(Back story:)
Some time ago my friend Jacqueline was in a horrible car accident,
Problem number one: She had no medical insurance.
Problem number two: The accident was her fault.
Problem number three: She was so badly injured she couldn’t move. Being self-employed, she had no income and no place to stay.
(Deus ex machina:)
A friend, Kelly Gilmore, moved Jacqueline into her apartment. For two months Kelly provided couch, food, bathroom assistance, moral support, and tons of TLC. Jacqueline has fully recovered, but Kelly consistently refuses to accept any payment from her.
(The plan:)
February 23 will be Kelly’s 50th birthday and Jacqueline wants to flood her with birthday cards.
So if you’d like to do a much-deserved Random Act of Kindness, the address is:
Kelly Gilmore
1642 N Locan Ave
Clovis CA 93619
Also, and only if you feel comfortable and trust that Poe would never steer you wrong, Jacqueline suggested we might put a dollar bill inside for Kelly to buy ice cream. (Again, optional)
Most important: If you know Kelly, do not tell her about this birthday surprise.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
A Very Long Meditation on Failure, Writing, God, Terror, Erasmo, Drawing, Neurosis, and A Very Famous Writer
"Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
Mary Oliver
I don’t know what God wants me to do about writing.
Years ago we had three women set up to give a talk for my women’s club. At the last minute one woman, in fact the best speaker, bowed out. She was “too scared,” she couldn’t speak in front of people. Despite all our reassurances, she bolted. For years she stopped coming to Lydia’s House at all.
Trying to get my manuscript ready to take to the writer’s conference this month, I am overwhelmed with the wretchedness, the amateurishness of my work. How can I possibly compete with the “real” writers and illustrators? I struggle and struggle with one especially difficult drawing where a boy shrinks. I think it looks like shit. People are bound to regard it (and me) with contempt. I start sweating. My fingers ache. I stand over the drawing, trying to bully it into line. Now the boy looks like a alien. A very boring, amateurish alien.
Finally, much like the Lydia's House speaker, I shut off the annoying soothing music I’d put on and stumble into the living room where I sit till midnight reading about Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour. (“Ah, the cost of unmitigated ambition!”) At least I didn’t light into a strawberry milkshake. But I feel ashamed: “Stupid, lazy fool!”
Maybe I should forget the whole writing thing. After all, one of the cats peed in both dining room and laundry room weeks ago and I still haven’t found time to clean it. Wouldn't it feel comfortable to just go back to being a little housekeeper? Isn't the life of a cat-pee cleaner as worthy as that of novel writer?
But, I argue, I’ve lived my whole life that way, hiding my light under the tiniest of bushels.
Twenty-four years ago a therapist bashed me for not having the courage to publish my work: “How would it be if I just counselled members of my church for free?” (Therapists, take note: this did not help.)
I remember a writers conference where A Famous Author tried to dissuade us all from the writer’s life. “Look at me!” she cried, pointing to her obese frame. “This is what writing did to me!” For thirty minutes she delineated all the ways writing is killing her. Everybody wished she’d shut the hell up.
I’ve written many times about Erasmo, the third grader who loathes reading because he knows he’s a failure. This week he begged me to let him read "a third grade book.” One look at all those big words and he shut the book like Freddy Krueger hid inside. Then wearily Erasmo took out The Fat Cat. I felt for him. Every week he takes home four or five of these books, which his sister informed me he never reads. Why do something that only reminds you that you’re incompetent?
I started my writing/drawing project as a surprise for Erasmo. He still has no idea I’m making something that he can read just for pleasure.(Imagine that!) If I think about nothing but that darling boy, the work flows. Aliens begone.
Slowly I drag out the old drawing board. Without the fear of failure, I work very slowly. Certainly I won’t finish in time for the writer’s conference...
"What is it to work…?
It is to weave the cloth with threads
drawn from your heart, even as if your
beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection, even
as if your beloved were to dwell in that
house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap
the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved
were to eat the fruit."
Kahlil Gibran
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
Mary Oliver
I don’t know what God wants me to do about writing.
Years ago we had three women set up to give a talk for my women’s club. At the last minute one woman, in fact the best speaker, bowed out. She was “too scared,” she couldn’t speak in front of people. Despite all our reassurances, she bolted. For years she stopped coming to Lydia’s House at all.
