Let Them In

by John Gorka 

On this Veteran's Day, my favorite stunning song by John Gorka. Youtube version here.

"Let Them In" was made into song by John Gorka from a poem found in a hospital in the Philippines during World War II. The nurse that found the poem kept it all these years until the recent war brought out all the memorabilia. Luckily, her daughter sent a copy to John. 

Let them in, Peter

They are very tired

Give them couches where the angels sleep

And light those fires

Let them wake whole again

To brand new dawns

Fired by the sun not wartime's

Bloody guns

May their peace be deep

Remember where the broken bodies lie

God knows how young they were

To have to die

God knows how young they were

To have to die

So give them things they like

Let them make some noise

Give dance hall bands not golden harps

To these our boys 

And let them love, Peter

For they've had no time

They should have trees and bird songs

And hills to climb

The taste of summer in a ripened pear

And girls sweet as meadow wind

With flowing hair

And tell them how they are missed

But say not to fear

It's gonna be alright

With us down here

Let them in, Peter

Let them in, Peter

Let them in, Peter

© John Gorka, all rights reserved

Small Things

"Do not think that love in order to be genuine
has to be extraordinary.
What we need is to love without getting tired.
Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies."
(Mother Teresa)

Small things....like threads in an intricate and perfect web - a thousand tiny lifelines that keep one's heart intact at just the right moment... 

Small things...like whispering joy that rustles across the pavement below your open window - late autumn leaves dancing one last time before the rain falls...

Small things...like beads on a string, slipping easily into place - tiny yet essential to the whole....

Small things, small prayers, small dreams...

the power of one - multiplied by faith and love.

Knowing, Understanding, Accepting, Allowing

"A friend is one that knows you as you are, 

understands where you have been,

accepts what you have become, 

and still, gently allows you to grow." 

— William Shakespeare

The Pine Reel

One Sierra mountain night,

just a few hours before dawn,

(after I had bid the dance hall adieu and

started the slow walk up the trail toward sleep)

there was this moment...

(how do you 
say, “silhouette” in your language?)

when the sky glowed as silver as smooth abalone, and

a solstice moon, through pale gauze clouds,

became back-light to four ancient pine trees.

I was stopped by the beauty of it all:

the perfect relief of form from darkness, and

the Milky Way’s delicate swath high overhead,

stretching across indigo velvet.

I was stopped and so awed that I held my breath

for fear that even the smallest
 disturbance
might wrinkle the night air around me.

And in that moment of reverence,

that one breathless point in time,

I heard an audible sigh from the evergreen quartet.

Mountain air pushed aside the wine,

poured across my face and stung my eyes

as, I stared willfully

into the shadows, and gained clarity just in time

to watch long lacy lower boughs of

those four ancient folk, lift and tremble

in the pearly light.

Back down the hill, music continued filling pockets of night.

Dreams wrapped themselves on blissful pipes,

strokes of bow against strings and laughing drums,

carried more songs of weary but willing revelers.

While out inside the silhouette,

out in the fierce breathe of dawn and miracle,

the trees had joined the reel!

Each strong branch began to bend and bow in rhythm.

What once was rigid, became supple.

What once lived rooted, was set free,
and with silent grace, 
their needled-skirt hems rose over the ground
and four solid trunks were revealed -

shaking off earth and swaying into a motion

that none upon the dance floor would witness,

yet was happening before my eyes with the surety of the sun’s arrival.

Life’s sharp joy pressed against my heart like a prayer,

like a song, and like one trembling, breathless dance
at the glowing edge of moonlight and dawn -

where all things are possible.

2010 © martha lee phelps

The Eye of My Heart

This link is a small (created to run on an iPhone) version of a 12 minute slide show I've created of the 2010 Alasdair Fraser Sierra Fiddle Camp:


Sierra Fiddle Camp 2010 Slide Show 


It opens a Quicktime version of the slide show that downloads fairly quickly; however, because it is small in format - so are the images. If you open it with Firefox, it stays small and crystal clear. If you open it with Safari,  you get arrows in the bottom right corner of the video that allow you to view in full screen but not such great resolution.


