Worship

Worship me like the Egyptians did.

Unleash the Storm

Just another little sh*tty second draft poem for you, somewhat in the same vein as yesterday's but a little more manic.  For good reason, I think. 



This poem woke me up


at 4:30 in early morning dark,
early morning befuddlement manifesting in mixed metaphors,
the lightstreaks of dreams and blood pressure
on my eyelids’ insides
and the rumble of Monday morning trashcan wheels
to the curb
transforming into a lightningthunder talking picture show.

Flatter, fainter sounds and light
grow sharper louder quicker,
shorter intervals between
till light and sound are barely a boombeat apart,
briefly heartstopping
despite my fascination and attention.

The cat, wide-eyed, leaps off the warm bed
for sanctuary in a darker windowless place.

Drumbeats on the skin-thin tabletop of the sky,
like bad manners at dinner.
Bottle lid removed, opened skies are tipped,
poured on our roof,
spiced with ice
that smatters on window panes,
like salt skittering off the plate and onto the table.

After the drenching, a sudden stop,
water and steam sheeting, dripping,
like opening the dishwasher mid-cycle
to add an errant spoon.

The storm takes its clouds
and goes home,
leaving a bright supermoonglowball behind
for us to play with like gleeful accidental thieves.

Welcome, spring.
Welcome, lord of spring.
You have my full attention.

Poems and Photos and Rain

It's the first day of spring, and we are wind-whipped and rain-drenched, and I am not complaining one whit about it.  For Lent, I have been working through a contemplative photography course, offered by Christine at Abbey of the Arts.  You can see some of the images I've been receiving and reflecting upon at Flickr.  For this week, she gave us a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye (click here to read it), and what I took away from the poem, among its lovely images, was this line:  "Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us / we find poems."  Then I wrote one in personal response.


Poems Hide




The poem today rests

in my lower back, which aches from sitting to write too much

(too much sitting? too much writing?);

in the painful vein on the back of my thigh just above my knee,

a veiny area that feels it might burst;

in my wet cat, caught in the raingale,

dabbed dampdry with a half-used napkin from dinner;

in the attractive silvering hair of our tax lady,

with her black Volvo and black laptop;

in the alto deeps of Amy Grant on the iPod

whose albums have been on repeat for two months;

in the raindrops on the louvered windowpanes,

drops oranged by the sodium streetlight just outside

on the curb in which flow rainstreams with yellow pollen edges.

Tonight I reinvent the fwump and revving of the furnace motor

as it blows warming air only to the top floor of our home,

find the poem in the cornbread from a mix,

sweet like cake and crusty brown on the edges from cooking two minutes too long,

in the whiny mournful cat who does not want to go outside and does not want to stay in,

in the cooling wind that enters my inefficient home to blow the curtains and the edge of the rug,

in the chore of laundry that affords warm time for prayers as I fold underwear and socks.

Perhaps I will even find the poem in the ungraded papers that sit atop my table

and weigh me down with guilt and self-criticism.

Reasons to Teach

The email came out of the blue. “From Former Student D: I know it has been a long time since I last saw you, but I would like to come in to visit you during your conference period tomorrow…if this works for you. […] If not, hopefully we can come up with another arrangement. I hope this e-mail reaches you.”

I said yes. This is a student whose time in my class and post-graduation visits I had enjoyed. I hadn’t heard from her for about three years. The last time she visited, she updated me on her challenges in her courses related to her pharmacology major at a one of our respectable state schools. I had wondered how she was doing.

Of course, when the day rolled around, I kept thinking about how much I needed to get done during those 55 minutes. She arrived right on time, a little heavier than the last time I had seen her, but still very recognizable as herself. We hugged and moved inside my classroom, and as we began to talk, all thoughts of trying to get things done that conference period evaporated from my mind.

She related her difficulties with her upper division courses, that she had graduated but with a 2.7 grade point average, that she had been unable to find a “real” job since graduating. Those realities, along with family trauma and drama, had sent her into a depressive spiral unlike any she had ever thought herself capable of. She quit receiving friends’ calls, stopped reading their texts – just turned inward and went dark.

At one point in the conversation, she said, “Ms. CGM, I’m going to show you a picture,” and pulled her camera out of her bag. She was hardly recognizable in the photo, sitting on a couch with her mother, enfleshed in exponential unhappy weight gain. “That should tell you what condition I was in.” It did.

