Songs in the Key of Life

I’ve told myself that this blog is only valuable (to me) if it induces semi-regular writing.  Two weeks is about the limit to my idea of regular, so I am here to honor the vow, but maybe nothing else.  Sometimes life steadily goes on but does not congeal into an idea of why.  These last two weeks have had the usual swings at purpose, but no homeruns of insight.

I planted trees with Friends of Trees two Saturdays in a row.  This frequency is unusual, but the experience is familiar, and both morally uplifting and physically demoralizing.  I meet  interesting people, enjoy the outdoors, get some carbon dioxide eaters into the ground, and use all those muscles I don’t challenge in my weekly marathons of sitting at a desk.  How could it be bad?  Yesterday had the added bonus of brilliant sun all morning.

Last week also saw the appearance of the uncommon son, the college junior home for the Canadian equivalent of Spring Break; although that nation at least gives it an academic patina, by calling it “Reading Week.”  All my motherly helpfulness returned in full force, especially since he had a friend with him, seeing Portland for the first time.  Despite my lists of important tourist locations, they mostly targetted food carts and bars, like you would expect of  21-year olds.

Then there was work.  What can you say about a job that I have done forever, but still manages to be equal parts of frustration, challenge, and fun?   Isn’t that the definition of work?  Something that compels but can’t ever be finished. 

Perhaps the best metaphor of meaning for my life is found at the swimming pool.  I go there to do laps, at least three times a week, sometimes four.  It is accurate to say that I have been swimming for almost all my life.  I’m driven partly by the sensual pleasure of the water touching every part of my body, and partly by the grim belief that if I don’t keep moving I will come to an earlier and more grisly end.   We are doubly motivated by a desire to find pleasure and stave off death.  We seem to bounce between each pole, sometimes feeling like a ping pong ball, sometimes thrumming harmoniously like a guitar being strummed.

Another frequent activity is playing recorder music with various sets of like minded players.  Last week I went to four such gatherings, a busy week.   I am not a brilliant musician by any means, but it is so satisfying to join a group that finds unity of purpose, and for a hour or two, has the tangible melody of our effort to listen to.  I’m not sure I need more than those harmonies on purpose.

Sunday Morning

Every Sunday, over coffee and the newspaper, I am asked, either by myself or others, what will you do today?  I hate that question, especially on Sunday, where the clash between worship and work often turns into soggy indecision, and the hours tick by, removing choice by nightfall.

Today was an exception.  Although breakfast presented the usual question, the answer was at the hummingbird feeder, a blurry yellow flit, twice as big as a hummer.  I found my glasses and binoculars and hoped for a second coming.  The bird did revisit the feeder, and I was able to pull out the bird book and identify that it was a female Townsend’s warbler who had found the fountain of sweetness in the one drinking station that didn’t have the yellow grating over it, sized only for hummingbirds and not their bigger-beaked cousins.

I am a lazy birder, so having a yellow headed warbler visit my home in the winter, posing several times for a full identification from the dining table to occur, met all my needs for a religious experience.  After that, the day felt free and fanciful.  Meaning had been accomplished before 9:00 AM and I could rightfully loaf the rest of the day.  I found the perfect combination of exercise, chores, and relaxation to make it a Good Sunday.  The fact that dinner was supplied by excellent leftovers, made it even better.

Wearing down the hours of the day, I tuned into Terry Tempest Williams on the radio, who spoke wisdom as usual. She sounded a warning about our loss of knowledge of the natural world, which makes the actual biological losses so much harder to appreciate.  She also talked about our readiness to speak our opinions, rather than share our knowledge as part of the reason we continue to politically  tear ourselves apart.

To spread the word, we passed on the sighting of the Townsend’s warbler to our next door neighbor, and admired the snowdrops blooming in a friend’s yard.

She says, “I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;”
    -from Sunday Morning by Wallace Stevens

Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright.

This week, what used to be called the “ladies section” of the newspaper, which has now has turned into the “mommy bloggers” cadre was alive with reviews and comments about the Tiger Mother theory of parenting.  Espoused by a Chinese-American law professor, the methodology seems to rely heavily on the practice of musical instruments and demanding perfection in all things by small children.  I will admit that I only read the reviews, and have no interest in the actual book, if only because my effort at parenting is finished, with the outcome managing for himself, with any wounds I may have inflicted.

Whenever parenting techniques are mentioned, I am naturally thrown back to my own childhood memories, which were recently enhanced by the arrival of a treasure trove of photos, drawings and words from my mother.  Having just turned 80, Mom is lightening her physical burden by dividing the snapshot collection, historically kept  in an undifferentiated pile in a plain wood box, parceling them out to me and my siblings.

The photos were ones that I had seen many times before and therefore they did not trigger any new memories, only reawakened the little storage compartments in my brain where those scenes were stored.   The pictures confirm my general impression that my childhood was full of positive experiences.  I especially like the one of me intently gripping a baseball bat, ready to swing.  Unlike today’s emphasis on organized teams and proper uniforms, this picture has me in a dress, in my neighbor’s fenced  yard.  The other one I love is a rare shot of me in band class, holding my trombone like a lover, which given how long my lips pressed against the mouthpiece, I suppose it was. 

