REDONDOWRITER'S SACRED ORDINARY

A Pink and Purple Day Celebrated in Haiku

These are two of several plantings on the campus of my school. Today felt like a pink and purple day (a good day, actually). My Mac users group met at my house this a.m., I went to lunch with my friend Terri who is visiting from the UK, I got to read for a few hours, take Cookie for a walk, and had Mexican dinner with my friends Rick and Orma. I found a series of pink and purple haikus from PoemHunter that matched my mood. Did you remember that the month of April was National Poetry Month? Personally I think we should celebrate with poetry every day. 

Haiku #70 Lift Your Voices In Song (1-7) We sing your praises For this pink and purple day Of sky water sand (1)  We thank you Father For this pink and lilac day With grand purple sands (2)  Pink and lilac haze A perfect day for lovers Mystic and profound (3)  A day of days In sky of pink lilaz haze Horizon mimics (4)  Pink and lilac day Where we stand on purple sand Edged in pink waters (5)  Oh mystic pink day Your sky in brilliant array How grand purple sand (6)  Pink and lilac haze Profound truth another day Pink water purple sand (7)  Dorothy (Alves) Holmes

Praise Song of the Day: Dr. Elizabeth Alexander

Like so many Americans and people around the world, I was moved deeply by all of President Barack Obama’s and Joe Biden’s inauguration. I did manage to watch the inauguration ceremonies before I left for work and would run into the lounge periodically to see what was happening on TV once I reached work. It was a very busy day for me and Elizabeth Alexander’s poem really increased my awareness of being mindful about all of us going about our routines. The only thing that happened that I personally found thoughtless was the Rev. Rick Warren’s inviting all of us to say together The Lord’s Prayer. What about everybody who is not a Christian? The Rev. Billy Graham had always been so cool about being inclusive when he spoke or prayed at public events. I did take the time last night to write bullet point memories in my journal of the day. 

Anyway, I wanted to take the time to reprint Elizabeth Alexander’s poem, “Praise Song for the Day,” in this transcript from today’s New York Times.

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

All Day the Rain Spoke To Me

This morning I was awoken early by steady tapping on what I thought I was the window, but I laid quietly and realized that it was either hail or rain pounding on my new rooftop skylight. It had awoken me from a dream of debauchery I was clinically observing at a party hosted by a long-ago lover. His name was Jerry and there he was in his own version of the Playboy Mansion. I felt annoyed with the rain for stealing my dream. But, as the day and the rain continued, I fell in respectful love with it. I live very near the ocean and this image from Wikimedia images was how I imagined the rain would like down at the harbor. I wish I had taken this picture. The news said that some snow actually fell in Malibu today. 

Then I remembered this poem by my favorite poet, Mary Oliver. 

Last Night the Rain Spoke to Me 

Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying, 
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud, 
to be happy again
in a new way
on the earth! 
That’s what it said
as it dropped, 
smelling of iron, 
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches
and the grass below.
Then it was over.
The sky cleared.
I was standing
under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves, 
and I was myself, 
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment
at which moment
my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain –
imagine! imagine! 
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.

Creative Every Day Creative Challenge for 2009

First of all, remember, everyone is an artist, even someone like me who has had to be convinced that I am. It’s that time of year when I begin to wrap up the current year and get organized for the next. One thing I want to be is more consistently creative in 2009 without making a big deal about it or spending tons of time on projects. When I read about Leah Piken Kolidis’s Every Day Challenge for 2009 on Kathryn Petro Harper’s blog A Mindful Life, I checked it out and decided to participate. Leah started this challenge (and others) in 2008. Here are the basics, but if you click on the link, she gives you lots of information about the challenge in 2008. Leah’s Creative Every Day blog has so much information and wonderful graphics. You’re going to love it.

Here are Leah's basics, but read in depth at her blog. She says:

     . I started Creative Every Day Challenge in 2008 to help infuse my life and lives of others with daily creativity.

     . Creativity is meant in the broadest sense, so it doesn't have to be something art related. Your creative acts could be in cooking, taking pictures, knitting, doodling, writing, dancing, decorating, singing, playing with your kids, brainstorming ideas, gardening, or making art in the form of collage, paint, or clay...or whatever!

     . You do not have to post every day! I know for myself that having to post every day for a year would be too much. You can post about your creativity in whatever form you like, whether that be once a day, a few times a week, once a week, or once a month. Do what works for you!

     . This is a low pressure challenge, with the idea of bringing more creativity into our lives. I will not be the creativity police. I hope that we can all find ways simple and grand to express our creative selves. Have fun with it!

     . If you'd like to join in, leave a comment on this blog post or email me (email link is in the top left sidebar) and I'll add your name to the list of participants which will reside in the sidebar of my blog.

     . If you find this challenge after the 1st of January, you can still join in!

