the poets are at their windows

I was lucky enough to be in the audience at the Key West Literary Seminar last week when US poet laureate Billy Collins described my life. I'm sure he didn't know that he did. I'm sure every writer in the auditorium felt the same connection. We all have our windows, our inspiration, our place in this world that draws the words to the surface. Mine is on Mayne, just under the maple tree and parallel to the front porch swing. This is my window to my world.

 

 

The birds are in their trees,
the toast is in the toaster,
and the poets are at their windows.
They are at their windows
in every section of the tangerine of earth-
the Chinese poets looking up at the moon,
the American poets gazing out
at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise.
The clerks are at their desks,
the miners are down in their mines,
and the poets are looking out their windows
maybe with a cigarette, a cup of tea,
and maybe a flannel shirt or bathrobe is involved.
The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong
game of proofreading,
glancing back and forth from page to page,
the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,
and the poets are at their windows
because it is their job for which
they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.
Which window it hardly seems to matter
though many have a favorite,
for there is always something to see-
a bird grasping a thin branch,
the headlights of a taxi rounding a corner,
those two boys in wool caps angling across the street.
The fishermen bob in their boats,
the linemen climb their round poles,
the barbers wait by their mirrors and chairs,
and the poets continue to stare
at the cracked birdbath or a limb knocked down by the wind.
By now, it should go without saying
that what the oven is to the baker
and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner,
so the window is to the poet.
Just think-
before the invention of the window,
the poets would have had to put on a jacket
and a winter hat to go outside
or remain indoors with only a wall to stare at.
And when I say a wall,
I do not mean a wall with striped wallpaper
and a sketch of a cow in a frame.
I mean a cold wall of fieldstones,
the wall of the medieval sonnet,
the original woman's heart of stone,
the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.


-Billy Collins

the big 'O'

It's a new year. A beginning. I always adore these. Gives me a chance to sweep up the misfortunes and bad choices into a pile, use my industrial-sized broom to tidy up the droppings, and chunk them away. If only it were really that simple. Symbolically, metaphorically and all that literary jazz, I'll do it all.

My husband and I officially opened a small business on January 1. All those small business articles posted in Georgia Connector during the past year got me to thinking about all the work we had been doing, most in secret. All those words I penned that probably no one was reading except my publisher, my husband and myself. All those photos we took of amazing places that are dutifully filed on the hard-drive that no one experienced except my husband, myself and probably Bear. (Bear always assists in the download, whether he likes it or not.) Its name is full circle fotography. yes, lowercase. My husband hates it, but in time, he'll come to love it. Please visit often, www.fullcirclefotography.com. Please like us on Facebook. Tell your friends. We're a business now, so numbers mean something especially to those pesky people to whom we query . . . unfortunately.

That's my first 'O'.

Next, making sense of this pile called my office. Technically, up until a few months ago, it was a spare bedroom with my own little corner in my own little chair (how I love Leslie Ann Warren as Cinderella). If I'm going to do this business thing right, I must become organized and look the part. I figured out that I'm a pack rat. Not necessarily stuff or things, but paper. Notes. Post-its. Reminders. Letters and cards. Yellow pads, most scribbled on. And all important, I must say. I wouldn't dare discard, for who knows what treasured discourse lies on those tattered sheets. They will find a home behind the one shelf with a door.

My second '0'.

There's plenty more 'O's on my list. Organization never ends. I'll be on to my spice rack, my closet, my kitchen drawers and anything else that needs making sense of. Time to de-clutter and make room for the things that will simplify and gratify my life, our life.

Even if it's only a slip of paper.

My Other Own Little Corner

My Own Little Corner

The beauty of IKEA Billie - piece by piece

Part I - Taking Shape

The End of Round 1 - Book Shelves

my nativity story

I began reading my daily intake of blogs and came across Nicki's Story. 

I first met Nicki Salcedo many years ago at a Georgia Romance Writers' meeting in Norcross. We were very much the same in that we loved words and writing and dreamed of being published, pages overflowing with magic and romance. Soon, we found ourselves in a writing class taught by Nancy Knight (amazing lady, I must add) at the Art Station in Stone Mountain. Reading aloud our weekly assignments, it didn't take me long to realize that Nicki's gift was special and that it was only a matter of time. No question about it. Her first novel will be published in 2013. Blessings.

And that brings me back to her blog and my inspiration . . .

Everyone has a nativity story, a story of birth, of life. For me, there was truly no room in the Inn.

My mother had gone through this before, and it had ended tragically. The next time, she imagined, would be different - circumstances that would center around marriage and a home, an ending that would include life.

She was a few years older yet only one year past her teens. In between days working at the broom factory, she day-dreamed of escaping the tiny north Georgia town for a more romantic world. It was the 1958 Christmas season that introduced her to Dave, a Navy man, and it was as if he flipped a switch. The New Year's Eve party rivaled any tales coming from the big city. The Commercial Hotel, Cornelia's Waldorf, overflowed with beautiful women, elegant men and endless champagne. The songs, the dancing, the dawn of morning. Don't ever let this end, she must have pleaded. Precious time faded, and the good-byes morphed into heart-felt promises, to rest in each others arms until it was his time to ship out. He would return.

