Month: April 2018

The extended fam rented a vacation home outside Yosemite years ago, and most members dropped in during some part of the week they could get off work. During that trip, Nephew 2 turned four. Memorably, he didn’t want a cake, so we went with what he ate the most of… a banana. Later that day, he had banana pancakes.

Years later, and every time that child comes into my house, there’s a banana in his hand. Or, in his backpack. Or, on the guest bed upstairs, something which, no matter how many times I remind him about food upstairs, keeps happening. (Along with the Legos I keep finding everywhere, but that’s another story.)

Brilliant and scattered, he wears the apologetic grin of the perpetual people pleaser. He’s turbo-carb-charged, with a lot of energy from his favorite fruit, and a lot on his mind. He still doesn’t like cake. He still prefers bananas. In his perfect world, there would be no chocolate, and banana chip cookies, instead. In some ways, he and his brother couldn’t be less alike. It’ll be interesting to see what kind of treat he requests this weekend… probably a whole bunch of bananas to himself.

Little Man at 9

hummingbird sweetness
as his busy brain vibrates
and sends him flying
into six different projects
fully fueled on yellow fruit

As always, this time of year, Nikki Giovanni’s “Allowables” comes to mind, and the indictment of the last five lines scrapes me raw,
I don’t think

Frightened

As someone anxiety disordered who is also deeply arachnophobic, the spider thing is a yearly struggle, and the struggle is real. Yet, with the exception of the odd black widow found indoors, none of these wee beasts can hurt me. None of them threaten the contents of my pantry, my person, or my livelihood. And yet, every year I completely freak out and can’t even bring myself to put a jar near them to relocate them. Every year I say, “I will do better.”

Every year that’s all I can do.

Poetry Friday today is hosted by Irene Latham at Live Your Poem.

This year I participated in the Writing in the Margins Mentor program, the first time the planets have all aligned in order for me to do so. Mentoring someone is …kind of terrifying, actually. It challenges one’s imposter syndrome, because one has to set aside the ego-driven mosquito whine of, I don’t know what I’m doing, how can I –!? and keep the mentee’s needs central to the narrative. One has to constantly loop back to the truth that theirs is the opinion is that counts, theirs are the thoughts that will shape their manuscript, and ultimately, theirs are the choices to take or set aside the advice they receive, even if the mentor is certain there’s a “better” or even a “right” way to do a thing. Mentoring sharpens mentors, through teaching them the value of honesty, of looking at things a different angle, and of repeating a person’s truths back to them at the worst moments of their journey, so that they know what they believe, and can believe in it again.

It is exhausting. It is… paying forward what was, in various ways and through various people, given to me. Thus, it is something I’m going to do again.

insight

objects in mirror
are closer than they appear

seeking our blind spots –
we polish convex lenses

’til all that we are comes clear

Oh, my GOODNESS, sometimes chamber music is just… hard. We’re doing a piece by Swedish composer Thomas Jennefelt called “Warning to the Rich,” and … it’s all humming and whispering and discordant chords and semi-choruses shouting and mocking laughter and abrupt cut-offs, and, like, wailing — I kind of hate it, but it’s also kind of awesome. I haven’t decided yet.

When I think over the years how many times I have absolutely LOATHED a song or piece we’ve started, and then come away appreciating the hard work, and absolutely loving the piece, well, it makes me laugh. Why do I even bother complaining?

s i n g