Last month, when I was up in Rhode Island, I was working on one of my stories by trying to ground it so that the unusual elements would be seen as a natural part of our world. It should have been easy, since I was describing natural beauty and there I was -- surrounded by the sunlit waters of Narragansett Bay in one direction and by the dazzling trees of Newport in the other direction. But it wasn't easy.
It takes constant work for me to walk a story along, not put it in a car and drive it. By that, I mean "take the time to feel and see and hear everything that's present in the episode." Many of those details will be eliminated in the end, but they still underlie the story. Eliminating them doesn't reduce their role to a blank. They alter descriptions that I do leave in. They warm up the tone I take to the characters.
And now that I've taken the time to say how I pull my hair out over this challenge, I'd better go back to pulling out my hair. And probably nobody will understand this post except another writer.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Sunday, October 12, 2014
So They Will Know and They Will Care
A few days ago, having put two new stories on Kindle, I thought how different they were in length and plot, and yet in spirit or atmosphere, they weren't that far apart. In one very short story, Gusty's Christmas, the main character is a little wind who gets carried by his older sister to a place where the trees (even those trees made into houses or boats) sing Christmas carols. For the first time in his life, the active little wind (about six or seven years old, although his age is never stated) calms down enough to enjoy listening to music, begins to day-dream and from that mood slips easily into sleep. Very appropriate for a bedtime story.
In the other, much longer tale, How Hans Christian Andersen Got Famous, one of the characters is also a wind, but he's overshadowed by his playmate, a young boy who meets Mr. Andersen and decides to tell him every odd story he hears about in the hopes that the story-teller will make a fairy tale out of it. As I was finishing up, I realized that in many ways that young boy is very much like me when I was his age (also never stated but about 10 or 12). I never knew any authors, but I lived in the library where all the novels and biographies came dazzlingly alive for me. The children's room was up a long, long staircase, which always seemed like the path to a wonderland. I never put it in those words, of course, but I was aware of a deep excitement every time I climbed it, an eagerness to get to a magic kingdom.
When I wasn't in the library and was visiting friends, I used to try to get my friends' mothers to talk to me about their lives. I wanted the stories of their childhoods, and if they came from another country, I would feel the aura of that foreign land around them. I wanted my grandmother and my great-uncle to tell me about their lives growing up and especially, more than anything, exactly where in Europe their parents came from. They never knew! They never cared! I could hardly believe it.
I had fallen in love with Europe. I had also fallen in love with the past. And I'm sure all that came from the books I read, the church I went to, which was designed after a medieval French church, and the nearby Cloisters, that was a world in itself of beauty and antiquity.
One of the historical novels I loved the most as a child -- and still love -- was Mary Mapes Dodge's Hans Brinker or the Silver Skates. She put so much of Holland into it that reading it was like being there. I didn't know until a few years ago that she had never been there, that she had gotten the information from her neighbors. Reading it was a total immersion into another culture that was friendly and completely different at the same time.
About ten years ago, I came across Ouida's A Dog of Flanders and The Nuremberg Stove, both of which had me completely enchanted from the opening sentence. All I have to do is open a page in either story and I'm engulfed by the poetry and pathos of her world.
In the stories I've written about Denmark I would like the same thing to happen to my readers, that they'll be drawn into an atmosphere that has a lot of tenderness in it, that they'll feel a close connection to the characters and their families, that they'll learn a little something about a different country, and that they'll end the story feeling they've had not only a good read but a good time.
In the other, much longer tale, How Hans Christian Andersen Got Famous, one of the characters is also a wind, but he's overshadowed by his playmate, a young boy who meets Mr. Andersen and decides to tell him every odd story he hears about in the hopes that the story-teller will make a fairy tale out of it. As I was finishing up, I realized that in many ways that young boy is very much like me when I was his age (also never stated but about 10 or 12). I never knew any authors, but I lived in the library where all the novels and biographies came dazzlingly alive for me. The children's room was up a long, long staircase, which always seemed like the path to a wonderland. I never put it in those words, of course, but I was aware of a deep excitement every time I climbed it, an eagerness to get to a magic kingdom.
When I wasn't in the library and was visiting friends, I used to try to get my friends' mothers to talk to me about their lives. I wanted the stories of their childhoods, and if they came from another country, I would feel the aura of that foreign land around them. I wanted my grandmother and my great-uncle to tell me about their lives growing up and especially, more than anything, exactly where in Europe their parents came from. They never knew! They never cared! I could hardly believe it.
I had fallen in love with Europe. I had also fallen in love with the past. And I'm sure all that came from the books I read, the church I went to, which was designed after a medieval French church, and the nearby Cloisters, that was a world in itself of beauty and antiquity.
One of the historical novels I loved the most as a child -- and still love -- was Mary Mapes Dodge's Hans Brinker or the Silver Skates. She put so much of Holland into it that reading it was like being there. I didn't know until a few years ago that she had never been there, that she had gotten the information from her neighbors. Reading it was a total immersion into another culture that was friendly and completely different at the same time.
About ten years ago, I came across Ouida's A Dog of Flanders and The Nuremberg Stove, both of which had me completely enchanted from the opening sentence. All I have to do is open a page in either story and I'm engulfed by the poetry and pathos of her world.
In the stories I've written about Denmark I would like the same thing to happen to my readers, that they'll be drawn into an atmosphere that has a lot of tenderness in it, that they'll feel a close connection to the characters and their families, that they'll learn a little something about a different country, and that they'll end the story feeling they've had not only a good read but a good time.
Monday, September 22, 2014
The Hours
As I woke up from my nap about twenty minutes ago, I looked at the clock, saw the time (3:20), and felt an immediate response to the late afternoon. It's the kind that I've had before without talking about it. Today, I'd like to say something, however, because the hours, like the seasons, have always had a meaning for me. "Meaning" isn't exactly the right word; at lease not if that has to imply "rational meaning." "Emotional significance" is closer to the truth.
The time between two and four has a relaxing quality. It's not only relaxing but familiar and homey. It's a comfortable chair to sit down in and watch the afternoon clouds drift through the afternoon sky. It doesn't summon me to do anything. It holds me in its arms so I can take a long, comfortable nap. And the longer, the better.
Five o'clock, on the other hand, is very different. It's mildly disturbing. In fact, I don't even like to see that time represented in paintings. (I'm thinking of a particular painting by Corot, whose work I otherwise like very much.) The time when the sun seems to be losing strength -- and its light has a little gray, a little fatigue mixed with it -- drains something out of me. But as six o'clock turns into seven, I become calm and optimistic again.
Seven o'clock in the morning, by contrast, is a very tender time. I remember once thinking of it as a Benedictine time, as though a monastic bell were ringing through it. I love to walk with a seven o'clock sky over my head. The divine presence is very close, and it's all sufficient. I don't have to do anything. I'm perfect just as I am.
