No Complaints

Sunshine and Shadow, Winslow Homer, 1872

SUNNY, CHANCE OF SCATTERED STORMS

O Memory of mine, if some trifling irritation should
happen to at any time arise and try to shape itself into
a shadow something like complaining… if, perhaps, my
pillow is too hard or soft or otherwise refuses to
cooperate with the odd shape of my head... or it
occurs to me to wonder, Did I forget to lock the door?
and I, grumbling, get out of bed and stumble twenty
feet to check — the door indeed is locked, and I am
cross about the wasted effort —

Remind me gently, Memory, about the day when I
believed I had nowhere to stay... and then about my
lying in the dark on cold faux marble tile in hostile
territory, as it seemed, behind a door marked “Detox
Intake”... about the racing heart, the inward violence,
despair thrashing crazily in a bottomless, vast lake of
peace that maddeningly would not swallow it —
serenity that would not yield....

And, Memory, allow me never to entirely forget the
brisk, efficient kindness of the human hands that
brought a blanket; tired eyes yet bright with hope that
read my vital signs; exhausted voices — gravelly with
having been pressed into shouting for ten-and-one
half-going-on-eleven brutal hours in a facility both
understaffed and overcrowded — that still could ask
with genuine compassion, Are you having thoughts of
suicide? Remind me, Memory, of that sudden and
eternal and surprising certainty: I didn’t want to die.

And then release me, Memory of mine, from history
back into life, the bliss that is this very minute, warm
and glorious with sunlight and the possibility,
however slight, of thunderstorms.

The Land of In-Between



Claude Monet, Au Parc Monceau

After an Early Supper with Friends
June 4, 2011

This is the time when shadows start to blend; the
day is not quite ended, nor has evening quite
begun. There is a kind of hush — no chorus
sounds; each noise is singular: the scrape of
Papa’s chair, a pair of doves emboldened to
converse, the bleating of a lamb. This moment
seems to stretch, the earth is sluggish in its
spinning. Is the sun reluctant to surrender at the
hour appointed? Is our star just now

Claude Monet, Evening at Argenteuil

undisciplined and truculent?

Something holds its breath; we hardly notice even
as we cease activity and rest upon a hammock
strung between the first peal and the last one of
the village clock; and then we slide upon a great
collective sigh that’s part contentment, part regret
at being not allowed to stay here in this mystic
land of in-between, this fissure in the continuity of
day and evening

Being a Seed

I am a seed that swells with earth and water.
Though my shell is hard enough to break your
teeth on, time and melting snow accomplish what
exertion never could. I am a seed that would do
nothing but to heed my longing, ancient, deep,

beyond my understanding.

I am a seed that has no memory of being planted
in this fertile land. Safe and secure, I hug my
sturdy skin around me, grateful in my tiny
burrow when the winds with frigid fury wail an
inch, no more, above. Protected and content, I rest
until awakened by the thaw that never fails to
come in season. Buried, waiting, I can feel the
change in how the planet breathes, with each
unhurried exhalation warmer till the snow
recedes, the stony ground relents and softens.
Only then do I expend the energy I hoarded
through the winter... only when the elements
cooperate and not before. I neither labor nor
procrastinate, nor do I push against the soil... it
parts for me if I am patient, just as if it were the
Sea of Reeds and I were Moses bound for Canaan.

I am a seed and more... a dainty-leaved acacia,
lavish hyacinth, a lilac bush, a rose... What do I
care, now that I know the tender sweetness of the
sunwashed air at evening here beside an age-old
forest? I have seen the jeweled curtain of the night
sky and observed as one by one the stars winked
out like servants, dutiful and self-effacing in the
slow euphoria of dawn. For certain, the Almighty
is creating me as beautiful, as useful, and as
strong.

