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?

Sneak Up On It

Somewhere around October, I sort of stopped running. I’d been doing a pretty good job of staying consistent until Fall Break, when we took a camping trip to Zion which ended with the whole family getting sick. It took us a while to recover. Also during that time I decided that I ran too slowly, and I told myself I needed to go faster. And so, when I was healthy enough to run again, I took it up a few notches on the treadmill. And I hated it. It was too hard. It wasn’t fun. I wasn’t getting out of my warm cozy bed in the morning, hitting snooze a million times (Forgive me, Dan, for my optimism and for believing each night that yes! Tomorrow, I will run. I will!). And then I somehow stopped going to yoga class too, not finding time due to some other obligations, but still finding time for the next episode of Deadwood and a Manhattan.

And so, by mid-December I had quit running completely. And a few more pounds snuck on, and the Christmas goodies began arriving en masse, and I didn’t like how my pants fit and, even more important, I didn’t like how I felt: soft and sluggish in mind and body, and so very weak the few times I managed to make it to yoga.

I hate feeling weak. Not that I’ve ever been incredibly strong physically, but at some point over the summer I was able to do chatarunga. And for a girl who used to struggle to do “girl push-ups” that was a true accomplishment.

Christmas Eve was a beautiful, sunny day. Short-sleeve weather, finally, after about a week of rainy, grey days that ended with an exclamation point of snow. And so, that afternoon, after the cooking was mostly done and before the festivities were to begin, I set out for a walk. Except I didn’t walk. I ran. And I ran slowly. And it didn’t feel quite right, my stride wasn’t there. It was a slog, but I kept going, stopping only a few times to catch my breath, and I did manage to run all the way up the Big Hill (capital letters intended – if you saw the Big Hill you’d agree). And while running didn’t feel quite like I remembered, it did feel kind of good. Good enough to make me run again the day after Christmas. And then, again today. I’ve managed to log only six miles so far, but that’s more than I ran in October or November.

While I run, I think. I think about the people in my life, writing, my to-do lists, future trips I want to take. Running clears my head like nothing else I’d ever done, even more so than yoga. Today while I ran, I thought of my friend Roberta, who is a runner, too. She’s also a sage, although her humility would require her to deny it.

Once I asked her how she was able to run longer and longer distances. And her advice was so simple it floored me: sneak up on it. And that’s become my new mantra, not just for running, but for writing, and for all those other goals in life that seem unattainable, unreachable: sneak up on it.

I told her a few weeks ago that I thought I should run faster, and I was really surprised when she raised her eyebrows and asked why. I didn’t really have an answer, other than a sheepish, “But I run so very, very slow.” And so – finally – I gave myself permission to just run. At my pace. And guess what? Today, as I ran, I saw it. I felt it. I snuck up on it, and I found it. My stride.