Her

I think of her:

the woman,

young in 1913

who almost smirked 

in - what was it - her

high school graduation photo?

Forgotten, but not gone. 

Here on my bookcase now,

kept in a frame too small

and cheap for her.

Purchased for 4.95 to become 

an imaginary, antique friend for me.

A bell had tinkled brightly as the old door

closed behind us or maybe it was me 

cheerfully telling myself that I’d rescued her.

I suppose it never crossed her mind

to sign the back of every print 

near the date stamp

in case one of them would be dislocated 

in a hundred years. 

That’s behind us now.

She smiles.

And I think of her: 

the woman carrying water, 

who is really imaginary,

(I know, because I imagined her

a prototype 

from a colorful, collective story

of those who walk barefoot

on the back paths

of another continent

any dry, dry place,

anonymously photographed

for charity mailings.)

Yet, in a real somewhere, 

no doubt she wraps her body 

in vibrant fabric lengths

and shifts a heavy-laden pot to her head

(or, maybe, in reality, she hauls plastic jugs.)

She moves as if pain and practicality

were beauty products.

Meanwhile, I pull up the hood of my gray,

down-filled jacket against the elements

and walk out into the damp, cold north

of this continent, this time.

And I form a sharp-edged prayer

from my mesh of objections.

I am not that woman.

Not the woman whose superpower

is an expression that dissolves time.

Not the woman gracefully balancing

a heavy life without spilling.

Not her...

To which God quietly replies (again): XX

What does the horse say?

He complained that lots of the young women on his dating website say they love horses.  He explained that he’s not that guy, not the guy who wants to care for horses.  This is discouraging to him. 

I sipped my coffee and didn’t think much about it.  I may have said something inane like “I loved horses once too.”  Truth is that as a child, I would gallop down the sidewalk on my own imaginary white horse named Sugar.  I was riding to Grandma’s house to protect her from thugs. During the day, I checked all the horse books out of the school library and I read them with a flashlight under the covers in bed at night.  Although I don’t have a horse now or ever plan to own one, if I were a young woman today, in my wildest imagination, I still might say I love horses.

I grew up sensibly and left horses behind along with some well-loved dolls and Nancy Drew.  I didn’t recycle those early loves into broader animal rescues or campaigns to save the whales.  I don’t think of pets in the same category as my children.  I have moved on.  And yet, when he asked that quasi-rhetorical question, “Why do all these women seem to love horses?” I thought, for a moment, that I must know the answer, in much the same way that I think I will recall the name of the woman who sat next to me in church last Sunday if I’m given enough time.  I tell myself that I’m sure I’ll recognize it when I hear it again. 

Then this morning, I heard it again, in the thundering hooves of a herd of horses racing freely across the Idaho plains. Horses run like the wind, with heads high, manes free-falling and tangling.  They kick out at danger and heave breath through those equine noses to snort their indignation or warn one another. They are powerful and beautiful and free.    

I heard it in the sound of a Native American flute and the commentary of two filmmakers.  I saw it on Youtube through the lens of a camera.  It’s extraordinary. You can see it here: https://youtu.be/O7kbTaMoJRE

And, ah, I knew.  At one point, the music is silenced as these words come on screen: “Strong Women Wild Horses.”  One strong woman has carried a camera to document the treatment of these horses.  One strong woman describes her art, saying, “I didn’t want to be the one to focus on the dark side of it.  I wanted to show the beauty because I feel like beauty will inspire change.”  The film’s closing statement is, “The most beautiful thing is just seeing them wild.”  This isn’t about the plight of horses, but about what they are when not ‘plighted.’

And so, the second time you watch it, you 

too might glimpse why many young girls for a time intuitively choose to run as these horses run, pause and pasture as they do, lift their heads and assume a similar strong posture.  Then, as we grow into our own roles and responsibilities, our lives become fenced in. Some find safe pasture.  Some of us, tragically, are left with no alternative other than to accept our plight and even forget what life was like when not-plighted. Eventually, I'm guessing that most of us stop thinking about our infatuation with horses.  

Unless it comes up on a questionnaire, perhaps. 

Yes, I love horses.  

W&F

I lived through the era 

when “warm and fuzzy” 

was a catch-phrase 

to be disdained, 

only to trade it in for a

not-so-warm-but-very-fuzzy
popularized blend
of professional abilities
and personal agendas.
Turns out, that blanket
would bleed like madras
if you ever got it wet!

Screening,
I watched as entertainment 

converged with news,

encroached and

lapped it.
Like watching a waning moon,

facts losing ground

to deep shadow.
And I told myself,
it'll come around.