Blackout

For Cheryl Richardson

Sunrise from Pike's Peak

I GAVE UP ELECTRICITY FOR LENT

I gave up electricity for Lent. Naturally it was unintentional — an accidental blackout due to lack of funds
and then I just forgot because my mind was occupied with, oh, who knows at any given time? ...with dust
motes, maybe, bouncing slat to slat and settling at last upon a miniblind ...with all the kinds of clouds there
are, the stacking-up ones that portend a storm, the cotton puffs, the ones that roil, and the flat, still, formless,
suffocating ceiling that can make you feel bereft, make you forget the sun is shining warm and bright above,
and don’t you love it when the jet you’re in glides up and up through mist into the blue?

Well, unintentional or not, one does the best one can in each and every circumstance. Life gives you
peaches, and what’s that about, except a chance to bake a pie, perhaps a cobbler or a tart instead... and for
a heady, hungry moment you forget your oven is, of course, electric. Damn its cold and unresponsive coils to hell!

I had a fascinating conversation with a nun a dozen years ago and never have forgotten one fine bit of
wisdom she dispensed: Thank God for everything, she said, the flat tire and the lightning strike that split the tree that
sent the limb adrift to smash the roof of your garage... and, I’m interpolating here, the power outage.

Sound advice, I’ve always thought, and meant to follow it, but first I spent an hour being sorry for myself,
and another thirty minutes self-berating. Then I basked in gratitude, not feeling it at first, just doing it, just
glancing nervously at my unruly cache of blessings, finding it a mess as I expected. Focus, focus, said I to
myself, and I began to separate the chaff and wheat and whatnot. Sooner than I had imagined, I had five or
six neat mounds of reasons to be happy. I began with you and then I took a nap.

My family and friends are nothing if not present, steady flames of energy and some of it spent loving me
and isn’t that miraculous, considering that most of what I give back is intangible — sporadic words and
thankful little hymns I dedicate to you.

And every night of this now sacred interval of dark I lit three candles — every night my private trinity of
them — one for the bathroom, one to warm my coffee cup (Elaine made coffee for me and my air pot kept it
nice and tepid), and the third for prayer and meditation and just watching it and getting lost in its forever-changing
flame.

Every night I prayed for you, and if it was because I’d nothing else to do, no music from the Internet to listen
to, it was a fine and satisfying way to spend my time nevertheless. With not as much success I tried to trim my hair by candlelight — my
bangs were hanging in my eyes in clumps — and now I look as if a two-year-old had had her way with scissors while I
dozed and there are spots of frizz and holes where hair once was, pink shiny scalp as if I had some kind of
parasite.

I swept the dust off dresser tops and desks and such with one of those green fuzzy things like hair on trolls
we used to buy. I tried to heat a bowl of oatmeal with my coffee candle, but the mixture never did congeal,
so I said, “Thank you, God, for sustenance” before I plunged into my meal of Crystal Lite and little cookies
shaped like tigers, lions, pigs and goats and antelopes and elephants... and then I chased it with a swig or two
of chocolate syrup. Took a tiny nap and thought while drifting off I’d better pitch the half-a-catfish turning
lethal in the freezer.

My kitties kept me warm. Tim placed a paw across my abdomen and purred with absolutely undisturbed
contentment. Henry buried his entire head and twitched his whiskers in my armpit, and it tickled — wicked
Henry, so aloof so long until he claimed me as his closest friend. Miles likes to lick my skin, whatever is exposed —
my toes, this time.

I rose. I stretched, I folded clothes. I swept the kitchen floor and washed the dishes, made a mental note to
take the catfish and the peas out of the freezer and to set a pan of vinegar in there to neutralize the odor. If
I started to get bored, I meditated more, remembering as Kevin Farmer teaches to include the blues if they
intruded, as they did occasionally. I contemplated poverty but I could not sustain the thought of it. When
you’re encased in cats, you feel how near abundance is, just like the sun, exactly like the sun above the black
and stormy sky. And when my power is restored — tonight or in a day or two — I’ll try to fix or
else disguise the defects in my coif... and I will hope to carry out of this experience, this accidental Lenten
sacrifice, the gratitude for simply life, sustained by energy that doesn’t flow on metal wires, that kindles its
own fires and makes a meager meal of purple water and a lump of gritty crackers more or less delicious,
manna, if you please, from heaven on a cracked Fiesta dish, and— oh, dear God, the catfish and the peas!

