Two Sacraments

Dear Girl Afraid of Water

Why did you scream

when your mother tossed you

in the bath, washed your hair

over plastic tubs?

Did you think

she would let you drown?

Why did you yell,

poolside at the Y,

fearful of jumping

where others were already

buoyed by their skill?

Was it senseless to think

you could float

because only Jesus did,

and you always questioned Him?

And when you took to water

gills and fins grown,

did you call out,

those cool summer dawns

at the public pool?

Did your mother watch, from steel fence

through endless laps

of crawl, breast, back and side,

inflated jeans and flannel shirts?

Did you squeal treading in the deep?

And in Oregon, when rain and wind

poured violently into the sea,

were you afraid

of what would churn forth?

Was it a baptism you felt

over and again,

a chance to come clean

of all your sins – living and dead?

2/21/13

Reconciliation

When God puts you in timeout,

it is not punishment –

to be sent

to the corner of HIs tent.

No frown forms across

His countenance,

expecting confession from the deep,

but rather

an acknowledgment –

You are there

to be forgiven

if only you embrace

this dusty corner created.

There is no stool, no wall,

no pock marks filled with putty

from toasters sailing wide.

Instead tent sides billow

with breeze and light.

He has put away

the wooden spoon, the belt,

soap for your mouth.

You will not be silenced,

nor will silence be judged.

In this bend

He has set aside

lightning, plagues, and floods,

removed bitterness and anger,

and the knife from your back.

He has set forth knowledge

flowing freely as flaps on the tent –

how to forgive yourself.

2/27/2012

Pilgrim Souls at 1419

The two of us paused for a long while in the kitchen, marveling at the marble backsplash.   We hadn’t been alone in that space, just the two, in the two years we had undertaken the venture of reconstructing this beauty. We had always been accompanied by builders, plumbers, guests, and yes, ghosts.

Hungry and ready to try out a new restaurant only four doors down, I finally broke the overwhelming silence. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” I shouted, wanting to put my voice in this space.

The home had been built in the 1870s, and consisted of three floors plus a basement. Italianate in design, it boasted no plumbing, electric, windows or stair rails, only wood floors in disrepair, a newspaper report on natural disasters from 1980s hanging in the basement, and a sprinkle of imagination and heart.

The bones of the home had been visible from the beginning. But new windows now let in new light. A kitchen had been built from the ground up. Someone (me, not servants) would cook in here again.  Children would sleep in the upstairs quarters.  A lively game of chess might break out in the front room - we are still pondering its name. Parlor? Salon?

Whereas once a family of seven, husband, wife, three daughters, two sons, occupied this home, when the move is complete, this house will be empty in the traditional sense of the word “nest”.

To the consternation of our builder and possibly the flooring crew, we chose to have the hardwood floors refinished. The floors are pine, and after staining, have a dark red hue to them.  There are plenty of gauges, scrapes, scratches, each that could tell a story.  We wanted to let the house breathe through these openings, a way of letting life back in.

And too, the builders were sure to shake their heads at the wallpaper remains that I asked them to preserve. They did so placing Hefty bags and painters tape over the paper through many months of restoration. Then one day, the bags were removed, the wallpaper remnants appeared within dark rustic frames, under looking glass. Layers of existence preserved next to the outlet for cable TV.

A fireplace surround was rescued, a limestone hearth held on fast too.  A newel post found in a scrap heap became the cornerstone for the stairs, a way of anchoring the past. A handrail was handcrafted with precision and love.  Plaster molding was meticulously restored, inches at a time.  In two rooms, the rear entry and my office, we kept brick exposed.  We had been counseled that, the original owner held a place in society and would not have left brick exposed. Laying bare the brick was our way allowing others who had called this home to also have their position duly noted.

A debate raged on for months about painting the exterior brick and limestone details.  No one was convinced one way or the other.  But painting proved to be the fresh coat this lady needed.  The highlight of the ornate limestone doorway is the face of the man who I have named Oscar, after one of the children who first lived there.  Red and white diamond shaped marble tiles were methodically removed from the front stoop.  I had watched the contractor number and remove each piece, to be locked away, then cleaned and placed on the stoop again, sidled up next to scraps of carrarra marble tile.

There is light everywhere now, not just where we could once shine our flashlight and imagine. But Thomas Edison and God light, mixing in to create this wondrous piece of work we will call home.

I say too much now, giving away the character of home, when one must truly experience it with us, through our eyes, our pictures from two years ago, taken before paint replaced must as the predominant smell.

