I've declared today "opposite day"!

"It's opposite day!" Or so my son informs me on occasion, when a response of mine doesn't meet his expectations. For example, "No, you may not watch cartoons right now." "Well, it's opposite day, mommy, so that means your telling me I can watch cartoons." Nice try, kiddo. Creative, and I admire your ingenuity but...no.

I'm stealing his idea, though.

Here's how it works. There's dust on just about every surface in my house. Clutter abounds (I think it's mating and multiplying as I type). There's dog slobber shining on my couch, and I'm watching my cat obsessively like her navel (do cats have navels? hmmmm....must look that up later...did I mention my adult ADD?).

Amidst all of this, I have my feet up and I'm drinking a beer, watching my son and our pup run back and forth across the screen that is my living room window. I'm not moving. I'm pleasantly typing away, considering a scrapbook project, enjoying the silence...before the Pokemon cartoons begin and my husband gets home and the chores begin. Of course, I suppose I have an excuse. I ran (slowly but diligently) a half marathon yesterday. So, right now, I feel as if I wrestled an angry polar bear, and lost. I can hardly bend over, and getting up out of my chair is not really something I'm looking forward to.

So what does all this have to do with "opposite day"? Well, what I'm doing is completely against my nature. See, I'm like a rabid terrier when it comes to being productive. I walk through the front door after a long day at work, take one glance at the state of the house, and begin tidying, vacuuming, doing dishes, washing clothes. I basically ruin my own night before I even have a chance to salvage it.

Right now, it's taking every bit of my inner strength to stay seated, enjoy an adult beverage, and watch the young ones chase each other in the front yard. In fact, I think I might even be shaking a bit, trying to keep my brain on lovely, relaxing things that have nothing to do with that dirty word "chores".

So as of today, I am deeming Monday "opposite day". It's a day I'm not particularly fond of anyway, so it can use all the help it can get. A make-over like this might just be what it needs. From this day forward, when I walk through the front door on Monday, I'm going to do exactly the opposite of what I would normally do. I'm going to leave my work bag by the door, unpacked. I'm going to settle myself on the couch or in my craft room and do what I want. I'm going to resist the very real, and compulsive urge to clean or organize something. And I'm going to notice the world around me, and appreciate it.

Period.

Happy Monday, people.  And happy "opposite day"!

For good measure...it's also Monday "literary fortune" day (hey, they say it takes 2 weeks to create a habit, and since I'm only doing this on Monday...that means it's likely to take me 14 Mondays to get this down).

I did my usual...walked into the "library" (which is also our family office, my craft room, and the place where everyone in the family, including the pets, drops "everything"....so it's basically always a mess), grabbed the first book that approached my hand (I think they call to me, but it could just be the stress talking), and let the book fall open. Today it's Richard Jones' poem "Moving Day" from his collection The Blessing. It's one of my favorite collections...a "go to" for me. The poem was interesting, though...especially as a "fortune". I'd post the entire text of the poem, but as I don't want to violate copyright laws...I will simply share the end (guess you'll have to buy the book to get the full meal deal).

It's an interesting one to interpret. As I'm not moving anytime soon, I might see within these lines a bit of advice...to seize the space we have - the parts of it that matter, the people and the simple beauty - and avoid the "as it always could have been" that we only see in retrospect. 

Ahhh...the wisdom of poetry. Never ceases to amaze me. It fills in the spaces that normal conversation cannot. It is the pause in the music, the unexpected breeze on a hot day. It sustains our souls and lingers like a broken heart. 

And with that...I say good night. 

The things that matter in a relationship...

...are often the things that drive us the most crazy or the things that we typically do not consciously notice. These might range from the socks that are incessantly in the middle of the floor, or the mole just above our loved one's ear. The way they take their coffee. The manner in which they sit in a chair. Their snoring or their temper or their nervous tics.

Holding On 

(original poetry)

My weak fingers bend
back in the wrong hands,
but curve comfortably
at a natural angle
in the crook of your elbow.

It is the difference between
force and choice.
My skin seeks the warmth
of yours, rough and calloused,
a promise of hard work
and commitment.

There is no pretense
in the arch of your bicep,
only a silent request
that I hold on
loosely below it,
my fingertips grazing
the softest part of
your inner arm,
all of the thoughts
without words
pulsing just below
the most translucent places.