Eight a.m. is cheerful but it opens a doorway into chores. I'm happy to do them and to see them getting done. Nine o'clock is neither here nor there, and ten is just nine's older sister. Eleven is a bit of a trough that I slip down into, but twelve is hopping along with its promise of lunch. One p.m. has a child's freshness and brightness, and then there's two, which is where I started today, so I'll stop here.
The time between two and four has a relaxing quality. It's not only relaxing but familiar and homey. It's a comfortable chair to sit down in and watch the afternoon clouds drift through the afternoon sky. It doesn't summon me to do anything. It holds me in its arms so I can take a long, comfortable nap. And the longer, the better.
Five o'clock, on the other hand, is very different. It's mildly disturbing. In fact, I don't even like to see that time represented in paintings. (I'm thinking of a particular painting by Corot, whose work I otherwise like very much.) The time when the sun seems to be losing strength -- and its light has a little gray, a little fatigue mixed with it -- drains something out of me. But as six o'clock turns into seven, I become calm and optimistic again.
Seven o'clock in the morning, by contrast, is a very tender time. I remember once thinking of it as a Benedictine time, as though a monastic bell were ringing through it. I love to walk with a seven o'clock sky over my head. The divine presence is very close, and it's all sufficient. I don't have to do anything. I'm perfect just as I am.
Eight a.m. is cheerful but it opens a doorway into chores. I'm happy to do them and to see them getting done. Nine o'clock is neither here nor there, and ten is just nine's older sister. Eleven is a bit of a trough that I slip down into, but twelve is hopping along with its promise of lunch. One p.m. has a child's freshness and brightness, and then there's two, which is where I started today, so I'll stop here.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
The silent singing of trees
This morning when I took my walk, I was aware, as I almost always am, of the natural world that lives around and above the houses in my neighborhood. After last night's rain, the first good, soaking rain we've had in several weeks, I could hear the silent singing in the grasses and the bushes and the trees. Like a kind of needle-less acupuncture, it touches a center in my spirit that makes me very happy.
The cats and dogs I meet on my walk always make me happy and the squirrels make me laugh, but the singing in the trees takes me into a larger, more ancient world that's going to be here long after I am gone. I'm privileged now to be part of it, to be protected and uplifted by it, to be delighted by its body -- the giant trunks of the oaks, the branches that stretch across the street to the opposite sidewalk, all the shades of green which have been freshened by the rain -- that allows its voice to sing out so strongly.
The singing of the trees goes all the way up to the sky, which has its own singing that I can not hear because it transcends any ability I have. But even its silence, which is perhaps the root of its sound, takes me out of myself. The sky is not as dramatic at nine in the morning as it will be when the sun goes down, yet it can still make a dramatic impression on my heart. It engulfs me as I walk along.
If I can get away with a little more imagery, I would say that the sky is the church in which the chorus of the trees, bushes and grasses sing. And the root of their song is the earth, which for the most part is so buried under concrete and tarmac it's inaccessible. But where the trees, bushes and grasses are, the earth is allowed to be.
Poor earth! The developers have rented it the little breathing space it has because no one would buy houses in their development without some vegetation. But this morning I don't want to think along those lines. I'm just grateful for what remains -- for what exists -- and I rejoice that no one can pave over the sky or make portions of it into private property.
The cats and dogs I meet on my walk always make me happy and the squirrels make me laugh, but the singing in the trees takes me into a larger, more ancient world that's going to be here long after I am gone. I'm privileged now to be part of it, to be protected and uplifted by it, to be delighted by its body -- the giant trunks of the oaks, the branches that stretch across the street to the opposite sidewalk, all the shades of green which have been freshened by the rain -- that allows its voice to sing out so strongly.
The singing of the trees goes all the way up to the sky, which has its own singing that I can not hear because it transcends any ability I have. But even its silence, which is perhaps the root of its sound, takes me out of myself. The sky is not as dramatic at nine in the morning as it will be when the sun goes down, yet it can still make a dramatic impression on my heart. It engulfs me as I walk along.
If I can get away with a little more imagery, I would say that the sky is the church in which the chorus of the trees, bushes and grasses sing. And the root of their song is the earth, which for the most part is so buried under concrete and tarmac it's inaccessible. But where the trees, bushes and grasses are, the earth is allowed to be.
Poor earth! The developers have rented it the little breathing space it has because no one would buy houses in their development without some vegetation. But this morning I don't want to think along those lines. I'm just grateful for what remains -- for what exists -- and I rejoice that no one can pave over the sky or make portions of it into private property.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Characters who are a mystery even to the author
About two weeks ago, when I was putting some of my early readers (intended for children 6 or 7) on Kindle, I was stuck for a cover. Usually I prefer photographs to clip art, but how could I get a photograph of a wind? A little wind called Gusty is the main character, and he's about the same age as the intended reader. To complicate matters, the stories involve ghosts and a mermaid, a baby mermaid. Would anyone be willing to share with me his/her photographs of ghosts or mermaids? No, I thought not.
A bigger question, of course, is -- why are those my characters? Well, in a way, the appeal of a ghost is easier to explain than a wind. Eleven years ago, when I wrote my first Giggle story, she was just a character in a Gusty story ("Gusty Sees A Ghost"). But she soon branched out on her own, and now I have three times as many Giggle stories as Gusty stories, although hers are categorized as middle-grade rather than early readers.
Giggle is very much a nine-year-old girl. She has parents, she lives in the tower of a church, and she goes to school, where she's in third grade. But most people can't see her. That gives her a certain advantage, but it's not an advantage she takes advantage of (if you know what I mean). She has friends who can see her, and she loves being a ghost, although she explains to her human friend Rusty that she's not a 'dead person walking around.' She's a spirit, with human feelings and behaviors.
What's not to like?
I can't remember when Gusty showed up, but I grew very fond of him very fast. I like blowing around with him, and I love his family almost as much as Giggle's. He never does any schoolwork, because he lives outside the school system, and he always wants to play. He plays fair (for the most part), and when he can't get his way, he gets mad. But he gets over being mad by making a new friend.
Again, what's not to like?
Perhaps one of the best aspects of writing about children this young is that I can make the world right for them. It goes out of whack temporarily or there wouldn't be a plot, but it's basically an upbeat world, where adults do what they're supposed to do and give children plenty of space to have a good time, tackle challenges and enjoy each other's company.
I have an inner conviction that there will be many more Giggle and Gusty stories.