For those of you interested in seeing a larger rendering of the show, try this link in Safari instead:


Sierra Fiddle (large file) Slide Show

This is a substantial file that may take a few minutes to download. It is SO worth the wait! For those of you with faster connections, it shouldn't present any problems, and the images will be lovely. For those of you still enjoying the meandering pace of a dial-up internet connection, forget about it. Sorry. Current Mac systems are going to have the best luck! (Hmmm, is this because Macs rule? Probably.)


At any rate...having my camera with me at this program was an amazing privilege and gift. I was reminded that if a photographer behaves herself, she often get the most intimate view of how life is unfolding around her. With that view comes responsibility. I've often learned to love the expressions, individual composition and inner light of my subjects before I even know their names. It makes me love them even more when their name finally comes to me.


Part of the reason this experience touched me so profoundly was because I saw things that no one else saw. How can I be witness to such intimacy and not be forever changed? Tell me. How will I ever be the same? May this show give you a taste of the magic.


With the eye that is also my heart, Martha

Y con amor y respeto por los talentosos músicos: (Slide show songs in this order)

Na Seitura Do Barros, played by Carlos Beceiro, Album: Mandolina

Giga De Tenerife, played by Alasdair Fraser & Natalie Hass, Album: In The Moment

Fox Trot De Algora, played by Diego Galaz Y Carlos Beceiro, Album: Bailes Vespertinos

The Artist And The Dancer , played by Hanneke Cassel Album: Some Melodious Sonnet

El Zángano. Diana, Segovia, played by Carlos Beceiro, Album: Mandolina

Life While-You-Wait

I rarely re-post things that others have sent via email on the same day or even in the same month, but this incredible poem really called out to me to "send it along." A large and warm "hat tip" to Joe Riley and his ongoing sharing through Panhala, and to the poet, of course -Wislawa Szymborska. The photos are from me. ~ Enjoy, mlp

Life While-You-Wait.
Performance without rehearsal.
Body without alterations.
Head without premeditation.

I know nothing of the role I play.
I only know it's mine. I can't exchange it.

I have to guess on the spot
just what this play's all about.

Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,
I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.
I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.
I trip at every step over my own ignorance.
I can't conceal my hayseed manners.
My instincts are for happy histrionics.
Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.
Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and impulses you can't take back,
stars you'll never get counted,
your character like a raincoat you button on the run ?
the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.

If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,
or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!
But here comes Friday with a script I haven't seen.
Is it fair, I ask
(my voice a little hoarse,
since I couldn't even clear my throat offstage).

You'd be wrong to think that it's just a slapdash quiz
taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.
I'm standing on the set and I see how strong it is.
The props are surprisingly precise.
The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.
The farthest galaxies have been turned on.
Oh no, there's no question, this must be the premiere.
And whatever I do
will become forever what I've done.
 
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~

The Territories of Joy and Sorrow

How does one who lives a wild and untamed life keep the inevitable sadness that goes with such a life at bay? Because, it's true. To live in the fullness of a passionate life that is creative, intentional, in motion and ever-changing, one must be prepared for unexpected risks into the deepest territories of both joy and sorrow. The joy...well, most of us risk-takers know exactly what to do with joy. But the sorrow can be a bit trickier to manage. Either way -  learning to completely embrace either state of being is not for the faint of heart.

T.H. White wrote, in a conversation between Merlin and Arthur in the novel The Once and Future King a bit of wisdom that helps me when I find myself disoriented by fear of the unknown, or despair over the state of the world, or the simple but profoundly intense experience of missing someone I love.

"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.

My current "to learn" list looks something like this:

• a new language
• the fiddle
• more patience and trust
• all the new web-building programs that my boss has asked me to digest
• how to streamline my practical tools (camera, computer, phone). Whew!
• more kindness
• more surrender
• more faith - that all will be well
• and maybe a wee bit of step dancing...because, when I'm truly sad, dancing is a temporary and wonderful remedy.

