Daughters of the earth

Daughters of the earth, make room for pure joy. Don't let the dark restrain your light. Create your burning bush of joy.

You are sacred. You are divine.

When I was naive, I thought joy was a feeling. I thought it was something that you chase. Now I see the light. Joy sustains me.

Joy is trust. It will comfort you when you are overwhelmed. Joy sees others as a pathway to new understanding. Joy is more that than the pain that keeps you up at night. Joy is more than a smile. It is more than a laugh. There is no fear in joy. Daughters of the earth make room for pure joy.




Lurena Lee
August, 2012

Julia Roberts Summer

The other day a stranger said to me, "You have the most serious expression on your face of anyone I have ever seen in this entire town." He was seated on the bench outside the coffee shop and I blinked several times in response, gave him a pained smile stretched very, very thin and turned deliberately to the right, fast. A friend waved at me from across the street and part of the interaction's intensity was deflected.

Summer is this. It is humidity and sultriness. Movie trailers about adultery. Peaches, sloppy eager local peaches. Seven peaches on a tray frozen whole in the freezer. Two ears of corn. Basil packed into plastic bags and weird interactions with men affected by the heat.

Outside another cafe the following week-a man, blonde hair, strange hat, crazy eyes, maybe even plaid pants toddled over to me with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth mumbling, "Does this even make sense? Does it?" I nod, blink in response and return to the cafe waiting until he disappears to walk home. Is it the heat that agitates men, that fries and oils their brains, burns up the senses? Is there more mania in the summer? More psychotic breaks, passionate outbursts, hissing water in August? More pink nipples and cussing? I do think that the heat does something and that something is tripled when there is a full orange moon with gray clouds slipping across over and over obscuring and then revealing it. Everything is more alive, insects literally buzz with life.

It's best to spend hours on blow up floats on a lake foot to foot with someone you trust reclined watching clouds until nightfall when the lighthouse turns on its light. The water is green-clear and a large fish can cause a usually appropriate woman to scream shrilly and run out of the water holding onto the straps of her bikini top. The water coming out of the tap flows cloudy into jelly jars.


I watch Pretty Woman for the 100th time and am finally infuriated. I've always wondered when this would happen. I remember my grandmother being livid when as a teen I told her I loved that movie and ate up every moment between Richard Gere and Julia Roberts. I thought my grandmother was being prim. She's just uptight. She thinks it's rape when there's a vigorous sex scene between two consenting adults. This time I feel myself contract every time Richard Gere tells her to "Stop fidgeting." Why is he teaching her to be a lady?

During the movie my friend recites facts about it. She loves it. Julia Roberts had her feet tickled by the director to make her laugh authentic. Richard Gere was told that only one character moves in this move and it's not you.  My friend says she used to lie down in the snow and kick her legs up in the air yelling "$3000" (the amount of money Vivian/Julia Roberts paid for a week with Edward) until her mom told her to stop. She was raised Pentecostal.

The heat is unbearable during the movie. Julia Roberts hung out with prostitutes and that's how she knew they don't kiss on the mouth. She was supposed to be caught with drugs in the original script but they made it dental floss.  They must have changed that quickly when they saw her huge, gleaming white teeth. Does every white woman have a relationship with Julia Roberts? At age 13, I was so excited when a drunk man told me I looked like her at the bus stop. I find that I am admonishing her in my mind during the movie. I hope you're not proud of this movie, including the cheap faux feminist ending where you tell him you'll save him back after he saved you. Your hair does look good though. And I think I read that you're a Scorpio.

It was 1991 when Pretty Woman came out and  the story of sexy Richard Gere saves quirky hot hooker who relaxes his type A ways was grafted onto my skin like puberty stretch-marks. My mind was so malleable back then and any media with sex absorbed quickly. This is what summer does, makes me remember other summers and how I learned woman and man and crazy. Thank goodness for feminism which saved all the women Julia Roberts taught how to walk and laugh.

I find myself returning to that stranger sitting on the bench judging my neutral face on a humid summer's day. I'm thinking of tomatoes  and ground cherries, unaware of being watched at first. Would Richard Gere have gently tugged a man's arm if he had a sour expression? Would he have told him to stay still? Would that weird stranger have told a six foot tall wide shouldered man that he looked serious? No.