Trying to get my manuscript ready to take to the writer’s conference this month, I am overwhelmed with the wretchedness, the amateurishness of my work. How can I possibly compete with the “real” writers and illustrators? I struggle and struggle with one especially difficult drawing where a boy shrinks. I think it looks like shit. People are bound to regard it (and me) with contempt. I start sweating. My fingers ache. I stand over the drawing, trying to bully it into line. Now the boy looks like a alien. A very boring, amateurish alien.
Finally, much like the Lydia's House speaker, I shut off the annoying soothing music I’d put on and stumble into the living room where I sit till midnight reading about Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour. (“Ah, the cost of unmitigated ambition!”) At least I didn’t light into a strawberry milkshake. But I feel ashamed: “Stupid, lazy fool!”
Maybe I should forget the whole writing thing. After all, one of the cats peed in both dining room and laundry room weeks ago and I still haven’t found time to clean it. Wouldn't it feel comfortable to just go back to being a little housekeeper? Isn't the life of a cat-pee cleaner as worthy as that of novel writer?
But, I argue, I’ve lived my whole life that way, hiding my light under the tiniest of bushels.
Twenty-four years ago a therapist bashed me for not having the courage to publish my work: “How would it be if I just counselled members of my church for free?” (Therapists, take note: this did not help.)
I remember a writers conference where A Famous Author tried to dissuade us all from the writer’s life. “Look at me!” she cried, pointing to her obese frame. “This is what writing did to me!” For thirty minutes she delineated all the ways writing is killing her. Everybody wished she’d shut the hell up.
I’ve written many times about Erasmo, the third grader who loathes reading because he knows he’s a failure. This week he begged me to let him read "a third grade book.” One look at all those big words and he shut the book like Freddy Krueger hid inside. Then wearily Erasmo took out The Fat Cat. I felt for him. Every week he takes home four or five of these books, which his sister informed me he never reads. Why do something that only reminds you that you’re incompetent?
I started my writing/drawing project as a surprise for Erasmo. He still has no idea I’m making something that he can read just for pleasure.(Imagine that!) If I think about nothing but that darling boy, the work flows. Aliens begone.
Slowly I drag out the old drawing board. Without the fear of failure, I work very slowly. Certainly I won’t finish in time for the writer’s conference...
"What is it to work…?
It is to weave the cloth with threads
drawn from your heart, even as if your
beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection, even
as if your beloved were to dwell in that
house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap
the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved
were to eat the fruit."
Kahlil Gibran
Monday, February 1, 2010
Before and After
Let’s travel back to when I was seventeen and in love for the first time...
Reader, he was The One, that perfect guy who would make me A-OK forever.*
One day he brought, in his lunch, a salt shaker from home. He’d tucked little piece of Saran Wrap under the lid to keep salt from spilling; to use it he unscrewed the lid, removed the Saran Wrap, salted his food, then replaced lid and Wrap. I lit into him: “Saran Wrap on a salt shaker?! That is the most prissy thing I’ve ever seen! Man, you are so uptight!”
It never occurred to me that it wasn’t exactly endearing to attack The One over the way he packs his salt. And why did I think Saran Wrap under a salt shaker was so heinous anyway?
I can only say it was all part of the codependent web: "My way is the right way and it’s my duty to get everyone else in the world doing likewise."
Now January 31, 2010: The “after” picture:
My husband JR and I are getting ready to check out of our hotel. I am trying to hurry us along because we need to take Aunt Thelma out to lunch and we’re running late. In the midst of packing his things, JR insists we stop and make the bed. Never mind that we were supposed to be at Aunt Thelma's by now, that Housekeeping is standing right outside our room and will un-make this bed minutes after we leave.
What does Poe do? I take a very deep breath and help him make the bed. It takes four seconds.
The result--JR leaves the room feeling happy. I'm proud of myself for not trying to fix him. Lesson learned: I’m not powerful enough to un-uptight anyone anyway.
And BTW, we get to Aunt Thelma’s in plenty of time.
*Incidentally the first boy I loved was also a charmingly cruel, sociopathic, lying alcoholic—just irresistible you know.
Reader, he was The One, that perfect guy who would make me A-OK forever.*
One day he brought, in his lunch, a salt shaker from home. He’d tucked little piece of Saran Wrap under the lid to keep salt from spilling; to use it he unscrewed the lid, removed the Saran Wrap, salted his food, then replaced lid and Wrap. I lit into him: “Saran Wrap on a salt shaker?! That is the most prissy thing I’ve ever seen! Man, you are so uptight!”
