Fury

One unnecessary death in Minneapolis is too many. At the very least, Renee Good’s death at the hands of ICE mandates our attention. And mourning. I believe it also mandates our outrage. These were my thoughts when D. invited my dad and me to create collages last week. I brought my fury and sorrow to the materials at hand. At that time, I couldn’t imagine yet another person being gunned down. . . .

Death in Minnesota

Losing things (and people)

Decades before embarking on my current journaling experience with Suleika Jaouad’s book, I took another journey with Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. Besides the practice of writing daily pages, I took away from that experience the importance of artist dates—moments away from routines and must-dos to think, see, experience, feel.

Last week I had two artist dates! On the way home from the second one with friend C., she told me that the soap maker from whom she’d bought gift soaps for years was going out of business. Her sorrow was greater than mine, but as I thought of the last bits of her latest gift at home, I experienced a sense of loss. And I remembered another time when soap and loss were bound together. I wrote about it in “Vestige.”

Vestige

When this soap was new

we were together

Your smile sneaked

around the corner

as I bought it

in the boardwalk shop

Now it foams in my hands

innocent conductor of memory,

a wound hollowed out

more each time

I miss your smile most

because it was rare—

you wore your

earnestness more often

Just a sliver of soap remains

I waver

Use it all up—

or tuck it away?

Writing a sestina about Christmas week

I’ve been fortunate to have as my companion for the last few months Suleika Jaouad’s The Book of Alchemy. In a piece I read recently, Ann Patchett mentioned her fondness for formal structures when writing. She remembered her sister and her having friendly competitions writing sestinas. . . in restaurants. . . while waiting for their food to come!

Sometimes rules and limitations can be helpful in the creative process. The sestina, however, is a pretty daunting format. But I was inspired by Patchett and used its tricky structure to tell the story of a few days from our family’s Christmas week. Results are below. Comments welcome!

Christmas Week: A Sestina

At dawn the first morning, snow falls gently

Before sunrise, and it covers the ground

In a lacy blanket. The roof, as well,

Is coated in a light sprinkling of white,

Giving an extra hush to the morning

And incentive to stay under covers.

It is the best time of year for covers,

And they are everywhere: tucked so gently

Around the Christmas tree’s stand; each morning

The alpaca one warming me; the ground

Blanketed in maple leaves dusted white;

Holiday songs, new renditions sung well

Such tunes are abundant, and all is well

As we pause, mugs in hands, under covers

Phones cast aside, and instead, the calm white

Of book pages turned silently, gently.

When we rise, it is to wipe the damp ground

From the dog's paws in the melting morning

By midweek, there are others in the morning:

Our son, his wife, their child—a cat as well.

We look outside and each assess the ground

For suitable activities. Covers

Cast off, cloaked in layers, gently

We navigate the pavement’s ice-melt white

(It is the only thing that is still white.)

Then a wintry mix falls one cold morning,

Causing our relatives to pry, gently,

Ice from their windshield and windows as well

Before loading the cat (wrapped in covers)

Into the car on the driveway’s slick ground.

We wish each other good luck with the ground

Craving, instead of ice, powdery white.

But Christmas Day—when a feast covers

The table, and stockings from the morning

Lie about, and we are happy and well -

Fed, and holiday music plays gently—

Then, the ground matters not, and gently

We raise glasses of white, champagne as well

To covers, and family, and morning.