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Posts Tagged ‘inspiration’

If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans. (James Herriot)

My friend is holding back her dog Hosea as I enter her house for a meeting. Hosea knew I was arriving as soon as I parked my car across the street. I am his playmate. At one time I would not have considered petting a dog or cat—not unless I wanted to wheeze, sneeze, or itch.

Sometimes I envy Bobby, another friend’s dog. Bobby is a gentle giant. He has a head the size of the average bear and a heart that is even larger. Time to play, time to play, his tail announces. And I wish I could translate dog barks.

Hahvey and Oui, my sister’s cats, have different personalities. Hahvey greets and expects the first pet. Oui waits it out and makes sure each human is safe first. Yet, the two felines understand one another. They rule the house, exactly as cat-rule demands.

As I’ve gained years my allergies have changed. Furs carry less of a threat. Atmospheric conditions? Well, they will cause even larger problems, for everyone, eventually. My days of allergic reaction are only a fraction of what global instability will eventually trigger. The atmosphere can’t hold much more carbon dioxide.

The animal world didn’t create the imbalance. It didn’t leak oil into the ocean or pollute the air.

Perhaps I focus on animal intelligence because human intelligence has been less responsible. Global warming. Yes, it exists.

In the time the earth has left, I choose to fight for what can be done to extend her life, and at the same time to love with the simplicity of the pets we know. The two can be compatible. And, hopefully worthwhile.

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Man is the only animal for whom his own existence is a problem which he has to solve.
(Erich Fromm)

Human animals think too much—without questioning the truth of their source. Unfortunately, we upright-moving creatures are born with ego and an overdose of certainty, based on experience in a tiny section of the world.

I wrote this poem more years ago than I recall. My granddaughter was a toddler. She is now in fifth grade. A ballerina. Grade-A student, She also happens to be significantly taller than I am.

These verses are based on an incident that occurred at the Museum Center in Cincinnati, Ohio. My beautiful girl may have grown up, but she chooses her friends based upon inner qualities, not incidental skin tone. I am proud of who she has grown to be.

Naked Baby Dolls

 

Child-proof dolls

with painted black hair

and eyes forever open

 

lie on the floor

of the toddler room.

Figures identical, except for

 

brown or peach plastic bodies,

the dolls are naked.

The children don’t care.

 

Bare babies and honesty

fit the simple ambience

of parallel play.

 

I watch as each doll

passes from child to floor,

and back again. The brown babies

 

get picked first.

My toddler granddaughter pouts

as another child grabs

 

the dark doll she had been cuddling.

I try to hand her the paler version.

Her frown deepens. On the rug

 

the dolls that wait

look anemic, pale.

I think about human skin shades

 

from ivory to licorice, and mentally

list a larger number of darker tones.

Nutmeg, cinnamon, chestnut, bronze

 

chocolate, mahogany, coffee, umber.

Strange that at this age

the little people choose the toy

 

with the richer complexion.

Yet only a few of the children

resemble darker hues. The toddlers’ choices

 

contradict the prejudiced

adult majority. Someday I pray

these children see beyond the exterior.

 

The dolls wear a paint layer

thin enough to be chipped off.

Their differences can be altered with a brush stroke.

 

People share diverse histories

and cultures, but living hearts beat

a common rhythm.

 

May we grow

together

as one human race.

 

(This poem has been published in the anthology, FOR A BETTER WORLD and in the online magazine PIKER PRESS.)

 

 

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It gets really tricky giving advice. The older I get, the less advice I give. ( Anne Heche.)

My father taught me to consider the source. I find that easier now than I could as a teenager, before I knew who I was. Strange that I recall being berated because my eyebrows weren’t penciled dark enough. My hair was the color of spun gold, with eyebrows that disappeared into a fair, freckled face.

The advice-giver. Why are there so many of them? And why do they have voices that match the average street preacher?

And—does it need to bother me?

My brother-in-law has an MD. When he said I was losing weight too quickly after surgery and was risking metabolic damage, I listened. Advertisement come-ons could be another matter. An invitation to skydive because it jump starts adrenaline? Probably not.

What is the best and worst advice someone has ever given you? My dad’s fits somewhere at the top. Any advice that told me I shouldn’t try because I wasn’t good enough. Definitely. In the don’t-think-so category.