Security blanket books

All readers have them...books that live, dog-eared, highlighted, margin-noted, coffee-stained, and torn, upon our shelves. The books that we lend, and rebuy, gift, and re-read a hundred times because in their pages we find solace, answers, and new insight each time.

I'm in the process of, once again, going through each room of the house, discarding and "spring cleaning". It's a yearly ritual, usually undertaken in December and right before summer, when the sun shines through the dirty windows, casting a finger-wagging halo around the dust and the grime of the dark months.

It doesn't help that I'm a pack-rat (as are all the members of my little hoarding family) and that I place importance on all kinds of useless items, sure that I'll use them sometime, for a project or something. Nor does it help that I suffer from bibliomania. Quite honestly, it's the hardest thing for me to get rid of.

I can pack mountains of clothes, linens, dishes, toys, even furniture into the back of the truck and drive it on down to my local thrift store, but the concept of giving away, selling, or otherwise losing my precious words is heresy.

But...that's just what I'm doing today. And you're along for the ride.

First, let's hit the poetry section

Before

After

The discard pile.  Somehow...I don't think this is going to so so well.

Doing better...

Even better...

The husband's shelves (can't discard anything without him here...)

Two boxes...including a few from the boy's shelves (way to go, kiddo!)

So, several hours later (somehow, organizing and discarding - that sounds so mean - books, turned into cleaning the office, which was an all-day task), the bookshelves are organized and dusted, I have two boxes for the thrift store, and the office is clean!!  I even managed to open up a little room for the boy to have his desk in there, too, which means we can hand off the little desk in his room to some other lucky little kid (I love re-gifting much-loved items like that).

And, even though I haven't showered yet, and the rest of the house is now a wreck, I feel rather accomplished.

So, now...let's talk about the books I DID keep. Obviously, there are way too many to mention, so I think I'm just going to take it by section...the books I simply could NOT live without...

POETRY: Since poetry is so easy to collect, re-read, and covet, it's hard to let it go, and even hard to determine which is most important...but I'll give it a go.

Richard Jones', The Blessing is probably my top pick here. It's the one book of poetry that I consistently pull off the shelf when I need a fix.  A close second would be Sylvia Plath's Collected Poems.

CLASSICS (Male Authors):

The Rainbow by D.H. Lawrence
Lolita by Vladimir Nabakov
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

TRAVEL:

A Writer's Paris by Eric Maisel

MEMOIR/AUTOBIOGRAPHY:

Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel
Refugee by Terry Tempest Williams
In the Wilderness and Hungry for the World by Kim Barnes

GENERAL NON-FICTION:

A Natural History of the Senses by Diane Ackerman

CLASSICS (Female Authors):

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
The Awakening by Kate Chopin
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Mansfield Park by Jane Austen

CONTEMPORARY FICTION:

I'll just mention here, also, that I have entire sections devoted to Henry Miller, Anais Nin, Anne Rice, Diana Gabaldon, Amy Tan, and Marian Zimmerman Bradley.

Aside from those, I'll mention these important texts...

The Help by Kathryn Stockett
Where the Heart Is by Billie Letts
Snow Falling on Cedars by David Gutterson
Mariette in Ecstacy by Ron Hansen
The Reader by Bernhard Schlink
Talk Before Sleep by Elizabeth Berg
While I Was Gone by Sue Miller
Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson
A Map of the World and The Book of Ruth by Jane Hamilton

I honestly didn't realize that contemporary fiction would be the hardest section to narrow down. Always thought of myself as a classics girl, but, quite honestly, I have a feeling most of these titles will be remembered for awhile. And they certainly are what I'd call "literary fiction"...meaning these are just your brainless beach reads (I like those, too, but they aren't keepers...I hand those off to the first person who wants them).

I also have a small stack of books I've collected (or been given) that were written by Abraham Cowley, a metaphysical poet who studied under John Donne. He's a distant relative, and I've taken it upon myself to collect all of his books. A pricey venture to be sure...but something I way I can hand down my love of books to my son.

And there you have it...I'll let my mother and mother-in-law dig through the boxes first (our family came by this book-hoarding thing honestly)...then off to the thrift store.

I wonder what room I'll tackle next weekend? My goal is to get through the whole house BEFORE summer break this year, so I can devote my break to something other than cleaning house. Good intentions...path to hell...and all that...

The River (considering risk, procrastination, and stagnation)

Today, in class, we listened to "The River" by Garth Brooks. It's one of my simile/metaphor/theme lessons I do pretty much every year...but it's a good one. We listen to the song, make note of the literary devices and rhyme pattern, discuss the metaphors, and establish a list of possible themes, searching for textual support for our ideas.