It never occurred to me that it wasn’t exactly endearing to attack The One over the way he packs his salt. And why did I think Saran Wrap under a salt shaker was so heinous anyway?
I can only say it was all part of the codependent web: "My way is the right way and it’s my duty to get everyone else in the world doing likewise."
Now January 31, 2010: The “after” picture:
My husband JR and I are getting ready to check out of our hotel. I am trying to hurry us along because we need to take Aunt Thelma out to lunch and we’re running late. In the midst of packing his things, JR insists we stop and make the bed. Never mind that we were supposed to be at Aunt Thelma's by now, that Housekeeping is standing right outside our room and will un-make this bed minutes after we leave.
What does Poe do? I take a very deep breath and help him make the bed. It takes four seconds.
The result--JR leaves the room feeling happy. I'm proud of myself for not trying to fix him. Lesson learned: I’m not powerful enough to un-uptight anyone anyway.
And BTW, we get to Aunt Thelma’s in plenty of time.
*Incidentally the first boy I loved was also a charmingly cruel, sociopathic, lying alcoholic—just irresistible you know.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Notes From My Travels In The Deep South
(From my travel journal)
Sign outside a Louisiana restaurant: “Eat here are we both go hungry.” (Yes that's are.)
Another Louisiana restaurant sign:
Daiquiris and Beer
Drive through
In New Orleans
Huge neon sign over a restaurant:
DAIQUERIS
[below, very tiny print] fresh seafood.
In a store window:
Children’s Books
Voo Doo Dolls
Another store window:
Formal Wear Rental
Bike Parts
You see lots of signs in the south advertising “Deer Processing.”
On Alabama hotel marquee: “Prayer Works We have Dippin' Dots”
In restaurant menu: “Our special light breading will make your tongue slap your gums.”
It was very difficult to find healthy food. Some menus contained almost nothing that wasn’t fried. A few especially interesting menu items:
Fried alligator
Fried potato salad
Fried dill pickle chips
Fried corn kernels in tapioca
[on a breakfast menu] Fried Bananas Foster Cheesecake
At a Ft. Morgan State Historic site, signs referred to the Civil War as “the War for the Freedom of the Southern States.”
On a Florida restaurant menu, in four languages: “In the United States waiters and waitresses are paid a substandard wage. For this reason we suggest a tip of 15%.”
Sign outside a Louisiana restaurant: “Eat here are we both go hungry.” (Yes that's are.)
Another Louisiana restaurant sign:
Daiquiris and Beer
Drive through
In New Orleans
Huge neon sign over a restaurant:
DAIQUERIS
[below, very tiny print] fresh seafood.
In a store window:
Children’s Books
Voo Doo Dolls
Another store window:
Formal Wear Rental
Bike Parts
You see lots of signs in the south advertising “Deer Processing.”
On Alabama hotel marquee: “Prayer Works We have Dippin' Dots”
In restaurant menu: “Our special light breading will make your tongue slap your gums.”
It was very difficult to find healthy food. Some menus contained almost nothing that wasn’t fried. A few especially interesting menu items:
Fried alligator
Fried potato salad
Fried dill pickle chips
Fried corn kernels in tapioca
[on a breakfast menu] Fried Bananas Foster Cheesecake
At a Ft. Morgan State Historic site, signs referred to the Civil War as “the War for the Freedom of the Southern States.”
On a Florida restaurant menu, in four languages: “In the United States waiters and waitresses are paid a substandard wage. For this reason we suggest a tip of 15%.”
Monday, January 18, 2010
God Remains Anonymous (and Puzzling) in New Orleans
My last day in New Orleans, crossing Chartres Street, I notice a woman who looks a lot like an old friend.
Of course, it couldn’t possibly be; I mean what are the odds? But the Ginger* in me calls out, “Lindy?” And she turns around! 2000 miles from home--what a tiny, tiny world! We hug and introduce our families. I am beaming.
After all, this is no ordinary acquaintance. Lindy and I go back twenty years. At one time we got together several times a week and phoned each other almost as often. I still overflow with gratitude, remembering the time she listened lovingly while I wept for 45 minutes over being the junior high pariah. When she told me she’d also been the school loser, Reader, we bonded!
Then she got very ill, became distant, and we drifted apart. I still see her in social settings; a year ago she asked me to help her with a presentation for our women’s group.