A bigger question, of course, is -- why are those my characters? Well, in a way, the appeal of a ghost is easier to explain than a wind. Eleven years ago, when I wrote my first Giggle story, she was just a character in a Gusty story ("Gusty Sees A Ghost"). But she soon branched out on her own, and now I have three times as many Giggle stories as Gusty stories, although hers are categorized as middle-grade rather than early readers.
Giggle is very much a nine-year-old girl. She has parents, she lives in the tower of a church, and she goes to school, where she's in third grade. But most people can't see her. That gives her a certain advantage, but it's not an advantage she takes advantage of (if you know what I mean). She has friends who can see her, and she loves being a ghost, although she explains to her human friend Rusty that she's not a 'dead person walking around.' She's a spirit, with human feelings and behaviors.
What's not to like?
I can't remember when Gusty showed up, but I grew very fond of him very fast. I like blowing around with him, and I love his family almost as much as Giggle's. He never does any schoolwork, because he lives outside the school system, and he always wants to play. He plays fair (for the most part), and when he can't get his way, he gets mad. But he gets over being mad by making a new friend.
Again, what's not to like?
Perhaps one of the best aspects of writing about children this young is that I can make the world right for them. It goes out of whack temporarily or there wouldn't be a plot, but it's basically an upbeat world, where adults do what they're supposed to do and give children plenty of space to have a good time, tackle challenges and enjoy each other's company.
I have an inner conviction that there will be many more Giggle and Gusty stories.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Animal Nations
About a week ago, when I was putting on Kindle my short story for children called The Cat and the Queen, I chose a cover and then decided the cover would look better if I added a subtitle. It isn't often that the right words occur immediately, but the phrase "an animal family story" came to me almost instantly, and I wrote it down before I forgot it. Even though I was the one who thought of it, I didn't understand it at first. And then I did.
The family in question in that story is a cat family, but the expression was broader than that, because the bonds in the story were broader than cat to cat. The people and the cats were an extended family. And I realized that this was true in many, many stories I've written.
When I was sending out my first novel for children, Cats, Dogs and Miracles, I got a "bite" from an editor at Dutton. She liked several things about the first chapters, but she couldn't figure out why an old lady in the story was giving a birthday party for her cat. (The story was set in a fishing village in Denmark in the 1930s, and everybody in the village was coming -- in relays -- to the party.)
I had absolutely no idea how to tell her that the ties between the villagers and their cats and dogs were so close that there really wasn't much distinction between two-leggeds and four-leggeds. Of course, I did tell her, just as I have written it here, but there was no way to convince her. It was outside her realm of experience.
That interaction with the editor taught me more clearly than anything else how much I have changed since I was a child. I didn't know any animals growing up. I was always friendly toward them, but I didn't sense any connection, and now I do -- all the time. When I take my morning walk, I usually meet a small number of dogs and cats, and as soon as I do, they fill my vision. A wide emotional space opens up, and they walk right in, straight into my heart.
They are, almost automatically, my favorite family members. I cherish them, pray for them, and just simply enjoy their presence.
Years ago, in a catalogue I can't remember, I came across a reference to animals (probably on a tee-shirt) as "other nations." I thought that was the perfect way to regard them, because it grants them the respect they deserve.
I'm grateful for being allowed to intermarry with the members of these nations who have brought such joy into my life, such warmth, and -- when I think of the cat café we have in our driveway -- such opportunities for service.
The family in question in that story is a cat family, but the expression was broader than that, because the bonds in the story were broader than cat to cat. The people and the cats were an extended family. And I realized that this was true in many, many stories I've written.
When I was sending out my first novel for children, Cats, Dogs and Miracles, I got a "bite" from an editor at Dutton. She liked several things about the first chapters, but she couldn't figure out why an old lady in the story was giving a birthday party for her cat. (The story was set in a fishing village in Denmark in the 1930s, and everybody in the village was coming -- in relays -- to the party.)
I had absolutely no idea how to tell her that the ties between the villagers and their cats and dogs were so close that there really wasn't much distinction between two-leggeds and four-leggeds. Of course, I did tell her, just as I have written it here, but there was no way to convince her. It was outside her realm of experience.
That interaction with the editor taught me more clearly than anything else how much I have changed since I was a child. I didn't know any animals growing up. I was always friendly toward them, but I didn't sense any connection, and now I do -- all the time. When I take my morning walk, I usually meet a small number of dogs and cats, and as soon as I do, they fill my vision. A wide emotional space opens up, and they walk right in, straight into my heart.
They are, almost automatically, my favorite family members. I cherish them, pray for them, and just simply enjoy their presence.
Years ago, in a catalogue I can't remember, I came across a reference to animals (probably on a tee-shirt) as "other nations." I thought that was the perfect way to regard them, because it grants them the respect they deserve.
I'm grateful for being allowed to intermarry with the members of these nations who have brought such joy into my life, such warmth, and -- when I think of the cat café we have in our driveway -- such opportunities for service.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
In Praise of Silliness
A few nights ago, after a trying day, my husband said, "Let's watch something light," so we picked a Jeeves and Wooster DVD. We'd seen it many times before, but that didn't matter. There's something about watching deliciously silly characters who have an aura of genuineness that brings you a sense of being among friends and relaxes you. Listening to the familiar dialogue is like hearing golden oldie tunes that sing in your spirit. Tension vanishes and all seems right with the world. And the feeling persists -- if nothing new comes along to shatter it -- for hours afterward.
To make my own contribution to the silliness in the world, I thought I would include here two poems from my Kindle collection, Spoons on the Moon. Since publishers and the reading public seem to want categories, I've categorized the poetry as suitable for children 6 to 8, but in reality they're for children of any age. The first one owes a debt to Dorothy L. Sayers (1893-1957), whose magnificent mystery, The Nine Tailors, taught me an immense amount about the English practice of ringing church bells. That was incidental to a completely absorbing story that I wish were better known. I have read portions of it every years since I first read it over 40 years ago. Here's the first poem:
A Family Funeral
One day Mr. Rat
lay down in the road
and said, "That's that,"
to a passing toad.
"I've nothing gained,
I'm nothing owed,
I'm free to shed
this mortal load."
His sons-in-law
like pious rats
all crossed themselves
and doffed their hats.
"Dear Father, we
have loved you well.
Now let us ring
the passing bell."
It took eight rats,
it's safe to wager,
to play him out,
Kent Treble Bob Major.
Then at a squeak
from Parson Teasel,
his family sang,
"Pop goes the weasel."
And here's another nonsense rhyme, showing cats at their most solemnly silly:
The Abbey of Cats
Every fine Sunday
on Strawberry Tor,
the abbot of cats
orders, "Open the door."
The brothers will put on
their black velvet hats
and then there's a stately
procession of cats,
Who bury their faces
in little green tins
to lick up some catnip
before singing hymns.