     . There's info below on how to post the CED button to your blog.

What's new in 2009:

     . In 2009, I'm going to try out a couple new things. For one, I will be doing a monthly theme. The themes will be purely for inspirational purposes and to give some focus to anyone who needs it. You can use the monthly theme to help spur you on or ignore it. It's entirely up to you!

     . I'm also going to be posting interviews with people about their creative habits, so if you have any suggestions of people you'd like to hear from, let me know!

How to Participate:

     . There are a variety of ways to participate. These ways are here for you to enjoy, not to pressure you, so use any or all of them as you see fit. You can post on your blog about your creative activities, you can post images on flickr, you can comment on my weekly CED blog posts with what you're up to, or use the Mr. Linky widget to share a link to a specific blog post or image.

     . Participate in any way that makes sense for you. I think it's helpful to share with the community what you're up to as it can be incredibly fun and inspirational. But don't let it stress you out. Make it doable for you. 

     . There's a flickr group for this project where you can share images of your creativity (it's not required, just another way to share and see what others are doing.) You can sign up for the flickr group for free here.

     . You can post about your creativity in whatever form feels best for you. You can post about it on your blog daily, weekly, monthly or however feels best. A blog isn't even required to participate! If you don't have a blog, you can share what you're up to in the comments on my blog or on the flickr group.

I will also be posting a weekly Creative Every Day Challenge post where you can use the Mr. Linky widget to post the url of your blog posts or links to images for the week. I post this every Monday.

So, are any of you up to the challenge? Check Leah's blog and thanks, Kathryn, for the heads-up.

Woman With a Crown of Words

Those of you who read here regularly know that I love creating mixed media art—and that I often self-criticize anything I produce as not being “real art.” I know this is stinkin’ thinkin’ but damned if I can break myself of this baaaad habit. But, I certainly went beyond my comfort zone recently.

When the Redondo Beach Art Group called for self-portrait submissions from members for the upcoming Power of Art Show in October, I committed myself with extreme trepidation. The portrait gallery isn’t juried, like the rest of the show, so they hang whatever in the heck the members give them. I cannot be rejected. I got a water color lesson from my friend Bev Metcalf; I produced my face as a result of staring at a photograph of myself with Cookie for a long time. Then I began the collage layering process. I used antique alphabet letters from a set I recently bought at a garage sale, and pulled all kinds of images from everywhere, along with scrapbook papers, varnishes and mediums, netting from an old hat, rubber stamps, ephemera, paints and inks. But, it all started with the watercolor of my face and the poem I called “Woman With a Crown of Words.” I don’t think my face really looks like me, but it doesn’t look unlike me either, if that makes any sense. I still have some touch-ups to do, but just like when I write professionally, I edit ad nauseum. That is not true of this blog. Whatever I write here at Sacred Ordinary I just put up. It is what it is. That’s how I have to evolve where my art is concerned. Creating anything requires a lot of inner-kid at play.

The little poem reads:

Wide-eyed child grown old
hiding in whimsy,
words
colors
memories.

Give her a book, a pen,
a camera, old magazines,
paints, clay, bolts, door knobs,
glue, lace, scissors, music,
encouragement, enthusiasm.

They become her
jacks,
jump rope
hopscotch
hide and seek. 

So, this is Frannie aka Redondowriter’s first self-portrait. No need to say atta girl—unless you really want to. I feel like a kindergartner coming home with my first school picture to hang on the frig.

For those of you in the Southern California area, be sure to check the Redondo Beach Art Group’s website as linked above. Not only do we have the three day art show in Redondo Beach’s former AES power plant, we have an Art and Architecture studio tour, and a concert. We’re moving towards our goal of having enough money eventually to convince the city we need a local art center. We'd love to have you come.

Thoughts of Former Professor Stephen Jama

When I was taking the SoulCollage facilitators training, I wrote an entry at Sacred Ordinary about The Green Wheelbarrow with thanks to William Carlos Williams and his poem The Red Wheelbarrow. And I thanked Stephen Jama, an English  teacher I had in the 1970s at El Camino College. This post generated some e-mail wondering if I knew more about where he was as he was admired by others. Though our relationship was superficial at best, I’ve always been so grateful to Stephen for getting my creative juices flowing. I lost track of him and El Camino College would not give me any information about him after his retirement. Recently TerryGR posted that Stephen had passed away in 2004. I requested more information and I received this today. Then I found myself e-mailing back wishing nostalgically that I had stayed in touch. This is what TerryGR sent today. 

I'm very sorry to have been the source of such sad news, but I happened across your mention of Stephen, so thought you ought to know. Stephen was a customer/friend of mine for over twenty years, and though we only met in person a handful of times, we usually talked several times a week...chiefly about books.