These memories held her within that moment, and dreams of their reunion gave her stock in a tomorrow. She waited, and as she did, changes began to happen. She was a little more moody, a little more uneasy, and the signs told a story that would unfold over the next few months. Still, no word from Dave. The two short weeks together were now her catalyst for breathing and the subject of her prayers each night. Although there had been others, he was her first.

Days turned into weeks, turned into months. The baby was coming, but Dave was not.

There was a broom factory worker who knew of an older couple who dreamed of a child. And with pressure from her mother to give away the disgrace, she agreed to a meeting and a beginning to the end. The transaction was simple, the legal documents were few, and in October, a baby was born. The baby traveled to the opposite end of the county, and the birth mother went home to her mother and routine days at the broom factory.

I'm not sure this is how it unfolded, but for the most part, spot on. The older couple are my parents, now long gone, but forever the ones who made room for me.

We all have moments that define us. A chance meeting. A heavenly message. A baby's touch. Those that transform and transfer us to a more befitting place. As with most things in life, they rarely happen as we think they should. There are disappointments, sharp turns.  People come, and they go. Rarely is anything black and white. But then, suddenly, as the angels proclaimed, the colors fade into one another, and in the clearing, there's wise men, angels, a heavenly host, and best of all, a star. 

The only thing I have that belonged to my birth mother - a jewelry box given to her by Dave, a few meaningless trinkets, and my birth bracelet - the only thing she had that once belonged to me.  

we're all different

It was errand Wednesday and grocery store time.

I was killing time during my pharmacy wait, so I went down every aisle. I'm one of those women you hate - one who likes to meander around, look for the unusual and read labels. Looking for something besides the same-ole, same-ole. I moved down the condiment row and ahead of me was a woman with two small children. One at her legs, babbling about something and blowing on the pinwheel his mother had handed him, simply for entertainment, not to take home. As they passed, I noticed her seven or eight year old boy lingering behind, looking and touching the salad dressing bottles. When he saw me watching, he quickly scooted by me joining his mother. I looked to the left where he had been, and I noticed his fascination. He had turned every bottle - three rows deep, 10 bottles wide - backwards. I smiled. I'm sure the Publix folks would not.

Then I thought of the Connecticut children and parents. The moments parents will miss . . .

saying a million times No to the cereal with tons of sugar . . .
popping small hands that must touch every box on the shelf . . .
ignoring the fits of the tiniest who don't understand you just can't have everything you want . . .

or
the contagious smile of a child just handed a warm cookie . . .
the entertaining games with the one sitting in the cart seat . . .
the company of a child who makes the most mundane of errands fun.

So much left undone.

I thought of the teachers, too.

It's not a far stretch, really, for teachers to refer to their students as their kids. I did it for twenty years. They belonged to me as much as they belonged to their parents. I spent countless days with them, loving them, molding them, encouraging them, and changing them. Of course, they were mine.

I'm sure every teacher in America has put themselves in those Sandy Hook classrooms.

I remember the drills, walk quickly to the door, look out, assess the situation, close the door, lock the door, turn off the lights, get the kids to a corner, wait and pray. Each time, most of my heart and mind felt it would never happen, but there was a tiny spec that wondered when and could I do this. Thank God, I never had to do that with fear on the other side.

I can assure you, those teachers were ready. They were terrified, but they were ready. They held their children tightly, waited and prayed.

I am thankful for a life with my children and my students. I am a different woman because of those times. We are all different people because of Sandy Hook.

Matthew 11:25-30
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

my affair is over

My love affair is over. There, I said it, and saying the word makes it a bona fide fact. I have fought it for the last year, tried to gloss over this possibility, willing passion to embrace me and turn my thoughts away from inevitability. Although common sense tells me it's time to let go, my human frailty gives in to socialistic norms and I find myself salivating again. Opening the door again, ogling the object of my affection, and then . . . squeeze! It's hurts too much.

I am leaving you, my love. Those pumps with pointy toes balancing on three inch spikes (short by today's standards), those chunky wider flavors that catapulted me into mid-air, those mules with no back that never really made sense, those heavenly stilettos that transformed my stumpy legs into seven-foot Victoria Secret limbs, those heels that I could slip on and slip right onto a Sex and the City set. My diva days have come to an end - a sad, but necessary end.

It's time to move past those stately twigs right toward versatile flat shoes with cushioned beds (I refuse to say orthopedic), sandals offering control and balance, possibly a saddle oxford in a trend-setting color or a casual boot with a quickie tie. Maybe, if a little vamp is required, a kitten heel or a peep toe. I can push the envelope if persuaded. No more, come do me shoes. Now, it's come never mind me shoes.

My feet and my knees are screaming, and I must heed. I give up. In 2013, I will turn over a new leaf and another shoe box.

However, I still believe in the compelling words of Manolo Blahnik, "You put high heels on and you change." In the desperate words of SATC's Carrie, "I needed those!" And from anonymous (how ironic), the most inspiring of all: "A pair of shoes can change your life. Just ask Cinderella." I rest my case.

So, if you're a size 9 and want to increase your shoe wardrobe, drop me a line. Force me to let go. My love affair may be over, but no one says yours has to be.