Julia, you fought off that Seinfeld actor when he tried to assault you but instead of a moment which highlighted that he's an asshole, we're supposed to think, Isn't it awesome she still has her self-worth  even though she's a prostitute? Remember though, you don't have that much clout or self worth. The writers made sure to have Edward to escort you back to the snotty clothing store for your corrective class experience. Couldn't you have done that by yourself or with an awesome lady-friend?  Even during that scene where you're being fawned over by those shitty women, it is because he said so and he has the money. But the scene is supposed to read: redemption and fuck you and apologize (because I have a man who is powerful). And it did just that, with simplicity and satisfaction when I was nine years old watching something forbidden. And even now,  I'm not immune to a young Richard Gere or a young Julia Roberts for that matter. I have been conditioned to inhale romantic myth so fast it digests like those straws full of colored sugar.  As a teen, I probably loved that Edward played the piano. I probably loved the way he took her face in her hands. But now when he takes off his shoes in Manhattan in the summer I think, just another weird guy losing his shit in August.


 

Vanessa Brackett
August 2012
Vanessa blogs at increase the levels of radiance

I Was Here (Beth DeSombre)

He gets off work at midnight, takes the F train back uptown
He shakes off all the daily slights and times he’s been put down
He rides for hours back and forth, carves lines with an old pen
And when he’s done the windows of that train will say again
   
    I was here; I mattered
    What I’ve done has left a mark
    When I’m gone, they’ll notice
    A beacon in the dark
    Although I walk in shadows now I will not disappear
    I was here, I was here

She spends the evening serving coffee; every night’s the same
The customers leave tips in pennies; no one knows her name
She thinks up rhymes throughout her shift and writes them down at home
She greets the morning on the corner, handing out her poems

    I was here; I mattered
    What I’ve done has left a mark
    When I’m gone, they’ll notice
    A beacon in the dark
    Although I walk in shadows now I will not disappear
    I was here, I was here

A subway sign with every other letter scribbled out
Late night rhythmic lyrics punctuated with a shout
Impossibly high billboards that bear ten spray-painted names
A handprint placed in fresh cement; all serve to make one claim

    I was here; I mattered
    What I’ve done has left a mark
    When I’m gone, they’ll notice
    A beacon in the dark
    Although I walk in shadows now I will not disappear
    I was here, I was here
    I was here, I was here






© Beth DeSombre 2012

Mothering as Middle School

Becoming a mother is a lot like entering middle school.  Everyone desperately wants to be unique--in as normal and acceptable a way as possible.  Most people you know who are eager to give you mothering advice seem either unbearably old or just barely surviving whatever developmental hell their own children are experiencing.  If you are lucky, you will encounter a big sister or two who will not sugarcoat the experience, but will show true joy in the presence of her children. 

Mostly, though, you, like your teenage self, will feel like nobody understands you.  Even, and perhaps especially, when surrounded by the mothers of other babies, you will look around and think that all of these women have it so much more together than you. They pack organic snack food in reusable containers, and tote special zippered bags for their dirty diapers.  They pack these diapers in elegant handbags designed for weekend jaunts to the Hamptons.  They are the cool girls. You will feel slightly superior to the mom who always shows up late, with spit-up stains on her clothes, carrying extra diapers in a grocery bag. 

You will wonder, every hour of the first 365 days of your child’s life, whether what you are doing is normal. Someone will have written a book, or six, about every decision you question.  The books will not agree.  You will read them all, and still question all your decisions.  Your pediatrician will become the designated arbiter of normalcy when it comes to your choices as a parent, followed closely by your mother.  After the first 365 days, your question will shift.  You will find yourself wondering more and more whether your child--your precious, perfect child--is normal.

You will read dozens of books about child development, temperament, discipline, and a slate of child-rearing practices designed to turn out the child of your dreams.  Your child will not read any of these books.  He does not know that a choice between two options you have deemed acceptable will make him feel empowered.  He will make a third choice.  When he disapproves of his options, he will inform you loudly, “That is not a choice!” 