He started having severe health problems, and fortunately was, in a fashion, "adopted" by a wonderful couple whose children he tutored. They moved off to the Pacific Northwest, where he had as much care as he could possibly need, and beautiful skies to look at. Early in 2004 his health slid precipitously, and he died of congestive heart failure.

We ended up buying the major portion of his books (excluding those he'd given to Kent State over the years), many of which he'd bought from us.

I can imagine what Stephen was like as a teacher...I know he is very much missed in the book collecting world.

With all best wishes,

Terry Halladay - Literature Manager

William Reese Company - Rare Books and Manuscripts

New Haven, CT. 06511 USA

This new information about Stephen’s later life has really flooded me with memories of a time when I was morphing from traditional wife and mother into finding out more about the world I lived in. I never told him how valuable he was to me at a crossroads in my life. Here is what I replied to TerryGH and I guess I am posthumously honoring Stephen by doing so.

Thank you so much for telling me about Stephen's final years, which made me feel so nostalgic again. How I wish I had stayed in touch. You can count on one hand the number of people who left a significant life-changing mark and he was one of them for me. I was working at El Camino and then began taking classes in poetry from him, mid '70s, I would think. I was a "returning" student to education and because he somehow opened a creative window in me through his teaching, I ultimately met his friend Mike Mahon who taught English at Cal State Dominguez Hills. I went on to get a B.A. and M.A. at Dominguez and lost track of him when my marriage fell apart and I faced into my new world. Mike Mahon was one of my thesis advisors for my M.A. Stephen was eccentric, smoked like a chimney, and he was intellectually brilliant.  For a time my husband and I were invited to some of the parties he and his friends had. He had a gourmet kitchen to die for and I once remember sitting for hours at a party listening to the Ring; my husband was extremely uncomfortable around Stephen and his friends, but to me Stephen was the West Coast version of the literary crowd hanging in the Village.

Stephen encouraged all of us to create broadsides and I do have three of his which I cherish. 

I'm so glad that he was befriended by the family who took him to the Pacific Northwest to live out his life. Was he in Washington? I seem to remember that he had a sister. Do you know if he did? I gather you were in Connecticut at the time, but Stephen loved the Midnight Special bookstore in Santa Monica. He also introduced us to The Firehouse in Venice where we would go for poetry readings. 

Do you know if he wrote a memoir or an autobiography? I would imagine Kent State would have it. I'll have to pursue that collection. I am an archivist myself for a small private local school.

Thanks again for letting me know. People occasionally e-mail to see if I know anything about him and now I do.

This link of the Kent State Archives will take you to broadside Stephen wrote in memory of the Kent State student slayings in a protest on May 4, 1970. 

I Forgot That I Was a Poet

For some reason, I began looking at old folders in my computer tonight, particularly the poetry and story ones. I was incredibly prolific from about 1998 through 2003, and it's rare I write a poem these days. I guess I mostly write on the blog now instead of stories. In that respect, blogging may be suffocating another part of me. It was somewhat of a revelation to me; the poet me was someone I had forgotten about. Below I print a poem I wrote in 2001 remembering a peak experience in the Sierras; I was 63. And for some reason, I elaborated on that poem quickly writing stanzas from my 70-year-old perspective. I did not edit; I just wrote. Look at the differences in where I am now compared to 2001. Not in a worse place or a better place, but a different place.

When the Dark Illuminates the Light
3-15-01

I am young again in summer,
not my 63-year-old self.
I climb down to the base of
Rainbow Falls in the Sierra.

At the deep canyon bottom, jagged
black boulders block a hiker from
easily reaching the place where
falling water becomes a river.

I crawl across rocks slippery with
moss and water. Goosebumps
rise on bare skin from fear or cold.
Interior energy propels me forward.

Mist shrouds cliffs, rocks, people,
softening my eyes and disappointments.
The sound of primal water pounds
all other sounds into submission.

Life and death hover in sun and shadow.
Thin lipped, I slip behind the falls and
stand in dark and must, watching a
blurred, light-filled world through water.

--

And Now I Am 70
3-13-08

And now I am 70, no longer hiking easily
and certainly not climbing over slippery
rocks to hide behind Rainbow Falls.

Instead, I walk Cookie in the neighborhood
twice a day, sometimes at the ocean. Both
of us still find wonder in a sniff of the familiar
and we continue to seek the shock of the new.

I ache a lot more now and easily become winded,
but so does Cookie. She’s 91 in dog years.
She is one of my teachers for aging. Though
slower, she never fails to seize the day.

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks,
but I beg to differ. Cookie has learned a new
way of maneuvering the stairs because of
her arthritis. She does stairs and so do I.

I still hang out in the mountains, usually alone,
or with Cookie. I still explore whatever world
I’m occupying at the time, looking for wonder.
She chases squirrels and I dabble with art.

