100 haiku challenge, 59 and 60

I've been writing these for a year now. Perhaps with some effort, I can make it to 100 by New Year's day!

#59
I mourn the earthworm
on concrete, but do nothing
to alter its fate.

Self portrait
Blue light--me with pen,
paper. Animals gather,
waiting for me to rise.

You know you've got something when you cry

So I'm revising my Superman piece. And revising it. And then revising it some more.

I'd already gone through a round of revisions on my own. But then I met with my editor, and his observation was that I could use more of a set up to make the pay off at the end stronger. He suggested the intro in the bookstore to be its own little scene.

Ugh. I was resistant. I liked my in-media-res opening. But I did it anyway, just to see what would happen. And as usual, once I got over the inertia, the rewriting wasn't that hard after all, and now I'm happier with the opening.

And I knew I needed to do a little bit more with the ending, so I kept going, rewriting, and adding and tweaking so that now my piece grew by about a third.

And there was one line I added, right toward the end, that as soon I got it on the page, I burst into tears. Sobbed. And that's when I knew I'd gotten to the heart of the piece. I won't tell you what it is...I just hope that when you read it, it makes you burst out crying too.

Feedback please!!!!

Here's about the first 2/3 of a new piece. Thoughts, comments, nudges--any and all feedback is appreciated and will help me get this "done." (As much as it ever will be!)

Falling in love with Superman (or, Why Superman is my hero again)

“This one, Mama. I want this one,” Dante said.

I turned away from the shelf where a collection of Leo Leonini’s artsy children’s books had been lovingly displayed by a bookstore employee.

He was holding a cheaply produced little paperback number, flashing its vivid primary colors. Superman and the Mayhem of Metallo. The cover pictured the man of steel pummeling a giant, grimacing cyborg.

It looked violent. I stalled.

“Are you sure, honey? Look at this one. It’s called Swimmy.” I flipped through a few pages’ worth of dreamy sea creatures.

But nothing could compete with Superman’s red cape and muscles. Dante’s eyes were locked on its pages.

“Mama, read it,” he commanded. And I did—reluctantly so—pausing every sentence or two to contemplate editing the roughest parts. In it, Lex Luthor commands the evil cyborg, Metallo to smash through Metropolis in an attempt to lure Superman. Little does the man of steel know that Metallo has a heart of kryptonite. Mwhaa! ha! ha! Superman is down for the count, and everything appears hopeless. Lex Luthor looks on from the penthouse in his corporate tower, laughing at Superman in his weakened state and anticipating world domination. But then! Batman makes a special guest appearance and tasers the robot into submission until Superman can regain his strength. They hurl the short-circuited metal man into space and lock Lex in a maximum security prison.

From the way Dante sat—barely breathing, eyes unblinking, his small, warm body leaning into me at the scarier parts—I knew there was no arguing, no persuasion possible, no contest. And it had all started so innocently too. A rainy Sunday afternoon. We were both bored, and Dante, three-years old, was catapulting off the furniture for fun. “Let’s go to Powell’s! You can pick a new book out!” I imagined myself browsing the literature section while Dante sat cross-legged with a new Richard Scarry book. Never did I contemplate the possibility that he could fall in love.

We bought the book and Dante scanned its pages in his car seat, all the way home.
Over the next week, we read that book—a lot.

And over that time, a very curious thing started to happen. I started liking it.

I could really chew on sentences like “The Dark Knight zaps the cyborg. Zzzzzzzakrk!” Way better than Goodnight Moon, with its bland bowl of mush!

I was loving the language, as lean and powerful as the superheroes were drawn. Taut words, sentences that hurled forward with a staccato of consonants: “Batman throws flash bombs at the metallic monster, trying to blind him. “Aah, my eyes!” yells Metallo.”

Dante had a thousand questions.

“Mama, what’s heat-ray vision?”
“Why aren’t Superman and Lex Luthor friends?”
“What’s a cyborg?”
“Mama, what’s an alter ego?”

