WEEKLY WRITER'S PATH #13
WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN I wrote an illustrated book for little kids called “What Could Candy Paint?” A smiling girl with a white smock daubed with paint, a French beret and an empty canvas, finally decides to paint the thing she loves most—her mother! I came across that book recently, drawn in colored pencil on the slick white cardboard that came tucked into my dad’s pressed shirts from the cleaners, 3-hole punched and bound with brass rings. My mom showed it to everyone in the hospital admitting office where she worked. She was so proud of it.
It was mom’s birthday Thursday, March 24. She’s been dead fifteen years. I have a package of Coffeemate coffee creamer clipped upright in my paper holder to honor her continued influence in my writing life.
In eighth grade I won my elementary school writing contest with a mythical story called, “How the Toucan Got Its Colors.” I remember it had to do with a flood, a heroic bird and the rainbow. The award was partly based on merit, and partly on favoritism (as awards mostly seem to be). By the time I started high school, when I would meet mom’s office mates, her hairdresser, Cheryl, or her family in Kentucky, they pegged me as “the writer.” When you’re one out of six kids and not the youngest, you have to have a handle for the aunts, uncles and cousins. I think it’s because of that early ease with words nurtured by my mom that I don’t have a problem considering myself a writer today.
In high school I put my mom into stories and described her habits and idiosyncrasies. She loved every word I wrote. My friends couldn’t believe she was OK with me talking about her dancing with the vacuum cleaner or wearing pink hot pants for my dad or keeping 24 cats. And she didn’t critique my work either. She just accepted it and loved it because I did it.
She came to my graduation from St. John’s College where I shared the Henry Austin Prize for Poetry with another student. The poem I received the prize for was called “Zafu,” from a book of poetry I had written during the summer I spent at Green Gulch—a Zen Buddhist lettuce farm in Marin, CA.
I actually received a $50 check in an envelope as the prize. I’ll never forget what she said: “Fifty dollars for one poem—that’s pretty good, Missy.”
She was right.
==========
I have uploaded the “LaGrange” chapter of DIZZY SUSHI on my website here, if you want to read about the time I came home from Japan to tell mom I was pregnant. Includes a description of “Mom’s Purse,” and my family’s part of history in the Coca Cola bottling company of Paducah, KY.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Sunday, March 19, 2006
einstein's brain
WEEKLY WRITER'S PATH #12
I STOPPED MYSELF FROM THINKING this morning — not an easy thing to do, but something I’ve been practicing most of my adult Buddhist life. I was pouring half-and-half into my second cup of Dos Griegos coffee and critiquing the container, a knee-jerk reaction from a long-time advertising designer. Usually we buy organic milk products, but my husband was at Sam’s Club last night and bought a ONE QUART (946 mL) carton of LAND O’ LAKES Traditional ULTRA-PASTEURIZED HALF & HALF — the one with the kneeling Indian princess for their logo.
First I thought of Charlene Teters, then about Einstein’s brain, and finally about a performer alone in a spotlight dressed in a corporate suit, pausing, then saying with great strength and humility, “We have changed our position.” I imagined a series of David Mamet-type fictional monologues written from the perspective of CEOs who decide to stop patronizing one group of society with their sales practices and how they came to that position. Carefully crafted performance pieces that take the audience through the thought process of an individual’s momentous change in their belief system . . .
That’s when I stopped myself.
How did I get from half-and-half to political performance art while stirring a cup of coffee? I’d like to think that my ideas come from divine satori, but every time I trace the path of one of these ideas, I discover that most often, I am simply solving a problem.
There are steps on this path: The new half-and-half container with the politically incorrect logo that I usually never see, reminded me of Charlene Teters, Spokane. I worked with Char at Indian Artist Magazine where she spoke eloquently against the stereotypical mascot, “Chief Illiniwek.” I supported her, but did I really understand what it felt like to have something so personal paraded, degraded and then cherished by people who could not understand what their actions did to me or my family or our history?