 In return, you will say things you have not said since seventh grade, like, “Fine. Be that way.”
You are a middle-school girl being taunted by a tiny, strong-willed narcissist.  You will wonder how he got so stubborn.  Sometimes, knowing he got it from you will make you laugh.  A lot. Sometimes you will cry. A lot. You will learn that even the cool girls, with their fancy handbags and designer sunglasses, cry, too.  And that sometimes the mom covered in spit-up stains seems to be having more fun than is reasonable.  You will try to learn how she does it.  You will start to notice that sometimes you laugh out loud at your beloved child when he is being especially unreasonable.  You will be relieved to know he has a sense of humor when he laughs with you. 

Some time after you have read all the books and think you have dodged all the nosy questions about how, when, where, and for how long your kid sleeps, nurses, eats, plays independently, and uses the toilet, you will realize you don’t care what they think, these arbiters of proper parenting--the authors, the pediatricians, the preschool teachers, the cool moms, your mother.  You don’t care about being normal anymore.  Though you still dream about a good night’s sleep the way you used to dream about a good-night kiss.

Congratulations!  You’ve graduated from middle school.



Shakira
July 2012

A Moment

Here I am. I am here. Always here. Nowhere else but here.
As I watch
I am touched.
Deeply.
The simple act
of a small boy gently and lovingly
kissing
his older sister’s arm.
Unprompted.
Unencouraged.
Completely welling up
from within
and expressed unapologetically
as only young children can.
And the gesture
received receptively.
Quietly.
Graciously.
From the same loving child-place.
As I watch I am brought to tears,
as the late-in-the-day children
join the adults
effortlessly and sweetly.
Draping gently across laps and shoulders,
moving from one adult to another for connection.
A foot.
A perfect foot.
Upside down,
layered over Mom’s ankle,
moving in rhythm together to the music.
A small gesture,
but a deep moment of casual intimacy -
unpracticed and pure.
As the music continues
and the hand symbol for “I love you”
is attempted
(but turns out looking more like “Rock’N’Roll”)
amidst the makeshift drum kit of overturned boxes and a long metal threaded rod;
voices singing in harmony and off-key,
words sung,
words mumbled,
some extra la-tee-dahs.
Tunes found, the chords forgotten,
picked up by the next.
A new and old camaraderie.
A lovely collection of souls touching.
One more greeting as a group.
Before the last parting.
Children being sent to do child-focused things.
Hugs to Mom before scampering off on another adventure.
And then...
a gesture...
after stopping suddenly,
arrested by a thought....
remembering...
half turning back to look and then giving Mom the “I love you” gesture...
in secret communication...
a pure moment of deep intimacy,
encouragement,
knowing.
A moment forever etched in a mother’s heart,
sweetness beyond words;
a moment beyond time.




S.A. Birdsall, July 2012

New York City Sunshine

         Barbara sat behind the glass enclosure in the Trailways Bus Terminal.  She sipped her sugary, lukewarm coffee and pulled her cardigan sweater over her buxom chest.  It was raining outside early this morning and there was a chill in the air; a big difference from the warm June temperature of yesterday.  Her long blonde hair was still damp.  She took an elastic from her metal desk drawer and put her hair in a loose pony tail.  That done, she took a look at the passengers that were coming into the small sitting area of the terminal.  Four women came in laughing as they shook out their wet umbrellas and stored their suitcases and backpacks by the green connected seats. They threw out their arms wide to give one another big hugs. 

            Mmm, Barbara thought.  They must be going on a women’s weekend to NYC.  After  six years of selling tickets in the Springfield terminal, she could tell a lot about the travelers that came into her waiting area.   She turned her head to the left and saw a young man in his twenties finger picking his way on his computer; a student.   Sitting next to him was a  lean, older black woman, dressed in a neat white blouse, grey skirt with her beige raincoat folded and draped over her small suitcase.  Visiting the family in Brooklyn, Barbara thought. 

             Through the sliding doors a tall black man appeared.  He was wearing a Mexican serape; bold green and blue stripes were woven vertically making the man appear even taller.  He was pushing a small cart which had a huge plastic tub on it topped with a folding table. The street vender, Isaac, Barbara said to herself.

             He came towards the ticket window and with his broad smile and African accent said, “Good morning Barbara, and how are you on this fine rainy day?”

            “Wet”, she mumbled.

            “Ah but the sun will shine today. I promise”, Isaac said with a twinkle in his eye.

            “What weather report did you listen too?” She asked.

