choosing words

They had experienced loss.

With only one suitcase of clothes, they had arrived in Canada, survivors of oppression for being part of an ethnic minority under Saddam’s rule in Iraq. They carried samples of spices that hinted of their homeland and left behind a mother, who lamented their pursuit of writing, the cause of their parting. His three years of prison, for the crime of writing poetry, was one of the reasons they decided to finally flee.

But they had their children. And they had each other.

Ten years later, a new language on their lips and a new home in their hearts, I am privileged to know them. They are committed people – to their community, to their writing, and to one another. They are older now, in their mid-fifties, their children integrated into Canadian life.

Is it because English is still new to them that their words ring with honesty?

“Did your husband tell you I saw him yesterday?” I asked the wife. “No, no.” She looked up at me, reaching to place one hand gently on my cheek. “He did not tell me he saw your beautiful face. I did not even talk to him yesterday.” Her r’s roll in a deep rhythm. “We are so in love you see. People in love don’t need to talk to each other every day.”

I nod with a genuine smile, accepting their expression of romantic love that goes against contemporary portrayals.

I describe how her husband spoke to my writing class the other night about poetry.

The short cropped curls around her face bob up and down in enthusiasm. “Oh, I’m so glad. His poetry is very powerful, very beautiful. He is a deep thinker and a good man, my husband.”

My heart grew lighter. I knew this couple dealt with the regular stressors of most families. Too much work, not enough time. She wished she could see her kids more often. She wished she had more time to write. They struggled with sustaining a livelihood, their family and their art. But, always the same words of love and admiration come from her lips, and just as often, from his in return.

No eye rolling, no complaining, no resentment.

Their words are uttered in the midst of the lunchroom, by the filing cabinet, sometimes even in the hallway. But, I am amazed at their power to create hope in me. They are simple words. They only seek to share their life as it really is.

But, the words are a testimony that lives can be fashioned to match our values, and not the other way around.

The words they choose – in every day conversation – make a difference in my life.

And it reminds me – the words I choose everyday – can make a difference in others.

Gentle Surprises

I'm much too sick to write anything coherent, so in lieu, I'm posting a picture of this baby panda that my friend, San, sent me. She saw him (her?) in China last year.




I don't know what it is -- but this picture fills me with such wonder. Like I'm five again. Like the world still has surprises for me. You know - the kind of surprises that aren't exploited by paparazzi, Oprah, or the news. Gentle surprises.

Too bad the panda isn't my totem animal ...

trust in the night

twilight uncloaks
moon’s shadow
hanging
waiting
unlit in dusky blue

inviting doubt
to reveal herself
in ways she dare not
in harsh rays
of daylight

hold out your hand
to her murky thoughts
forbidden
untrusted
place faith in where she guides you

unveil
the
manufactured
rationale

‘til only truth remains
in the night sky
a jewel
instinctive
leading you home to
your genuine self

time is but the stream i go fishing in ...

that's what Thoreau says ...

Here are other wise words for writers or for anyone who has a passion and seeks to pursue it ...

My suggestion is that you start with the love and then work very hard and try to let go of the results. Cast out your will, and then cut the line.
- Elizabeth Gilbert

Interpreting Potlucks

“Ma, what is this?” I winced at the sharpness in my tone. I shouldn’t be raising my voice to my mother on the day Jesus rose from the dead.

“What do you mean?”

“What is this? What have you cooked here?”

“You know, the usual. Gravy, peas – ”

“Mom, I thought we discussed this. Tonight is potluck. We asked families to bring food.”

“What?” My mother tilted her head curiously, her lips pursed in a question.

“You were supposed to make a turkey.”

“Yes. It’s in the oven.”

“So – what’s this?”

“Well, I just thought some rutabega would be nice.”

“And the peas?”

“The girls don’t like some kinds of vegetables, so I cooked them peas.”

“And the stuffing?”

“The stuffing goes with the turkey. It’s really the same thing.” Not quite, but I let that one go. Turkey without stuffing did seem strange.

“And the rice?”

“Some people don’t like potatos.”

“You cooked the potatos?” I took a deep breath. “The plan was for me to come over and make the mashed potatos. The point of a potluck, Mom, is so that you don’t do too much work and get sick again. You always over do it.”

“Well,” she looked away now and moved to the sink, realizing I had caught on. “You’re so busy these days and you’re coughing. Anyway, they’re ready to be mashed. You can mash them. I’ll watch.”