LEAD ME ON

On Easter, if you celebrate

no other way, at least do

this: Go out into the young

spring day, and if it rains, it

rains. Engage your senses. See

abundance in the leaves about

to open naturally... relaxed, they

do not strain or struggle in

their work, though it is necessary

to the universe. Now hear

the song that's being sung, the

constant music in the air, and feel

the breeze that strokes your face

and stirs your hair. Breathe deeply of

this sacred space, and smell the fertile

soil, the apple blossoms, promises of

lush red fruit in autumn. Snap a petal

off a daffodil—soft as a mother's cheek

and velvety. Now stretch your arms

toward heaven, if you dare, and

let this be your prayer:

Creator,

thank you for my life, which

you make fresh and new, erasing

my mistakes repented and

my sinfulness. The price was

paid, and I, Creator, I accept

your precious gift of innocence.

Unmeriting, I claim the grace

you offer— have indeed beseeched

me in my heart to take so that the

sacrifice will not be wasted and the

deed made meaningless. This day,

the next, I start at the beginning.

I am spring today— the

fertile earth, the bursting bright

green infant leaves, the redbirds

trilling winsome carols long before the

dawn. I am released. This prayer affirms

me clean and pure as at my birth.

And in my freedom I surrender, Source

of Love, Almighty Spirit, to your

wise direction, leading to my highest

good, and ask for your protection

in my journey. I am sure of

nothing but your great and loving

presence, your eternal patience with

my aimless wandering. Now lead me on.

O lead me, Father-Mother, lead us all

in glory to our perfect destination.

May it be thus. Amen.

Luc Viatour GFDL/CC

The Happy Gift of a Delighted God

A Biography Made Possible by
Unlikelies and Improbables

I forgot to say thank you, Steps that
know my feet. For just a moment I
was unaware of being grateful that
you didn’t crumble at my weight or
open up and let me fall into some
not-apparent-from-above dark shaft
that might— though it’s unlikely I
admit but then a tick spent on
remembering will buy a boatload of
unlikelies, a great many more
improbables with just enough
impossibles thrown in to constitute
a whole biography— be lying
underneath the sod that hides the
fragile crust, be wide enough for
such a body as is mine, and slice
through all the strata to the hot
ferrous core of the planet.

Well, there you have it. Short story
long, it satisfies me to report the
sidewalk, lawn, and steps and
geologic layers I forget the names of
held me in the sky again. Such
benefits should not be taken lightly
when entire nations tread uneasily
on acres of swiss cheese covered
with a tissue, land mines hidden in
its shallow indentations, people
venturing upon remote paths and
fallow farmland fearfully if they go
anywhere at all. Well, it’s unlikely
that my daughter’s yard conceals
explosives, it’s improbable that
bombs are ticking in the cellar, one
less thing to fret about and so we
get to be a little bit upset about
plaintain among the fescue or
whatever. (Let me recommend the
use of vinegar instead of herbicide
or better yet a kettle full of boiling
water which won’t harm the other
growing stuff nearby.)

Is it so little, not succumbing to the
force of gravity, not becoming Alice
underground, not encountering a
tardy rabbit one might feel obliged
to chase as one approached the
door and thank you God and keepers
of the peace for that and warriors
and heroes too with reasons we’ve
forgotten not to keep it... not to
mention subatomic particles that
whip about their minuscule universe
at speeds with miles of zeros
somehow keeping molecules and
moons, what we call matter,
seeming solid? Is it worth emotion,
tears, and trembling to be still
intact after a mere kilometer’s
journey? Probably... as millions
might attest who hide with rare
success from scary guys with guns,
fanatics with a mission they’re
convinced is holy straight from
heaven, close enough at any rate,
come via their commander so-and-so,
the biggest fellow with the
largest weapon. Safe for now from
him I go into the cheering
lamplight; what I find illuminated
ought to take my breath away if I
had not been sated by this time
with gratefulness, and it is this:

Blessed recognition. I am like poor Lili
from the town of Mira; everybody
knows my name and they have come
to celebrate with such a smooth and
leave-you-feeling-cozy Cabernet
and Mama’s Pizza, eating,
chattering with family and friends
it’s been too long since gathered
thus in easy conversation.