So that seems like plenty for now. It may not abolish the sadness completely, but it will - at least - keep my wild and untamed fire burning while I wait to turn the next corner into the realm of joy!

 

 

That's No Ordinary Vacation...

Recently, my amazing daughters and I attended Alasdair Fraser’s Sierra Fiddle Camp. Wait. Hold on. Before you go too far down the road with images of gnarled old farmers sitting on dusty front porches playing twanging tunes, let me explain:
This was eight days of creative immersion into a community of people (many in whole family units) of all ages, drawn together to learn a variety of Celtic and Galician-influenced music though fiddle, cello, mandolin, piano, bag pipes, dance, guitar and singing classes. We went to classes all day, participated in family-style meals, danced late into the night - every single night - and were essentially bathed in round the clock music making.

But fiddle camp is much more than all that.

When you get 175 like-minded folks together for over a week who genuinely want to learn, grow and feel, and then toss in twenty-one world class musicians who have donned their teaching hats as well as extracted their hearts from their pockets and placed them out for FULL sharing -- what emerges among the community is nothing sort of miraculous.

For Sarah and Ginny and I, the event was a rite of passage that we experienced both individually and separately, and because we were there together we had the honor of witnessing one another’s blossoming. Thank goodness I was present to be a part of what occurred for Sarah and Ginny, and I am equally grateful that they got to watch their mom change. To all you parents who drop their kids at camp and return a week later to pick them up...and you wonder why the kid you’re taking back home isn’t the same one you left off in the packing lot on Monday....I would suggest that it’s true: You may be picking up a very different person than the one who waved good bye. Instant community in a very safe and tremendously creative container can radically create shift in folks of all ages. If you’re not there to participate, then odds are - you’re not going to fully fathom what happened to those who did.

Since cancer has come and gone came from our lives many things have changed about the way our family lives life, including a far greater commitment to pay attention and participate - especially where my children are concerned. Yes, many among you would argue that taking time off from a brand new job was impractical; yes, for some of you the notion of trailing along behind one’s kids to summer camp sounds completely ludicrous; yes, it was both of those things. As a matter of fact, two weeks ago this morning as we drove South to Nevada City, California, I could have listed about fourteen reasons why it was down right stupid for me to be going to camp with my kids.

But I‘ve learned too much this year - and at too great a price - not to pay attention. So when Sarah said in earnest, “Mom, this is one of the best things that I do, and I really want you and Ginny to be there too.” She had me - no matter what.

Perhaps we could’ve had as profound a journey simply by taking a family vacation, but I seriously doubt it. Sarah watched Ginny and I pick up and begin to learn to play violins for the first time ever, while Ginny and I listened to Sarah take her music to a whole new level with joyful determination; Ginny tackled the navigations of getting to know many new teachers and friends, while Sarah and Ginny watched me interacting with other men and women who share the same passions. Surrounded by truly creative peers, Sarah spread her wings to full span and showed her remarkable authenticity, Virginia was wonderfully independent and bright eyed, and I was simply and wildly happy. My girls saw me laughing and engaging more than they’ve seen in years, and while we only ate a couple meals together all week long - we harmonized in singing class every day and danced together every night.


Just as Alasdair, upon introducing the musicians at our final public performance - went to great lengths to explain to the audience that “We are NOT a symphony. No. We are 175 wild, unruly and untamed fiddlers!” So too I say:
This was definitely NOT the typical American family vacation.

And we’re so much the better for it until next year, when you’ll find me driving as fast as it’s legal, kids in tow - to get to the dance floor at fiddle camp and strike up the music of our hearts.

i carry your heart with me

Fifteen years on June 6th, one of the most remarkable human beings I have ever been blessed to know - came into my life. She arrived with beauty, grace, steadfast intention, a will to be completely present and love that radiates. This collage of photos and the words of cummings, are for Sarah Grace - then and now. Happy birthday, wondrous one!