“I don’t like it when you watch.”

“Why not?”

“Because you criticize how I cook.”

“No, I’m just watching.” She smiled prettily at me.

“Why is there asparagus out?”

“I thought …”

“No, Ma. No. No asparagus. Put the asparagus back. Chris is cooking eggplant, Irene is bringing noodles, Ian is bringing spring rolls. We don’t need asparagus.”

My eye caught something glistening in the toaster oven. “Oh, Lord. Ma – is that a ham in the oven? You cooked a ham?”

“We won’t serve it. It’s just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“Just in case we run out of food. Your Daddy said to cook it.”

“When have we ever run out of food?”

She furrowed her eyebrows together. “It’s not nice to run out of food, honey.” Despite her words, her tone implied we were talking about the apocalypse.

I looked around helplessly. “Do they have potlucks in the Philippines? I mean, is there a word for potluck in Filipino?”

“We do potlucks.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Not really.” It was my mother’s typical way of answering questions.

“They don’t do potlucks? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Sure, you can.” She made it sound like I had just asked her if Filipinos liked jumping into a pit of hot fire. “But, you shouldn’t ask people to come over and then ask them to bring food with them.”

Even though my Mom had lived in Canada for over forty years, I still sometimes found myself amidst cultural negotiation. “It’s okay Mom. People do potlucks here in Canada. It’s normal. It’s polite. Just like it’s normal and polite to serve pizza at birthday parties.”

She looked at me in disgust.

“It’s not polite to cook so much for potlucks.” I tried to lay it out as clear as I could. “It makes the people bringing food wonder why they took the time to cook. You don’t want people to feel like they wasted their time.”

My words were met with a chilly silence.

I sighed. “I know, Mom. I know. You show love through your cooking.”

She frowned at me. “That’s not the only way I show love.”

“But it’s your favorite way.” She shook her head at me, as if I was being disrespectful. In her eyes, I probably was. Telling her that she cooked too much was like telling her she loved too much.

Suddenly, the front door opened and my sister and brother-in-law swept in, their three kids trailing noisily behind them.

My sister surveyed the kitchen and said, “Mom, what is this?”

I walked over and pulled my sister aside before she could take it all in. “Next year, let’s have Easter at your house.” I paused and watched my mother’s delight at the kids ooh-ing and aah-ing over the spread of food before them. “Mom can keep Christmas dinner. She’ll be heartbroken if she can’t overfeed us at least once a year.”

The Unexpected Tell

She had gotten used to it. Meeting a person and sensing the possibility. Smiling and nodding, attempting to please and be pleased. Searching for something in how he held his coffee cup, how he addressed the waitress, how he held up his end of the conversation. But, always, waiting for the moment when she split into two. One half leaned forward at the table, legs elegantly crossed, engaged in conversation. The other half slumped back, stuffing her hand into her pocket, clutching her car keys. Give it a chance, one side coaxed. You’re not going to find magic in half an hour. But the other sighed, tired of looking for things to say and things to respond to. They all ended that way. A distracting dialogue between heart and reason. So, it took her by surprise when at the close of one evening, she found herself in the moment in front of her. She found herself with him and nowhere else. And, that’s how she knew. She found that in his company, she was one.

Stillwater

My younger cousins, Vikki and Nessa, know me well. For Christmas, they bought me a gift certificate to Chapters and last weekend, I finally went shopping to treat myself. The parking lot was crowded ... though it seemed there were more people in the coffee shop than in the actual store. But, perhaps I was looking through my cynical-colored glasses, so I tried to blame it on the scope of the super-book-shoppe.

I picked up "Letters to a Young Poet" by Rainer Maria Rilke and wandered through the children's section. I stumbled across this book and had to have it. "Zen Shorts" by Jon J Muth. Everyone should have this book.

The Giant Panda, Stillwater, shares stories of enlightenment and love. And the Zen Shorts have no goals, no objectives, no terms of reference -- just a challenge to look at our life with a different lens. What would life on Earth be like if we all taught that skill to our children?

My favorite line in the book: "He spoke with a slight panda accent."

freedom

her dark lashes wet
with hiccuping
breaths

grief in every syllable
dauntless in her display

they’re lost
she cried
my ribbons

we moved about the kitchen
with sympathy and promises

assured she would forget
amidst the colored pencils

we rinsed the dishes
and swept the floor

concealed
our envy for

the salty drops
beholden to none

no obligation to hope
no duty to common sense

to weep as
when you were four