It was when I heard a news story on the radio about Einstein’s brain that I began to see things differently. Dr. Thomas S. Harvey had removed the brain from that most human of geniuses, Albert Einstein when he died in 1955, and carried it around with him for years, handing off bits here and there to certain laboratories. I thought of my father, who died when I was 16, and imagined for a moment that it was his brain traveling around the country without the rest of his body.
My immediate, gut reaction to that story was one of horror and revulsion. What would tests and probes tell me about my father’s brain that I didn’t already know? How could you decide something about someone without his or her spirit? How could the weight of a brain, or the number of neurons give you any sound data on why someone was smart? Can brain research tell you why someone was a pacifist? And mostly, what were we doing to ourselves when we didn’t honor the dead's wishes? (Einstein reportedly did not give this doctor the right to remove his brain in order to facilitate celebrity-style accounts of its travels.) The feeling of having my father’s body in pieces, handed about to people who did not know or love him haunted me.
When I made a deep personal link to this one issue, I could make it to many. I understood the objections to burial grounds being disturbed, and why the repatriation of stolen artifacts is necessary, and why even though Parks Service employees may grumble about Native Americans claiming every mountain as sacred, I agree. Every mountain is sacred, every tree, every person, every brain — even those deemed to have changed our view of the universe.
And once that shaking up of my psyche happened, many new beliefs were re-rooted so that now I don’t usually have to trace the path back to my thought this morning, of how to start a dialogue with powerful CEOs to change their minds about the images they use to sell their product.
A daughter’s concern for her father’s spirit was the link — a disturbing illustration of a kneeling woman holding out butter, the inspiration.
I STOPPED MYSELF FROM THINKING this morning — not an easy thing to do, but something I’ve been practicing most of my adult Buddhist life. I was pouring half-and-half into my second cup of Dos Griegos coffee and critiquing the container, a knee-jerk reaction from a long-time advertising designer. Usually we buy organic milk products, but my husband was at Sam’s Club last night and bought a ONE QUART (946 mL) carton of LAND O’ LAKES Traditional ULTRA-PASTEURIZED HALF & HALF — the one with the kneeling Indian princess for their logo.
First I thought of Charlene Teters, then about Einstein’s brain, and finally about a performer alone in a spotlight dressed in a corporate suit, pausing, then saying with great strength and humility, “We have changed our position.” I imagined a series of David Mamet-type fictional monologues written from the perspective of CEOs who decide to stop patronizing one group of society with their sales practices and how they came to that position. Carefully crafted performance pieces that take the audience through the thought process of an individual’s momentous change in their belief system . . .
That’s when I stopped myself.
How did I get from half-and-half to political performance art while stirring a cup of coffee? I’d like to think that my ideas come from divine satori, but every time I trace the path of one of these ideas, I discover that most often, I am simply solving a problem.
There are steps on this path: The new half-and-half container with the politically incorrect logo that I usually never see, reminded me of Charlene Teters, Spokane. I worked with Char at Indian Artist Magazine where she spoke eloquently against the stereotypical mascot, “Chief Illiniwek.” I supported her, but did I really understand what it felt like to have something so personal paraded, degraded and then cherished by people who could not understand what their actions did to me or my family or our history?
It was when I heard a news story on the radio about Einstein’s brain that I began to see things differently. Dr. Thomas S. Harvey had removed the brain from that most human of geniuses, Albert Einstein when he died in 1955, and carried it around with him for years, handing off bits here and there to certain laboratories. I thought of my father, who died when I was 16, and imagined for a moment that it was his brain traveling around the country without the rest of his body.
My immediate, gut reaction to that story was one of horror and revulsion. What would tests and probes tell me about my father’s brain that I didn’t already know? How could you decide something about someone without his or her spirit? How could the weight of a brain, or the number of neurons give you any sound data on why someone was smart? Can brain research tell you why someone was a pacifist? And mostly, what were we doing to ourselves when we didn’t honor the dead's wishes? (Einstein reportedly did not give this doctor the right to remove his brain in order to facilitate celebrity-style accounts of its travels.) The feeling of having my father’s body in pieces, handed about to people who did not know or love him haunted me.
