
comedy about a divorced couple discovering that they still loved each other.
One of the longest-running productions of the 1960s, it was also made into a
movie starring Debbie Reynolds. Her last play was Lunch Hour (1980), and
starred Sam Waterston and a post-Saturday Night Live Gilda Radner.
In 1957, her collection of humorous essays, Please Don’t
Eat the Daisies, became a best seller. The book was eventually adapted into
a movie (starring Doris Day and David Niven) as well as a sitcom that ran on
NBC from 1965-1967.
More of Kerr’s essays became the books Penny Candy
and The Snake Has All the Lines. In 1979, How I Got to Be Perfect
pulled together many of the essays from the previous books.
I’ve spent a few happy hours rereading Please Don’t Eat
the Daisies and How I Got to Be Perfect while I wrote this blog
post. Here are a few tidbits:
From the introduction to Please Don’t Eat the Daisies:
“I do have a compulsion to read in out-of-the-way places, and it is often a blessing; on the other hand, it sometimes comes between me and what I tell the children is ‘my work.’ As a matter of fact, I will read anything rather than work. And I don’t mean interesting things like the yellow section of the telephone book or the enclosures that come with the Bloomingdale bill….
“For this reason, and because I have small boys, I do about half of my ‘work’ in the family car, parked alongside a sign that says ‘Littering Is Punishable by a $50 Fine….’”
“Out in the car, where I freeze to death or roast to death depending on the season, all is serene. The few things there are to read in the front-seat area (Chevrolet, E-gasoline-F, 100-temp-200) I have long sine committed to memory. So there is nothing to do but write, after I have the glove compartment tidied up.”
On taking her children to the beach:
“It was my plan to loll in the deck chair and improve my mind while the happy children gamboled and frolicked on the sand. That was my plan. Their plan was to show me two dead crabs, five clam shells, one rusty pail they found under two rocks, the two rocks, two hundred and seventy-two Good Humor sticks, one small boy who had taken off his bathing suit, one enormous hole they dug (and wasn’t it lucky the lifeguard fell in it, and not the old gentleman…), fourteen cigarette butts, and a tear in Gilbert’s new bathing trunks.”
From “Letters of Protest I Never Sent”
“The Ever-Krisp Curtain Co.
Dear Sirs:
In what mad burst of whimsy did you adopt the slogan ‘These curtains laugh at soap and water’? Now, I begrudge no man his flights of fancy. We are all poets at heart. And when I purchased my Ever-Krisp curtains I did not really expect them to burst into wild guffaws or even ladylike giggles the first time I put them in the sink. (As a matter of fact, with five small boys and one loud Siamese cat I don’t want to hear one word from those curtains.) But, in my incurable naivete, I did take your claim to imply that these curtains actually survived contact with soap and water. I don’t mean I expect them to remain ever-krisp. I’m quite accustomed to ever-limp curtains. I did, however, expect them to remain ever-red with ever-white ruffles. As it happens, they are now a sort of off-pink strawberry ripple, which of course doesn’t go with my kitchen.
Ever-Disgusted”
(I also rediscovered the origin of a phrase I use from time to
time, “What I am really looking for is a blessing that’s not in
disguise,” attributed to Kerr’s mother.)
If you want to read Kerr for yourself, her books are out of
print, but used copies are available, and you can download Please Don’t Eat
the Daisies for free here. You can also check your library for her
work—mine has one of her books and one of her plays. Some of the essays feel
dated, but many of them still amuse.
You can also take a peek at the Kerrs’ former rather fantastic and unusual house (which she referred to jokingly as the “Kerr-Hilton”) by clicking here.
Funny but not mean-spirited or crass, bemused, occasionally
flustered, but always able to rise to the occasion (though not always successfully)
and laugh about it later—that’s the spirit she brought to the page. I haven’t
found another author quite like her.
Do you have a favorite not-so-well-known author? Please share!
 |
| Photo courtesy Morgan Sessions |
“Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day.”
—Henri J.M. Nouwen
 |
| Photo courtesy Valentin Sabau |
It seems like it should be simple to be kind. After all, to
be kind, we don’t have to perform extraordinary acts, give away large sums of
money, or make huge sacrifices. Kindness is a much cozier, more approachable
concept, as simple as offering a smile, a few genuine words of compassion, or a
listening ear.
Why does that feel so hard sometimes?
I’ve been thinking about kindness a lot since I wrote the
post here. Actively attempting to perform acts of kindness, rather than waiting
for an opportunity to present itself has proven to be more challenging than I
expected, even though kindness has always been a value important to me. Many
questions and decisions arise. How to be kind? Who needs kindness? What will be
the best thing to do for them? What about the man on the corner holding up the
sign? What about the emails in my inbox wanting money for good causes, causes I
believe in? What if someone takes advantage of me? This is a good chance to
give up the illusion of control. I can’t know what’s in another’s heart,
whether they’re taking advantage of me or not. I can know what’s in my
heart.
I still have a lot to learn, but here are a few conclusions
I’ve drawn after two weeks of deliberately trying to practice kindness:
Become aware. Maybe this is for me alone, but I tend
to walk around in my own little world, consumed by my thoughts and imaginings.