Every year, though, it seems, the lesson comes on a day when I especially need the reminders that it brings.

You know a dream is like a river
Ever changin' as it flows
And a dreamer's just a vessel
That must follow where it goes
Trying to learn from what's behind you
And never knowing what's in store
Makes each day a constant battle
Just to stay between the shores...and

I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry
Like a bird upon the wind
These waters are my sky
I'll never reach my destination
If I never try
So I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry

Too many times we stand aside
And let the waters slip away
'Til what we put off 'til tomorrow
Has now become today
So don't you sit upon the shoreline
And say you're satisfied
Choose to chance the rapids
And dare to dance the tide...yes

I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry
Like a bird upon the wind
These waters are my sky
I'll never reach my destination
If I never try
So I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry

There's bound to be rough waters
And I know I'll take some falls
But with the good Lord as my captain
I can make it through them all...yes

I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry
Like a bird upon the wind
These waters are my sky
I'll never reach my destination
If I never try
So I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry

Yes, I will sail my vessel
'Til the river runs dry
'Til the river runs dry

___________

"Trying to learn from what's behind you
And never knowing what's in store
Makes each day a constant battle
Just to stay between the shores..."

Indeed. I am not a lover of the unexpected, nor am I very spontaneous. Quite the opposite really, I'm a neurotic over-planner, sometime spending way more time planning for things than actually doing them. In an odd way, I often find the planning more fun than the doing. I know...I'm weird. Not knowing stresses me out, so in way, it is sort of a battle to keep my mental equilibrium amidst all the shifts and hiccups of daily existence.

"Too many times we stand aside
And let the waters slip away
'Til what we put off 'til tomorrow
Has now become today..."

This sentiment is all too characteristic of my life. I spend a lot of time watching the water rather than diving in, always more worried about being careful than experiencing things that sometimes frighten me. And "procrastination" is one of my less wonderful, yet abundant qualities. I've put so many things off that no number of tomorrow's would be enough to accomplish them. 

"So don't you sit upon the shoreline
And say you're satisfied
Choose to chance the rapids
And dare to dance the tide..."

Guilty as charged. To the point that I'm almost ashamed. How many times have I talked myself out of doing something because there are a million excuses or it'd be easier to just "not?" I trick myself into believing I'm satisfied with a lot of things because it's just less complicated to accept life as it is than trying to change it. So much less to lose, or so it seems. In all actuality, there's a lot more to lose by being stagnant and dissatisfied, even if it's only subconsciously. But, risk is also a tough prospect when it might affect others...say, a family. So, risk for a wife and a mother (or husband and father) is more of a luxury than it is for people with only their own needs to consider. It doesn't take it off the table, however. Having other people's needs to consider doesn't make risk less necessary; it just makes it more complicated, and sometime harder to justify.

"There's bound to be rough waters
And I know I'll take some falls..."

No kidding.

So there's that. A lesson for all of us, I suppose. Nothing particularly deep. But, noteworthy, nonetheless.

And since we're on the topic of Garth Brooks...here's a second that really pushes me to consider my daily life....

Literary fortunes, Seamus Heaney, and art as a means to an end

For awhile, on my poetry tumblr site, I was doing these "poetry fortunes." So much better, really, than a stale, yellow cookie with a piece of advice or an obvious bit of information inside. I close m eyes, spin in a circle, run my fingers along the spines of my books, pull one down, let the pages fall where they will, and open my eyes. Whatever I find there, I mine for meaning and consider ways I might be able to apply it to my day or my life. Really, it's an interesting way to start a day, and it always makes for deep thinking during down time. This bit is from "Harvest Bow" by Seamus Heaney (one of my great literary loves). "The end of art is peace." It's a line that tugs at the corners of my brain because it could mean so many things. I consider the "means to an end" and that "end" being art...which invariably leads to a sort of "crazy" that is necessary to life. Without art, we cease to be human...we cease to seek peace, love, war.... In our hands, we hold the power of creation, and when we create well, we feel the satisfaction of our production. For me, it isn't the harvest bow, but rather a completed scrapbook full of important moments collected and arranged lovingly and artfully...or a poem...or, yes...even a blog post.

The Harvest Bow

As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game cocks
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,

And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,

Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.

The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.