Archive for the 'creativity' Category

Missing

amywink April 27th, 2018

Missing
for Stacey 1964-2016

At any moment,
or perhaps just not any
but the moment of
happiness or need,
I stumble into the emptiness
where you were,
and falling I am swallowed
by that deep chasm
of our friendship.

What I missing now,
those moments I’d have turned
to you to celebrate
some teaching glory,
or the moment you
carried me through
some aggravation
on your sharp wit,
or when you stood fierce,
unmoving, against my adversaries,
daring those you would so happily,
so eagerly vanquish,
or when you stood
always ready to help me risk
a leap into the unknown.

What I am missing now
is how you knew me,
how you understood
what troubled me,
how you accepted
who I was without question,
and even in those rare moments
when you discovered some included flaw
suspended in the amber of my self,
how you held that relic
up to the light in wonder
and discovery of a glowing treasure
that you would turn as priceless gift instead.

Tending My Eden

amywink April 14th, 2018

img_4991-1.jpg

A stranger stopped by
yesterday to tell me he
could make my yard spectacular
by clearing what he deemed
a mess and overgrown.

I asked the price for such
a miraculous change
and knowing that it wasn’t
something I could,
or even would, afford
despite the lower
second offer, I declined
because he didn’t know
where the beauty was
in all the mess he saw.

But I know beyond the mess.

I know what delightful beauty
waits here in this wild unruly green.

What may look like death
is only dormant and
will by my patience
eventually erupt
in spectacular bloom
when I have greater
need of the glory.

I know where the memories are,
the things I’ve inherited,
and my reasons for planting
some of this rough growth
that has endured in my benign neglect.

I do not mind the mess
I am simply waiting to attend.

And by this morning,
this gardener has woken
into this cool Spring day
and with my happy spaniels,
I have begun this seasons’ work,
thinking of the loveliness I have made,
what things I know of deliberate planting,
what I understand of different
rates of bloom or the timing
of my pruning if I am to be rewarded
with the flowering I intended,
what I must by necessity
cull if everything is to grow
as well as it may, and even
what volunteers I will
allow and foster simply
because their surprise will
make this unconventional Eden new
with their blooming
if I will wait
to see what happens
in this greater undertaking.

This garden may not be a landscaper’s dream,
stripped of difference for easy mowing.
Because I have planted something else
and I myself will slowly
tend all that is growing
into the wilder beauty
that I intend for it to be.

Forty Days

amywink April 2nd, 2018

I wrote every day of Lent except two– Palm Sunday, and Holy Saturday, two days I was simply being. I do not think that is a failure of my devotion and discipline since I was not really trying to achieve a “perfect” record, but more of a mature understanding of my faith and creative practice–which did take some effort, especially at the beginning.

We think of discipline as punishment, but in this instance (and others), it’s simply the ability to keep to a task, to improve a skill or practice. I posted 37 entries here under the “Lent” category. Some days, I wrote more than a single poem, some days I wrote privately. As much as I tried to make my practice a regular timed habit, I was not able to restrict myself to a rigorous schedule because my practice actually expanded, growing into the rest of the day, beyond what I usually think of as my best writing time.

Mostly, I did write in the very early hours, in the quiet before the dawn, because that is the time I have to think without interruptions, the time to carry on this daily conversation with God. But some days, our conversation was long and it wasn’t until late in the afternoon that I found the idea I’d kneaded throughout the day, or sometimes, a lightening bolt would strike later in the day, after I’d written already in the morning.

Of course, I never ignore the lightening bolt. One doesn’t.

Kristi asked yesterday if I planned to keep doing this, writing every day, and I said yes. My forty days were about learning something new, changing the way I understood my relationship this specific creative gift, developing my relationship with the Divine, and learning how to answer what I have been asked to do. This gift is, of course, far greater than each individual poem or paragraph. It’s a gift of vision as well, a way of seeing the world and then, turning that insight into a living practice and then sharing the vision with others. I tell my students that poets are trying to communicate with their readers, trying to get them to see common things in an extraordinary way, or extraordinary things in a common way so that we may be changed in our vision through theirs. We may not always catch sight of what a poet is trying to divine for us at once, but we need to keep looking. Poets keep looking too.

Kathleen Norris wrote that a friend recommended she give up “anxiety” for Lent one year. I recognized the virtue in that and I believe I ended up doing a little bit of that as well–though it does linger, it’s significantly less– but I have come to understand that the thing I gave up was actually distance. I moved closer to God, moved closer to people, moved closer to understanding, and moved closer to being who I am supposed to be, so that I may do what I am for.

