Chapter and Verse

After the fall,

when the wind 

has turned the trees

to bones

and the leaves

to remnants of last week's 

ticker tape parade 

when the fire has 

gone out of everywhere

but your eyes

and even the little flame 

that usually appears 

at the tip of your Bic pen

when you sit to write

is snuffed out by

the inky darkness.

then, will you turn to me?

pages in a series,

waiting to be either

kindling and smoke

or chapter and verse.

Poem Fragment

Donald Miller sent out a tweet today, and, Billy Collins style, I borrowed it and worked it into this fragment of a poem.

I'd like to think

when I get to heaven,

there'd be no more talk

of earthly treasures

or the inordinate 

measures of 

success.

Just a "well done"

or "good fight"

or "you made it, 

you're home"

will do--

as long as it's 

followed by,

"Beloved"

with no condition

on its use.

The View from a Kitchen Window

If I had it my way, I would always live in a house with a window over the kitchen sink.  This is, in fact, the first house I've had that has a window over the sink.  And it's a good thing, since I don't have a dishwasher and spend a considerable amount of time standing at the sink.  I am so glad I have that view. 

So, while I've been snowed in today, I've observed the changing landscape through that window.  Watching the way the sun streams through at different times of day and completely changing the way my kitchen looks and feels.

The house I grew up in had a window over the sink that looked into our backyard.  When I was little, all I wanted to do was play outside, and my mom or grandmother could wash the dishes (again, this house had no dishwasher) and keep an eye on me at the same time. I was a little prone to finding trouble when I was little (okay, to be honest, I am still prone to finding trouble). 

And, my grandmother's house had a window over her kitchen sink that looked into her side yard.  Again, when I was playing outside, alone or with my sister and cousins, she could keep an eye on what was happening.  Then, when it was time to go home, she stood at the window and waved at us as we left.  Always.  Without fail. And I miss that.  I miss her.  Maybe that's why I am feeling nostalgic about kitchen windows over the sink, today.

 

Teaching

Whether I intended for this to happen or not, my profession has become one of my most defining characteristics, and I am not entirely sure if it's healthy -- nevertheless, I spend 8-10 (sometimes more, rarely less) hours a day playing my part.  I have been doing this in some form or fashion for the last ten years, though my elementary school teachers would tell you I have been doing is since at least the second grade.  However, officially, since I was 22, I have been teaching.  Little did I know when I began, all those days ago, standing in front of my very first group of wide-eyed-brimming-with-possibilities students how inasmuch as I wanted to help change their worlds, they would, in turn, radically and irrevocably alter mine... mostly for the better (though to be honest, I miss some of my unbridled optimism that seems to have been replaced with a stolid sort of realism).

And to divorce myself from my profession seems nigh-unto impossible.  Someone asked me over Christmas break what my dream job would be -- if I could do or be anything, what would it be?-- and I looked at him -- wordless -- blank stare -- unable to speak because I cannot see myself doing anything else...is this my dream job, the culmination of all my hopes and dreams? Not exactly.  It's more like my liver or kidney or lungs -- how could I ever hope to function in the world without being a teacher?  Even when it hurts.  Even when I fail. Even when I am exhausted and exasperated and discouraged almost beyond recognition. Good or bad. For better or worse. Sunshine and storms. (Well, you get the point, I am sure).

In theory, I could go to work by 7:45, leave by 3:45, and bide my time until summer, or winter break, or spring break.  I could teach the wrote lessons proposed by somebody else, fill out my paperwork, comply in every technical manner, cross every t -- dot every i -- could be a fairly easy, pretty sweet gig if I did -- if I could. 

But I cannot.

It just isn't in me.

And, though the thought of a job I could leave at the office sounds appealing at times -- I am quite certain, in a regular 9-5,  my soul might shrivel up into an unrecognizable shade, barely resembling what once composed me.

And to the outside observer, my life might seem really small. At times, it feels really small. But, in the course of almost any given day, I bear witness to a large scope of what it means to be human. The joy, the pain, the hunger, the passion, the tedium, the excitement of discovery, the disappointment with yourself and others, the sense of accomplishment, and even (or especially) the struggle to just get by some days.  And, even on those days when it's me who's struggling just to get by, I can't imagine doing anything else, and I wouldn't trade it. 

