The Promise

There are mountains of clichés,
piles of poetry, all proclaiming:
The Promise of Spring.

And no small wonder, really.

Winter casts a bitter, dark spell,
never-ending below-freezing nights,
frost coats all,
the drab trees, naked,
shivering minus their green garlands
the dull skies, the clouds uninspired, and
even the tall grasses are dead,
lying forlorn and horizontal.

The tomb of the world seems cast open,
with little chance of redemption
or rebirth
Winter’s death creeping, shadowing
over all

Somehow the crisp air
the yellows oranges reds
the blue skies of October
all faded to the same lame, deathly grey
without even a rattle to mark their passing.

And we retreat indoors,
we scurry, preparing for holidays and
family, gathering together in the warmth
of the hearth and the stove
brightening the nights
with artificial lights whose symbolism
we may not recall.

We plod
through the later months,
dulling the ache with chocolate
(is it possible to be homesick for the sun?)
this pitiless wind rattles our windows
and whistles down the chimney

Until

One day

I notice incremental changes:
a haze of green at the tips of distant
branches, which yesterday, yes! just
yesterday were still only grey

then the pink buds appear on the plum trees,
sunny daffodils materialize from earth,

But

not until
this morning -
when I go out looking
(again)
and I see,
finally,
that from the lifeless vines
on the arbor,
red green shoots have emerged,
strung tight as a gyroscope,
ready to twirl open -
can I exhale for
the promise kept,
once again.

Her Bittersweet Burden

My daughter Arden has worn an eye patch for the past four years – more than half her life. For between two and four hours a day – and sometimes as many as eight – she’s covered her strong eye to give the weak eye a workout. We were cautioned early on not to call it her “bad” eye. It’s not bad. It’s just weak, and the hope is, that through patching, the weak eye will gain enough muscle strength to track the way it’s supposed to.

It seems easy enough. But that’s a lot to ask a preschooler. And now she’s a second grader. And still patching. And it is easy now. She knows the routine. She reminds me when I forget. She knows – and I mean knows – how much she’s gained by wearing her patch.

Four and a half years ago, Arden’s preschool teacher – who was also trained as a nurse – pulled me aside and told me that my daughter had serious issues with her vision. I think her exact words were, “She has no vision in her left eye.” She urged me to get her to a pediatric eye doctor right away.

I’ve always pictured myself as a (mostly) rational parent. I think I know my kids pretty well. I think that I am a pretty good judge of what they are capable of and what their limitations are. And, being a teacher, I figured I had a pretty good edge on believing what other teachers might have to say about my own kids.

And yet, even as this woman was talking to me, a little voice inside my head was saying, “Yeah, right! Not my kid!” I just couldn’t believe that my offspring might have an imperfection.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when another, more lucid voice in my head, one which had been nagging, finally broke through the incoherence: “Maybe Miss Renée is right. Maybe Arden can’t see.” And so I plopped my daughter onto my lap with a stack of CD cases nearby. I told her we were going to play a little game and I wanted to know what she could see on the CD cases when I covered up each of her eyes. I covered her left eye, and she played along. I covered her right eye, and held – I can still remember this vividly – my French Café CD. She pushed my hand away with her own chubby, dimpled-knuckled hand.

“Mom, I can’t see when you do that!”

Of course, the shock, dismay, and panic that ensued are all tragically commonplace. We took her to a local eye doctor who confirmed the nurse’s findings, explaining that her brain couldn’t reconcile the conflicting images it was getting from one eye so strong and the other so weak, so it essentially shut off the weak eye. He took very cool photographs of Arden’s optic nerve in her weak eye, which is covered in what he called “grey matter.” He couldn’t say if that was a cause of her loss of vision, but her eye was slightly “lazy” too, and he referred us to a pediatric specialist who prescribed the patch.

Oh, those first days and weeks with the patch. They were difficult. Because with the patch on, she could not see. At all. And it was so very scary for her. And how do you explain to a four-year-old that something so scary is actually going to be good for her?

But we all marched forward; sometimes all of us wearing a patch while she wore hers, a show of solidarity although I wasn’t sure if she could even see what we were doing for her, with her. We bought her cool patches, decorated with ladybugs or pink camouflage. We found patch posters of fish and princesses that were designed to display her used patches – a gold star chart for the visually impaired.

Once, on the way to school, she heard the word “burden” in a song. She asked Dan what the word meant, and upon his explanation, she said, “Oh. My patch is a burden.”

At first, she couldn’t see the Christmas lights I eagerly tried to point out to her on the way home from gymnastics. And then there were little glimmers of improvement and success, like the day in the car when she told Madeleine and me that the traffic light, fifty or so yards ahead, was red. Hearing stories from adults (so many!) who saw her patch and had to tell her that they had worn a patch as a child and could now legally drive without glasses. And every three months, a visit to the doctor, who confirmed that yes, she was improving. And who urged us to keep patching, double the hours, it’s working!

There were stories, too, of children who weren’t as lucky. Who were facing surgery as their best option. Who refused to wear the patch, or peeled it off when their parents weren’t looking. And also, stares from curious kids, the looks of concern and pity from adults, and questions like, “What’s wrong with your eye?”

To which my brave girl would reply, “I’m a pirate.”

(Disclaimer: I relish in the bewilderment that would pass across the faces of these well-meaning, but sometimes nosy adults.)

All the while she was improving, sometimes incrementally, sometimes in leaps and bounds. But the weak eye still lags far behind the good, even with her glasses on. And even though I know I’m not supposed to, I really, really want to help her with her eye chart while she sits in that too-big chair at the doctor’s office.

Her last few appointments, however, she’s shown no improvement. And we knew this was coming. The doctor had told us that the effectiveness of the patch would begin to wane somewhere around age seven. And so at her appointment earlier this month, we were told that we could begin a “slow wean” from the patch, backing off to three hours daily. At her next appointment, we’ll see if she’s maintained her gains in vision, and I imagine, back off a little more.

I welcome the end of patching, I really do. But I do so with a sense of wistfulness that surprises me. I want her to be free of that burden. She has gained vision through her own diligence and sacrifice. And that’s a huge gift to herself. But at the same time, the end of the patch means the end of improvement. Her vision won’t get any better once she is permitted to stop. And that will be a bittersweet celebration.

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.