            “The one for the Big Apple, Barbara.  Sunshine in the BIg Apple” he said with his deep melodic voice.

            “Well, here it is going to be rain. rain, rain all day. Which I guess doesn't’ matter since I am inside this place until late this afternoon.”  She looked at him with a tired expression as she handed him the ticket and his change.

            “Don’t look so glum, my friend.  Tomorrow will be another day and sunshine may just smile on your pretty face.”

            At that remark, Barbara pulled her sweater tighter and knew she was blushing. Isaac gave out a huge laugh. 

            “See you tomorrow my friend and he rolled his cart away towards the line that was forming to get on the bus.”

            By the end of her shift, she would be on her way to Stop and Shop to pick up something for dinner and maybe a movie.  It was her free night.  Her weekend without Nolie.  She hated when Nolie was not home and with her dad in Hartford. Barbara missed Nolie as soon as she got into his car.  Yet, having the weekend to herself was, well, like going away on a bus. Something out of the ordinary.  Yes, she would get herself a comedy, something that would make her laugh, laugh as loud as Isaac just did.    Issac, she thought of that tall man again.  Sunshine in New York City. 

             Here she sits in the florescent light of the bus terminal day after day and has never stepped onto one of the buses.  Hell, she could even go for free. Yet, not once in the six years did she climb up the steps to sit high up in one of the buses.  Granted six years ago she had a one year old daughter and two years later was a single mom; Derrick cheating on her with that woman that was now his wife. She looked out the window as the rain came down in torrents.  Then she looked at the newspaper’s weather report, today 90% rain, Sunday 80% rain with thunderstorms.

            Her heart skipped a beat as she tried to slow down her mind and what she was thinking. She looked at the digital clock on her desk 7:15 AM. The bus was leaving in five minutes.  She took a big swallow of her now cold coffee, buttoned up her sweater, reached for her black pocket book that was in the bottom drawer and stood up. She quickly scrawled a note on a piece of paper;  Emergency with child, will return tomorrow.

              She looked around the office, took a big breath and stepped out into the waiting room.  The line for the bus had vanished.  She moved slowly to the door, opened it and felt the rain on her face.   The bus driver, John, was a regular.  She looked him in the eyes and said, “I’m riding for free today, John.”  With that she took the steps up onto the bus,made her way down the aisle, and saw Isaac sitting by the window third of the way down the bus.

            Isaac looked up at Barbara as she stood there clutching her black pocketbook.  Barbara’s face broke into a smile and said, “I’m looking for sunshine.” She took the seat beside him and the bus rolled away from the terminal towards New York City.

Marilyn London-Ewing
June 2012

My Romance with el Señor Pimsleur

On the tapes we speak so nicely to each other always. According to el señor Pimsleur, el famoso lingüista, language enters the brain painlessly like an IV drip. Half an hour a day, every day--no memorization at all! I desire to learn so many tongues.

--Have you been here before?

--No, never, but it pleases me very much the weather and also the mountains.

--Your English is very excellent.

--Your Spanish, also.

--Does your uncle prefer vino tinto or vino blanco?

In Spanish there are two kinds of being, temporary and permanent. Ser y estar. We must pay constant attention and try not to confuse them. I like the rainforest and the beaches.

--Pero habla usted muy bien, señora.

--It is kind of you to say, but I only know what has dripped into my brain from the CDs ,of the method Pimleur. I started with High Intermediate. Is why I can use the past tense and even the subjunctive. It is so nice to have a subjunctive. En ingles no hay.

--Nacionalidad?

--Norteamericana. Notice I did not say American. I must bear in mind that you too are Americans. We only are North Americans; we don’t mean to offend but we simply can’t help it.

--Porpoise of visit, please?

--I have come here as a medical tourist.

--Como, señora?

--Conoce usted el turismo medico? Facelifts, tummy tucks, brow lifts, lower body lifts… I don’t know the words in Spanish.

--Do you bring any fruits or vegetables into the country?

--Claro que no! Es muy simpático este país, full of rare rainforest species. Also a Filene’s basement for surgery of the elective type. Por supuesto, is grand opportunity for new vocabulary, for example, nasolabial folds. But this, alas, el Señor Pimsleur does not cover in his lessons. I fear I am not making myself clear.

--I believe you are obtruding the line, señora.

