Miriam Makeba and Paul Simon and Grace Land

Yes I know it is one word but I like two.


Yesterday I woke up singing Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes and today I heard myself humming African Skies and I was introduced to this album in 4th grade and I think it will never leave my heart thankgod.
This is the story of how we begin to remember...

Words Beneath the Words

When I was in college our basketball team played in the NCAA tournament and made it to the Elite Eight. 
Then they lost, and I felt so sad and heartbroken and disappointed and I wandered down the street of off-campus housing.
There were lots of other sad and heartbroken and disappointed students too.
They were so heartbroken they threw couches off of the second and third story balconies of their rented homes.
They were so sad they jumped on top of cars parked in the street.
They were so sad they threw wooden furniture into a massive pile and started a fire.
They were so sad when the firetrucks and police cars came.  So sad that they climbed on top of the firetrucks.  Heartbroken at the sheer injustice of a team losing.  It was our team.  It was anguish.


I was shaken out of my sadness watching the crazy happen that night.
I was like: I am sad, and now I am confused.  Why is there a couch sailing through the air? 
Why are 14 young men jumping on the roof of a parked car?
That bonfire is extremely big and does not seem to be contained.  Why is this? 
What does this have to do with basketball?


No one called us thugs. 

There is no justification for rioting, looting and the destruction of property. But the way in which many Americans talk about what's happening....seems to suggest that sports is a valid reason to riot and destroy property, while anger about systemic injustice, economic oppression and the institutional devaluation of an entire race are not.

            ----from photos of white people rioting 

fat buttery words

In 1934, this was written by a copywriter who hoped to become a screenwriter.  It can be found, among many other splendid letters, in Letters of Note.
The compilation is fantastic.
The website is here.

Dear Sir:

I like words. I like fat buttery words, such as ooze, turpitude, glutinous, toady. I like solemn, angular, creaky words, such as straitlaced, cantankerous, pecunious, valedictory. I like spurious, black-is-white words, such as mortician, liquidate, tonsorial, demi-monde. I like suave "V" words, such as Svengali, svelte, bravura, verve. I like crunchy, brittle, crackly words, such as splinter, grapple, jostle, crusty. I like sullen, crabbed, scowling words, such as skulk, glower, scabby, churl. I like Oh-Heavens, my-gracious, land's-sake words, such as tricksy, tucker, genteel, horrid. I like elegant, flowery words, such as estivate, peregrinate, elysium, halcyon. I like wormy, squirmy, mealy words, such as crawl, blubber, squeal, drip. I like sniggly, chuckling words, such as cowlick, gurgle, bubble and burp.

I like the word screenwriter better than copywriter, so I decided to quit my job in a New York advertising agency and try my luck in Hollywood, but before taking the plunge I went to Europe for a year of study, contemplation and horsing around.

I have just returned and I still like words.

May I have a few with you?

Robert Pirosh
385 Madison Avenue
Room 610
New York
Eldorado 5-6024 

 

Words as a Weapon, Language as a Tool

"Having been exposed to theater in my post-military life, I know what a powerful tool for self-expression it can be.  In my platoon, I often saw how violence came from those who couldn’t express themselves and regretted that the people I served with weren’t made aware that language can be as valuable a tool as the rifle on their shoulder."


--Adam Driver, founder of Arts in the Armed Forces

Use it

For years I have loved this labyrinth.  It is in the backyard of someone's house, and I found it listed under Public Labyriths.  The idea that someone built this in their backyard, and also said, "Come by any time and walk this spiral," well, it is one more thing to love about the world.


I have walked it in the blazing heat, in the snow, when the path can't even be seen.  I have walked it when it is dark and night has fallen.  I have taken my daughter, and she has skipped around it like hopscotch while I adjusted my idea of walking it with her.  I have gone with my spouse when he was my spouse.  But mostly I have walked it alone, and many times, arrived at the center of it to find that I am never alone.