The turnaround began five months ago. She could not identify what prompted it. She had been taking courses at the local community college all along, since her graduation with a bachelor’s degree. About five months ago, she took a half-unit physical education class that required just 25 hours in the gym for the entire semester. She met the requirements but did not go above them. And she is taking the course again. She now has a retail job and a second one-day-a-week job at an orthodontist’s office. She has started developing new-old friendships, has started going out with the girls again, is even considering the attentions of a young man in one of her classes. She is taking the prerequisites to get into pharmacy school.

What struck me about her is her ability to speak analytically about herself, with great clarity and openness about what she has learned about herself, her weaknesses, her strengths, her busted assumptions about herself, her approach to relationships. She has identified what did and did not do – she tried to save a needy friend and instead enabled the friend to be an energy-suck; she compared herself to others; she stuck with the “supposed to” program instead of listening to herself and figuring out her own needs; she did not take risks, did not take advantage of office hours, did not develop relationships with professors; she did not enjoy her four years of college. She knows what she did and what she should have done. If only I’d had that kind of clarity fresh out of college! I’m still working on that kind of clarity, or at least on doing something with the clarity that I have. She has plans for how she will take the next step. She will attend the information session for the pharmacy schools she is interested in attending. She will speak with the presenters and find out what she needs to do to complete her course correction, get back on track, and fulfill her intentions. And she will do it, too.

This is what I love about teaching high school. Every couple of years, you get one of those students, one who clicks, one who will reach out after graduation and keep the relationship going. I appreciate the adult friendships that those former students have cultivated with me. There are not a lot of them. Oh, I have Facebook “friendships” with many, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the former student whose wedding I attended several months ago, who attended my last birthday party, and who talks with me every couple of weeks about her college lit classes. I’m talking about the former student I’ve been to concerts and poetry readings with.

I often question my career choice, especially in these crazy times in education, and then one of these conversations will happen, or someone will comment on something I taught them, or some other little sign will be given...and I will be encouraged to stick it out a while longer. I keep looking for reasons to stay in this profession (I still consider it a profession); I feel as though God keeps sending me those reasons.

Cancer-free

At 9:28 a.m. On St. Valentine's Day, SurvivorMommy became cancer-free and mercifully pain-free, and stepped onshore of her new home. She was surrounded by those who loved her and whom she loved. We are better people for having known her. We are poorer for absence.

Thank you for your generous prayers. If you are willing, please continue to lift up her five children, her husband, and her family and dear friends.

I appreciate your kind constancy despite my inconsistency here in blogland.

Prayers, please

I've written about POM's sister, Survivor Mommy, before, here and here.  Things have not been going as well as we had hoped.  It's a saga too long to relate here except in short form.  Four years ago, she was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer that had metastasized to her liver and lungs.  Multiple surgeries and chemotherapies later, she has been told by her doctors that they have no other options to try. 

She was originally given six months, and four years later, she persists, through her amazing faith, her fighting spirit propelled by her five children, and the prayers of souls around the planet.  A massive seizure at Christmas (due to the brain tumor that has developed) seemed to be the turning point.  Hospice began.  Her family came from parts abroad for a two-week gathering;  a joint-cousin birthday party was held;  the last sibling left last week. 

Tonight she is in a lot of pain.  Her morphine has been increased, and she is receiving full care through the night.  It could be tonight.  Prayers are coveted.

Blast from the Past

2/3/11

Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith! That’s right. It’s 2011, not 1989, but they’re touring together again. And I was fortunate enough to be able to go. Tickets were actually a little expensive, but my sister came through and was able to get us some for free. Can’t beat that with a stick!

The venue was small. It seemed to have had a former life as a movie theater, or perhaps it was used as a church in its second act. We were sitting in the very second to last row of the entire theater. It sounds worse than it was. It was small enough that the back row was about the same distance as the back of the orchestra section in a typical modern venue. Also, the crowd was…interesting, and we were happy to be near the back in case we needed to flee. More on that later. Further, POM was sick, but we went anyway because it felt like a once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity, and she’d stayed home from work and had slept for an extra six hours; but we were happy to be in the back in case she had a coughing spell or something.