--I excuse myself. Do not think that I am a vain woman, like so many norteamericanas. In strictest confidence, I lost half of myself and in places the skin hangs from my bones.

--Your pasaporte seems to be in order. You may go. Pase pase por aquí, señora.

--Muchas gracias, señor.

--Buenas tardes, Señora! Yo soy el señor Gómez. We were on the same airplane.

--Mucho gusto, señor. El baggage claim is this way?

--Yes, let us go there together. What brings you to my country?

--I have come here to have certain cosmetic surgeries necessitated by rapid weight loss. I used to be very fat. Muy gordita. Now I am flaquita. I lost 120—uh, kilos?

--No es posible, señora.

--I mean 120 pounds. I regret that I don’t know your units of weight. It is a fact that I now have on mi pecho lost senos de mi abuela.

--What you intend to mean, señora?

--It is that the breasts of my grandmother are on my chest. This is the result of getting thin very fast. I was warned it would occur. I hope to see many extinct volcanos during my visit.

--Here is the baggage claim, señora. We must wait.

--Gracias, señor. Mi amiga has already had several surgeries. She tells me don’t bother to learn Spanish; all you need to say is, Tengo mucho dolor. Mucho? How much is mucho? I asked. Oh, don’t worry, she said, you won’t remember a thing.

---Ah, Here is my valise, the black one.

--I hope mine has not lost itself. You see, on my thin body--mi cuerpo flaquito--is the same amount of skin surface that formerly enclosed my fat self. My arms now resemble batwings. How do you say bat?

--???

--Señor Gonzalez, have you seen the fotos en el famoso periodico National Geographic? If so you will know what I mean when I speak of the deflated bosoms of ancient African ladies. They resemble themselves to empty sacks--sacos vacios.

--Le gustaria tomar algo, señora?

--No, gracias. El gobierno de este país—es una junta?

--No, señora, here is stable government. We call ourselves the Switzerland of Central America.

--Ah! but do not forget little Switzerland’s role in hiding the Nazi gold. How does collaborator say itself in Spanish?

--No, no, señora. Is here a stable democracy, I assure you. No dead Indians, banana coups, coffee thugs, ni historia muy tragic.

---Ah yes, we are only visitors here, we cannot judge. We pass through this land as medical tourists from Gringolandia, the land of norteamerica. Oh! Is my bag—right there. El de verde!

--Your bug?

--Suitcase, luggage. I have not remembered the word and the CDs were very expensive, muy caro. A ripoff really. Oh, thank you—a thousand times thank you.

--Do you stay here in the capital?

--Yes, tomorrow I must take myself to to the oficina of el doctor Martinez. With him I have already entered into an email relationship bastante intima. He speaks excellent English and answers my questions about his various procedures. Recomienda usted las especialidad de la casa?

--Usted habla muy bien español. Señora. Is this your first time here?

--Gracias, señor. Misfortunately, I am only High Intermediate, but is my greatest intention to progress further. It is frequently said that it is best to learn to speak with the natives. Me gustaría mucho arroz y pollo.

--A su servicio, señora.

--Vive usted en el norte or el sud? Su esposa es enfermera?

--Claro que si. I am a man of negocios. My brother is the director of a company international. The sister of my brother lives in Chicago. It is necessary to make many business travels.

--How interesting. Quiere usted ver las fotografías of my former fat body and my present skinny body? Antes y después. I have them here on mi laptop. El doctor Martinez insisted on seeing them before the surgery. They are a hoot. Here, you can see.

--Ay, ay, que barbaridad.

--Now you’ve seen my batwings you will understand why I am having the surgery.

---Ojala que se mejore pronto.

--Oh, was that the subjunctive? I love the subjunctive! I wish English had one. It is my favorite tense--voice, whatever. This wine is delicious. Is it from the south?

--No, this wine is from the west. The corn is from the east.

--Ah, que bueno! And the government here is very stable. I have heard it is the Switzerland of Centroamerica.

--That is what one says, Señora. We hope that you will have many enjoyments here.

--Buenas tardes, Señora. Es usted chilena?

--Ah, Señor Gómez, Mucho gusto! This country es muy delicioso. Which way to the stopping place of the autobus?

--On the corner of the street, señora, across from the police station.