It’s hard work, at least for me, to live life a day
at a time, but it’s necessary for peace of mind.
Chalking up years gracefully is about adaptability.
And it's about thank you, thank you, thank you.

Opposites Manifest Through Opposites

Today I felt like I had built a fence around myself so I could skim the surface of the day. I didn't want to risk diving too deep in the ocean of me. I was numb only no one knew it except me as I slipped between shadow and light. This photo I took some months ago of the ocean through a fence in Palos Verdes reminds me of how I felt. Beauty was all around me but I hid behind chain link.

Tonight I cracked my Pocket Rumi Reader edited by Kabir Helminski and this is what the page opened to:

The Darkness

Night cancels the business of the day;
inertia recharges the mind.
Then the day cancels the night
and inertia disappears in the light.
Thugh we sleep and rest in the dark,
doesn't the dark contain the water of life?
Be refreshed in the darkness.
Doesn't a moment of silence
restore beauty to the voice?
Opposites manifest through opposites:
in the black core of the heart
God created the eternal light of love.

--Mathnawi I, 3861-65

John O'Donohue: In Memoriam

I don’t know how I missed hearing of the death of Irish author, poet, ex-priest and Catholic scholar John O’Donohue on January 3, 2008 but I did. My friend Sandy mentioned it tonight and after a little Internet research, I see that O'Donohue died peacefully and unexpectedly in his sleep on vacation in Avignon at the age of 53. His book Anam Cara is an important one in my library. What an untimely death of a remarkable man.

It was particularly poignant to read journalist John Fenzel’s blog entry which reprints an article John O’Donohue had written called "The Question Holds the Lantern."

What a legacy a great man has left us.

Mary Oliver: She's Even Better in Person

This has been a lost weekend for me as I have spent much of it in bed reading, writing and sleeping off my respiratory infection. I’m achy from my night time coughing but I have no fever, thank heavens. I’ll admit I was not about to miss Mary Oliver last night at UCLA. I can control the cough with decongestants and codeine cough syrup so I opted to go. I feel guilty about going into public places when I might be contagious, but—there are just some things in life you have to do. Seeing Mary Oliver was one of those things.

Royce Hall at UCLA is a large, old-style theater built in 1929. It seats approximately 1800 people. Unlike modern theaters, this venue is more like an auditorium than a theater. All the floors are wood and the seats are very close to one another. I'll admit that there is a magic about this hall, one of UCLA's original buildings. So many famous people have performed on that stage.

The house was sold for Mary Oliver’s performance and for some reason, the show started 20 minutes late. The house lights finally dimmed and a spotlight beamed on the large stage where a rectangular podium stood. And then out walked Mary Oliver slowly (a little arthritis perhaps?), a small, trim, white-haired woman wearing black jeans, a black long-sleeve pullover and over-size glasses. The audience welcomed her with thunderous applause—and gave her several standing ovations during her readings and again at the end.

She was as I had imagined her to be: simple, humble and very funny, with remarkable presence. I swear there was an aura around her and I'm not a big aura-seeing person. She seemed as approachable as my next door neighbor Nancy. She did give us a lot of background before she read some poems and it was like we were sitting around a kitchen table chatting. She spoke about the death of her partner, Molly Malone Cook, in 2005 and how her poetry book “Thirst” helped her to process her grief. She spoke about the collaborative book of photographs and narrative that she wrote to accompany Cook’s photographs. The book is called “Our World.” She also read from the uncorrected galleys of a new book of poetry that she did not name, but said it should be published in April.

I loved everything she read, but being the dog lover that I am, I've selected three pieces she read that are about her dog Percy.

Percy
(One)

Our new dog, named for the beloved poet,
ate a book which unfortunately we had
left unguarded.
Fortunately, it was the Bhagavad Gita,
of which many copies are available.
Every day now, as Percy grows
into the beauty of his life, we touch
his wild, curly head and say,

"Oh, wisest of little dogs."

(Percy Two)

I have a little dog who likes to nap with me.
He climbs on my body and puts his face in my neck.
He is sweeter than soap.
He is more wonderful than a diamond necklace,
which can't even bark.
I would like to take him to Kashmir and the Ukraine,
and Jerusalem and Palestine and Iraq and Darfur,
that the sorrowing thousands might see his laughing mouth.
I would like to take him to Washington, right into
the oval office
where Donald Rumsfeld would crawl out of the president's
armpit
and kneel down on the carpet, and romp like a boy.
For once, for a moment, a rational man.

Little Dogs Rhapsody in the Night
(Percy Three)

He puts his cheek against mine
and makes small, expressive sounds.
And when I'm awake, or awake enough

he turns upside down, his four paws
in the air
and his eyes dark and fervent.

Tell me you love me, he says.
Tell me again.

Could there be a sweeter arrangement?
Over and over
he gets to ask it.
I get to tell.