They dance two by two
through the abbey's old walls
and over the meadows
until their lord calls,
"It's Sunday at noon!"
And then at their shout
they toss up their hats
and run shouting about.
(The end, for now....)
To make my own contribution to the silliness in the world, I thought I would include here two poems from my Kindle collection, Spoons on the Moon. Since publishers and the reading public seem to want categories, I've categorized the poetry as suitable for children 6 to 8, but in reality they're for children of any age. The first one owes a debt to Dorothy L. Sayers (1893-1957), whose magnificent mystery, The Nine Tailors, taught me an immense amount about the English practice of ringing church bells. That was incidental to a completely absorbing story that I wish were better known. I have read portions of it every years since I first read it over 40 years ago. Here's the first poem:
A Family Funeral
One day Mr. Rat
lay down in the road
and said, "That's that,"
to a passing toad.
"I've nothing gained,
I'm nothing owed,
I'm free to shed
this mortal load."
His sons-in-law
like pious rats
all crossed themselves
and doffed their hats.
"Dear Father, we
have loved you well.
Now let us ring
the passing bell."
It took eight rats,
it's safe to wager,
to play him out,
Kent Treble Bob Major.
Then at a squeak
from Parson Teasel,
his family sang,
"Pop goes the weasel."
And here's another nonsense rhyme, showing cats at their most solemnly silly:
The Abbey of Cats
Every fine Sunday
on Strawberry Tor,
the abbot of cats
orders, "Open the door."
The brothers will put on
their black velvet hats
and then there's a stately
procession of cats,
Who bury their faces
in little green tins
to lick up some catnip
before singing hymns.
They dance two by two
through the abbey's old walls
and over the meadows
until their lord calls,
"It's Sunday at noon!"
And then at their shout
they toss up their hats
and run shouting about.
(The end, for now....)
Friday, June 20, 2014
Literary Gifts
Thinking of all the literary sources that underlie the poems in my collection, The Green Road to the Stars (that I made available on Kindle exactly one year ago), I realize that I'm a lot like a magpie, a bird that flies around picking up small glittering objects. There's something in my spirit always alert for scenes or situations -- in fiction or nonfiction -- that I can pick up and drop into my own nest.
Springtime in Britain, by the famous American naturalist, Edwin Way Teale, was a magpie's delight, a treasury of sensitive observations, literary reminiscences, and vivid descriptions of the landscape of England and Scotland. Little details noticed by his eye and ear are everywhere in my rhymes, and several poems -- "Jackdaws Nesting in a Cathedral," for example -- derive almost completely from one of his visits to ancient historical and religious sites in Britain.
Another open treasure chest is the autobiography of the English novelist, Elizabeth Goudge, whose scenic depictions in The Joy of the Snow are so fresh and densely foliated that they are like Constable's paintings. I am indebted to her as well as Teale for my poem, "Swans in the Moat at Wells," because she lived in that city as a child around 1900, and her chapters set there are a hymn to the bishop's palace and the bishop's moat with its aristocratic, bell-ringing swans.
She also gave me the rhyme "In Devon," which is based on her eerie experience of hearing -- alone -- the dawn song of a glorious disembodied voice, early one morning during World War II.
Now, just for your reading pleasure, you who are reading this blog, here is my rhyme.
In Devon
Once in a lane
by a stream's narrow bed,
a glorious voice
sounded over my head.
It wasn't a lark's,
singing everyday joys.
It wasn't a girl's,
and it wasn't a boy's.
It swelled from the grass
to the soft Devon sky.
It was clearer and stronger
and greater than I.
But nothing and no one
was over my head.
"Singing just happens
in Devon," they said.
And since I have some time, I'll also include "Swans in the Moat at Wells."
Swans in the Moat at Wells
Here's Bishop Swan of Bath and Wells
and Mrs. Swan, as though two spells
had hovered over streams and ponds
to turn a couple into swans --
A man and wife of noble race
with liquid eyes and long-necked grace.
They ring a bell to let us know
they want their tea before they go,
a tea that's made of bread and bread,
delivered at once slice per head.
"But don't they ever wish for jam?
a hard-boiled egg? A bit of ham?"
They glance at me with some disdain.
Aristocrats do not explain
to silly commoners like me
why they must have their wish for tea.
Without a napkin, spoon or cup,
they wet their bread and snap it up,
thus making it quite plain to see
that bread-and-dripping's best for tea.
They paddle off to swim back when
it feels like half-past four again.
(Note: The bishop in that part of the world is referred to as the Bishop of Bath and Wells, although in my poem the bishop has webbed feet.)
Springtime in Britain, by the famous American naturalist, Edwin Way Teale, was a magpie's delight, a treasury of sensitive observations, literary reminiscences, and vivid descriptions of the landscape of England and Scotland. Little details noticed by his eye and ear are everywhere in my rhymes, and several poems -- "Jackdaws Nesting in a Cathedral," for example -- derive almost completely from one of his visits to ancient historical and religious sites in Britain.
Another open treasure chest is the autobiography of the English novelist, Elizabeth Goudge, whose scenic depictions in The Joy of the Snow are so fresh and densely foliated that they are like Constable's paintings. I am indebted to her as well as Teale for my poem, "Swans in the Moat at Wells," because she lived in that city as a child around 1900, and her chapters set there are a hymn to the bishop's palace and the bishop's moat with its aristocratic, bell-ringing swans.
She also gave me the rhyme "In Devon," which is based on her eerie experience of hearing -- alone -- the dawn song of a glorious disembodied voice, early one morning during World War II.
Now, just for your reading pleasure, you who are reading this blog, here is my rhyme.
In Devon
Once in a lane
by a stream's narrow bed,
a glorious voice
sounded over my head.
It wasn't a lark's,
singing everyday joys.
It wasn't a girl's,
and it wasn't a boy's.
It swelled from the grass
to the soft Devon sky.
It was clearer and stronger
and greater than I.
But nothing and no one
was over my head.
"Singing just happens
in Devon," they said.
And since I have some time, I'll also include "Swans in the Moat at Wells."
Swans in the Moat at Wells
Here's Bishop Swan of Bath and Wells
and Mrs. Swan, as though two spells
had hovered over streams and ponds
to turn a couple into swans --
A man and wife of noble race
with liquid eyes and long-necked grace.
They ring a bell to let us know
they want their tea before they go,
a tea that's made of bread and bread,
delivered at once slice per head.
"But don't they ever wish for jam?
a hard-boiled egg? A bit of ham?"
They glance at me with some disdain.
Aristocrats do not explain
to silly commoners like me
why they must have their wish for tea.
Without a napkin, spoon or cup,
they wet their bread and snap it up,
thus making it quite plain to see
that bread-and-dripping's best for tea.