Easter: Risen

amywink April 1st, 2018

In the faces of our
fierce and brilliant youth
standing against
this petty darkness,
we see our rising.

In their faces, those we
have not forgotten,
those who walked,
those who worked,
and those who died,
we see our rising.

Together, we stand
at the threshold
of our promised land,
this life we enter
now forever changed,
knowing we will
not turn back.

We are together rising,
this fierce and unrelenting hope.

Lent: Holy

amywink March 28th, 2018

In the spring of 2016, Stacey ended treatments for her cancer. After a very difficult and almost deadly drug trial failed to affect her cancer, she had tried another as a last attempt to affect the growing tumors but the consequences were unacceptable and that treatment too had little affect. We both knew, and we talked extensively about her right to choose, accepting what it meant and knowing how little time we likely had left, and we laughed as much as we could together. I found a card to send her that extolled the virtues of friendship and how friends were there to help each other in times of crisis as long as each friend had a crisis at a different time! Since my mother’s death and her cancer spreading had both occurred that spring, I added a note “I think we’re screwed” and we laughed when she received it.

We were so screwed.

We laughed a surprising amount that spring because that seemed to be the only thing left to do as we faced what was coming and something in the joyful connection we made together each time we laughed helped us cope. I threatened her “just don’t die on my birthday” and she said she’d do her best. But the weekend after my birthday, she had what we called a spell, and entered the residential hospice after becoming unresponsive.

Everyone waited.

And she came back to us.

We both knew our time was very short. I suspected the cancer had reached her brain. We had been relieved in December before she entered the drug trial when the scans had showed no cancer in her brain but it was now May, 6 months later. We did not talk of this but I think we both knew what it might mean. She probably didn’t want to tell me.

She determined to finish the afghan she had started for my mother and I still wanted, and she was so relieved to be able to work on it as she recovered in hospice. I joked with her “just don’t leave it where I can tell you wrote “arrrgghhhh” on the cave wall.” And she laughed, and retold the story to everyone.

She returned to emailing and was so grateful to be able to write, to return to our “thinking together in writing” which sustained us during the 20 years of our friendship and sustained both of us in the last months of her life. When she couldn’t write, we texted. It was hard for her to talk on the phone so we kept the conversation going and we said everything that was important to say, everything that was important to understand about our friendship and what we meant to each other, everything we had learned from each other. The end was coming so what would be the point of not saying those things? What would be the point in not telling someone how very important she is? We said all the things. I determined I would always say all the things because what is the point of not saying what people mean, what beautiful gifts we are?

I called that time our Indian Summer and we savored every email conversation, every laugh, every dark moment we made light with laughter, every dark moment when all we could do was be with each other in that darkness. She hated that we all suffered with her illness. I reminded her that she couldn’t make us miss her less no matter how tidy she tried to make the ending. We argued about heaven (our first real religious argument) but agreed she’d be disappointed if it looked the same as what she already knew. While she talked of what she had done, I argued we were saved by grace.

Every conversation was holy.

She finished the afghan and she was so proud. She’d tried a new design, learned to sew the border on. She wanted to show it around before she sent it and I agreed she should. I was leaving to get my new puppy, James, over the July 4th weekend so we didn’t want it to be left outside while I was away. She shipped it to arrive once I was home.

The afghan was lovely, blues and cream, and I pulled it from the box so happy to have received this gift of her, made by her hands. It was so beautiful.

And I saw the mistakes.

It wasn’t an “arggghhh” on the cave wall exactly, but with those mistakes, I knew. She’d never have allowed mistakes in her work, written or otherwise, the uneven border, the missing stitches. Her OCD would not have allowed it. I knew the cancer was in her brain. I knew.

And later that week, she knew. She’d decided to try one last thing and made an appointment at Cancer Centers of America. Her husband told me how hard it was to get there but they’d made it. But her scans showed cancer in her brain. A lot of cancer. There was nothing to be done. She decided what to do and I agreed with her.

It was our last conversation.

I sent photos to her through her husband and listened for him.

She did not die on my birthday, but instead on my parents’ anniversary– which I do not think she knew. I was not alone because Kristi was visiting, which Stacey had known and perhaps she decided to go when I was not alone. I think she left things as tidy as she could, with as few loose ends as she wanted, but like I told her that would make precious little difference in our grief. When her husband called, we could not speak and we still can’t speak but we can write and we do. Our grief has brought us close, as it has brought me close to her other best friend.

But it is not tidy. We are bound together roughly, unevenly, with stitches missing and holes where they shouldn’t be.

But we are bound together and it is Holy.

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