--May I have one ticket please? While I am here I would desire very much to see the animals of the rainforest, especially the green and black poison dart frog and the three-toed sloth.

Judy Hooper
April 2012

Enlightenment feels like a weight off the bones

Enlightenment feels like a weight off the bones
The sudden death of muscular tension
Recognizing ghostly hungers like old friends
And loving them toughly.
You become your own patron saint,
your own mendicant and supplicant combined
and in each demon and angel see a cosmos reflected
holding you chalice-like in Indra's quantum foam.


It is to populate the world of atoms with heroes and gods
And to rip all Scripture asunder in the torrent of the frontal lobe
Our eyes can only open as wide as our minds and hearts


But if we are bold
we can embrace without grasping
this life that cherishes and churns us
and all that may lie beyond without drawing inane maps of unglimpsed shores


And if we are wise
We can celebrate every fold and every crease of life where others would plug in the iron
Right up until we ourselves are just another memory to celebrate


And if we are compassionate
we can embrace one another without grasping
& beckon each other on the spiral dance of discovery and death


Scatter flowers or ashes as you will - enlightenment is big enough for both.
All evil things lose their power, and all good things their pompous prestige
for what cannot change?
Trust not in the judgmental, for who has earned milk without a kick,
honey without a sting?
And wisdom, in enlightened eyes, lies in every iota of Aldebaran's light,
The colors of deep-sea firefly fish,
Detritus trodden doggedly into inner-city sidewalks,
and in void.


Enlightenment takes nothing very seriously.
Enlightenment takes nothing very seriously.


Joshua  Gannon-Salomon
March 2012

Can I forgive the poet inside?

Can I forgive the poet inside?
Rude-word scrawler, tiger-tooth tickler,
Scrappy town brawler, infant bawler.
Bone grubber, rag picker, hoarder of valves and keys.
The poet inside sets fire to foolscap. A light,
A fanfare, a tree speaks, a bicycle spoke,
One blink the world is gone and whoosh
All is resurrected. An iron nail, a blood red ruby
Flash and burn on the wrists of saints,
True and false. Blessed are the poets:
Scattershot word thieves,
The ones who wield a pen with clumsy love.
Blessed are those who careen after wholeness,
Slipping on word spill, tripping on truth,
Half-awake, wholly foolish, aware and unaware,
Witless wise guys drunk on witness.

Anne Lindley
March 2012

Tea

                                                 

How could rich Texas tea

Cost as much as a steaming cup of Starbucks coffee?

Crude oil

Dug from deep inside Mother’s belly. 

Cesarean sections performed

Without her permission. 

Black gold from around the world

Stored in mammoth freighters

Comes to our land.

As if this rich thick oil is real gold

To wear on our wrists and around our necks.

The black tar transforms into an albatross

Weighing us down.

We pay the price

To heat our homes

To move our cars

To keep money in the pockets of oil barons.

And then

There is the dawn.

Fiery flames, so far away in the cold galaxy

Warm our planet.

How good the sun feels on

My body.

Apollo, the magician does his magic tricks

Gives us his fortune for free.

Solar panels reflect on roofs,

Absorbing the gift of the sun. 

My house stays warm.

My tub fills with heavenly, hot water

I prefer sun tea.

Marilyn London-Ewing
March 2012

I wish you could

I could tell you to breathe,

To grit and push

To enlighten and endure

And enunciate the edges

While the sun bounces off the peninsula, 

Or the way one word can soften the harsh corners.

It’s nothing to pull up that reading list

Of Thomas Moore and Oprah and two kinds of Grahams,

For a snap of a moment to guide you to the stillest point

where facts and futures reduce to one sentence, maybe two,

Then fall into a portal or a mantra, and please, an explanation, finally, 

that shows how empty gets filled, 

how questions stop confusing,

please something to assure  that acceptance reigns and destiny divines.

Assures…

For a time.

It’s as simple as you wish it to be

For a time.

But I kid you not, lest it’s best you know:

The road’s rocky, the trip’s tricky, 

The ache is real.

The lump in the shower, the call at midnight, the pinkest slip?

Who said it: We grow, we grow. stronger each time?

Perhaps, and so what?

The drips of recovery can deplete

And when that happens you might stop being sure.

And what about that: when you toss your hopes to hell?