They paddle off to swim back when
it feels like half-past four again.
(Note: The bishop in that part of the world is referred to as the Bishop of Bath and Wells, although in my poem the bishop has webbed feet.)
Friday, June 13, 2014
Tea in the Sky?
We've had a great deal of rain this week in the Orlando area, and that condition always makes me feel very English and encourages my (English and Irish) addiction to cups of tea. For the enjoyment of other people who also love a cuppa, here's a poem that I wrote after visiting Salisbury cathedral with my husband, who held an umbrella over my head while I looked at the cathedral from the garden of the Rose and Crown (where we'd had tea, of course). The title is a pun, since the expression "high tea" is what we Americans call "supper," but in the poem it refers to having tea in the sky -- on the capstone of the spire. (For those who haven't visited English cathedral cities: the area immediately around the cathedral is usually called a "close.")
High Tea
I had my tea
in Salisbury Close
beside a stream,
behind the Rose
Among four ducks,
some passing bees,
a silver rain
and tender breeze.
But next time I
would like to try
and have my tea
beside the sky.
I'll climb the stout
cathedral wall
where rooks will help me
not to fall.
They'll lead me up
from king to saint
and keep my mind
from feeling faint.
Atop the roof
I'll pause a bit,
then ask the swifts
to finish it --
To lead me higher,
higher,
higher,
up the tower
to the spire.
Beneath a cloud
I'll rest my feet
at Capstone Inn
on Steeple Street.
The swallow hosts
will fill my cup
and talk to me
of Down and Up.
High Tea
I had my tea
in Salisbury Close
beside a stream,
behind the Rose
Among four ducks,
some passing bees,
a silver rain
and tender breeze.
But next time I
would like to try
and have my tea
beside the sky.
I'll climb the stout
cathedral wall
where rooks will help me
not to fall.
They'll lead me up
from king to saint
and keep my mind
from feeling faint.
Atop the roof
I'll pause a bit,
then ask the swifts
to finish it --
To lead me higher,
higher,
higher,
up the tower
to the spire.
Beneath a cloud
I'll rest my feet
at Capstone Inn
on Steeple Street.
The swallow hosts
will fill my cup
and talk to me
of Down and Up.
Sunday, June 8, 2014
The Medicinal Value of Natural Beauty
While my husband and I were watching Midsomer Murders last night, we agreed that the scripts aren't always as fine as they should be, although the acting and camera-work are reliably excellent, but what really attaches us to the series is the beauty of the English countryside. The gardens and hedges, the vines climbing up the front of cottages and mansions, the rich array of foliage and flowers are magnificent.
Back in the late '80s and early '90s, when I was writing the poems in The Green Road to the Stars, that I published on Kindle last year, I made several trips to England, and I wanted to capture some of that beauty in my poetry. And not only the beauty, but its effect on the our spirits. Here is a poem that I wrote in a small town in East Anglia, not far from Cambridge, where my husband was supervising a group of students from the University of Central Florida.
The Best Cure
I found a little teashop
that was quiet as a mouse
by walking down a narrow lane
where every little house
was dozing comfortably inside
without a breath of life
as though the urge to nap a while
had seized each man and wife.
The shop had big bay windows
with one tiny lettered sign
that whispered "Teas" to passersby
who had tea on their minds.
My mind was one of those, although
it had a Worry too,
all knotted up and thrashing round
till it was black and blue.
I took my Worry and myself
inside the green front door.
A bell chimed most hospitably
as though we'd met before.
The room had little tables
that were round as any plate
and pots of Busy Lizzie
to fill up the empty grate.
The door into the garden
had been propped back with a brick,
so summer sun could make the air
as warm and gold and thick
as honey or a marmalade.
A waitress dressed in blue
served scones and clotted cream and jam
and tea that was Typhoo.
As I sipped and savored these,
the garden called to me.
My eyes traced out the lazy path
of one fat bumblebee.
Suspended in the golden light
were flowers Nature grew --
roses rambling as they pleased
and hollyhocks askew.
Two tabby cats had stretched themselves
beside a basset hound,
all dozing, dreaming peacefully,
without the slightest sound.
Like me, a chalk-blue butterfly
was savoring her tea,
at rest on a buddleia bush
as still as it could be.
The little shop could well have put
the garden on the bill,
for tea and nature work a cure
as fast as any pill.
My Worry came unknotted
and was almost half-asleep.
When I strolled out, it followed me
as docile as a sheep.
(It's a pleasure to share some of my children's poems in this blog. There will be more later on in the week.)
Back in the late '80s and early '90s, when I was writing the poems in The Green Road to the Stars, that I published on Kindle last year, I made several trips to England, and I wanted to capture some of that beauty in my poetry. And not only the beauty, but its effect on the our spirits. Here is a poem that I wrote in a small town in East Anglia, not far from Cambridge, where my husband was supervising a group of students from the University of Central Florida.
The Best Cure
I found a little teashop
that was quiet as a mouse
by walking down a narrow lane
where every little house
was dozing comfortably inside
without a breath of life
as though the urge to nap a while
had seized each man and wife.
The shop had big bay windows
with one tiny lettered sign
that whispered "Teas" to passersby
who had tea on their minds.
My mind was one of those, although
it had a Worry too,
all knotted up and thrashing round
till it was black and blue.
I took my Worry and myself
inside the green front door.
A bell chimed most hospitably
as though we'd met before.
The room had little tables
that were round as any plate
and pots of Busy Lizzie
to fill up the empty grate.
The door into the garden
had been propped back with a brick,
so summer sun could make the air
as warm and gold and thick
as honey or a marmalade.
A waitress dressed in blue
served scones and clotted cream and jam
and tea that was Typhoo.
As I sipped and savored these,
the garden called to me.
My eyes traced out the lazy path
of one fat bumblebee.
Suspended in the golden light
were flowers Nature grew --
roses rambling as they pleased
and hollyhocks askew.
Two tabby cats had stretched themselves
beside a basset hound,
all dozing, dreaming peacefully,
without the slightest sound.
Like me, a chalk-blue butterfly
was savoring her tea,
at rest on a buddleia bush
as still as it could be.
The little shop could well have put
the garden on the bill,
for tea and nature work a cure
as fast as any pill.
My Worry came unknotted
and was almost half-asleep.
When I strolled out, it followed me
as docile as a sheep.
(It's a pleasure to share some of my children's poems in this blog. There will be more later on in the week.)
Friday, June 6, 2014
D-Day
On this 70th anniversary of D-Day, I'd like to give my own salute to the men involved. In his biography of Eisenhower, Geoffrey Perret gives a full picture of the run-up to D-Day, describing an aspect that most of us are completely unaware of. Despite the enormity of the preparations, there was one essential element that had to go right, and nobody, including Ike, could influence it in the slightest. That element was the weather!