When I made a deep personal link to this one issue, I could make it to many. I understood the objections to burial grounds being disturbed, and why the repatriation of stolen artifacts is necessary, and why even though Parks Service employees may grumble about Native Americans claiming every mountain as sacred, I agree. Every mountain is sacred, every tree, every person, every brain — even those deemed to have changed our view of the universe.
And once that shaking up of my psyche happened, many new beliefs were re-rooted so that now I don’t usually have to trace the path back to my thought this morning, of how to start a dialogue with powerful CEOs to change their minds about the images they use to sell their product.
A daughter’s concern for her father’s spirit was the link — a disturbing illustration of a kneeling woman holding out butter, the inspiration.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
tumblesnow
WEEKLY WRITER'S PATH #11
THURSDAY MORNING I WATCHED A TUMBLEWEED skitter over the driveway and race across my window as I sat at my desk working. When next I looked up, there were waves of snow tumbling across the field. No, winter is not returning, this is regular spring weather here in Santa Fe where we joke that the four seasons are summer, fall, winter and wind. Well, this year we subtracted winter . . .
The wind scares my son, Asher; he hears it howling through the heater vents. My sign-maker runs out of his shop to settle down someone’s large banner whipping free on one corner. I wear a hat that fits close to my head, flattening the ends of my hair into curls against my cheek.
Spring has come and I must confess that not one of the agents/publishers I sent DIZZY SUSHI — my Buddhist travel memoir/love story — to has accepted it. Spring has come and blown away some part of me that said this could happen easily. It’s clear I am going to have to fight for my dream, even a tiny bit of it. I will squint my eyes against the brown dust that rains down on my car windshield to see through this time of upheaval. I must take these crucial next steps, bend into the storm, because flower petals are not far away.
Saturday night I go to bed with a premonition of snow. I can feel it all around the house though it isn’t really there — a down quilt against my ears, like the phantom nerve endings in the tips of lost fingers.
We wake to whiteouts and blizzard conditions. Four inches of wind-whipped snow that barely touch the ground. I sit at my desk and open the spreadsheet that records the ins and outs of my manuscript. I am surprised to find that my list has twice as many opportunities as I had remembered being on it. I collect all the “nos” and drop them down to the bottom. Rising to the top are two people I can contact today, and two more I can prepare for. Then another four I can research.
The new snow won’t cure the drought – that would take several more snows like this one to even begin to fix — but Asher and I button up and head out once the sun appears, tying scarves around our faces, walking through the white velvet drifts, kicking ice chunks down the asphalt. As the sun descends into the west and breaks out from under a cloudbank, it colors the snow an intense blue, and the tree limbs red-gold. It has been so long since I have seen those colors that I drink them in.
I have a premonition about DIZZY SUSHI, too. I keep seeing the cover of the book: a gritty-textured paper in orange with a red pattern design around the spine. An intricate fantasy of swirls and pictures, torii gates and wasabi. Phantom nerves.
THURSDAY MORNING I WATCHED A TUMBLEWEED skitter over the driveway and race across my window as I sat at my desk working. When next I looked up, there were waves of snow tumbling across the field. No, winter is not returning, this is regular spring weather here in Santa Fe where we joke that the four seasons are summer, fall, winter and wind. Well, this year we subtracted winter . . .
The wind scares my son, Asher; he hears it howling through the heater vents. My sign-maker runs out of his shop to settle down someone’s large banner whipping free on one corner. I wear a hat that fits close to my head, flattening the ends of my hair into curls against my cheek.
Spring has come and I must confess that not one of the agents/publishers I sent DIZZY SUSHI — my Buddhist travel memoir/love story — to has accepted it. Spring has come and blown away some part of me that said this could happen easily. It’s clear I am going to have to fight for my dream, even a tiny bit of it. I will squint my eyes against the brown dust that rains down on my car windshield to see through this time of upheaval. I must take these crucial next steps, bend into the storm, because flower petals are not far away.
Saturday night I go to bed with a premonition of snow. I can feel it all around the house though it isn’t really there — a down quilt against my ears, like the phantom nerve endings in the tips of lost fingers.