Donald Zolan, Twins Kissing

I walk past a group of children. One says
that’s my grandmother with pride
of ownership. Well, and haven’t I
been lonely for that child’s voice,
missed being Mitch’s with the
emphasis on that apostrophe and S?
And so I change my destination from
the kitchen to the den and sit down
on the floor and play with Legos,
Barbies, children’s toes and noses,
let them style my hair with tiny
combs and make them say with
tummy pokes and tickles how
adorable and smart and funny
Grandma and Great-Auntie is and
wonder, how can this be ought but
the happy gift of a delighted God?

We haven’t any rights, you know.
It’s icing, all of it, that the inanimate
behaves itself and that my daughter
makes a life of love and difference
for she was born to be magnificent
defying entropy whereas the dust,
not being sentient, does what it
does swept up by wind and with no
reason to do otherwise falls
down again

Offered gratefully November 12, 2010

Fresh Paint, Same Old Wood

Outside Again

I dreamed of the farmhouse—outrageously
Victorian, the white frame house with tall-skinny
windows and fresh-creamy paint on a Nebraska
hillside, snug against a stand of trees just now
turning, just this minute in the boisterous 
dawn... the color of limes and luxuriance at the
cusp of ripeness. It's enough to give me breath, the
rolling farmland mated now with spears of
corn cascading in quivering arches to the
brown river lined with cottonwoods and
shrubbery, where the rabbits live. It is August, the
cruelest month, and the sun is just now brushing the
broad east porch, dispatching the chill with a
small, easy sweep.

Bleached oak floors in the front hall gleam now, but
yesterday was better. Then the seasoned planks 
cowered under plump wriggling baby bottoms and
chubby knees attached to a clump of ridiculous,
chuckling mopheads, fumbling with their cotton gingham
blocks or clutching soggy bears to bulging bellies. Polly
twists a silky yellow curl and with it strokes her
upper lip, now loosely bonded to her thumb. My heart
breaks a little bit from love too big to fit there and
from missing mommyhood, the minimalist existence
relagating war and pestilence to so much static behind
the urgency of locating the other pale-pink bootie
sock as the sole condition for returning equilibrium.

A small scream is instantly aborted and comes out a
squawk an octave higher than two smallish whimpers;
after just a tick — ah, there it is: a whine
of protest abandoned mid-wail. How easily I can
recall the rhythm of it, fall back into it. They fought
and lost and now are gravity's willing captives,
eyes drifted shut, squat bodies tipped like lazy
bowling pins... motionless now, but warm and
limp, trusting angels to come and lift and carry
them to waiting cribs and cradles.


Siblings, cousins, and the odd adult wore
stiff and proper faces over smirks and a few
eyebrows twitching in amusement. It was, don't you
know, High Tea, and we sipped from air cups beneath
twin walnut trees that shade the south porch. Drifting
out the door seductively were scents of bubbling
cheese and buttery onions, just-sliced watermelons and
come-hither chicken in the oven, wrapped in cloves and
peppers and my precious herbs, fresh from the broad
south window and the Herbert garden (my Dad’s term,
back when Mom started it with lemon mint), lush now
and abundant, giving off delicious hints of flavor;
clever and artistic, tucked among the granite
rocks that someone must have meant to be a
casual tumble of them strewn along a berm.