Today, standing on Chartres Street, I want to grab her arm and become friends again right here in New Orleans. But her grandkids are fussing, our husbands look bored, so we quickly say good-bye. Too late I realize I was holding my camera. Why didn’t I take a picture?
A lot of folks in Al-Anon say “Coincidence is God’s way of staying anonymous.” But why and how? And for what purpose? Is there some important message I was supposed to get? After all, if I’d woken up earlier, dressed later, eaten someplace else, walked down Royal Street, I’d be writing this week about something like Hurricane-infused fried pecan Fosters crawfish beignets.
Comments, anyone?
Of course, it couldn’t possibly be; I mean what are the odds? But the Ginger* in me calls out, “Lindy?” And she turns around! 2000 miles from home--what a tiny, tiny world! We hug and introduce our families. I am beaming.
After all, this is no ordinary acquaintance. Lindy and I go back twenty years. At one time we got together several times a week and phoned each other almost as often. I still overflow with gratitude, remembering the time she listened lovingly while I wept for 45 minutes over being the junior high pariah. When she told me she’d also been the school loser, Reader, we bonded!
Then she got very ill, became distant, and we drifted apart. I still see her in social settings; a year ago she asked me to help her with a presentation for our women’s group.
Today, standing on Chartres Street, I want to grab her arm and become friends again right here in New Orleans. But her grandkids are fussing, our husbands look bored, so we quickly say good-bye. Too late I realize I was holding my camera. Why didn’t I take a picture?
A lot of folks in Al-Anon say “Coincidence is God’s way of staying anonymous.” But why and how? And for what purpose? Is there some important message I was supposed to get? After all, if I’d woken up earlier, dressed later, eaten someplace else, walked down Royal Street, I’d be writing this week about something like Hurricane-infused fried pecan Fosters crawfish beignets.
Comments, anyone?
Saturday, January 9, 2010
What Does This Cartoon Have to Do With Our Current Vacation?
Years ago I went to an Al-Anon assembly with my sponsor Barbara. When we checked into our hotel, we discovered they’d given us a smoking room. That wouldn’t do, so she and I went back to the front desk. Our new room turned out to be miles away from our friends and musty-smelling besides.
I figured, “Okay, we’ll have to live with it.” But Barbara marched us right back and demanded a room near our friends.
There followed one of the most embarrassing twenty minutes of my life. The clerk kept saying, “Sorry, we have no other rooms,” and Barbara kept insisting he look harder.
BUT after much pestering on her part, they magically found us a non-smoking room that connected to our friends'room.
Barbara turned to me and said, “You’ve got to ask for what you want.”
I was horrified. I could never, never do that.
Fast forward to last Wednesday.
JR and I board our train for New Orleans and find that Amtrak has put us in a bedroom downstairs . This is terrible. We always get an upstairs room with beautiful views. Now we’re stuck with views of the railroad cut.
Something makes me seek out Julie the car attendant. I ask, “Is there any way we can get an upstairs room?”
“Only if somebody doesn’t show up.”
As soon as we leave, I find her and point out three empty upstairs rooms.
She says, “We have to make certain the missing passengers don’t show up at the next stop.” (This means waiting an hour.)
As soon as we depart the next stop, I’m back, gently pestering Julie.
She says, “I have to call and get approval for the room change.”
“Okay, we’ll wait.”
There was a time when the most important thing was to not bother anybody, to not make a fuss.
But nowadays I feel like Ginger in The Far Side cartoon, doggedly ignoring all those discouraging words.
The moral: As I write this, we’re happily enjoying the view from our upper level room. Thank you, Barbara. Thank you God. Thank you Ginger.
Of course the next day I think,
“Gee. I kinda like the downstairs view better.”
Sunday, January 3, 2010
"Miss Poe is Missing"
Sorry-- I've been taking the tree down this week and getting ready to go on vacation.
As a substitute, here are three quotes(from Al-Anon meetings)that I liked well enough to write down:
"You can't sow corn and reap strawberries."
"When someone is bugging you, imagine them finding peace, God, and everything one could want. Then imagine yourself doing the same."
"If I don't act on my dreams, I'll just end up being an old woman who had a good idea."
As a substitute, here are three quotes(from Al-Anon meetings)that I liked well enough to write down:
"You can't sow corn and reap strawberries."
"When someone is bugging you, imagine them finding peace, God, and everything one could want. Then imagine yourself doing the same."
"If I don't act on my dreams, I'll just end up being an old woman who had a good idea."
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