But all of the above was so-yesterday. 

Today's professional choices 

are bested by political strategizing 

from here to there 

and polentertainment 

has everyone’s rapt, 

if not adoring, attention.

Reminds me that sometimes 

wearing my clear, green sea-glass earrings 

is the best decision of my day.  

Not as a fashion statement, 

(Heaven forbid!)

but to whisper to me, 

like a insistently swishing wave, 

'on the contrary…

on the contrary…'

Where's a Wideness?

Can you love a panoramic view and still meditate? 

Meditators (do they call themselves that?) focus on the little things, discover meaning in details, and evidently, distill that perspective to carry around in their bottles and sip anytime they’re thirsty during the day.  It's restorative to meditate.  

On the other hand, it’s like me to carry a speck of lint on my shoulder undisturbed all day long.  At least it’s not a chip.  (My folks gave me a chisel when I was a child and I was told to work on my chips; I’ve been doing that dutifully ever since.  At some point later, to my surprise, I discovered that not all parents start their children off in life with tools like that.  "Work on yourself, but don’t become what you’re not."  "Shape up; don't become shapeless.")

Sometime along the way, when I wasn’t looking so closely at myself, I made friends with a few fine-tuners who have an ear for clarity, and some eagle-eyed, who can zoom in and grasp their target with precision, or the connoisseurs who sniff around the rim and taste delicately in order to discover that “Ahh!” moment. 

Of course, like every human pursuit, these things can be done badly.  The knit pickers, the know-what-I-likers, the “ah-ha” momenters who plant their personal flags on new discoveries, despite that thousands of people have been there before them. 

I wonder if someone stepped quietly onto Plymouth Rock, glanced downward momentarily for sure-footing’s sake, before lifting her eyes to the treetops where her longing was perched.  So very, so ever green.   Some ancestor of mine. 

What’s over that hill?  The wagon train scout with the fringed leather jacket and the painted pony will know first.  However, he does not come racing in, heart pumping, fists gripping and back arching to pull back the bridle, only to announce soil contents, to announce the length of needles, to announce grains of sand.  No, he will exclaim that the place shines like gold, is vast and full and simply must be seen to be believed!  And the rest will come along and soak it in, sift it out, parse it up.  As well they should. 

I know, I know:  Be thyself.  But I never suspected, until recently, that the near-sightedness of aged eyes would impair some dispositions more greatly than others?  Figuratively.  By that I mean, those who have made a life by looking closely can still look closely after much time passes.  Those who need to climb mountains for the view from the top of things are hindered by details, like the sound of our joints snapping and that stride-limiting pain in one knee.    

So, is there a tool for those who continually seek a panoramic view of life, even this side of heaven?  Did I misplace it?  

Unless You've Been Here

            It’s the sort of place that covers its tables with brown, craft paper sometime beforehand. Very likely the same girls who had set-up earlier this afternoon are taking orders now.  I can imagine them hauling out a heavy roll from storage, then rough-cutting a rectangle for this table, pinning it down with a metal paper towel stand and placing the salt and pepper shakers as bookends for the laminated list of beers before moving on to the next table.  All readied without much thought, I guess, as I trace where the wooden table now stretches beyond the too-short, paper edge.  Or maybe they had other things on their minds.  Maybe they were talking about personal problems or neighbors or work.  Or everything else they had to get done before the dinner crowd arrived. 

            I’m in that crowd, waved to this table by a friend with a smile.  And glad for that.  This place used to be a grocery store.   Repurposed the way things often are around here.  I once bought bread off a shelf about where I’m seated now.  Or perhaps canned tuna.  I’m not sure.  “Nachos,” I say, when I’m asked what I’ll have tonight.  I keep it simple because I can’t hear conversations well and I’m not sure the server will hear me either.  It’s OK.  I came for the live music.  For this musician.  

            He’s as talented as sunshine without the faintest cloud of doubt on the horizon.  As proof, the room quickly warms up to him.  He chooses his own songs for a while, blazing away with Pink Floyd, Johnny Cash, Bob Seger, a glimmer of Steve Goodman.  Then he asks what they’ll have. "Lady Gaga," they call out.  Lady Gaga?  Too many peppers in the hot sauce, I think.  He delivers a pretend Gaga song and they laugh.  Children dance like fireflies in front of the stage.  He improvises and sings about a little boy’s graham cracker.  He was a little boy once too.  I know his mother. 

            And people tell me they never expected us to move back here.  Ha.  What were they thinking?