Once I brought a problem there and the first step I took upon the path of tiny stones, an immediate answer reverberated from within.  It was not an answer I wanted, so I wrestled it down, drowned it out by re-phrasing my question, and again, the answer that I did not want came back.  Again, I tried to speak over it, rewording the problem, stating it more clearly, and again, the answer that I did not want came bounding back.  It was the most patient answer and it struck terror into me.  It began with You already know.  And I said back I don't know I don't know I don't know.


That was long ago and the terror is gone and I am familiar, moreso at least, with that patient answer that rises from within, and also, with all the ways I try to wrestle it down when I am not ready for that answer, when I think it means harm, instead of seeing that it simply means change, no matter what, change is happening. 


Today I went to my labyrinth.  It was warm and the sky was cloudless and I was driving by the house and pulled over.  I parked my car and walked down the familiar drive and for the first time, the people who lived there were there.  They were in their backyard, in two chairs, each reading a book.  A big dog bounded up to me, a red ball in her mouth. 


It felt invasive, walking into someone's private enjoyment of a cloudless blue sky day.
But the woman smiled and I asked, "Do you mind if I walk your labyrinth?"


And she answered, "Of course.  It's kind of mess.  But use it as metaphor."


She called the dog to her, and I went to the labyrinth and it was kind of a mess.  There were clumps of decayed leaves.  Sprouts of fresh green weeds.  Branches that blocked the path.  One chunk of ice remained.  A crocus, near the side, was trying to bloom.  Several large rocks were out of place.


I used it as metaphor.  Those leaves had been there all winter, under the snow.  They were thawing enough now to become part of the earth.  I walked slowly.  I didn't wrestle anything that came up.  I took note of all the things present on the path.  I felt so glad to see it again, after guessing my steps on snowy days, making the walk from memory while the guiding rocks remained buried beneath white.   


There is a straight path out of this particular labyrinth.  But today I walked back the way I came.  My feet moved quickly, retracing the old steps but with a new bit of information, something I'd learned in a quick moment standing at the center.  More change was coming but I did not have fear.  I didn't have to say I don't know I don't know.  I could say, Okay.  And step along the tiny stones, the decayed leaves, the broken branches, the many pebbles.  Any path can be navigated with a bit of knowledge and a slip of insight.  Walking this path in the winter I had learned: sometimes you make up the path as you go, guess the steps because that's all you can do.  With snow melted, a messy path was no longer concealed and I was overjoyed at the opportunity to walk something with obstacles, something I could see.  Sometimes you bound forward, and other times, you stop every two feet, pause, look around, and take another guess step.  Spring is for vision, for seeing the bend in the road, knowing there may be a fallen branch, but feet are nimble and answers are there at every turn.   

Conversations

"If you are not afraid to look back, nothing you are facing can frighten you."


---James Baldwin

Morsels of Lumber, Mountains of Faith

It's the best time of year for one of my favorite David Sedaris essays.


Happy Easter!  

Bounty

 

I.

Some weeks ago, I dreamt of being in a car in a packed parking lot, and there was only one spot available.  As I headed toward it, another car zipped in.  I sat in my car and just looked at this spot, the one I was driving toward, the one that had been empty and waiting, and now was unavailable.  I sat in my car and focused on this spot, but around it, in other places in the parking lot, cars pulled out, leaving new space.  I felt my gaze pulled to look around, but I also felt attached to this one place that no longer offered anything.  Look around.  Look at all the other spaces.

II.