What then? When time and years alter hope, meld it into something 

That will rend your heart as surely as the sun sets and rises?

Children are kidnapped, for god sakes.

Or that first betrayal! In time it will heal: time is the medicine of destiny;

But never enough. There is no enough in such a matter.

But wait:

You can lose.

You can let fate wrestle you down 

And decide to lose,

Right there on the mat of goals and wishes.

It might look dire, 

To have packed your suitcase and parachute only to leave them both 

at a bus stop to nowhere;

to venture off with a faith that looks like zany circles 

not reassuring lines.

But there is a but.

When there are no answers

The questions don’t matter nearly as much.

And when you stop questioning

You just might find

Your own brand of astonishment,

Waiting and ready 

To carry you home.

Karen Jasper
Feb. 2012

The End of Self Help Part 1

I started reading self-help books at thirteen years old, with appetite and fervor. But the true gateway was Women’s Day magazine quizzes at my grandmother’s house, age nine. Sitting on the couch which smelled like tongue, leafing through smoky pages quickly to the quiz section. My grandmother was endlessly patient with me as I quizzed her: Did she like A) bright colors and tango lessons, B) muted colors and waltzing or C) slow dancing and florals?

After tallying the answers into a final and definitive category of mostly As, mostly B’s or mostly C’s, I found out answers that were alternately intuitive and frightening. I learned that I was an introvert, I was naturally disorganized and my grandmother and grandfather were ill-matched and should seek marital counseling quickly. When I read aloud the results of their marital fate, they both laughed heartily with a bitterness and rawness that unnerved me.

As a blemished, tragic romantic of fifteen years old, self-help books held the key to salvation for me. All my awkward intense feelings of difference and aloneness could be changed by absorbing key principles of empowered living and authentic relationships. I could be unafraid or at least love my fear, be a model of self acceptance, financially secure (perhaps a millionaire), multiply orgasmic, ayurvedically balanced, gluten free and 100% creative and alive. I read the books in hopes of finding an antidote to the intimate and messy universe.

So, I accrued a lot of books, hundreds across the spectrum of self-help. I read them under the auspices that I wanted to be a therapist, that I needed to know how to help the socially anxious, ADD symptomatic, traumatized individuals of the world. But really, I read them all for myself. I filled bookshelves with Potatoes not Prozac, Codependent No More, Earn what You Deserve, If The Buddha Dated, also If the Buddha got Stuck and If the Buddha Married. Passionate Marriage and the Inner Child Workbook. Oh, and the magical wisdom of Spiritual Astrology, The Highly Sensitive Person and don’t forget the many tomes of Sark.

If I was bored, I would thumb through Radical Honesty, The Wisdom of the Enneagram or A Path with Heart. I stopped reading fiction altogether. Periodically through our years together, my writer-husband Ben suggested thoughtfully that I read some “real literature.” Let him read intellectual experimental fiction and prose poems, I thought defensively. That wasn’t me. I accused him of not accepting my true self. I had fought hard to feel okay about my self help library. I couldn’t read my books at the cafe without shame but at home, self help piled next to the bed. Eckhart Tolle, Parenting from the Inside Out and Healing Through the Dark Emotions were just my speed. On the bus, it was fine to read a Buddhist-type self book but totally inappropriate and shameful to read a book which genre straddled the self help/new age categories.I knew the rules.

Then one day while I chatted with a friend, she described me as a “distilled self help book.” Her tone was more admiring than judgmental but something inside me vomited, flinched and wilted as she said it. It’s true that I could describe in detail the process of “opening to a feeling” or explain the necessity of safety for trauma survivors. But inside I dreamt of being a wild woman, a self-trusting mystic who wrote poetry and manifestos by open water, did socially engaged art and followed inner promptings to adventures all around the world. Vanessa, the beekeeper, well maybe not beekeeper, but maybe Vanessa, the dancer, the artist and writer. Vanessa the Inner Child therapist, the mother, the herbalist, the wild one.

But I had become obsessed with other people’s wisdom. Other people’s visions of what the world was. My vocabulary was domesticated by self help and I turned away from my own inner-expert. I quizzed myself: Was I enmeshed with my mother? Was I practicing extreme self care? Did I need more mindfulness or to do a body scan? Was I differentiating enough from my husband? What the fuck was wrong and why wasn’t I happy?

