New Year And Its Discontents

    Raised Catholic as a child, I made many promises to be good.  Each time I went to the confessional to unload my petty sins, I promised to do better next time.  A few Hail Marys were all I needed to send me on my way to a better life.  And any time I faced  fear, I bargained hard with my goodness in order to avert disaster.
“ Oh please God, I promise I will always believe in you if you just don’t let Mom and Dad die in a car accident.”
   This prayer was invoked  when I babysat my brothers and sisters, and thought  my parents were overdue from whatever journey they were on.   Staring out the window, I willed their car to appear and implored the deity to keep them safe.
    Praying is the primary attraction of Christianity, the idea that by asking an invisible entity for help you can improve your chances for a positive outcome.  It was a good tool, right up until I realized I was just talking to myself.  Then I was left with resolutions, backed up with only my good intentions, which are not easily able to surmount the ever heavier burden of past behavior.  We are repetitive creatures!
    So to prove this point I offer a poem from ten years ago, which reiterates some nearly  identical concerns of myself today.  The only solace is that my failure to keep these resolutions has not seemed to interfere with my general enjoyment of life as it is, even as I miss that perfection of what I imagine I should be.

2001 (or 2011) Resolutions

The year electricity gave out, stopped answering our call,
petered out before it ever got to the switch.  Finally in the dark
we see light as a treasure instead of a given.

The year coffee turned from medicine to poison, addicted,
overly devoted to dosage, technique, bitterness, I give it up
turn to milky tea, and sky becomes the first thing in the morning.

The year the newspaper stops landing on the front step,
cigar of wasted tree, smeared with words I am greedy for
redundant, trivial, disturbing, using up the free spaces of morning brain.

The year I see the commuting miles piling up, slowing me down
I-205, Powell Bvd to Oregon City, etched forever behind my eyeballs
even the hawk hunting the median strip can’t relieve my boredom. 

The year I hear the hammer hit the head of the cow
minced into hamburger, see the chicken on the guillotine
feel the loneliness of the fish as it takes the hook, and back away.

The year I read less, stop looking for answers, imagining
what might happen, and do what I can, find a candle,
make a fire, start living life and writing down as I go.

Dark Thoughts For Solstice

A Different Twist on Yeats

When he mentions the widening gyre
did he have my slackening belly in mind
circling the umbilical dimple, spreading
beyond the natural buttress of the pelvis,
toward a curve ever further.

Did he mean to invoke the slouching
of each cell, leaning with gravitational
tide, threatening at all times to body slam
my whole raison d’etre from whence
I derive and eventually succumb.

When birds express their harsh indignation
by ripping into my flaccid flesh
will there be a line of ants assembled
to receive communion and transport tiny parts
of me into the mouths of babes?

12/21/10

Plants and People United

Today I went out to play my role as crew leader for Friends of Trees, the group in Portland whose mission is spreading woody vegetation throughout the city.  There are so many reasons why this is a good idea, but today rain was constant for the entire time, testing our resolve and waterproof clothing.  With excessive precipitation in the northwest and blizzards in the midwest and Europe, I wonder if this is the increased intensity of weather that is promised by global warming.  If so, it seems like it will be tough to adjust to, but buying shares of GoreTex, or at least plenty of articles of clothing of that miracle fabric might be a first step.

A neighborhood treeplanting appears to operate on the exact opposite premise of the old movie, Field of Dreams.  In the movie the catch phrase was “If you build it, they will come,” referring to a magical baseball game that would happen when a baseball field is created.  For a treeplanting, it seems like the adage should be “If they come, we will build it,” because the trees just can’t get planted unless the volunteers show up with their trucks and muscles and willingness. Every time it comes together, and every time it is a magical thing.
In reality of course, volunteers and the paid staff have spent months getting all the parts together so that  we can’t help but rise early, don our raincoats and go out to get very wet and dirty and put some trees in the ground.   Today, two dozen crews planted 250 trees.

My crew were all homeowners who had signed up to get a tree in their planting strip by the curb.  City inspectors had previously inspected for the placement and size of tree, probationers had come and dug the holes, utilities had marked the placement of their lines, and neighborhood association volunteers had solicited donations from local eateries so that the planters could be fed both breakfast and lunch.  Other volunteers had coordinated the ordering of the trees, the operation of the food preparation, and the all important sign-up of trucks and truck drivers.  In the city, people who own pickups are always beseeched by their neighbors, and this is one of those times.

Because of the torrents of rain I didn’t expect a lot of manpower, but we had what we needed, including a chef, two teachers and a social service provider.  There was also the nine year old son of the chef, who assisted at the site of the first tree, but rather wisely retreated to the truck and his book for the remainder of the exercise.

Maybe because we were all skilled at working with others, after I gave the demonstration on planting, everyone literally dug in and worked great together.   I’m sure it also helped that we were all quickly sopping wet and on the verge of being cold if we didn’t keep moving, but we got the work done and were back for lunch by 12:30 PM.  After stripping off at least one layer of wetness, we were spooning into homemade soup and bread and exchanging business cards and email addresses.  Each and every time I plant trees, in the perhaps vain hope of making a dent in carbon dioxide levels of the world, I coincidentally  gain a palpable sense of goodwill towards my fellow humans.   For whatever reason, it always works!