I answered each one with pleasure—feeling like I was part scientist, part magician, part poet—explaining each of Superman’s superpowers. His freezing breath and x-ray vision, super speed and super strength, the fact that he can fly but Batman needs a plane. Together we inspect Batman’s utility belt, trying to pinpoint the pocket in which he stows his Bat taser.

I grow nostalgic for the Superman of my youth: the hunky Christopher Reeves version and find myself delighted that I can stream the movie on Netflix. It’s a special event in our house—movie night! Dante and I snuggle under a blanket while the opening credits roll by.

I forget how long the first part of the movie is. Kal-El’s home planet of Krypton, his childhood in Kansas, his angsty trek to the arctic circle to build his Fortress of Solitude. Dante asks me every five minutes when Superman’s going to show up. He is not satisfied when I keep telling him Clark Kent is Superman. I consider bailing on the movie—maybe he’s just too young. But we stick it out and the awe on his face at the first glimpse of Superman in his red and blue super suit with the underpants on the outside makes the barrage of questions worth it.

…Despite my gung-ho attitude, I’m still conflicted about the violence. There is no way around it. But more significant, this is the first time my son is exposed to that fact that some people are bad on purpose. And though Superman and Batman are the good guys, it’s hard for him to tell the difference—they use their fists and superpowers just like the bad guys. It feels odd, but I decide it would feel odder—dishonest even—to soften it. We are talking about superheroes, sure, but my boy need facts. There are bad guys in the world who steal money, destroy things, hurt others. And sometimes the good guys are just as scary.

100 haiku challenge, 58

The earth holds its breath.
But soon it will exhale, ahhhh--
and all the leaves fall.

100 haiku challenge, 57

Sweet, crunchy, fall leaves
already. It's September.
I wear my sweater.

I am/not

It's been a rough couple of weeks at work.

I am
Not a manager.
Though I may attend weekly management meetings
Where we wade through forecasts and org charts
Policies and programs
Though I’ve hired
And fired
And have now laid off
What some call human capital
Though I have nine reports whom
I hold accountable
For the duties of their jobs
And to meet the goals
We set annually.

I am
Not strategic.
Though it is
The thing to be these days
And god forbid
You like to get things done
For you may forever
Be labeled as tactical
Or merely, “good at execution.”

And I don’t make decisions
Based on the reality of the business.
Though I have added up dollars and cents
Cost and ROI
Weighed risk and opportunity
Because the reality of our business
Is that the business exists because of us,
For us.
We are the business.

And though it may
Not be what you want to hear,
I am
not a leader.
Because using that word
Presumes I have followers
Ready to walk with me
into the distance
When everything right here
Is worth staying for
And the only true destination
Is deep inside
And that, by necessity,
Is an unguided journey.

I’d rather dream than plan.
I’d rather love than profit.
I’d rather feel deeply than forecast.

What I am
is the one
Who unsynchs
Unsynergizes
Unfocuses
Unfollows
Wandering off to
Look for treasure
Buried deep.

I am the one
who doesn’t think of it as a job
Or a business or a paycheck
Or a career path
Because what it is
Is a craft
An art
A science
A curiosity
An itch.

I am a garden
of green light
I am a heart
A body
A thinker
A dreamer
A poet
An artist
A creator.

I can teach you
how to see
how to listen
how giving away
everything you've got
can feel like a privilege
I can teach you
how to tell the truth.

100 haiku challenge, 56

Grasshopper
No summer haiku.
I compose them in my head
then they leap away.

Coincidence?

What rock is hitting me now?

I hate being told what to do, even when I agree with it.

I'm also really annoyed with people who won't do what I tell them.

Why rock?

"The rock that hit you could not have missed you, and the rock that missed you could not have hit you."
--Sufi saying

Ceci n'est pas une haiku

Yesterday, I tried
to cut the tag from my new scarf
without ripping the fabric,
the tiny stitches defying
the dull blade of what were once
my mother's scissors,
a heavy, stainless steel pair
with chipped enamel handles
and rust-spotted blades.

I keep them in the kitchen,
where they mostly open packages.
They are tough enough
to stab through rigid plastic,
or slice through cardboard,
but not the delicate tool needed
for snipping thread.