The chairs and hammocks on the lawn filled quickly, 
bliss for those who got there first. The siesta is, I
think, both self-indulgent and essential. And not
nearly long enough. The katydids' slow crescendo
was our signal to stand alert, and none too soon, as,
rested, rinsed, and powdered, a herd of toddlers
lurched from the doorway, fanned out, then landed
on my blanket. Books were thrust and lap space
claimed and tales invented on the spot. We played
bears and practiced taking turns until I got it right. I
talked like Papa Bear and Mama Bear and Baby Bear,
squealed in terror as I imagined a scared young
Goldilocks would do. Sweet faces creased in
smiles, soprano giggles warmed me to the toes. I
learned, not for the first time or the last, how large and
generous the hugs of little arms could be, and then they
watched respectfully as if I were a sorcerer while with a
stick whose tip was sharp enough I scratched their
names in that one shady spot that’s always a bit
muddy, even on the driest days.

I went inside to make pies from fat pumpkins
that only yesterday lay by untidy vines behind the
ranks of cucumbers, tomatoes, and a second crop of
carrots, thriving still because I am the mighty enemy of
aphids and red spider mites. The pies are sweet with
honey from my beehives, and molasses, just a blob, for
bite. Oh, Lord, we ate as if we’d lived till then on bark and
bugs. We laughed because we could, we were so
loose with nothing dreaded hovering. There was a
reverential silence when I whipped sweet cream (from
someone else’s cows, for now, at least) — more magic as
thick sugar clouds materialized to crown the gold-brown
pumpkin slabs, and I don’t skimp because nobody likes the
pie left over when they’ve gobbled up the cream.

Presently the cousins scrub the pans and
plates and rub the glasses to a high shine in the ancient farmhouse sink, white enamel comfortably mottled with a small chip in the drainboard; and someone sweeps the crumbs that fell and skittered underneath the table. It could tell some tales, that old, thick, serviceable oak, from six generations past. You’d think you could just flip a switch and all the conversations that have slid into the grain would bubble up again.

Now the children murmur secrets to their

books and bears and blankets, and the grownups

have a glass of light, clear Sonoita wine, or

coffee, rich and black from steamy southern

mountainsides where sun and shade are plentiful in

equal measure. A breeze hiccoughs, whispers

messages from heaven: “joy” and “bliss” and “peace,” so

why am I afraid, a little? Why is there a pulsing vein

beneath the skin of happiness, which, however, doesn’t

break when night falls, nor even when the children and their

parents have gone home?

This morning in the dawn the house is far too quiet,
unnaturally tidy — that, at any rate, won't
last. Respighi's Ancient Airs and Dances doesn't
fill the space, just glides like film along the surface.
Now I long for yesterday’s parade of sandaled
feet or bare ones, slipping up and down, up and
down the stairs on solemn errands of importance—
fetching paper and crayons, this trip, it seems. I miss
the laughter and the voices muted by old oak, the
cheerful clink of forks and dishes. Then I smile; today
I might prune roses and clip hollyhocks for lush
bouquets, and try to find a way to coexist with
aphids, and write stories, and select the
best pumpkins for the
gold-brown pies for
next time.

But I wake up in the
dark, alone, and wonder,
who am I to dream such
dreams?

Love Has Its Own Energy

Claude Monet (1840-1926), "Camille Monet at her tapestry loom," 1875. Camille Doncieux married Monet in 1870 and gave birth to two sons before dying of cancer or tuberculosis in 1879. They had been a devoted couple, and the painter— a founder of French Impressionism— was devastated by her death.

LEFT: Édouard Manet (1832-1883), "Girl in the Garden at Bellevue"
(for more on Manet, see https://www.artsy.net/artist/edouard-manet)

BELOW RIGHT:  Jean-Honoré Fragonard (1732-1806), "The Swing," oil

 on canvas, c.1767, "considered... one of the masterpieces of the rococo era....

The painting depicts a young man hidden in the bushes, watching a woman

on a swing, being pushed by a bishop. As the lady goes high on the swing,

she lets him [the 'hidden' man] take a furtive peep under her dress.