At a recent appointment, someone who had grown accustomed to hearing my stories about OTR and its resurgence called me a travel agent for OTR.   Later in the day, a poem I found and spent my afternoon walk trying to memorize speaks of the “pilgrim soul” (WB Yeats – When You Are Old).

As travel agents, of course, we want to share with others the potential that living in the city has to offer, or for that matter, experiencing the city. Not everyone has to live in it. 

I rather like the Yeats comparison better.  We have set off for a new shore with this undertaking and will certainly find ourselves navigating new waters while our children are colonizing other worlds. Only the two of us know the moments that came before this, the ones that spurred us forward, the ones that will not grace our doorstep but through memory.

And only the two of us, having captained this vessel, can foresee that here, we will also have many moments of what Yeats penned as glad grace.

Valentine’s Day, 2013.

Stages - A Triology

So good to be writing again.  Life comes to us in stages, as do poems.

What I Hear

Bedside with you in Hospice,

I reach into my bag

retrieve stale pretzels, dog-eared notes,

an essay about you, the gardener.

Three pages long,

I am almost through.

You are blinking, groaning.

Children interrupt.

How much of my writing

did you ever read?

Children now bedside too,

You lift up your hand.

Do you want me to stop?

You mumble. I wrinkle

my forehead, unable to discern.

Children relay, He says,

I love you.

A blanket I love you

encompassing me now,

warmth for my journey.

You always wanted to be

the subject of my words.

And when words

do not turn into writing,

I hear

your whispered plea -

to go on,

go on.

July, 2012

Divergence

Driving through West Virginia,

the Appalachian Trail miles from sight.

I am blinded by blue skies,

do not see mountains or rest stops.

I only see you,

or your side,

while I sat between

you and Mom, making trips

through ranges and rain.

Howard Johnson's and Days Inn

now in my rear view mirror,

as are you.

I miss the glint of sun

shining off your watch as the dawn

struck and woke us all,

the bitter scent of aftershave,

your Cuban-dark arms,

Mom frantic over the wrong turn,

reading the Triptik,

hieroglyphics learned.

Necco wafers had long gone stale,

though you kept them

like a treasure trove.

Some slept, I followed the map,

needed a path,

the one you were driving.

Robert Frost forgive me, for the road less traveled

is not the one I want to be on.

But I am. Long stretches,

interspersed by tunnels, and suffocating silence.

I’m no expert map reader

but isn't it better to be lost?

Isn't that why you drove, to separate

from the bickering, the snoring, and chewing,

the curlers, the snacks, the books?

Isn't better to know who you are, than where?

August, 2012

 

Running Errands

The girl in me sits by your side.

The road is bumpy.

You curse county commissioners

up and down Tower Boulevard.

We stop in order – shoe store, post office,

Grandpa’s on Chris Avenue, hoping for cannolis.

At last

we arrive at Willow Hardware.

You park the Surburban -

a car rising higher than feet can touch.

I tumble out

and swing the doors to Willow wide open.

You follow me.

But then

we drift

I gravitate towards a buzzing,

the sweet scent of sawdust my nectar.

Someone is building something.

You turn towards the garden supplies, stepping

over green rubber hose.

You are seeking the shelf full

of twine, sentries wrapped in cardboard rolls.

You were raising something too.

The tomatoes, their stalks needed

staking and prodding,

a firm grip to grow

and birth

juicy bulbous fruit.

On our errands, we were building something –

What was it – a treasure chest for your wisdom,

a box to capture the girl in me,

or being of like hearts,

an understanding between us two?

February, 2013

A Wiser Circle

A Wiser Circle

Annette J. Wick, December 19, 2012

On the occasion of a WWFC - Starfire readaround.

“Never, never rest contented with any circle of ideas, but always be certain that a wider one is still possible.” – Pearl Bailley

I sit with these words, alongside the joy of facilitating this circle of writers has brought.  I reflect on those words, and say, yes, a wider one is possible.

Many months ago, I was asked to take over our (WWFC) relationship with Starfire, and facilitate writing circles for those young women (and sometimes men) who wanted to pursue the art of writing, and make it more integral to their lives.

Innocently, I told our director, “I’m not used to working with that demographic.” That was the term I naively called some in the audience today. “That demographic.”  I had worked with cancer patients, grieving widows and those afflicted with Alzheimer’s.  In my own circles, I had sat beside alcoholics and anorexics. And still, I said those words.

I took on that role, at first limiting our group to only Starfire students.  We had a healthy circle, with many writing prompts, but still the circle felt empty.  Words fell flat, they were not reaching their intended audience.  Not because of those who arrived each week, their contribution was solid, but because I was missing a piece to complete this puzzle called a circle.