The invasion was planned for June 5. But on the evening of June 2, a tense group of VIPs, including Churchill, were gathered together in the library of a mansion near Portsmouth on the English coast to hear the chief meteorologist, Group Captain John Stagg of the RAF, tell them that the forecast was "finely balanced" but "untrustworthy." (After the meeting, Ike said some very uncomplimentary but well-deserved remarks about the British climate.)
The next day, June 3, the skies were clear but the forecast was bad. Stagg announced that the weather on the 5th would be "unflyable." That was damning, because Ike would not launch the invasion without air cover. The ground forces could not carry it alone. Montgomery wanted to go ahead anyway, but Ike refused.
On the evening of June 4, the wind was terrible, and the rain was hitting the windows horizontally. But Captain Stagg looked more cheerful. He told Ike he had a gleam of hope for him. The rain would stop and the wind die down to a breeze on the afternoon of June 5, and there would even be a break in the cloud cover. That situation would last for 36 hours.
This was the moment of decision, and Ike made it. If they did not launch on June 6, they would have to wait until June 19 because of the tides, and by then there would be no moon. Besides, the Germans so far seemed unaware of the plans, but that ignorance might not last. So Ike told everybody, "D-Day is June 6."
Late on June 5, the commander of the German forces around Normandy sent a message to his forces, "There is no immediate prospect of an invasion." And hours later, 18,000 American and British paratroopers fell out of the sky.
We owe an enormous debt to all of those involved, particularly the soldiers whose names never got into the history books. Today is a good day to hold their memory in reverence. And it's also a good day to remember the man who led "the whole shebang" (his own words), for his enormous intelligence, powers of decision-making, and authoritative personality that made his successful leadership possible.
And we can remember his mother, Ida, too. She raised her six boys -- Ike was the third -- by deploying good sense, a sense of discipline, and a sense of humor. With seven brothers, she'd had plenty of practice!
Blessings on them all!
The invasion was planned for June 5. But on the evening of June 2, a tense group of VIPs, including Churchill, were gathered together in the library of a mansion near Portsmouth on the English coast to hear the chief meteorologist, Group Captain John Stagg of the RAF, tell them that the forecast was "finely balanced" but "untrustworthy." (After the meeting, Ike said some very uncomplimentary but well-deserved remarks about the British climate.)
The next day, June 3, the skies were clear but the forecast was bad. Stagg announced that the weather on the 5th would be "unflyable." That was damning, because Ike would not launch the invasion without air cover. The ground forces could not carry it alone. Montgomery wanted to go ahead anyway, but Ike refused.
On the evening of June 4, the wind was terrible, and the rain was hitting the windows horizontally. But Captain Stagg looked more cheerful. He told Ike he had a gleam of hope for him. The rain would stop and the wind die down to a breeze on the afternoon of June 5, and there would even be a break in the cloud cover. That situation would last for 36 hours.
This was the moment of decision, and Ike made it. If they did not launch on June 6, they would have to wait until June 19 because of the tides, and by then there would be no moon. Besides, the Germans so far seemed unaware of the plans, but that ignorance might not last. So Ike told everybody, "D-Day is June 6."
Late on June 5, the commander of the German forces around Normandy sent a message to his forces, "There is no immediate prospect of an invasion." And hours later, 18,000 American and British paratroopers fell out of the sky.
We owe an enormous debt to all of those involved, particularly the soldiers whose names never got into the history books. Today is a good day to hold their memory in reverence. And it's also a good day to remember the man who led "the whole shebang" (his own words), for his enormous intelligence, powers of decision-making, and authoritative personality that made his successful leadership possible.
And we can remember his mother, Ida, too. She raised her six boys -- Ike was the third -- by deploying good sense, a sense of discipline, and a sense of humor. With seven brothers, she'd had plenty of practice!
Blessings on them all!
Friday, May 30, 2014
A Twinship
After thinking about Anne Bronte so late on Wednesday, I couldn't get away from her family on Thursday, and even this morning, while I walked, I was remembering small scenes from Emily's life. Ellen Nussey saw Anne and Emily as having a kind of twinship, although they were quite different in their personalities. Charlotte said, "Liberty was the breath of Emily's nostrils," and although she could tolerate taking classes in Brussels with Charlotte since their purpose was to open a school of their own, being at home in Haworth with the moors at her back door was everything to her.
Speaking personally, I admire Wuthering Heights immensely. By any standards, it's a masterpiece. But I don't reread it very much. On the other hand, I can read her poems anytime and find myself happy to be in their world. Some of her works could be Donizetti arias -- "Cold in the earth with the deep snow piled above thee" and "Death that struck when I was most confiding" -- but even the ones with the simplest opening, like "The linnet in the rocky dells," have a powerful energy that lifts me up and does me good, although I'd be hard-pressed to explain what "good" means.
The scenes I remember from her life are the scenes everyone remembers from the biographies: Emily taking the hot poker and cauterizing the bite on her arm that could have been given by a dog with rabies, Emily kneading the dough for the family's bread with a German book propped up in front of her, Emily insisting on feeding the dogs the day before she died, even though she could hardly walk, and then dying without even being able to recognize the sprig of heather Charlotte had found for her on the moors.
In a poem I wrote for Emily, I let her speak in her own voice and say what she had no strength for and wouldn't have found any need for. but I had a need to say it for her:
Death Too Is Life for Emily, December 1848
These winter winds,
your heather,
the triune sun
we saw together,
sang to me in their glory,
"Before the daystar,
like the dew,
we have begotten you."
There is only one life,
one story.
Heathcliff and Branwell
and Anne
are a hawk and a hound
and a spaniel.
Hero and Keeper
and Flossy
are Queens of the South.
The moors in the moonlight
can rival great
Solomon's temple.
The birth of a verse
is as sweet
as the Shulamith's mouth.
(For those who don't remember Emily's life in detail: Hero was Emily's hawk; Keeper, her dog; and Flossy, Anne's spaniel. And one time on Ellen's visit to Haworth, she and the Brontes saw an atmospheric phenomenon called -- I think -- a perihelion, which shows the sun and a reflection on each side of it. Looking at the three suns, Ellen exclaimed, "Those are the three of you.")
I was happy to learn that Emily Dickinson, who had just turned 18 when Emily Bronte died, also loved her work and that one of the older Emily's poems ("No coward soul is mine") was read while Emily's coffin was lying in her house at Amherst.