I was too rushed, too lazy, too uncaring, too haphazard
to search for my sewing scissors,
the pair with the sharp blades
and the fine points.

Now, I'm searching for a way
to connect this to my mother.
Our relationship like the sturdy scissors,
made to do the rough work families do,
provide for each other,
see our loved ones safe and fed,
but unsuitable for the more refined work
of making each other happy.

Or maybe the connection is this:
That I never learn,
I need to learn,
that my failure to take care,
to get it done, rest later
always ends up tearing the fabric.

100 haiku challenge, 55

It took about a week for this to emerge, but I like this much better than the last grass haiku. Surprise! It arrived while I was cutting the lawn.

Suburban confessional
Forgive me neighbor,
I have sinned. It's been three weeks
since I mowed the lawn.

100 haiku challenge, 54

We let the grass go,
there was no way to mow, so
we weed-whacked it down.

100 haiku challenge, 51, 52, 53

I wrote a few haiku in Esther Short Park the other day. I need to get out at lunchtime more often.

Ering, I've decided to only give the poem a title if one occurs to me. Why force it?

#51
I have monkey-mind,
Thoughts ranging and throwing shit.
The tulips--silent.

Strange conversation
The train horn echoes,
bounces through the park.
The crow caws! in response.

#53
Sun emerges from
behind a cloud, sending light
to warm my bare feet.

100 haiku challenge, 49 and 50!

I shared some of my haiku at writers' workshop this week. One person suggested I start giving them titles.

You're up early to write too?
My neighbor Will walks
by, early Saturday morn,
writing on his brain.

Welcome to May
Azalea blooms pop!
Magenta star-bursts unfold
like party favors.

100 haiku challenge, 48

Allergy season, part 2
Whole world in my eye
Grit, sandbox, dump truck of dirt,
rock chip, in my eye.

100 haiku challenge, 47

I think I like B better.

Why bike boulevards should be closed to cars
Variation A
Honkin' Cadillac
barreling down the bike route
Get out of the way!

Variation B
Honkin' Cadillac
barreling down the bike route
no stops attract goons

100 haiku challenge, 46

Allergy season, part 1
My eye is bloodshot.
The left one, rivers of red.
The right eye, still clear.

100 haiku challenge, 45

Needy poet
Aw, come on, people!
Comment on my darn haikus!
Love 'em or hate 'em.

100 haiku challenge, 44

Hungry for spring
Winter hazel blooms.
Buds burst like popcorn kernels.
Food for wintered eyes.

100 haiku challenge, 42 and 43

Chilly sparrow
Little bird on fence,
the wind ruffles your feathers,
warming the new spring air.

Bela and Wyley
Old dog and old cat.
Whine, grumble, stretch, snoring sleep.
But love--never old.

100 haiku challenge, 41

Goodbye, old friend
You dropped off my things.
Dog-eared book, other junk,
left by the back door.

100 haiku challenge, 40

It used to be a bigger deal
Last time, I forgot
Leap year. Will I remember
next time? I doubt it.

100 haiku challenge, 38 and 39

I'm not done with this one yet. Here are two iterations.

#38
Dream: a museum.
The archives of a writer--
typewriters and shoes.

#39
Dream: a reflection.
Archive of a writer's things--
typewriters and shoes.

100 haiku challenge: 36 and 37

Spring is coming, slowly, slowly. Many of the haikus these days are about my longing for light and warmth.

Also, this week, I've encountered several people who have disagreed with me and cut me off, without asking for clarification or more information first. It's aggravating. So I wrote a haiku to remind myself not to do it to others.

#36
Here is what I've learned:
When you think you disagree,
ask more questions first.

#37
New growth emerges.
Pale green-white from wintered wood.
Hurry, we whisper.

100 haiku challenge, 33, 34, 35

Airplane to Austin
The end of the flight
Stale air, foul breath, smells like farts.
People are stinky.

Voted best honky-tonk in Texas
At the Broken Spoke
Two steppin', honky tonkin'.
Everyone's happy.