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)

 

i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;

 

and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

 

i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet) 

i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
 

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
 

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
 

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
 

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
 

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart 

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

e.e.cummings

A Reprise

Today news came that a good friend's son has been diagnosed with cancer. Our hearts and strongest prayers go out to him.


He and his family are in a state of rapid change - a vibrant young man launched on a journey that no one should have to endure, and his loved ones already learning to pull from inner resources of focus, courage and hope whose magnitude of spirit have yet to fully reveal.


I'm offering up this "re-post" of a piece I wrote several months ago as an educational reminder to those in our community of healthy ways to support and talk to cancer patients and their families. What Not To Say To Someone With Cancer


Please let Love, Compassion and Hope be your guides.
All will be well ~ mlp


"to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again."
— Ellen Bass

Words & Art

"Who knows how to make love stay?

1. Tell love you are going to Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if loves stays, it can have half. It will stay.

2. Tell love you want a momento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a moustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.

3. Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning."

— Tom Robbins (Still Life with Woodpecker)

Only One Thing of Danger

Since yesterday's post was a bit by Neruda, I thought it fitting to offer a "bit" by Phelps which was inspired, in part, by the maestro.

“Look around — there's only one thing 
of danger for you here — poetry.” ~ Pablo Neruda 

I need to say this: Neruda makes it easy
to have something to fall back on.

His words (passionate,succulent) are dangerously 

delicious on my lips.

They pool up at the base of my throat
and trickle,
moist and salty

down, across the soft shadows of my belly and
rest there — quivering
in my navel

waiting and wanting to be sipped by you.

Easy too, because —
if I share his poems and (reading
between the lines) perchance you take offense

(at this boldness, brazen crossing of boundaries
drawn by hearts more easily confined)

I might smile and say with a shrug, “Well, that’s just Neruda.”

Then, I will quietly retreat
and stand behind maestro Pablo.

He knows I am feigning innocence
and he hears me
fervently whispering metaphors (fully ripened) that longingly

ache to be parted by your tongue.

Yes, Neruda makes it easy. 

by Martha Lee Phelps

Ode to Common Things
by Pablo Neruda

I have a crazy,
crazy love of things.
I like pliers,
and scissors.
I love
cups,
rings,
and bowls -
not to speak, or course,
of hats.
I love
all things,
not just
the grandest,
also
the
infinite-
ly
small -
thimbles,
spurs,
plates,
and flower vases.
Oh yes,
the planet
is sublime!
It’s full of pipes
weaving
hand-held
through tobacco smoke,
and keys
and salt shakers -
everything,
I mean,
that is made
by the hand of man, every little thing:
shapely shoes,
and fabric,
and each new
bloodless birth
of gold,
eyeglasses
carpenter’s nails,
brushes,
clocks, compasses,
coins, and the so-soft
softness of chairs.
Mankind has
built
oh so many
perfect
things!
Built them of wool
and of wood,
of glass and
of rope:
remarkable
tables,
ships, and stairways.
I love
all
things,
not because they are
passionate
or sweet-smelling
but because,
I don’t know,
because
this ocean is yours,
and mine;
these buttons
and wheels
and little
forgotten
treasures,
fans upon
whose feathers
love has scattered
its blossoms
glasses, knives and
scissors -
all bear
the trace
of someone’s fingers
on their handle or surface,
the trace of a distant hand
lost
in the depths of forgetfulness.
I pause in houses,
streets and
elevators
touching things,
identifying objects
that I secretly covet;
this one because it rings,
that one because
it’s as soft
as the softness of a woman’s hip,
that one there for its deep-sea color,
and that one for its velvet feel.
O irrevocable
river
of things:
no one can say
that I loved
only
fish,
or the plants of the jungle and the field,
that I loved
only
those things that leap and climb, desire, and survive.
It’s not true:
many things conspired
to tell me the whole story.
Not only did they touch me,
or my hand touched them:
they were
so close
that they were a part
of my being,
they were so alive with me
that they lived half my life
and will die half my death.