Speaking personally, I admire Wuthering Heights immensely. By any standards, it's a masterpiece. But I don't reread it very much. On the other hand, I can read her poems anytime and find myself happy to be in their world. Some of her works could be Donizetti arias -- "Cold in the earth with the deep snow piled above thee" and "Death that struck when I was most confiding" -- but even the ones with the simplest opening, like "The linnet in the rocky dells," have a powerful energy that lifts me up and does me good, although I'd be hard-pressed to explain what "good" means.
The scenes I remember from her life are the scenes everyone remembers from the biographies: Emily taking the hot poker and cauterizing the bite on her arm that could have been given by a dog with rabies, Emily kneading the dough for the family's bread with a German book propped up in front of her, Emily insisting on feeding the dogs the day before she died, even though she could hardly walk, and then dying without even being able to recognize the sprig of heather Charlotte had found for her on the moors.
In a poem I wrote for Emily, I let her speak in her own voice and say what she had no strength for and wouldn't have found any need for. but I had a need to say it for her:
Death Too Is Life for Emily, December 1848
These winter winds,
your heather,
the triune sun
we saw together,
sang to me in their glory,
"Before the daystar,
like the dew,
we have begotten you."
There is only one life,
one story.
Heathcliff and Branwell
and Anne
are a hawk and a hound
and a spaniel.
Hero and Keeper
and Flossy
are Queens of the South.
The moors in the moonlight
can rival great
Solomon's temple.
The birth of a verse
is as sweet
as the Shulamith's mouth.
(For those who don't remember Emily's life in detail: Hero was Emily's hawk; Keeper, her dog; and Flossy, Anne's spaniel. And one time on Ellen's visit to Haworth, she and the Brontes saw an atmospheric phenomenon called -- I think -- a perihelion, which shows the sun and a reflection on each side of it. Looking at the three suns, Ellen exclaimed, "Those are the three of you.")
I was happy to learn that Emily Dickinson, who had just turned 18 when Emily Bronte died, also loved her work and that one of the older Emily's poems ("No coward soul is mine") was read while Emily's coffin was lying in her house at Amherst.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
I had something in mind to write today when I happened to look at the date, May 28th, and changed my plans. When I was younger, I was so immersed in the lives of the Brontes (and have never really become un-immersed) that I had no trouble recognizing today as the anniversary of the death of Anne Bronte. She died May 28, 1849 and was buried in Scarborough, where she had gone, accompanied by Charlotte and Charlotte's friend, Ellen Nussey, to spend her last days in a place she loved, where she could see and hear and smell the sea.
The account of her death in the biographies by Juliet Barker and Winifred Gerin is so moving, I can't remember reading a greater one even in the lives of the saints. She accepted what was happening, tried to be as little a burden as possible to her family, took all the nauseating and useless remedies without complaint, and waited for death to come to her with a steady strength of character.
Although I admire all the Brontes greatly, she is the one I most hope to resemble when my own time comes. I love her poetry, like both her novels and respect her willingness to write about people's appalling behavior without sugarcoating it. She looked at her employers and their children with clear eyes, and I was glad that the daughters of the awful Mrs. Robinson turned to her for wisdom and warmth even after she returned home.
I don't know if she loved her father's curate, Willie Weightman, but it wouldn't be surprising if she did, since he seemed to be thoroughly likable and genuinely, deep-down kind and self-sacrificing in the best sense. There is no indication that he loved her, so it's possible that she also had to suffer the grief of being unloved by a man she cared for very much. She also lived to suffer the agonizing loss of Emily, as well as her brother and her aunt.
Thirty years ago, I wrote poems for all the Brontes, including the parents, so I will close today's post with 29-year-old Anne's:
Anne Bronte Discloses the Secret of Her Peace
Whatever connects
God's world to this
runs through me.
Even exhausted
by four great griefs
I feel it --
a Something
stretched under
flesh and air.
My hands let go.
My feet balance themselves
on prayer.
Hour by hour
this soft sweet May,
I slip through
the open doorway.
The account of her death in the biographies by Juliet Barker and Winifred Gerin is so moving, I can't remember reading a greater one even in the lives of the saints. She accepted what was happening, tried to be as little a burden as possible to her family, took all the nauseating and useless remedies without complaint, and waited for death to come to her with a steady strength of character.
Although I admire all the Brontes greatly, she is the one I most hope to resemble when my own time comes. I love her poetry, like both her novels and respect her willingness to write about people's appalling behavior without sugarcoating it. She looked at her employers and their children with clear eyes, and I was glad that the daughters of the awful Mrs. Robinson turned to her for wisdom and warmth even after she returned home.
I don't know if she loved her father's curate, Willie Weightman, but it wouldn't be surprising if she did, since he seemed to be thoroughly likable and genuinely, deep-down kind and self-sacrificing in the best sense. There is no indication that he loved her, so it's possible that she also had to suffer the grief of being unloved by a man she cared for very much. She also lived to suffer the agonizing loss of Emily, as well as her brother and her aunt.
Thirty years ago, I wrote poems for all the Brontes, including the parents, so I will close today's post with 29-year-old Anne's:
Anne Bronte Discloses the Secret of Her Peace
Whatever connects
God's world to this
runs through me.
Even exhausted
by four great griefs
I feel it --
a Something
stretched under
flesh and air.
My hands let go.
My feet balance themselves
on prayer.
Hour by hour
this soft sweet May,
I slip through
the open doorway.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Why the Sky?
About me:
When I look back over almost 70 years, I realize I had twelve spiritual teachers when I was young. My first was the sky, the day sky of clouds and the night sky of stars. The second was the George Washington Bridge, which stretched like a low-flying angel over the Hudson. The third was my mother. The fourth was my parish church, where God lived in a beautiful gold box on the altar. The fifth was the sign outside our neighborhood synagogue. The letters looked like musical notes from the songs that the angels were singing way over our heads. The sixth was my mother's garden -- the azaleas she grew on the fire escape, weather permitting.
The seventh was the children's room in our local branch of the New York Public Library. There I first met Sara Crewe, Frances Hodgson Burnett's Little Princess, who was a spiritual master in her own right. The eighth was Anne of Green Gables and the transcendently beautiful setting in which she lived. The ninth was Louisa May Alcott's Little Women and all the stories in that series, which taught -- without preaching -- the values of practical helpfulness and emotional honesty. The tenth was the Cloisters, the museum that brought the Middle Ages alive in painting, sculpture and music, and that I lived close enough to walk to. The eleventh was rain -- spring showers, summer thunderstorms, and the cold blowing rains of autumn and winter. The twelfth was my friend Susan.
And now, after living for almost 40 years in and around Orlando, I'm a retired English teacher, a retired mental health counselor and an active writer. With the encouragement of my husband, Jerry, another spiritual master, and the warm support of my tabby Lizzie, I've been collecting my stories and poems for children as well as cat-themed (!) short stories for adults and putting them on Kindle. It's been a rich life. . . .
