Michelangelo, Mother Teresa and Me

I started this blog one year ago. It was a pretty scary proposition, initially, to share my writing. Those first few weeks, especially, questions swirled in my mind: What if you didn’t like what I wrote? What if I ran out of things to write about? What if none of you cared enough to read my posts? And, most of all, what if I am a horrible writer?

What if what if whatif whatifwhatif?

Writing is intensely personal, like any creative art – it is part of me out there on the proverbial page. But let’s put all those clichéd metaphors about how difficult it is to reveal one’s flabby, cellulite-ridden self aside, because I’ve learned that I am a writer. It’s part of who I am and what I do. A year ago, I couldn’t say that. But to make a connection with a reader – to say something that resonates, that touches, that gives voice to what we feel, fear, or find meaningful – brings me great personal joy. It’s as gratifying to me as hearing an audience burst into applause is for an actor or musician. It’s a quiet joy, though, most of the time.

But that’s not why I write. I think I must write. I can’t not write. And while sometimes writing looms above me like a chore, it’s not. I’ve come to think of it more as an obligation – to myself. There were times during this year when I wanted to stop. But then one of you would comment or share your thoughts, or agree, – or even better – disagree, and I would find the energy and inspiration to keep my eyes open and really, really see a poem, a story, an idea, emerging, unfold its almost indiscernible wings and take flight. And I’d have to follow where it led, sometimes shocked, and nearly always surprised, at where it would take me. Which actually makes it sound too easy. It is difficult, time-consuming work to write. There are switches that must be flipped on, and others that must be turned off. A segment of time must be carved out of my already-too-busy schedule, and to do that, I must remind myself of one of my all-time favorite quotes:

Don't say you don't have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Helen Keller, Pasteur, Michelangelo, Mother Teresa, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein. – H. Jackson Brown

I can hardly put myself into the same category as those brilliant human beings without laughing hysterically (in fact, I’m sure you sniggered at the pretentious title of this blog), but that quote always reminds me of the potential of one. One person. One goal. One minute. One word. If I can focus on that, and just begin, and write just one sentence, then I can usually create enough momentum to propel myself a bit further down the blank page. Michelangelo & Co. didn’t have anything that any of the rest of us can’t gain by focus, desire, and determination. Or, at least, that’s what I learned from David Shenk.

I’ve started on a novel, inspired by the huge compliment one of you gave me this fall. And while its ideas and storylines are still too green and malleable to share, it’s coming along. If I hadn’t found the courage to share what I’m writing, I wouldn’t have been the recipient of the encouraging words that have permitted me to breathe life into some interesting characters that I hope will connect with you sometime in the future.

So, thank you, thank you for reading. I hope that you have gained something from being a reader. You have given me far more quiet joy than I will ever be able to repay. And, in case you’re wondering, the question that pops up most often in my mind these days is this: What if I did tell my stories?

The Snow Moon

The snow moon rises east
of the Cerbat Mountains,
the bright yellow disk
luminous in
the mellowing-golden-pink-tinged blue

From the west, fingers of graying cirrus
reach above and eastward,
portents of a winter storm

Fringed with
dark peaks and punctuated with
yucca, cholla, and power-
pole silhouettes of pure black against
the fading light,
the Mojave is far more
beautiful at evening without
the harsh glare of the sun

The snow moon diminishes as she
rises, bleaching herself white,
accompanied by
noisy stars twinkling in
conversations beyond
the scope of human ears, until
finally she completes her silent ascent
in the blackness overhead

Fingernail Moon

You saw me huddled
with the Others around the
fire pit in
the darkness on the edge
of the winter desert
on the edge of the bright city
just within a sphere of light
and heat.
The Others, laughing drinking
talking daring calling
within the glow and warmth
sharing that
superficial
camaraderie that emerges
easily after a few.
In the black blackness
of the starless sky,
I caught a glimpse
of you smiling,
suspended,
a darkened sphere
with just
a sliver of silver
light without heat
hanging
like a shiny spoon,
and I wanted to call
to the Others,
Look! The moon!
but I sensed the Others
were
not like me
and so I did not,
did not share.
The Others
laughing drinking
talking
did not,
did not notice
our secret:
you smiling at me from
far across the sky.