I’m sure I miss opportunities to be kind simply because I’m oblivious. I’m
making more of an effort to pay attention to what’s happening around me,
actively seeking ways to be kind, listening more closely to friends and family.
What you notice multiplies—noticing opportunities to be kind has opened my eyes
to more opportunities.
Start small and close. Be kind to your loved ones.
Think about what you do for your family as kind actions, not requirements.
There are a few chores around my home that I truly dislike (and sometimes
resent). When I think about them as kind actions for people I love, I’m much
less irritated by them (the chores and the people). Also think about
what acts of kindness come easily to you—maybe you love baking and sharing your
creations with others, or you’re great at finding exactly the right words of
encouragement. Start there.
Use your words. Phrases as simple as please, thank
you, can I help? might be just what someone needs to hear. Consider your
tone of voice, too. How many arguments start over tone of voice rather than
words themselves?
Fill your well. It’s hard to be kind to others when
you’re unkind to yourself. Meet your needs for rest, nourishment (physical,
mental, and spiritual), pleasure, and adventure. Don’t be stingy with yourself
so that you have something to draw from to be kind to others.
Follow your heart. When you have a kind impulse,
follow it. When faced with a choice, ask, “What would be the kind thing to do?”
Retain your boundaries. Being kind doesn’t mean being
a doormat. Kindness is not “niceness,” bending your desires to suit someone
else’s agenda.
Kindness sometimes feels awkward and scary. Putting yourself
out there makes you feel vulnerable, offering a gift that might be rejected or
misunderstood. It’s a risk you’ll have to take if you value kindness and want
to bring more of it into your life. Start small, and see where it takes you.
 |
| Photo courtesy James DeMers |
Introduction by Ted Kooser: How I love poems in which
there is evidence of a poet paying close attention to the world about him. Here
Angelo Giambra, who lives in Florida, has been keeping an eye on the bees.
The Water Carriers
On hot days we would see them
leaving the hive in swarms. June and I
would watch them weave their way
through the sugarberry trees toward the pond
where they would stop to take a drink,
then buzz their way back, plump and full of water,
to drop it on the backs of the fanning bees.
If you listened you could hear them, their tiny wings
beating in unison as they cooled down the hive.
My brother caught one once, its bulbous body
bursting with water, beating itself against
the smooth glass wall of the canning jar.
He lit a match, dropped it in, but nothing
happened. The match went out and the bee
swam through the mix of sulfur and smoke
until my brother let it out. It flew straight
back to the hive. Later, we skinny-dipped
in the pond, the three of us, the August sun
melting the world around us as if it were
wax. In the cool of the evening, we walked
home, pond water still dripping from our skin,
glistening and twinkling like starlight.
American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation
(www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported
by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem
copyright ©2009 by Angelo Giambra, whose most recent book of poetry is “Oranges
and Eggs,” Finishing Line Press, 2010. Poem reprinted from the “South Dakota
Review,” Vol. 47, no. 4, Winter 2009, by permission of Angelo Giambra and
publisher. Introduction copyright © 2011 by The Poetry Foundation. The
introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate
Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not
accept unsolicited manuscripts.
Welcome to summer reruns! About once a month, I’ll be sharing a post from the archives. I hope you enjoy this one, from 2011.
 |
“It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop.”—Confucius
I’m not particularly patient. I want to get things done, and I want them done Right Now. However, especially with a horse, I’ve learned that some things absolutely cannot be rushed. They take the time they take, and you’ll be much less frustrated, not to mention safer, if you relax—and sometimes throw out entirely—your expectations. For me, when I’m learning something new (or teaching Tank something new), things go better when I take baby steps. Sometimes to my embarrassment, I’ve become the poster child for baby steps at my barn as my trainer often uses me as an example of someone who takes things slowly. I am not naturally athletic, and frankly, I’m also a big chicken, so yes, I do take things slowly. When I take a step forward too quickly, I often end up taking two steps back. What works for me in riding is breaking down every new skill into small parts, then practicing those parts until I feel completely comfortable with them. Then I can move on.
Baby steps work great for other pursuits, too: cleaning and reorganizing the house, learning to draw and paint, changing diet and exercise habits and so on. The beauty of baby steps is that if each small step is solid, you’ll find yourself making steady progress. You’ll be less likely to stagger forward then backward in fits and starts. In this way, you will go slower to go faster.
Of course, this is what works for me. Each person has his or her own best method for personal growth—my baby steps may drive some people absolutely mad with frustration. This is where you must listen to your heart for direction. What works for me may not work for you, and vice versa, so please ignore this advice if you’re more like a hare than a tortoise. Few things make me crazier than to have someone tell me my way is wrong and I should do things differently!
Sometimes I get frustrated, and wish I could progress a bit faster than I do and I have to remind myself that it takes the time it takes. Overall, this slow and steady method works for me. It works for Tank, who gets anxious when he’s not sure what he’s being asked to do. We plod along, tortoise-like, but we’re going forward. And that’s what matters.