Although I was a straight-A student throughout grade school, I did not go on to become a great scholar in college.  I did not become a famous musician or baseball player.  I have no memory of either parent ever telling me to do my homework or practice longer, or even try harder.  It seems I was self-motivated, though I know that my father succeeded in conveying his high expectations for excellence to his children through more subtle and not altogether nice methods.  Because he was a high school teacher of English, as opposed to my artistically focused mother, his praise was what was important to us children in the academic realm.  Unfortunately, he rarely expressed approval directly, and we divided between those who worked for his cryptic affirmations and those who rejected his right to judge.

There was plenty of contention in our home, concentrated between my parents, but their frustration spilled out on us children as loud commands to do this and that, in a fruitless effort to maintain the household in an organized state.  Five children make a constant mess and that is just a fact.  As a result of overcrowding, we sought other people’s homes to while away the free hours, and also spent a lot of time outdoors.  This gave us every opportunity for adventure and new experiences, which formed the bulk of my learning. 

The idea that parents should force their children into long hours of study and practice as a matter of discipline seems absolutely wrong to me.  Although I am still upset that I couldn’t get my son to memorize the multiplication table, I know that my formative childhood experiences were not in a classroom.  They were when we kids explored the world on our own, without parental supervision, daring ourselves to go somewhere we hadn’t been before.

Gelato, Palio, and Groupon

    Last year I went to Italy with my 79 year old mother.   The outlook for this vacation was grim the moment we arrived in Lucca,  because traipsing up and down the cobblestone streets it was clear to me that she really couldn’t walk too well anymore.  I guess this is a moment that happens to any daughter confronting an aging parent, but at first it really angered me.
    “Why did you let yourself gain so much weight, why haven’t you kept up with exercise?,” I said to myself, and to her, in slightly less direct language.  But what I really meant was, “When did you get old?”
    But once I resigned myself to the limits of her impaired mobility, I was able to concentrate on where we actually were, instead of all the possible places we could have gotten to, had we the infinite energy I always imagine I have.  I still forced her up  third floor walk-up hotel rooms, and through the long halled museums and into each nave of every cathedral, but she got to lie down when I perambulated the streets of Sienna and take the train rather than the hike at Cinque Terre.

    I know my mom was mostly miserable on this trip and she swears she will never travel to Europe again, but we did have at least one pleasure in common, our daily gelato.  I know you can get gelato in the US, but in Italy there seems to be a gelato stand on every corner and they all seemed to offer a wonderful product.  This was the only moment each day for which Mom found a smile that wasn’t a grimace.  Sorry Mom!  I should say that when she went home, months later she actually visited a doctor and got a diagnosis that wasn’t the fault of her sloth, and could be mitigated with the right stretching exercises.
    Meanwhile, I looked at the art and architecture, especially taken with the splendor of the churches and the towns, and art so devoted to religion.  What amazes me about Europe is how much of the structure of the Renaissance and Baroque era is still there and how unified society seemed to be in the old, old days.  Surely, the pervasiveness of religion must have been stultifying in some ways, but compared to the cacophony of modern civilization, the symmetry of society seems retrospectively attractive.

    We spent several days in Siena, and I witnessed one of the pep rallies for the Palio, the horse race that would take place in the bricked square later in the summer.  Hundreds of townspeople gathered in the square to take part in and witness a ceremony of trumpets and flag tossing and singing of songs was both stirring and touching.  Of course, many Oregonians engaged in similar behavior for the recent Ducks football championship. But the fact that in Siena the tradition stretches back to the Middle Ages, gave the scene a little more majesty.

    Our society today, seems to find very little to agree upon and yet as we engage in conflict we fear its incendiary nature.  The shooting of Arizona Congresswoman, Gabrielle Giffords, is the most shocking evidence of the animosity hanging in the air.  The fact is,  we are united more by the products we share, than by any central truth.  Is it possible that while commercial speech aims to join us together in pursuit of a common expenditure, such as Groupon does, political speech is focused on splitting us down the middle?  An old friend called me to talk to someone she was sure would share her views on recent political events, but we ended up disagreeing on taxes and government, differences I never knew were there.  Sometimes, I wonder if it would have been better in Siena in the 1500's.   Then I remember the Montagues and Capulets and realize it has always been this way.

Stopping By The Woods

    One of the evils of city living is that it is hard to leave.  Even when traffic and time are not impediments, everything beyond the borders of streets and houses seems far away.  Thus, I go to the country much less than I mean to.
    But Sunday was sunny and cold and I knew there was snow galore in the mountains, so Rob and I went to the Wind River area of hills in Washington to cross country ski for me, and snowshoe for him.

Although the traffic tie ups around Mt. Hood had been making the news, there were very few visitors to this land of gentle hills that border the Indian Heaven wilderness area.  Perhaps that was because the road was icy and curvy the last ten miles.

    Skiing in the sun through the woods is about as close to bliss as I can get.

Maybe it is because I get so light starved in the winter, or go through the day, tense with the damp chill of this rainy climate, but the chance to synchronize my arms and legs in big graceful strides and the soft shush of each step almost puts me to sleep with calm.  The right music on the Ipod didn’t hurt my mood either

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