We wake to whiteouts and blizzard conditions. Four inches of wind-whipped snow that barely touch the ground. I sit at my desk and open the spreadsheet that records the ins and outs of my manuscript. I am surprised to find that my list has twice as many opportunities as I had remembered being on it. I collect all the “nos” and drop them down to the bottom. Rising to the top are two people I can contact today, and two more I can prepare for. Then another four I can research.
The new snow won’t cure the drought – that would take several more snows like this one to even begin to fix — but Asher and I button up and head out once the sun appears, tying scarves around our faces, walking through the white velvet drifts, kicking ice chunks down the asphalt. As the sun descends into the west and breaks out from under a cloudbank, it colors the snow an intense blue, and the tree limbs red-gold. It has been so long since I have seen those colors that I drink them in.
I have a premonition about DIZZY SUSHI, too. I keep seeing the cover of the book: a gritty-textured paper in orange with a red pattern design around the spine. An intricate fantasy of swirls and pictures, torii gates and wasabi. Phantom nerves.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
bruised apple
WEEKLY WRITER'S PATH #10
OVER THE 25 YEARS WE HAVE BEEN TOGETHER, I have learned not to worry about my husband, Ron. He’s told me often enough not to, and it has been a good habit for someone with an active imagination. So I didn’t freak out when a stranger named Leo called my cell phone Wednesday afternoon and carefully explained there had been an accident in Pilar, just outside of Taos. My husband was OK, he said, up and walking around, but had lost his phone and asked that I be called.
Looking back, I could best describe myself as being in a giddy state of shock. I didn’t ask for specifics — some unwritten code of ethics between the family at home and the strangers at the scenes of accidents, I suppose. I didn’t ask, Is he bleeding? Is anything broken? I didn’t ask, Is he crying? I did ask Leo to tell Ron that I loved him. It seemed so silly, so obvious, trite almost. But nagging the back of my mind was the thought that Leo was sparing me the full details, and it was possible that Ron was seriously hurt. It just seemed like the appropriate phrase to be uttered at that moment.
Before we hung up, Leo did give me one distressing bit of information: that the van had rolled and the ambulance was taking Ron to the hospital for tests, “just to be safe.” The image in my mind was of the groceries Ron had just bought at Cid’s. We’d talked several times already by 2pm and twice about what groceries to get. I thought of the loss of those groceries: the gomasio I’d specifically requested, the organic fruit and vegetables he bought every week when he made his salsa and chile deliveries to Taos.
The other image I had was of Ron the moment before he rolled, the intensity of his trying to control the vehicle. If he swore under his breath, if he saw it coming, if he heard the screeching of tires and shattering of glass like they do in the movies. Leo had explained a car had tried to pass him, but didn’t make it. That the other driver was claiming full responsibility. That the van was totaled. I told Leo that I knew Ron was wearing a seat belt; he always did.
I realized I’d have to rearrange my afternoon to go get him. I let the ten million details of getting out of the house and organizing the kids control me. I actually had to force myself to remember how to drive the two hours to Taos.
It wasn’t until I was in Española that I heard Ron’s voice. The fuzzy, white noise of the emergency waiting room didn’t obscure his soft tenor. He was already done; they’d X-rayed and let him go.
“Are you really OK?” I pitched my voice over the car’s engine.
“Did they tell you I rolled six times?” he asked.
I couldn’t answer, my voice caught in my throat. I pulled into the Dairy Queen and called everyone to let them know he was OK.
When I got to Holy Cross Hospital I was amazed as anyone would be to see him sitting in a chair reading a paper. He was not limping, he was not bleeding, no bandages, only scratches on his knuckles, a piece of yellow straw embedded in the shoulder of his grey sweater. The worst bloody spot was the taped cotton ball over the inside of his elbow where they’d stuck him for an IV. I shook my head at him and smiled.
“Thank god for the seatbelt angel,” I said.
“I think Ralph Nader is an atheist,” he answered.
The next day, Ron drove back up to Taos to recover his books and phone from the van. Later that evening I walked past the kitchen sink and saw a spaghetti squash, apples and oranges floating in water — chunks of salsa, tomatoes, cilantro and onion splattered over their bruised, scraped flesh. I had to turn away, the smell of that bloody salsa turning my stomach.