"Much More Than Just Sports"

Susan Casey said "Sports remain a great metaphor for life's more difficult lessons. It was through athletics that many of us first came to understand that fear can be tamed; that on a team the whole is more than the sum of its parts; and that the ability to be heroic lies, to a surprising degree, within." With this wisdom in mind, I'm honored to share the words of a guest poet this morning ~

Much More Than Just Sports

It is my escape.

My outlet.

My breakaway.

It is where I go, 

when it all becomes too much.

When insecurities come knocking

and school trips me up.

The adrenaline.

The energy.

The unimaginable passion.

That is where I turn.

Some call it sports,

but to me

it is so much more.

It is heart pounding

muscles tensing

mind quieting. 

It is running

jumping

kicking 

pushing

stepping

shoving

sweating.

When I start to play

all else fades.

And there I stand. 

The field 

The track

The pool

The gym

It all lays before me,

as I step out onto my stage.

It’s game time.

by Sarah Grace Cotton-Honeywell

Standing Fast

“I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with the roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know.”

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson 

It’s been one hell of a year.

Every single day when I awaken, I try to concentrate on the unexpected joys that surround radical change and practice counting the blessings that are so abundant in my life; however let’s face it, I’m a flawed human being. There are days I get mired in some of the sadness that change has imposed.

This morning in particular, I’m thinking about the unwritten guidebooks for surviving things like, being laid off from one’s job and long term unemployment, or having a marriage come to an end, or having a family member diagnosed with cancer. Specifically,  I’m wondering why there aren’t operating instructions for dealing with the loss of friends one once had, yet who drop away when life’s terrain gets bumpy and the view from the windows is less than scenic. Fair-weather friends, my mother used to call them: those who are most likely to appear when they are in need or, at best, when you are not in need. Because, let’s face it, friendship is sweeter when life is fun, right? A lot more work is required to remain present to someone who’s world has been turned on its axis.

Mind you, I’m not questioning WHY it happens. It happens for a myriad of reasons, such as:

1. People don’t know what to say or do. Keeping a safe distance allows them to watch without touching and very little extra effort is required.
2. Hard situations sometimes remind folks of their own problems - past or present - and they often don’t have the stamina for more.
3. Sometimes it’s about inability to pay attention to a story that isn’t a Hollywood action flick but a slowly unfolding real life documentary. People bore easily.
4. Folks get scared. They don’t want to admit it, but they’re afraid that if they get too close they might “catch” the problem. Like witnessing a friend’s divorce might cause one in their household, or knowing the reality and pain of cancer might cause a cell mutation in their family. Their fear takes on more meaning than their friendship.
5. They just can’t be bothered. They don’t want to take the time. They’re over it - even if their friend isn’t.

Initially, I was hurt and angry knowing that friendships were evaporating for reasons that, in my judgment (with the exception of #2) were pretty messed up and selfish. But in classic Kübler-Ross movement through the stages of grief, I’ve come to realize that what I mainly feel now is a deep sense of sadness and believe it or not, a bit of gratitude.

Relationships may be sweeter when they’re only fun, but they’re not nourishing.

As this big year of changes continues to catalyze and the guidebooks write themselves along the way, I grieve the loss of those I thought I knew, and celebrate the unwavering true.

In the long haul, I’m grateful to know and love a few well-rooted old friends as well as some amazing new ones. I am honored by these full-hearted individuals who have courageously reached out across the rough scenery and despite my grief to stand fast. Ambose Redmoon said, “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.” 

Choosing love is that “something else.”

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures,  have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing  and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.”  ~ Henri Nouwen

An Ancient Story of Farewells

Your absence pierces me

In this world wired
and quivering with connection

to feel the pulse of solitude
and truly yearn for one who is absent,
is a small stanza
in a long and ancient story of farewells.

It tells of trying to contain
a dark and fertile passion
that rises, as a tide
turbulent — beautiful — unceasing,
across the vulnerable shoreline of our lives.

There is no denying it.

I imagine the wives of sailors long ago...
bidding their lovers good bye -
urgent embraces,
their bodies and lips
already kissed
by Loneliness, and
hearts aching with the impending void.

