Two Songs of a Teacup

 

 

Two Songs of a Teacup

For Caitlin

 

I.

 

Fine, baby’s-ear pink

Belovèd beyond measure

—Already broken

 

 

****************************

 

 

II.

 

The teacup is a treasure from Granny,

Last of the set, eggshell thin.

Palest pink, like a baby’s ear.

Delicate, translucent, radiant.

One of a kind.

 

(Gangsta voices in my head whisper,

“Nice teacup you got there. 

It would be a shame if something were to happen to it.”)

 

I keep my treasure on the highest shelf

And try not to worry.

A dusting disaster topples it.

The teacup shatters.

 

I have a beautiful teacup.

And imagine what it’s like to be this teacup:

So unique, so fragile.

I hold it tightly to protect it.

The teacup shatters.

 

I have a perfect teacup.

Joyfully I hold it up to show my friends

And accidentally drop it.

The teacup breaks.

 

Warmed in its transient beauty,

I drink from my teacup each day,

Wash it carefully, set it on a clean towel to dry, 

Keep it on the shelf with my jade green teapot.

I love it, care for it,

Warm myself in its joyful radiance.

 

—Knowing it is already broken, I am free.

 

The Reinvention of February

 

It’s my intention to reinvent February—

Conjuring up dreams of yellow daffodils on green stems,

A lost lover’s deep kisses,

A new freedom from the observation that 

More light arrives with each passing day.

I’ll have myself a new February!

Without the blood red center,

Without the memories of loss and regret.

I’ll distill and drink every last drop of sunlight from each passing day 

And this new February will be my magical portal to Spring.

Heart of Gold

Today is Neil Young’s 79th birthday. A friend reminded me recently of his wistful song “Heart of Gold,” which I listened to over and over again in the 70s. Hearing it again now, I’ve realized it’s not merely about his longing, but also contains insights into the reasons it’s been so hard for him to find his heart of gold.

“I wanna live, I wanna give

I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold

It’s these expressions I never give

That keep me searchin’ for a heart of gold”

“I’ve been in my mind,  it’s such a fine line,

 That keeps me searchin’ for a heart of gold”

I think I want to have a word with Neil, even though he hasn’t asked me for my thoughts on this and I’m betting he probably already knows everything I want to tell him, seeing as how he wrote the song in the first place. 

But here’s what I’d say:

What is a heart of gold, anyway? Kindness? Unconditional love (a two-edged sword indeed for the heart in question as it can imply an arrangement where all the giving is one-way)? Is the golden heart the kind that hangs in there for the long haul after the thrill of being “in love” fades?

I see the grizzled Old Man on Neil Young’s ranch taking a look under the hood of his beloved 1948 Buick Roadmaster hearse for which he wrote the tribute “Long May You Run.” The old man mutters, “well here’s your problem right here.”

Maybe you don’t recognize a heart of gold when you see it, Neil. Maybe you’re afraid to express your deepest feelings well enough to be heard by somebody out there with a heart of gold—because expressing your feelings has ended badly in the past. 

Or, maybe you’re using that excellent brain of yours to keep overthinking it, drawing and redrawing the fine line that keeps you looking for a shinier, more perfect and self sacrificing heart of gold. 

Or, that uneasiness while you’re searching creeps over you, in those early days of an encounter when the balance of connection is so precarious. Who reaches out first? Whose turn is it now? Where is it written that there are turns?

Or, maybe there are so many golden hearts, so little time.

Maybe in fact what you need is an equal. Somebody who loves you as you are, who’s willing not only to give you love, but also fully expecting to receive it. Someone who’s willing to give you the space to truly find your heart’s desire.

The Floor Is Your Friend

 

When I was working long days in tech, I completely ignored an important voice, the voice of my body. Curved over the computer, stressed about details I no longer remember, I ordered pain into the background, ordered my body to keep going. I knew that I needed to exercise, so I parked at the far edge of the parking lot and walked to the building and up the stairs to my office. I walked on the weekends and made myself take classes: aerobics, toning, even a little yoga here and there. 

My least favorite part of these classes was getting down on the floor.

Getting up and down seemed like more effort than I could possibly afford. Some days just hauling myself out of the car and up the stairs to work seemed too much to ask, let alone getting down on the floor for exercises I was never sure I was doing  quite right. And the floor was an uncomfortable place, hard and cold, drawing my reluctant attention to my aches and pains.

My father, no stranger to long days and work stress, had a sympathetic piece of advice he used when I told him about my frustrations: “Don’t let them get you down on the floor.” An ominous expression if I ever heard one, it seemed to imply that once on the floor the battle would be over for sure, and also that you if you let them get you down on the floor it was your own damned fault. You’ve got to be tougher, be smarter, he urged me in these conversations.

Also, especially when I was younger, I periodically had a reaction to abdominal pain combined with stress in which I would sometimes faint. Eventually I learned how to handle this peculiarity by lowering myself down at the first sign of trouble, usually in the middle of the night. I would wake up a few moments later, face on the cold hard bathroom floor, sorting through that jumble of images and ideas that the brain has when it’s been rebooted abruptly and is trying to spin back up. And thus the cold hard floor became associated in my mind with fainting, losing consciousness, losing control—scary things.

However, as I begin my 70s I have, as Joni might have said, seen the floor from both sides now. For over a year I’ve been a daily devotee of a specialized practice called Kaiut Yoga that focuses on the joints, developing strength and greater mobility, reconnecting mind, body and spirit. To my amazement, this slow-moving, meditative form of yoga has become a cornerstone of my life. As a result of my daily practice I feel stronger both emotionally and physically, more centered. I now feel much more comfortable on the floor than ever before in my life. I still experience an occasional uneasiness as I lie on it though, the vague memory of unwanted floor encounters of the past. 

On the other side of 70, the floor’s sure support, its very hardness, its indisputable confirmation of the here and now, have finally made it my friend.

Winter Solstice

The longest night promises true winter.

The light of transformation is hard to see.

It’s there, though, in the gladness 

Of the chickadee sipping at the shimmering bird bath,   

In the silvery morning light on the maple branch, 

In the stars shining against a fathomless indigo sky.

 

Going Gentle

After careful thought 

I would like to say that I wish 
You had gone gentle into that good night
And that your rage had turned to softness 
And that you had remembered how much you loved us
And perhaps found a way to stay
Just a little longer
To witness the glowing autumn flame
Of the maple tree we planted long ago
And the fire of ivy on the fence
And the bravery of the last red dahlias 
Defying hints of winter 
Still rising tall toward the sun

One Year Later

Wearing Out One’s Welcome

One doesn’t want to seem needy
Overly grateful for a child’s call
Willing the cat to linger longer on the lap
Counting the days since the last hug

One looks up one’s life expectancy at 70

And finds that it’s a little over 17 years

And sometimes 17 years seems like a very long time

And other times it seems entirely too short

One leaves out punctuation in a poem like this one

To let the thoughts flow freely

To dare a tiny bit of rule-breaking

And in consideration of the finality of a period

It’s the rule-breaking that will keep one alive

Over the long haul

When in doubt break the rules

To hell with other people’s opinions

Wear purple yoga pants in public

Wash one’s hair less often

Leave the bra in the drawer

Travel to new places

Eat potato chips and sour cream 

While playing on-line Scrabble

Light a single candle for dinner

Or dine out at the bar

Have a glass of wine 

Or be a real rebel and drink water

Have cake or at least relish the idea of having cake

And as the impermanent world turns

Even if one is never noticed again

Remember always that one is truly enough

An excellent conversational companion for oneself

(Or as spell-checker would have it “one’s elf”)