Amy led things off with “Stay for a While,” a fortuitous sign as it’s one of my very favorites of hers. MWS (his label refers to him as Smitty – LOL) accompanied her on keyboard for the first several songs. She continued with more oldies-but-greaties: “Love Will Find a Way,” “Sing Your Praise to the Lord,” “Lead Me On,” “El Shaddai,” and too many others to list here, and some new ones, such as “Better Than a Hallelujah.” Let me just say it now: Amy’s still got it. I adore her voice. No, she’s not technically perfect. But I love her voice. Her low register, her strong, dry-brush-y timbre. She talks and ad-libs a lot on stage, which is the whole reason for going to a concert, if you ask me – the singing is nice, but I want to know more of the artist’s personality and story, and Amy obliged generously. And Amy’s still pretty hip; she was the best-dressed one on stage. (Believe me when I tell you that the ‘80’s…and the ‘60’s, too…were still alive and flourishing on that stage!)

The crowd at a Christian “rock” concert is a sight for people-watchers, especially a Christian concert in the heart of a conservative enclave of SoCal. There is no typical concertgoer in SoCal, but here the anomalies abounded. From white-haired dowagers to exuberant children. From jeans to hipster duds to Sunday church suit-and-ties. From young music lovers to praise band singers, from Christian society schmoozers (“hey, honey, this is the former mayor of blahdeeblah; you know, his wife works with blahdeeblah…”) to those churchgoers who find this crowd to be old home week. And let’s not forget the ‘80’s diehards who were there to relive their high school or college glory days. Our motive for being there was to right a wrong – neither of us had ever seen Amy perform live before, a shameful state of affairs.

Mixed as it was, the crowd was also mixed in their behaviors. Many sat the whole time; some sat and swayed; others stood; some stood and swayed; others waved their arms sedately, in docile churchgoing fashion; a couple fans danced and got down, 80’s-style, with gyrations that entertained (or perhaps annoyed) everyone else sitting behind them.

I do not jest when I assert that the median age there must have been 52. I expect that at a classical concert, but not a “rock” concert. And indeed, once Michael W. Smith went on, after the intermission, many of the more, shall we say, mature couples exited politely, given MWS’s penchant for electric guitar and beat-laden songs. It was rather humorous.

We happened to be sitting just behind one of the two stationary cameras that projected the concert onto the large overhead screens. I found myself watching the cameraman and his choices of camera angles and aperture settings. I also found myself, later in the concert, wondering what he must think of this crowd, especially as Amy returned to stage to sing more of MWS’s praise-style songs. The tone changed. It was clear from the sudden choral singing all around us that many local churches use some of these songs in their own worship services; everyone seemed to know all the words. The crowd became a sea of upraised hands, folks standing, singing, swaying – different from the earlier tepid rock-and-roll swaying. At one point, MWS said, spookily, “He is here,” and went on to avow that church is not a place but is you, the people. The audience moved nearly as one, one mind, one body, one sea of waving arms. I wonder if the camera man found it cool or creepy. Or perhaps he didn’t even notice, focused, as he was, intently on his job. Or perhaps he deliberately focused, on a job he’s performed effortlessly for decades, as an excuse not to notice.

I myself wasn’t sure how I felt about the transformation. I couldn’t decide, either, if it was cool or creepy. Maybe I’ve been a stodgy Anglican for too long, but the moment felt to me more manufactured and sudden than authentic. Maybe I’m not channeling the right station anymore. I’m not sure I accept that explanation, though. I’m a fairly emotional person; I cry at practically every movie, and at every other NPR story, and sometimes even at commercials and sporting events. I even cried in church last week at the second verse of the hymn “My Faith Looks up to Thee” – too many griefs around us have been spreading lately, and we desperately need God as our guide. I don’t think I’ve lost my emotional connection to God, occasional though it is. So how to explain my uncertainty? Was I just being judgmental about the odd crowd?  Did I miss the point? It seems this will require further reflection.

Despite my reservations about the crowd and that particular moment, it was a fabulous concert and totally worth…well, I was going to say the price of admission, but that would be an insult. Let me just put it this way: POM said on the way home, “I can’t decide anymore whether the amazing Bonnie Raitt concert is still my favorite of all time or if it was this one.” The Bonnie Raitt concert is our ultimate standard for concerts.  Such is the power of Amy and her smoky, woodsy voice, and the pull of the songs, both old and new, on the heart and the memory.