How could they breathe?
How...?

Did the pain
ease with each passing day?
or did bits of their souls, captured
on waves,
follow their beloved out to sea,
sometimes never to return?

Apart from you,
I am gasping for air.

Tide rising, your presence
haunts and presses into me.
Miles between us, nay — lifetimes between us -
yet still
I surrender to the longing

Collapsing into the arms of my ancestral sisters,
my soul is set with theirs,
out upon the water.

Red Pushpins

Twenty-seven years ago tomorrow, I witnessed the birth of my nephew, Jarrett.

It wasn’t pre-planned that I should have the honor of being a part of his arrival. I was home from college for mother’s day weekend, merely doing the dutiful May visit, when my sister went into labor. Like a red pushpin in a map of significant places one has visited, I can point back to that Sunday afternoon and say, “That was a defining moment of my life.”

It was one part - seeing courage in my beloved sister that I’d never seen before; it was one part the wonder of generations squeezed into a very warm, very small bedroom for a birth in the home I had grown up in; it was one part the gift of observing love’s commitment between my sister and her husband, and it was one part the miraculous itself: a perfect, dark-haired, squirming-with-life baby boy.

I returned to college in a state of pure joy and huge desire to tell friends back at school what I had seen, how it felt and why I was changed. Sadly but truly, I was greeted by people who either listened for two minutes before shrugging and turning back to their accounting 301 textbook - or worse, those who said, “Oh yeah, I saw a movie in high school health.” I knew it was alright. I mean, I understood that I really couldn’t expect someone who has never eaten an apple to understand it’s taste and texture, but I also knew that my change was going to create ripples. Namely, I now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I could never ever have children with the young man I was engaged to. And if I could never ever have children with him, I knew that I could not marry him.

That moment of birth became the first of nearly three decades of decisions I have made wherein my “mother self,” out of the many selves that reside within me, took charge of casting the final vote for all major life decisions. My “mother self” has been strong, resilient, determined, fiercely protective, very loving - and has always (sometimes to a fault) put her children first. While my other personae have occasionally disagreed with her choices over the years, they’ve let her drive the ship -- until recently.

With Mother’s Day upon us, the day that I do not consider a Hallmark-induced experience, rather - the day of my nephew's birth and the beginning of how motherhood would define my life, there are changes underway. Worn by joy as well as grief, my “mother self” has resigned - not her duty - but her post, and while she remains diligent she has definitely passed the baton. Someone else is at the helm. Now, if ever I didn’t quite fit before, I will surely shatter any June Clever mold in which I might be expected to conform.

As my wise friend Katie said to me last spring, “I know that you still have mothering to do, but the tide has shifted. You get to look forward and envision what’s next in your life - with work, artistry, in finding a partner, where you go next and why. Now, you can choose what’s best for Martha. It may be scary, but it’s also exciting.” Damn straight, Katie.

So, in honor of the ever-changing continuum of motherhood and the strong women who embrace it, and in celebration of my children whom I love more than any single thing in the world, I’m placing a new red pushpin on the map and changing course. And last, but not least, happy birthday, Jarrett. I love you very much.

 

(to my children)

I do not doubt you would have liked

one of those pretty mothers in the ads:

complete with adoring husband and happy children.

She's always smiling, and if she cries at all

it is absent of lights and camera,

makeup washed from her face.

But since you were born of my womb, I should tell you:

ever since I was small like you

I wanted to be myself -- and for a woman that's hard --

(even my Guardian Angel refused to watch over me

when she heard).

I cannot tell you that I know the road.

Often I lose my way

and my life has been a painful crossing

navigating reefs, in and out of storms,

refusing to listen to the ghostly sirens

who invite me into the past,

neither compass nor binnacle to show me the way.

But I advance,

go forward holding to the hope

of some distant port

where you, my children -- I'm sure --

will pull in one day

after I've been lost at sea.

by Daisy Zamora ~

Remembering springtime in Wales

When I close my eyes,
I can see those childhood haunts
and an ocean with waves rolling back against
the shore we're standing on.

the sweet dreams I used to have
with the swell of tall grass about my head and body,
all the secret special hillsides that my heart took photos of,
and the scores of music I wrote 

while wildly running through pastureland after sheep....

