Last Day of November

November has always been a difficult month for me...Season of death I suppose~ entering Advent, but not there yet.

It's about Matisse blue paint
on slanted attic walls,
crisp white wainscoting
and a view from above:
frozen raindrops
on bare oak branches
and Christmas lights hanging
from the eaves.
It's about moving in
and moving out
getting away
from the stinging ocean spray
salty...
well, you know what's next
after salty (in a sad poem).
It's about tears
and torn hearts
and other Hallmark sentiments,
although Hallmark doesn't
make cards for unrequited love
and getting shit on;
love 'em and leave 'em,
used and discarded:
Especially for you
When you are feeling blue
You would have had better luck
If I hadn't been such a fuck.

But it's really not about that
anymore. It's about
fresh paint
and fresh starts
clean slates
and clear...
(hearts? is that what you expected to hear?)

Well, not today
Today, it's just about
crystal prisms that catch
even the smallest
amount of Oregon light
and it's about being
eye-level with the seagulls
as I initiate the morning
with a poem
and they with flight.

Frank McCourt

Last night I went to hear Frank McCourt, author of Angela's Ashes, Tis, and Teacher Man, read with the Literary Arts Lecture Series. My last work site gave me free tickets. I was looking forward to hearing an Irish accent. I have a fondness for that accent every since my I met Annie Callan, a local writer and gentle teacher who used to call me "Wendy luv" and I not only felt like the most important person in the world, but she also made me feel like a pretty good writer. I digress. Did you know that Frank McCourt was also a teacher? He taught 33 years in the NY schools. He had stories to tell, like we all do. When asked why it took him until age 66 to publish his novel he said, "I was teaching, that's what took me so long...When you teach five high school classes a day, five days a week, you're not inclined to go home to clear your head and fashion deathless prose. After a day of five classes your head is filled with the clamor of the classroom."

When I read that in his bio I had an odd longing for days of 5-7 classes and 2-4 hours of paper grading every week night. I bitched and moaned at the time and flew into a rage every time someone said teacher's have it easy. As McCourt said, "You try it!" But last night, when McCourt called teachers heroic and an audience of 1500 applauded ~ when he would like to shoot the No Child Left Behind bill and the audience applauded ~ I had renewed pride for the my profession, for my greatest talent. Beyond writing, poetry, dancing, singing, healing, creating events, and coming up with good ideas, I am a teacher. AND I still have time to publish my book!

What are you listening to right now?

I'm listening to silence, but soon I'll hear Mozart's Serenata Notturna and Mahler's Song of the Earth with our own Taylor Schlichting on cello and the Diva singing. What is the sound of Earth? In this corner of the Nation it's been sloshy and ambiguous like the sound of bad acting in a soap opera. I think the Mahler is something about horse hoves and joy. I'd like to hear that pounding certainty again in my days. This week was full of culture (freebies no less); I heard West Side Story, Faust, and Frank Rich of the New York Times. Both WSS and Faust ended with the use of white lights and white set on center stage to represent walking into the unknown or the redemption scene in Faust. Rich didn't speak of white space, but from what he said about the media and our government (pre Tues. election) I'd venture we could use some white space, white sound at the White House. What is the sound of white space? Silent truth? Quiet wisdom?

Jump
We are not committed to this or that. We are committed to the nothing in between whether we know it or not. ~ excerpt from Silence by John Cage

Jump
Jump
Contemplation not required, not recommended, not desired.
Hatch out, tumble out with unbridled ferocity

Fall
Fall
I dream of dreaming a dream of falling
Fluid, suspended falling
swallowed by cushions of air
I float on the wake of the sky
vapors thick like honey slow my descent

I dream of dreaming a dream of falling
Lingering in the time between
the between spaces where thoughts turn inside out
where behind my eyes is emptiness - clean and pure
where all my endings become an entrance
into another beginning - a deeper recess
leagues beyond knowing

The faster I fall
the faster I fly
Am I ready?
Are we ready
for space to narrow into a thin line of nothingness and time
to turn yellow with age and uselessness
Are we ready for free fall and grace?

I dream of dreaming a dream of falling
Falling into the soil
into the space between the web, between the lace
I enter the white space
a new place
a new face
Jump
Jump

Today I listened to the cheers at Bridgeport UCC regarding the election results (even though our friend Rob lost by a few hundred votes). Lately, I hear fewer cat fights between Buddy and Tucker (maybe I don't have to get them anti-anxietmedicinene after all. Maybe they are content now with Democrats in the house). I hear more empty silence as Donna leaves again (after only being home 3 days) to work in Japan and Hong Kong. I think I hear, off in the distance, a smile returning to Denice's face. I still hear doubts in my own head about my decision to move and now I have an empty house unsold while strangers north of me are flooded out of their homes. I thought I heard God's call, but I've got some doubts about that right now too. Rabbi Rami Shapiro (who writes for Spirituality and Health) says doubt should be befriended because it melts the fire of certainty that is the antithesis of faith. If we are certain of everything we have no need for faith. "Doubt...awakens you to a compassionate curiosity rooted in a humble not-knowing that is the hallmark of mature faith." Wow, I must be REALLY mature! I hear that.