When I grow up ..

I woke to my usual routine ... turned on the computer, set the pot of coffee to brew, walked back to the computer to dial up and log in; while that was happening ... s l o w l y ... I let the dog out, walked back to the kitchen to fix the first cup - just a little half n half (prefer the real thing, but sometimes settle for the white stuff and only drink it light when I make it myself or order it in a cafe/coffee house in southern Louisiana - otherwise it is too weak to take the jolt); I let the dog back in, head back to the computer with the coffee cup warming the palm of my hand and easing the morning arthritic ache in my fingers, then click on my 'favorites'.

There's the folder here of MSN Groups, one of Blogs and a special one for Poetry Sites. I often save that one for last. It is a savoring experience. One most enjoyed when approached tentatively - with the electricity of anticipation, the yearning built from abstinence, and the knowledge that fulfillment will be sure and complete.

It was. A favorite site is Poetry Daily, http://poems.com/. This morning my foraging brought me to a poem by William Greenway, which is a jewel in itself ...

The insurance will pay for nine
pills a month, he says. Out of what
hat did they pull that number?
- from Aesop at Sixty

Having falling immediately in love with a man who could write so eloquently, honestly and sincerely about the pills to enhance erectile dysfunction, I had to know more about him. And, in my foraging through google, I found this most delicious quote which contains a most delicious quote:

To live without poetry is to risk living only on the surface. I like what William Carlos Williams says:

It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.

All these writers urge me to do all I can to spread the word that poetry is not a hobby, but a way of living more fully.
- poet William Greenway

For me, too, poetry is not a hobby. I came to poetry late ... to steal from another quote ... and I could say it has transformed who I am. But the really telling effect is that it has transformed who I want to be.

Somewhere in Between

We are between the holidays, now, and there is nothing particularly outstanding about how southern Louisiana spends this time compared to other places. Lots of folks are exchanging Christmas presents and lots of others are out scooping up after Christmas sales … you know, the usual, materialistic American activity.

I am painting, mostly. I have not yet moved into the apartment I am preparing, because I am still painting the walls a pale yellow and the trim a linen white … on the advice of a friend … ahem! Seriously, it was the best advice anyone has given me in quite some time that I actually acted upon, and the results are … what word should I use? … sublime, perfection, exquisite. Perhaps there is not just one word that tells how totally perfect the results are proving to be.

Of course, I had to attempt a variation on the theme by bringing in a few contrasting colors, and, thus, the task has taken longer than anticipated ... as I have had to paint over the contrasting colors. After two successes and two disasters I have committed to finishing the job with no more experimentation. One can overdo a good thing.

My younger daughter is in Orlando, seeing Disney World with the family of a friend and preparing for the LSU bowl game on New Year’s Day, and the older daughter has not yet arrived for her intended visit. And I am contemplating the space in between.

That space that I always seem to find to be so fascinating. It shows up in the oddest places. Today it was the random first-time meeting of someone who not only knew a truly special friend of mine, but who was also present at his funeral when I sobbed my way through a poem I read in memoriam. I was reminded how much I miss my friend and what a large space he has left behind.

Those of you who are artists will understand the difference between painting the line and painting the shadow; between painting a figure and painting the space around the figure. Well, I sometimes cannot resist contemplating the space that has no figure for contrast; the space that is contrast. The space that my friend, Bill, left is that sort of space. All contrast.

You know, he always said some day I would write about him. I never wanted to admit he was right.

Merry Christmas, sha'! 

and so it is … Cajun Christmas

From the outside looking in, on first glance, there is nothing much different about Christmas way down South. But, of course, one cannot stand outside around here without being invited in for the traditional spicy, hot gumbo with a heap of potato salad sitting right there on top. To be honest, not everyone eats it that way. Over the years, those with aspirations of rising to the top of the Cajun social ladder began to eat their potato salad on the side. Such a pity! The blending of the flavors and the hot and the cold … well, as they say ‘round here … it makes ya wanna slap ya momma!

One of the grander traditions on the bayou is the lighting of the bonfires to show the way for Pere Noel. There are a few folks, still, who build there own and gather around with their families on Christmas Eve to light the flames and toast the tradition. But there are also entire communities who have adopted this tradition in a large way. They build hundreds of bonfires on the levee of the Mighty Mississippi, and this evening thousand will gather as the fires are lit.