Return trip
My heart is two sides
of a rubberband. One here,
the other stretched home.

100 haiku challenge, 32

#32
My dog smells like this:
Salty, warm, like untouched earth.
Soothes the stress away.

I am

I am a creative leader who lives to share ideas and new approaches.

I'm supposed to say that to myself 100 times a day. It's the exercise this month for my leadership workshop. It's supposed to help me shift my personal paradigm.

I won't get into what exactly that all means, but what I do want to share is this powerful insight I had this morning as I was driving to work. I don't know if my 100-times-a-day saying had anything to do with its arrival, but I think having it in the mix in my head might have helped.

I was cruising along listening to that song by John Lennon's son, Julian, thinking about how much it reminded me of these three guys I went to high school with. They were music fanatics. They all played several instruments, did whatever they could to play, whenever they could, wrote their own music. These were the guys at the party who sat and played the piano and sang harmony while everyone else was playing quarters and getting smashed. They were passionate about music.

And then I thought about myself in contrast. I was in band. I played the oboe, and I liked it, but I was mediocre at best. I rarely practiced. I thought being in band was fun, but I never dedicated myself to being excellent at music.

And then here's what I thought: "But that's because my mom wanted me to play the oboe." And that's when I stopped. Holy crap.

See, for a long time, I've had this story about myself. I'm a renaissance woman. I'm good at many things. But I don't really have the passion and determination that some people do to focus and be great at one thing. It's the excuse I gave myself when I left grad school. It's the reason I give myself about why it's so hard for me to get writing done. I like too many things. I get distracted by gardening, or running.

Some of those things I am truly passionate about. But how many of those things am I doing because I feel like I should do them, rather than because I love to do them? Am I really a renaissance woman, or am I just copping out? If I go to the places where I'm naturally drawn, and give myself permission to leave those other places behind, then what can I accomplish?

100 haiku challenge, 30 and 31

I composed and recomposed this one several times in my head while I walked Bela tonight. Here are two of them.

#30
We must remember:
at the end of this tunnel,
there are daffodils.

#31
January grey.
I brighten at the thought of
daffodils waking.

My most popular blog post

I was amused to see that this is my most popular blog post ever, when reviewing my site stats the other day. I suspect most people stumble upon it when they are actually looking for advice about taking multiple birth control pills at the same time.

I have to say, re-reading it, I'm rather intrigued about what happens next.

100 haiku challenge, 29

I have no idea why this one showed up. But here it is.

#29
Babar goes to space.
His bed: pillows in a pool.
Still my fantasy.

100 haiku challenge, 28

#28
Freshly cut doug fir.
The scent, surprisingly sweet.
Oregon's perfume.

Rearranging the furniture (part 2)

I thought everyone rearranged the furniture frequently until I met Tony, the man who is now my husband. His experience growing up could not have been more different.

When his mom and dad moved into their first (and only) house, they picked out their furniture, moved it into place and there it stayed. They chose a heavy Spanish-style living room set, a low couch in olive green chenille, which faced two squat chairs upholstered in blue stripes.

The first time I visited Tony’s childhood home, I noticed they were in mint condition despite the fact they were more than 30 years old. “That’s because no one was allowed to sit on them,” he told me.

“Not even your mom and dad?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Not even when company came over?” I couldn’t believe it.

“We didn’t have company,” he said.

It wasn’t just the living room. The family room still had orange shag carpet, and you could see the deep impressions the ancient plaid sofa had left from years of pressing down the pile. Tony and his younger brother’s bedrooms were both decked in orange and brown—twin beds, a small wooden desk for doing homework, a dresser each. The only difference was that his brother had a few posters tacked to the wall. Charles Barkley. Shaquille O’Neil. “He got away with more than I did,” Tony explained.

I think it’s this difference in how we grew up—the fact that in his house, nothing ever moved, and in mine, everything was always in motion—that explains how we react to change. Tony is immediately suspicious, on alert for risk, while I am thinking of the possibilities. I am a daydreamer, ready to fantasize about a month’s vacation in Italy or Australia, and Tony rarely plans a long weekend away.