I needed a big intervention, a massive change in direction. So I proclaimed AN END TO SELF HELP. Or rather an end to reading self help books. I got some boxes, packed them with all my self help books and got Ben to lug them to the basement. Then I sat on the floor of the echoing chamber that was my bedroom, gazing absently at the empty space on my bookshelves. What to do now? And this is when the shit hit the fan.


Vanessa Brackett
Feb. 2012
Vanessa blogs at increase the levels of radiance

Seth's Pond

An excerpt from "Bella and Bea," a novel for preteens

Bea got on her bike and went down the hill to the pond.  She put the bike down by the wooden railing and made her way onto the shady path; the coolness of the air inviting like a cloud moving across the hot sun. As she came nearer to the water’s edge she heard whistling.   She began to whistle back. Suddenly the whistling stopped and Bea stood still.

“Hey,” yelled Bea and then she let out a whistle. She looked down the shoreline but it was empty except for some big rocks and  course sand on the shore.

Suddenly, a shrill whistle screeched in the silence. It was so close that Bea jumped.

She turned around and saw Jono

“Hey, what are you doing? That hurt my ears,” said Bea a bit irritated.

Jono just shrugged his shoulders and scampered down the path towards a rock that was half in the water.

Without an invite, Bea followed him thinking that if he didn’t want her there, he would say so.  Near a tree on the shore, Jono had stashed a fishing rod and tackle box.  He took out a fishhook from his tackle box and attached it to his rod. He then held up some bait; a slimy, squirmy worm.

 Bea held out her hand, a gesture that made Jono raise his eyebrow with surprise and curiosity.

“Do you fish?” he asked.

“I have,” said Bea not offering more information.

“Okay, let’s see you hook the worm and set out the line.”

Bea smiled and took the wiggly worm out of Jono’s hand.   She hooked the worm and swung the rod overhead. Jono watched the arc of the line and the spot where the hook landed in the water.

“Nice,” he said.

Bea smiled again and handed the rod to Jono.

For a while all they heard was the soft rustling of leaves and bird songs. Bea broke the silence. “Where’s Lucky?”

“Dad took him to the vet’s,” said Jono looking out into the water.

“Is he okay?” Bea asked with concern.

“Yeah, needs his yearly shots.”

“You must love having him.  He’s such a good dog. So, why the name Lucky?”

Jono’s face darkened as if a stormy cloud covered it.   “Just because,”  he said more quietly.

“Because he gives you luck?” Bea asked

“Not really ...”

“Well, is it because he’s lucky, I mean like being a cat that has nine lives?” Bea persisted.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.  He was brought to the animal shelter when he was a pup. There was a fire and well his mother and another pup from the litter didn’t get out in time. But Lucky did and we got him. We didn’t name him; the people at the shelter did.” 

“Wow that is so sad and happy at the same time.  Lucky was sure lucky,” said Bea as she stole a glance at Jono.

“Yeah he is,” Jono said glancing back at her.

This time, Bea looked straight at him and said, “I hope he brings you luck, Jono,”

Jono did not say anything but looked out into the pond.  It was a beautiful summer day. The water was smooth, soft and still. Every now and then bullfrogs croaked and dragonflies skimmed the surface of the pond.  The blue sky and clouds reflected in the water. Bea looked out to the other side of the pond.

“Jono, what’s the pond like in winter. Can you skate on it?”

“Winter, yeah, you can,” he mumbled.

Before she could stop herself, Bea asked, “What’s it like here in winter?”

The dark cloud came across Jono’s face again. “Cold, icy. I hate it.”

“Oh,” she said softly and remembered  what Dad had told her about the accident  a few winters ago.  She was ready to change the subject when the fishing rod began to bend.  “Jono,” a fish, she whispered, “Reel it in.”

He stood there on the rock and held onto the fishing rod tightly with his left hand as he reeled in the fishing line with his right. He cranked and cranked as the rod kept bending.  Just as he was pulling back on the rod, Bea yelled, “Faster, Jono, faster. It must be a huge fish!”

And out of the water came a good sized bass flopping on the line. With a wide grin, Jono held the fish up high.  The dark cloud on his face was gone.

Marilyn London-Ewing
December 2011