A week ago I picked up a catering shift.  I left my first job, drove to the second, put on my black shirt, name tag, and because it was a formal event, a black and white tie.  I was working the event with one established server, and one new server.  I was somewhere in between.  The new server dropped a crate full of china plates, tipped a cooler full of ice, and dropped a large tray holding glasses of ice water.  The china plates, surprisingly, fared well.  Only 5 broke.  The tray of water glasses was a complete loss: shattered shards mixed with ice on an industrial carpet.  The first two accidents, I’d crouched immediately, cleaning with her, and shared with her my own horror stories of my first event worked ---I couldn’t open a wine bottle!  I poured glasses of Chianti and Riesling that had bits of cork floating in them!  I sliced my thumbs on aluminum foil at the busiest point of the evening, and couldn’t find Bandaids or back-up!  We picked up broken china, and because we both assumed it wouldn't happen again, she laughed at my attempts to normalize First Time Mistakes.

This third accident, when the water glasses broke, was the busiest point of this evening.  The new server swore at herself, the established server said, Jesus *%$ Christ, then yelled at her not to touch it, not to get cut on the glass.  She told me to pour coffee and clear and they got the mess cleaned up while I walked around them with carafes.

Something happened before the dropped tray of glasses.

In the first hour of my shift, I suddenly, unexpectedly, felt bone tired.  Catering can be a fast-paced and energetic and enjoyable type of work.  Few things I’ve done are so physical and frenetic.  But I felt tired, and since I had 9 hours ahead of me, this made me internally grumpy.  It was snowing again, there was outdoor work, I'd forgotten my gloves, I had only worn a vest.  As the other servers and I went over the checklist of what to haul from Point A to Point B, we formed our plan.  But none of us had a pen to write down the details.  We checked our pockets, purses, jackets.  In the next room, beyond the banquet hall we were setting up, there was a business office, unrelated to the event.  I walked over, entered through the glass doors, and two women at large desks looked up.  One was on the phone, so I approached the other. 

I explained that we were setting up the next room and needed to write a quick list.  I asked if she had a pencil or pen that I could borrow for two minutes and return right away.

She said, “I have a nice pen, you can keep it.”

And she handed me a beautiful pen.

“We just need it for a second, I’ll bring it right back.”

“Please keep it.”

My impulse was to hand it back, or bring it back right after.  But a small voice said say yes.

It was so strange.  She was smiling.  She wanted me to keep this pen.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Thank you.”

She looked happy, and I felt odd.  Unreasonably emotional over being given a really nice pen by a total stranger for no apparent reason.  When she had a cup of pencils and Bic pens on her desk.  I exited the office and didn't feel so tired.  I was holding a beautiful pen.  I had just received an unexpected gift. 

I used the pen all evening.  I used it all week.  Every time I use it, I think of her unexplained kindness. 

III.

Somewhere in that night, probably toward the end, which is when people get tired and mistakes can be made, I lifted a crate of dishes from the loading van to the dolly.  I felt something pull.  The next morning I was sore.

Days passed and my shoulder hurt.  I waited for it to go away, but a week later, when my daughter ran to hug me, and I winced and turned my body sideways to block the impact, I realized it wasn’t better.  At night I couldn’t lie on my side because it was too tender, and during the day, I couldn’t lift my arm past a certain point.  I'd adjusted all my movements to minimize moving my shoulder.

After wincing at my daughter's hug, I called the doctor to make an appointment.  The medical secretary answered.  She is the only secretary for my doctor.  She is efficient and professional and I’ve never seen her smile.  She manages hundreds of patients at the busy practice.  She guards the gate to this very busy doctor because the doctor is that good. 

 ( My first appointment, the doctor pulled up a stool, asked me about my family, and drew genograms to chart genetic history.  This is how every appointment is: thoughtful and thorough.  She’s an incredible diagnostician because she takes her time, asks a lot of rule-out questions, and listens.)  (My father’s physician speaks to his patients from behind the computer screen he brings into each visit.  While recording answers to required questions, he once asked my father the date of his last gynecological exam.  My father didn’t answer, and a long pause filled the air until at last, the doctor looked up from the screen, then went onto the next question.)  (I believe in finding a good doctor. )

The secretary took my name and asked for the reason for the call.  I told her the reason.  She gave me an appointment for over a week away.  I asked if there was anything earlier.