A bryn noel
has rustled the papers
atop the desk in my mind,
and every favorite poem, prayer and lyric returns -
unforgotten.

If every ache inside I have felt, every spasm of longing
for my homeland,
were to take me back,
I should have been there the second that I left
and dwelt on until eternity
searching only for a love to share it all with.

Thus,
we would be complete,
and I would never again
close my eyes to see.


"Matti" by Martha Lee Phelps

Khaki-colored Halo

I was lying by the pool at the Furnace Creek Ranch in Death Valley, California. The dry heat felt wonderful against my skin and combined with the the lazy conversations unfolding around me, I was being lulled to sleep.  Sound snippets of children laughing in the water, mothers calling out and friends engaged in small talk floated past me. I heard a deep baritone voice behind me inquisitively address someone in my vicinity, “I see that you are journaling. Is that something you do daily, or is it an exercise for this trip?” “Well,” came the response from my left, “if you assure me that you’ll keep this to yourself, I’ll tell you.” 

‘Hmmm, secret journals?’ I pondered with eyes closed. I pulled my consciousness forward and slightly turned my head to squint at the second speaker. The journaler was sitting in the shade of the pool deck veranda.”You see, Diane goes away for three weeks each summer to a work conference,” he began, (I’m thinking about who Diane might be - his wife? Co-worker? Friend?) “and she misses the kids and I terribly each year when she goes. She can hardly sleep at night. Last year, I had the kids writing her letters constantly, which I sent off every other day.”  

I felt myself smile at the image of kids bent over lined paper writing sweet kid-like descriptions of summer activities, and I inwardly nodded with approval at how I imagined it would feel to receive such a letter from a child of my own. 

     “Well, I found this old journal of hers that was empty, and I thought that this year I would take time to write in the journal every day until she has to leave, and then I’ll slip it into her suitcase before she goes -- so that when she unpacks, she’ll be surprised by it, and - you know - have something to read from home.”
    “How nice of you, “ observed the friend who had climbed out of the pool by this point and was drying off with a towel as he listened to journal-man’s story.
    “It’s just bits and pieces about the kids and their adventures, stories about special times I remember, and of course - some sharing about my feelings for her. Just that sort of thing.”

By now I had turned my entire head and was using my hat as a sunshade. I gazed at this unusual man. Now, I wanted to look at this person. I wanted to see with my own eyes, what outward appearance is worn by someone who clearly has such a large, tender and giving heart?

Nope. There were no outer visible signs on this average looking, slightly overweight middle-aged man wearing a navy-blue short-sleeved shirt and crumpled khaki trousers. There was no special birthmark, tattoo or unusual tribal marking. There was no halo or sign inscribed with the words: “I pay attention to my beloved. I care when she is lonely. I practice compassion. I observe the small but beautiful acts of daily life in my family and make note. I am willing to give of my time, care, creativity and present moment for the benefit of others - especially those whom I love.”

    “Wow,” I said under my breath and turned my face back toward the sky. On my right, my daughter heard my single word. Something about the short exclamation made her look up from the book she was reading,  “What?” she pondered. So I quietly described the conversation I had just overheard.

As I explained this man’s journal to my daughter, I felt a welling of emotion. Whereas the details of his life story were minimal, who he was inherently was largely apparent and very impressive. He was a good man and a loving person. The situation reminded me of times I’d read literary passages to students and asked them to tell me what they’d learned about the main characters based - not on their physical descriptions - but on the character’s very actions and dialogue.

What do our actions reveal about us? What, among the day to day exchanges that we have, might be considered “small” on the surface, but are actually very big? What little things do you do that can ease another’s heart? Which simple acts demonstrate steady and reliable devotion and kindness?  What secret journal are you keeping that whispers “I love you” in it’s quiet reflections and might forever change a reader’s life?