After that first session, I agreed to open the class to other partners within Women Writing for a Change and the greater writing community.  We had two writers sign up.  One , a young woman, home-schooled with grandparents in France, and another woman who worked in radio and publicity, immediately connected with our Starfire group.  One winter day, I ran into circle members on the streets of OTR, at the Streetcar groundbreaking, and inside Findlay Market.  Ironically, it was at that time, my husband and I signed a contract to purchase a home in OTR.  Suddenly, we were traveling similar paths.

From there the class transitioned to another group of partners, one of which included my mother-in-law.  She had never looked at herself as a writer. But as she attended each session, alongside Starfire members, she began to see herself in a new light, light that was emanating from the courage put forth by the Starfire members, who routinely put down on paper and shared aloud their family woes, lover’s quarrels, dreams of working in film, and desires to be accepted.

This most recent session, we cast an even wider net.  Part of Starfire’s mission is to connect with people and places where everyone’s gifts are recognized and valued.  More of this mission was being heralded via our partner, Courtney Calhoun, whose wondrous work connected each Starfire member, in some small way, to others in our circle. 

To date, coffee has been shared, movies taken in, words have been written together, words have been spoken aloud at open mics.  A connection in gardening is still in the works, as is working with children’s authors, and attending senior capstone projects. We have, in a sense, created our own community through hospitality and inclusion, cornerstone practices of both Starfire and Women Writing.

On Monday, I visited Starfire late afternoon, as members were preparing for their return to home.  I was greeted with hugs, Tiffany and I discussed our shared discovery that the Great Gatsby film starred her favorite Bollywood actor.  I ran into Vonceil, a student from a past circle, and she excitedly talked about her capstone involving Spoken Word poetry.  That day, I happen to notice that a local coffeeshop was showing a film, based on a high school spoken word contest – The Loudest Bomb.  I jotted down the information for Vonciel, and promised to see her perform soon.  Lauren peeked her head out a meeting, to just say, “Hi.”  Margot greeted me with a hug, and noted my sling from surgery was gone.  And of course, Michelle waited patiently, as I greeted many of her peers, before we set out on our own quest for the West Side. She put up with plenty of my cussing that night….

I revisit my words, “that demographic,” one more time and realize I too am differently-abled, perhaps smaller minded that my partners at Starfire.  For they take on each attempt at connection, each writing prompt with zeal and truthfulness. They find the connection, they include me. It is NOT the other way around.

I have learned much in our time together. The question of being intentionally inclusive rises up in me each time I am also with the Alzheimer’s population. I practice it within my writing circles with them. I practice it with my own mother and her companions at her care center.  But the rewards don’t come first, understanding does.

In a recent writing session at the Alois Alzheimer Center, I was using a Christmas theme.  Stockings lay on the tables, a few Santa figures loomed at each end.  Christmas carols were sung, memories were written down. In the tradition of Women Writing for a Change soul cards, I close even that circle, where they can’t recall the words just written, and ask, “How did you feel being in the circle here today?”  Some answer, “It was really nice.”  Some repeat the theme shared in their writing. But Doris, one of our newer members, said it best, “It was good to be together today.”

In light of recent tragedies and stressful circumstances in each of our lives, it is possible to come together in comfort and joy, and connection and courage. But it is NOT possible to do so without the intentional creation of circles that support our work, our lives.

The quote at the top of page is incomplete.  “Never rest contented…be certain there is a wider circle.…” I would also add, a wiser one.

To learn more about Starfire, visit www.starfireu.org.

Nocturnal

You used to leave the light on,
for Mom, her security,
but especially for late-nighters.

We would tiptoe inside.
Grab the extra key
from the plastic utility drawer,
last on the bottom right.
Slide the key into the lock.
Slowly open the door to whatever
wrath of yours might await.

Sometimes, we pulled out Rice Chex,
craving a bowl of cereal
to coat the stomach after chasing beers.

You would wake from repose in the den,
always a den, as if you stayed hidden,

remind us to turn off the lights
when we went to bed.
The night-light over kitchen desk stayed lit,
as did the Virgin Mary lamp
on the stand outside your bedroom door.

That first Fall you moved near me,
I would steer past,
glance towards your fourth-floor apartment
- where you would be sleeping
- where you would watch football games.
Lights from the second room, christened “den,”
would be shining
on the path towards my home.
I drove that route on purpose
comforted by signals you were calling.

Now I look up, beyond the gas station glow.
Your studio has gone dark.
I cleaned out that room,
gave away couches,
flicked off the kitchen switch.
I carried out the aluminum lamp
that lit your den those years.
Even without current,
its afterglow would lead me home.

9/2012
AJW