“No,” she said.

 

The night that I made the appointment, I woke several times with a start.  My body, in sleep, tried to turn to its side position.  My shoulder would spark pain and wake me up, requesting me to find a new position.  After a few rounds of this I thought: I wish I had a doctor who could see me sooner rather than later.

I thought But I like my doctor.  She is good, and worth the wait.

I thought But my shoulder hurts.

More thoughts: about health insurance, future, ouch my shoulder. 

 

Early the next morning, the phone rang.  It was the medical secretary.

She asked if I was available for an earlier appointment.

I said yes.

She gave me the day and time. 

Relief---or at least information---was closer now.  Someone else must have cancelled and an appointment opened up.

The secretary spoke in her professional and even tone, “I thought about you all night.”

I was caught off guard and immediately moved.

No one had cancelled.  She re-arranged an appointment to get me in.

Suddenly, she became three-dimensional, a woman who went home and sometimes lay awake at night wondering if she’d done her job in the best way possible.  She worried about the patients.  The reality of this blew me away, filled me with that same odd feeling of being given a beautiful pen for no other reason than Here, please, have it. 

“Thank you,” I said, relief at near relief. 

Sometimes pain is not permitted to be fully felt until we know there is relief on the way.  Why give it too much energy if it has to be lived with? 

“Okay, see you at 11 am,” she confirmed.

When we hung up, I felt a simultaneous rush of pain, and relief at the knowledge that it was temporary.  This knowledge let me feel the pain because I knew it wouldn’t last.  Anything temporary can be lived through.  But the message of pain is often so immediate, and often says forever! and that makes us do all sorts of things to ignore or cope.    

 I sat with the phone in my hand.  The medical secretary’s name is Dina. 

The night before, when I’d started awake in pain, Dina, whom I barely knew, lay awake as well.

Goddam, was all I could think.  We are all too connected and it’s almost too much to bear, this kindness, this incredible world. 

 

IV.

My mother used to bring me to drop off bags of groceries and clothes for a woman with six children.  The woman was a medical doctor who chose not to practice.  Two of the children were adopted with special needs, one from an addicted mother, and another from a woman in prison.  The family was supported by her husband’s income.  He worked as an organist at the local church, and made, as my mother said, “a pittance.”

So much about these drop-offs didn’t make sense to me. 

Why, on God’s green earth, wouldn’t he care for the kids, and she could work as a doctor?

Why was that child in a wheelchair?  Would she ever get out?

Why did the mother cry every time we came over, saying thank you, over and over?

My reactions were normal ones for a kid.  When I took my daughter to a soup kitchen, she covered her nose at the vast vapors of mass produced food mixed with church basement scents, and cried, “It’s awful!”

My mother would answer my questions as we drove home, and still, I was left confused. 

One thing I never asked out loud was why the woman cried.  I decided she was embarrassed.  I decided it must be as equally embarrassing for her to have us there, in her kitchen, with bags of things, as it was for me to be there, in her kitchen, with bags of things. 

The art of giving and receiving is rarely perfected in equal measure.  I was comfortable with giving the bags, but not with seeing.  I’d have preferred to have stayed in the car.  Or placed the bags on the porch, rang the bell, and skeedaddled.  Something about her crying was just a little too much for me.  Her embarrassment made me feel embarrassed.

Years later, I learned her family was okay, more than okay.  The hard patch lasted awhile, but everyone came out.  The grown children from that family are deeply empathetic and involved in healing and artistic, business and religious endeavors.  The mom, eventually, began to practice medicine again. 

The girl in the wheelchair, she never walked, but she made great strides past what her life was supposed to be.

The dad still makes music.

 

Perhaps the mother wasn’t embarrassed.

Maybe, maybe, she was feeling some version of this world is too much. 

Too much goodness that follows on the heels of pain and a person is bound to have an odd feeling, and left saying some version of Goddam, or whispering thank you, over and over.