Once, I told him, “Tone, I want to quit my job and write a book!” That didn’t go over well.

I have learned that any change, even something as insignificant as rearranging the furniture (you can always put it back, after all) will take serious convincing on my part. Perhaps this is why for more than three years, my living room was configured in a such a way that it annoyed me every time I set foot in there.

I was four months pregnant when we moved in, and I can only guess that I was tired, or distracted, but I must have left the living room set up in Tony’s hands and taken a nap instead. True to his techno-geek, audiophile nature, he chose to place the stereo where any reasonable person would put the couch. Oh, he had his reasons. Acoustics, room resonance modes, blah, blah. But the result was that the couch had to be pushed to one side of the room or the other, totally off balance and not taking advantage of the fire place as the room’s focal point. You cannot, as you know, sit on the stereo and gaze at the fire.

Three years of sitting in that room wondering “Why the hell is stereo in the middle of the room?” feeling like every time we had friends over, they would sit on the couch at one end of the room, and we’d shout at them all the way from the chairs at other end.

So today, I just couldn’t stand it, and announced that we’d be moving the furniture into a configuration that works for me, either with his help and agreement, or if not—I’d just do it myself one day when he was out. And I must have had a little bit of crazy in my eyes because he didn’t even try to resist.

And now, with the couch across from the fireplace, a comfortable, yet close cluster of chairs to encourage conversation, and the stereo in a more appropriate place, I am satisfied, in fact, gleeful with the change. It is like a weight has been lifted from my soul and I wonder if this is how my mom felt after she’d reordered the living room furniture again.

Light.

Free.

Like the change had suddenly opened possibilities that had never been there before. She could see them now and she could go after her dreams, with the couch pointed in the right direction.

Rearranging the furniture

Growing, up, my mother rearranged the furniture at least every six months.

Not every room. The kitchen, for example, was too small for anything but a small table pushed against the one wall without a counter. Or the dining room with windows on two sides and doors on the others meant the glossy, Ethan Allen table must sit in the center of the room.

But the living room provided my mother with a seemingly endless set of combinations. Sometimes, she pushed the couch against the west wall, sometimes the south, or sometimes she pulled it out to the middle of the room to face the two wing-back chairs, forming a seating area that floated away from the walls.

Her bedroom too. She'd push her bed flush against the wall one month, only to pull it out at an angle from the corner the next.

I hated it. Not that she moved the furniture, but that she often enlisted me. "Just help me swing the couch around," she'd say. Which meant then repositioning the coffee table and end tables, which meant clearing them of lamps and knick-knacks first, then giving them a good polish with some Endust and a rag before putting it all back together. But if I didn't help her, my mom--all five-foot four of her--would just end up pushing things around herself and throwing out her back.

Clearly, rearranging the furniture was something that energized her. She'd stand back to examine the space like a painter inspecting her canvas, then move in with quick, decisive steps. My mom was a master at spatial relationships. She could eyeball any nook, no problem, as tell you if that desk would fit.

For my mom, a single mother of two, who was going to school full time, working a part time job and keeping a house running--I think rearranging the furniture was her version of a vacation. She couldn't afford a week in Hilton Head, but she could change the scenery just by changing the position of the couch. I suppose it was when she was feeling most low--her most lonely, unhappy moments--that was when she got the urge to rearrange.

When I moved out on my own, I carried my mother's restlessness with me. I moved into an old farmhouse that had been converted into apartments. I had one half of the first floor, three rooms all in a row, shotgun-style, from the front to the back of the house. The kitchen was at the rear. I not only moved the furniture around several times during the two years I lived there, but switched my bedroom and living room between the middle and front rooms and back again at least once or twice. No matter how I arranged things, the setup just didn't feel right! It made sense to have the living room in the middle. That way if I had guests they didn't have to tromp through my bedroom to get to the bathroom or kitchen. But having my bedroom in the front was unsettling, since I was sleeping next to the front door.

I thought everyone rearranged the furniture frequently until I met Tony, the man who is now my husband.

(To be continued...)