As a symbol of the loss of virginity, the lady has let one of her

shoes fly into the air. Although women wore bodices

 and the like  during this time period, they did not

use underwear...." Wikipedia

Lazy Heart

When there’s something in the air that weighs
it down—that enervating water-pollen mix,
perhaps— when the barometer has risen, or
it’s fallen, at the moment I’m afraid I don’t
remember which— and when the sky’s opaque
and dull, and even chatty cardinals don’t
communicate; a robin can’t be bothered to
investigate a sign of subterranean activity within
her territory, though it would likely yield
a meal—

and I suppose they’re healing from frenetic
spring, which, once awakened, rubbed its eyes
and surged to life, demanding that its
denizens fall smartly into place, and now
they’re taking mental-health days; we should
pay attention, for they put our human pace
to shame—

on days like these my heart is lazy. It would

love to lie about and gravitate toward

yesterday when it imagines that it didn’t have

to labor so to be engaged with people, places,

occupations. “Ah, if only now were then,” it
teases, tempting me to give it space for

wallowing, and all too soon the rest of me

would follow, and I’d wish to have my lively

children back who at the time I’d hoped

would hurry and mature and move away.

It’s true there was contentment that

eludes me now, when I have time to brood

and notice small tears in the lacy
drapery.

I tell my heart it doesn’t need to drift in

gravity’s deceptive ease, or shiver in the

clammy air, or rid itself of insubstantial
burdens. Little effort is required to ascend the
gentle path to love. The poor heart merely
must present itself and can be certain of
success, for love has its own energy, and does
the rest.

===============
ABOVE: Marie Spartali Stillman (1844-1927), "The Enchanted Garden of Messer Ansaldo" 1889. Stillman was was "a British Pre-Raphaelite painter of Greek descent, arguably the greatest female artist of that movement. During a sixty-year career she produced over one hundred works, contributing regularly to galleries in Great Britain and the United States." Wikipedia

My Hair Hurts

Find sample blogs on a gazillion topics at Alpha Inventions

The Great Awakening

When you have friends who tend to be

a little crazy (that's your preference in

friendships), there are many memorable

minutes, stretching into days and even

years, and it appears that life will always

be this way (but you are young) and the

divine dilemma is to choose among an

infinite display of wonders.

And then a clap of thunder ushers in a great

awakening and you are Wile E. Coyote being

thrust by his momentum off the cliff into thin

air, defying seven laws of physics, glancing at his

paws and seeing how they lack support; at last,

he plunges twenty thousand feet and crashes

on the desert floor, gets up, intact, shakes off the

dust, and when you see him next he’s had a

shower and he wears two Band-Aids on his

forehead crossed to form an X. He

must have bones of

Styrofoam.

My bones— Where are you, Great Physician?

You must know my bones are burning like the

sparks above a bonfire that has just caught,

flared; and my hair hurts. The weight of air

hurts. I am in a flannel nightgown. This was not

my plan for Saturday, to go nowhere, not even

down the street and back, the sky so redolent with

spring, with blooming things and sweet, clear

sunshine— and I am in my room, confined to

bed. I couldn’t manage stairs and I so wished to

see the pansies, lemon balm, and meadow sage

just planted yesterday, already

thriving in Elaine’s wee

fairy garden.

I have shingles, is the thing, and I suppose I’m

meant to find the lesson in it but my brain’s been

disconnected. I have not made friends with pain,

but it’s persistent. “Knock, knock,” pain calls

unconvincingly as if it is a neighbor bringing

cake.

“Oh, you must embrace it,” people say

when they are well, implying that they’ve faced

the awful self-absorption and unmasked the lie

that nothing else exists, or ever will, except you

and your wish to die and get it over with. My

mind says, “This will end.” I know, and I intend

to shoo it toward another victim (someone we

don't care for) straightaway (forgive me, Lord)

with any luck. But Mindfulness says, “Live

today. Be present with this moment.” Even

though this moment

sucks.

Wile E. Coyote — http://www.greatamericanink.com/
All other illustrations — http://www.vnwallpapers.com/
 

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