The next morning the food was in the drying rack, all cleaned up, but still damaged. This fruit, I thought, went through the same experience that Ron went through. I picked up an apple, turning it in my hand. Dark brown bruises on every side, gouges a quarter of an inch thick, "Braeburn Certified Organic” sticker still in place. And he'd saved it, brought it home.
I took it to my desk where it sits on my alter in a place of honor.
OVER THE 25 YEARS WE HAVE BEEN TOGETHER, I have learned not to worry about my husband, Ron. He’s told me often enough not to, and it has been a good habit for someone with an active imagination. So I didn’t freak out when a stranger named Leo called my cell phone Wednesday afternoon and carefully explained there had been an accident in Pilar, just outside of Taos. My husband was OK, he said, up and walking around, but had lost his phone and asked that I be called.
Looking back, I could best describe myself as being in a giddy state of shock. I didn’t ask for specifics — some unwritten code of ethics between the family at home and the strangers at the scenes of accidents, I suppose. I didn’t ask, Is he bleeding? Is anything broken? I didn’t ask, Is he crying? I did ask Leo to tell Ron that I loved him. It seemed so silly, so obvious, trite almost. But nagging the back of my mind was the thought that Leo was sparing me the full details, and it was possible that Ron was seriously hurt. It just seemed like the appropriate phrase to be uttered at that moment.
Before we hung up, Leo did give me one distressing bit of information: that the van had rolled and the ambulance was taking Ron to the hospital for tests, “just to be safe.” The image in my mind was of the groceries Ron had just bought at Cid’s. We’d talked several times already by 2pm and twice about what groceries to get. I thought of the loss of those groceries: the gomasio I’d specifically requested, the organic fruit and vegetables he bought every week when he made his salsa and chile deliveries to Taos.
The other image I had was of Ron the moment before he rolled, the intensity of his trying to control the vehicle. If he swore under his breath, if he saw it coming, if he heard the screeching of tires and shattering of glass like they do in the movies. Leo had explained a car had tried to pass him, but didn’t make it. That the other driver was claiming full responsibility. That the van was totaled. I told Leo that I knew Ron was wearing a seat belt; he always did.
I realized I’d have to rearrange my afternoon to go get him. I let the ten million details of getting out of the house and organizing the kids control me. I actually had to force myself to remember how to drive the two hours to Taos.
It wasn’t until I was in Española that I heard Ron’s voice. The fuzzy, white noise of the emergency waiting room didn’t obscure his soft tenor. He was already done; they’d X-rayed and let him go.
“Are you really OK?” I pitched my voice over the car’s engine.
“Did they tell you I rolled six times?” he asked.
I couldn’t answer, my voice caught in my throat. I pulled into the Dairy Queen and called everyone to let them know he was OK.
When I got to Holy Cross Hospital I was amazed as anyone would be to see him sitting in a chair reading a paper. He was not limping, he was not bleeding, no bandages, only scratches on his knuckles, a piece of yellow straw embedded in the shoulder of his grey sweater. The worst bloody spot was the taped cotton ball over the inside of his elbow where they’d stuck him for an IV. I shook my head at him and smiled.
“Thank god for the seatbelt angel,” I said.
“I think Ralph Nader is an atheist,” he answered.
The next day, Ron drove back up to Taos to recover his books and phone from the van. Later that evening I walked past the kitchen sink and saw a spaghetti squash, apples and oranges floating in water — chunks of salsa, tomatoes, cilantro and onion splattered over their bruised, scraped flesh. I had to turn away, the smell of that bloody salsa turning my stomach.
The next morning the food was in the drying rack, all cleaned up, but still damaged. This fruit, I thought, went through the same experience that Ron went through. I picked up an apple, turning it in my hand. Dark brown bruises on every side, gouges a quarter of an inch thick, "Braeburn Certified Organic” sticker still in place. And he'd saved it, brought it home.
I took it to my desk where it sits on my alter in a place of honor.
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