Inadequate

On what might have been your tenth birthday
I hear you plead beg whine
Can I please get my ears pierced please?
you promise swear
I’ll clean them twice a day with a q-tip dipped in alcohol
Reluctantly I drive you to the mall
your soft earlobes are marked with a purple dot: the target
you squeeze my hand
you squeeze your blue eyes tight
under the fluorescent glare
The gun fires once, then again
Your ears redden at the violation
by gold studs with tiny pearls
your birthstone

Later I imagine
we suck milkshakes and
you hold the cool cup to the throbbing heat in your lobes
and I smile faintly at the woman you might have become

A decade
and still the memory of my womb aches
with sorrow and something like shame
I remember
that I wore khaki slacks, a green shirt,
and it was December
the hum of fluorescent lights
reflections on the grainy ultrasound screen
when I learned my body betrayed us
became a tomb for you
my heart pierced
intrauterine fetal demise
the inadequate explanation with an apologetic squeeze
But still I miss you
and yes, oh yes, sweetheart,
I know how old you are

Long-Term Investments

I woke up this morning feeling sad about yesterday’s shootings in Tucson. I don’t know Representative Giffords or any of the other victims, but the fact that one of the murder victims was a nine-year-old girl makes my heart ache. I thought about what her last moments must have been like, and tried to imagine what her parents might be going through today, and how they might manage to make it through all of their tomorrows.

I wondered at what point this shooter thought it acceptable to point his gun at each human and pull the trigger. John Wilkes Booth didn’t fire indiscriminately at as many theater-goers as he could kill. Does that make him a more honorable assassin? I don’t think so. A killer is a killer is a killer.

Some rhetoric and blame is being directed at Sarah Palin and her use of hunting language in reference to multiple politicians that she’d rather see replaced. I don’t think that’s exactly fair, although I do think she could offer some real leadership here, by perhaps admitting that her word choice was poor in calling certain people targets. Or perhaps publicly owning up to the fact that putting a fellow American’s face in crosshairs is really quite inappropriate. Aren’t our enemies al-Qaeda and the Taliban?

The Constitution does guarantee Free Speech, and it even allows us to say Stupid Things, Offensive Things, and Things We Might Regret. It allows me to blather on this blog of mine, too. I think what’s not being said, though, is that with this right to Free Speech comes responsibility. I have a responsibility to remember that what I say – and how I say it – might be misinterpreted. And to recognize that some of those listening might not be capable of understanding that there is a difference between the literal and the figurative. And as such, especially if my audience were the entire country, I might want to remember that I should choose my words carefully, so that they actually do express what it is I am trying to say.

My heart goes out, too, to the family of this shooter. As a teacher and a parent, I am focused on long-term investments, and I don’t mean the financial kind. I don’t always know if some of my lessons get across to my students. I’m talking about the big picture points, like the Golden Rule, responsibility for yourself and others, and an obligation to really, really comprehend that everyone else out there is human, and has wishes and desires and emotions just like you and I do. We don’t get to grade one another’s progress on these human objectives with a rubric a teacher might use: No attempt made, Recognition of the concept, Approaching, Proficient, Mastery.

Communication is made easier all the time via technology – but to what ends do we use it? Does the fact that you can “like” Prayers for Representative Giffords on Facebook do much besides make you feel better? What else can we do to make this world a little safer? Does a genuine smile for a stranger matter? How about a wave that gives a skateboarder the go-ahead to pass in front of your vehicle? Allowing someone else to grab that close parking spot? An “atta-boy” to someone who needs and deserves it? And maybe even just acknowledging those with whom we share this ever more crowded planet?

I was in line at the grocery store a few months ago, and a man in front of me turned to face me and gave me a genuine compliment. I was surprised – pleasantly – and thanked him. He appeared to have no ulterior motive other than wanting to say something nice to me. After his transaction was complete, the cashier told me that this man gives everyone he comes into contact with a compliment every time he’s gone through her line. Compliment Man, as I’d like to think of this super hero, is making a deliberate choice to find some good in everyone. And that is a beautiful mitzvah. What might happen if we each chose to tread a little more lightly, to drive a little more kindly, to be a bit more friendly?

I don’t know if things like these make a difference. The returns on them are not guaranteed, but they don’t cost us much. Maybe, just maybe, reaching out might cause someone who is thinking about pointing a gun at another to think again, and put that weapon back in its holster without firing. Or maybe reaching out will prevent that person from ever getting to the point of considering drawing that weapon. We’ll never really know. What is the value of a human life? You might say that it depends on the human, but these small deposits into our long-term investments in humanity are worth the risk, don’t you think?