In progress...

This is a poem in progress, but part of my Lenten practice this year is to write something every day. Could be poetry, could be a letter, could be 'most anything. I am working on a Lenten poem, too, but here's what's been bouncing around in my head since I read a blog post the other day (by Donald Miller and from which I borrowed heavily).

I was told,

once,

the world

had been missing me

that

insomuch as

the world is a 

gift 

to me--

(rather surprisingly)

I am a gift 

to the world--

an ineffable verity

long forgotten

in the days since:

all I saw was 

complete loveliness

all I heard was

replete symphony

all I felt was

hunger

or pain

or pleasure...

you know, the real

elements

of life:

pure and unadulterated--

the raw honey 

poets try to hawk

on street corners

and farmers markets

and the side of

some rural highway

Rewriting my Grandfather's Obituary...

It seems trite to say that losing a loved one is difficult... even with the hope of heaven, it still hurts, deeply.  Anyone who says differently is not being honest with you and/or with himself/herself.  I find a certain measure of catharsis in writing, so that's what I'm doing.  Read it if you'd like.  I suppose this is really more for me than anybody else.  The newspaper in McAllen had a very nice, very standard obituary for my Grandpa.  However, I'd like to think I could write a better -- truer -- version.  Here's my attempt:

Irvin E. May went home to be with the Lord on January 27, 2013.  He was 89.  He lived a full life in those 89 years.  Born on a ranch in Wyoming, Irving worked the cattle, loved the land, and made his home.  When duty called in WW II, he answered it humbly yet bravely, and he served in the Army in the South Pacific.  After returning home, he met and fell in love with Mildred, the woman who would marry him and be his companion through the joys and sorrows of the following 64 years. Life's adventures took them from a ranch in Wyoming to a home in McAllen, Texas.  Always ready to serve his community, Irvin was a member of the American Legion, a little league baseball coach, a Royal Ambassador leader, and a 3rd Grade Sunday school teacher.

Irvin's influence does not stop there.  He helped raise two sons, Patrick and Ronald, and had tremendous impact on the lives of his three grandchildren, Ronnie, Bonnie, and Leesa, and his great-grandson .  He provided everyone he met with practical examples of living simply and selflessly.  Never found without a smile and a kind word, Irvin moved throughout his days lightening the load of those who were heavy burdened and encouraging those whose troubles threatened to overwhelm.  He delighted in listening to others, and when he spoke, it was with a combination of humility and authority and wisdom.  However, no game was ever too silly to play with his grandchildren -- he spent many hours drinking tea out of a plastic tea set or pretending to be in school along side long-suffering stuffed bears and dolls -- and he laughed and smiled all the while.

Perhaps one of his greatest legacies is his propensity for smiling and finding the bright spot in any situation.  Just ask anyone who spent any time around him; he never had a harsh, cross, or unkind word to say.  If something did not go his way, he would smile, accept it gracefully, and then find a way to make the best of it.  Though his family members mourn his passing, they are so very thankful for Irvin's life and the impact he had upon everyone he encountered. 

Readability: the dietetics of words

you read me 

like a book

cover to cover

voraciously seeking

my

deeper meaning

...inferencing my tone

and theme

... developing  my

character

... puzzling out the precepts of my plot

or 

like a newspaper

hungrily gleaning

whatever truth you can find

amid the posturing

and etiquette 

and politeness

of my rigid columns

and perfected typeface 

and marginalized existence

or

like the back of the cereal box

--trying to ascertain my

nutritional value...

asking yourself if my

sweetness

is all natural

or, rather,

(as so often the case in this world)

artificially

constructed with 

such attention

to detail

and

complexity

in an attempt to

recreate 

simplicity

--questioning

whether I 

really contain 

the ingredients

you want

and whether or not

what 

you want 

is 

what 

you 

need. 

or

like a poem

--focusing on finding

the rhythm

(of my heart,

of my days,

of my mind)

intermittent iambs?

troubled trochees?

doubtful dactyls?

sporadic spondees?

airy anapests?

--lingering over words

and wondering

how they 

made

their way

into my

composition

--keeping your dictionary

at hand

for those words

in my stanzas

with which you 

are not

familiar

(though they be

few

and far between)

or

like a prayer

trembling on your 

lips

half hope

half fear

all 

benediction