And as people walk around, from one bonfire to another, folks in the community gather in their front yards to offer the warming bowl of gumbo to those who are otherwise strangers. Cajuns do know how to warm the spirit while warming the body. Most importantly, they seem to instinctively know that nurturing the spirit takes precedence.

Most of us have altered the tradition to allow for Christmas lights, hung from the eaves or draping the doorways and hugging the bushes. The effort is still made, by those of us living on the bayou, to shine the brightest lights in order to show the way. You can drive either side of the bayou and find houses all along the way brightly lit with the hope of Christmas. I admit I am particularly fond of this tradition, and I also indulge in the decorations. My bushes are hugged and my doorway is draped as I sit in anticipation of the magic of the season … the magic that lights the way for us all.

There's a cold moon smiling in a blue denim sky ...

... and the weatherman says 'a hard freeze tonight'. Seems drying trends came this way in a big way, and with the dry cold winter wind the temps are dropping. Last night we sank as low as 32 Fahrenheit degrees, but tonight we will see it drop to around 25, with wind chill … well, if you’re unfortunate enough to be outside when the temperature drops that low, wind chill isn’t much of a factor for you, anyway.

Since I must be at work by 7:15 in the morning, I will be one of the unfortunates. That’s what they make coats for … and gloves … and stockings and boots and socks and long underwear, if need be. I have some of each, although they don’t get much wear.

Last night I brought in the delicate vegetation, except for the ficus tree - it’s wearing a trash bag, cinched tight around the pot, lest some wily breeze finds its way in. Bella the Cat thinks all these plants are just for her and has spent most of the hours since huddled down between the pots, staring through the spider fronds, green eyes shining with delight.

I’ve covered the faucets and drained the outside pipes and taken the gumbo out of the freezer for supper tonight. Except for the gumbo, I usually don’t go through this routine until sometime in January, but this winter is following a schedule all its own.

So, I’m just reading the sky and awaiting my instructions.

Music to Raise the Spirit (of the Dead or Almost)

The suggestion was made recently, by my older daughter- who is more observant than I sometimes give her credit for - that I should listen less to depressing music and more to music of an upbeat and lilting nature. Actually, what she said was, “If I listened to that music all day long, I’d want to kill myself!” Since the thought of self-demise has crossed my mind a time or two in my life, I wondered if she might be onto something. So, I began a campaign to listen only to optimistic, uplifting, inspirational tunes.

I began with Yo-Yo Ma and a bit of Beethoven, Bach and Mozart “show tunes”. The latter, I thought, would be a ‘two birds with one stone’ – having read that the music of Mozart increases the learning potential of the listener, opens the brain pan or some such thing. Mine has felt a little tight, lately.

It was not altogether a fruitless experiment, in spite of some poor choices. I actually felt my outlook brighten. But, then, we had a few days of uncommon heat and blinding sun, so one could not be totally convinced of a connection.

Therefore, strictly for the sake of scientific study, and being once again consumed in layers of partly cloudy and chance of showers, I turned off the CDs and switched on the radio, tuned to a station playing only Christmas music. Now, tell me, who can be sad and disheartened when inundated with the lyrics and tones of “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” or “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire?” And if that doesn’t get the love light burning, there’s always “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

It’s not that I have a particular complaint about the season, or even about the music – if a song were played, say, once every six or eight hours. However, the station apparently has but a few Christmas albums, something stuck back in the closet for lo’ these many years, and it is these few that are played over and over and over. I counted, in one hour, three “White Christmases” one “Chestnut” and two “Rudolphs” with his blinkin' nose!

To be quite honest, I’m not certain I can handle this much happiness. I’m thinking it might be about time for an evening of Townes Van Zandt and Lucinda Williams, maybe a little Simon and Garfunkel – sitting in my rocker, lights off, wrapped securely in that old, worn Army shirt with the cut off sleeves that served some time in Vietnam, and a glass of wine in hand. Now, that’s my idea of a ‘fun’ ‘uplifting’ evening at home.

Cheers!