_______________________________________________________
Here's my first post:
When my friend's son was two years old, he wouldn't go to bed before looking at the moon. He would insist, "Moon, I want moon," and his mother would have to take him out into the driveway. If he couldn't find the moon, she would tell him it was behind the trees and would come out after he was asleep. That satisfied him. He'd had his taste of moon.
The first time I watched this, I thought back over fifty years to the time I was ten or twelve, when I would stand at the window of my bedroom and stare at the stars. I worried obsessively about getting my homework done, but as soon as I pressed my face to the glass and looked above the roofs of the neighboring buildings, I could see the stars and they obliterated everything else.
That greatness could be so tiny, that time could fall away, leaving only eternity, that I somehow belonged to the sky, although there was no visible connection between us -- all these were a miracle, an abiding astonishment.
(I learned that expression "abiding astonishment" from the Jewish philosopher, Emil Fackenheim, when I went to a lecture he gave, shortly after I graduated from college. He used it to describe an event like the crossing of the Red Sea, which leaves the participants and their descendants with a sense of awe that never goes away.)
When I think back further, I realize that my first flashes of memory also involved the sky. I had a split-second of consciousness while I was standing in my crib. I can still see the curtains of the window next to my crib as well as the sky beyond. I also remember going around the corner of the street outside our apartment building when I was three years old to get something from a "candy store," as people in NYC called a news agent who also sold candy, gum and soda. I was coming back when a storm began to blow up. I stared at the clouds and felt frightened, not for myself but for my mother who was safely inside our living room.
Years later, I asked my mother if I could really have been allowed out by myself when I was three. "Oh yes," she said, being full of confidence in me and amazingly, almost unbelievably, naïve about danger.
Our original apartment was right on the approach to the George Washington Bridge in upper Manhattan, so there was a wide spread of sky over the Hudson River, where sunsets could be dazzling. I went back to that neighborhood even after we moved ten blocks away, because I felt "called" to this big sky country (and I offer my apologies to the people of Montana, which no doubt has a better right to the title).
But beyond the beauty of the physical sky, there seems to be another dimension, at least for me. I remember when I worked as a counselor that I was always listening not only to what people said but what they meant by what they said. I wanted to learn the meaning of what they were telling me. Or in other words, why they were telling it. Usually I could do that, but one time I was so exhausted -- burned out, really -- that I couldn't get my understanding up high enough to see the point of it all. The key word here is "up."
Since "sky" is almost synonymous with "up," I think of the sky as the place where the meanings live. Where coherence lives. Where whatever pulls our stories, our poems, our lives into meaningful shape has its seat of power. But more about that later!
When I look back over almost 70 years, I realize I had twelve spiritual teachers when I was young. My first was the sky, the day sky of clouds and the night sky of stars. The second was the George Washington Bridge, which stretched like a low-flying angel over the Hudson. The third was my mother. The fourth was my parish church, where God lived in a beautiful gold box on the altar. The fifth was the sign outside our neighborhood synagogue. The letters looked like musical notes from the songs that the angels were singing way over our heads. The sixth was my mother's garden -- the azaleas she grew on the fire escape, weather permitting.
The seventh was the children's room in our local branch of the New York Public Library. There I first met Sara Crewe, Frances Hodgson Burnett's Little Princess, who was a spiritual master in her own right. The eighth was Anne of Green Gables and the transcendently beautiful setting in which she lived. The ninth was Louisa May Alcott's Little Women and all the stories in that series, which taught -- without preaching -- the values of practical helpfulness and emotional honesty. The tenth was the Cloisters, the museum that brought the Middle Ages alive in painting, sculpture and music, and that I lived close enough to walk to. The eleventh was rain -- spring showers, summer thunderstorms, and the cold blowing rains of autumn and winter. The twelfth was my friend Susan.
And now, after living for almost 40 years in and around Orlando, I'm a retired English teacher, a retired mental health counselor and an active writer. With the encouragement of my husband, Jerry, another spiritual master, and the warm support of my tabby Lizzie, I've been collecting my stories and poems for children as well as cat-themed (!) short stories for adults and putting them on Kindle. It's been a rich life. . . .
_______________________________________________________
Here's my first post:
When my friend's son was two years old, he wouldn't go to bed before looking at the moon. He would insist, "Moon, I want moon," and his mother would have to take him out into the driveway. If he couldn't find the moon, she would tell him it was behind the trees and would come out after he was asleep. That satisfied him. He'd had his taste of moon.
The first time I watched this, I thought back over fifty years to the time I was ten or twelve, when I would stand at the window of my bedroom and stare at the stars. I worried obsessively about getting my homework done, but as soon as I pressed my face to the glass and looked above the roofs of the neighboring buildings, I could see the stars and they obliterated everything else.
That greatness could be so tiny, that time could fall away, leaving only eternity, that I somehow belonged to the sky, although there was no visible connection between us -- all these were a miracle, an abiding astonishment.
(I learned that expression "abiding astonishment" from the Jewish philosopher, Emil Fackenheim, when I went to a lecture he gave, shortly after I graduated from college. He used it to describe an event like the crossing of the Red Sea, which leaves the participants and their descendants with a sense of awe that never goes away.)
When I think back further, I realize that my first flashes of memory also involved the sky. I had a split-second of consciousness while I was standing in my crib. I can still see the curtains of the window next to my crib as well as the sky beyond. I also remember going around the corner of the street outside our apartment building when I was three years old to get something from a "candy store," as people in NYC called a news agent who also sold candy, gum and soda. I was coming back when a storm began to blow up. I stared at the clouds and felt frightened, not for myself but for my mother who was safely inside our living room.
Years later, I asked my mother if I could really have been allowed out by myself when I was three. "Oh yes," she said, being full of confidence in me and amazingly, almost unbelievably, naïve about danger.
Our original apartment was right on the approach to the George Washington Bridge in upper Manhattan, so there was a wide spread of sky over the Hudson River, where sunsets could be dazzling. I went back to that neighborhood even after we moved ten blocks away, because I felt "called" to this big sky country (and I offer my apologies to the people of Montana, which no doubt has a better right to the title).
But beyond the beauty of the physical sky, there seems to be another dimension, at least for me. I remember when I worked as a counselor that I was always listening not only to what people said but what they meant by what they said. I wanted to learn the meaning of what they were telling me. Or in other words, why they were telling it. Usually I could do that, but one time I was so exhausted -- burned out, really -- that I couldn't get my understanding up high enough to see the point of it all. The key word here is "up."
Since "sky" is almost synonymous with "up," I think of the sky as the place where the meanings live. Where coherence lives. Where whatever pulls our stories, our poems, our lives into meaningful shape has its seat of power. But more about that later!
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