 

 

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The wisest mind has something yet to learn. (George Santayana)

 I’m trying to understand that nitty-gritty inside place most people have experienced but don’t define. Oh, I suspect vague words come up: tired, not-up-to-it, lack of energy. A glass of water waits on the TV stand four steps away and yet it takes me fifteen minutes to rise and grab it.

I’m referring to lost, static moments of staring into space. Not in a depressive way, more in a state of physical weakness. Recovery takes time.

Imagination. Come on. I know you are in there. Let’s play a simple game. How many gratitude connections can I celebrate in this room? From this beige square of couch.

First, I see a photo of my grandson. He raked leaves in our driveway before the predicted snow, but he had wanted me with him. He is eager to help but only seven-years old. He set up a chair in the garage and asked if I needed a blanket, too. My shoulders may have needed one; my heart did not. And the warmth lingers.

Among a stack of magazines are gifts. My brother sends me a subscription to the New Yorker. A long-time friend blesses me with Guideposts. Food for the mind. Food for the spirit. This same spiritual friend sends quotes I save and use often in my blogs.

My son scrubbed the rug and daughter-in-law helped with organization too heavy for me until my stitches heal. Steve and Cece’s love appears fresh, spontaneous. It remains in the air.

A sunburst. It doesn’t last long. They never do. However, it reminds me that aches don’t remain forever either. I haven’t reached a state of wisdom to be grateful for pain yet. I am up, with more strength than expected.

 

 

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I always wanted a happy ending… Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity. (Gilda Radner)

Sonder. A new word in my vocabulary. Definition: “The realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own.” I think about how once a stranger makes a few honest statements, similarities appear.

I wait for a simple service at a local clinic. The clinic is inside a grocery store. An emergency arrived before I signed in. I wait. People pass. I can’t see beyond closed-mouthed, focused-ahead expressions. These individuals’ lives hold more than any set of eyes can view. My impression is like a picture taken from a plane. Vague. No detail.

A person can seem far away. He may live next door, but who knows? His life may mimic the suspense of a best-selling novel. Or it may have a dé·jà vu feel to it.

What did the hurried woman face this morning? Why does the child linger behind? Sure, I can guess, provided my guess is a game or the beginning of a story. Judgment is cheap. Reality is complicated.

My time seems precious now. Test tomorrow. Surgery Wednesday. Several days in the hospital. Worry doesn’t fill me, only a strange wonder why I’m not living in tomorrow. This isn’t normal. Too many people praying for me. That must be it.

How do I make the most of waiting? How do I make the best of life without knowing what will happen next?

Positive and negative space joins to create art.

Fault and effort balance to create a real-life human being.

My husband waits at home for me. His love is real. We have been married most of our lives. I am grateful. And yet, all human spirts remain bound by ego and skin. Only a few saints have reached complete transparency. A thorough appreciation of the fullness of every person on earth.

The love I share with my husband, friends, and family makes each day worth the effort.  What happens next? Delicious ambiguity.

 

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Between what is said and not meant, and what is meant and not said, most of love is lost. (Kahlil Gibran)

My grandmother died when she was almost

a decade younger than I am now,

old enough for us to trade places across the centuries…

If time could allow a trespasser to

break its borders. I recall how she spoke of hurts

while I remained mute. In those days

generations separated more than years,

free-speaking limited. Peers only.

 

My aunt put Grandma in her wheel chair.

She took her to the kitchen to wash her hair.

I crawled over the bed rails,

and lay next to the smells

of my grandmother’s presence.

 

The parts of her a stroke couldn’t steal.

 

 

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The probability that we may fail in the struggle ought not to deter us from the support of a cause we believe to be just. (Abraham Lincoln)

My grandson and I raked leaves last week—not long after an ice storm. Not only did he want to help, he was eager to do it. We acted as if we were an equal team.

One problem. My back is a lot older than his is. He provided the strength and flexibility of an active seven-year-old. My strength gave out within the lifespan of a mayfly. Twenty-four hours later I could barely move. May steroids and physical therapy repair the damage. Eventually.

Sometimes I feel that my eagerness to combat human injustice is too much for a team of human creatures with integrity. The word, lie, has been shouted and repeated through the air until it has become useless. Set up sides! Prepare labels! Never discuss. Never listen. Have accusations ready whether they apply or not. Divide without thinking about the division.

And yet, I have friends who disagree with my political views. They participate in humanitarian programs. Is there any chance we can begin here? Can we agree to care that law is made for the population, not population for the law.

Maybe, just maybe.

 

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