For The Time Being

 

In yesterday's sermon my senior pastor, David Miller, outdid himself poetry-wise.  He quoted both Dr. Seuss and W. H. Auden.

W. H. Auden was a Pulitzer Prize winning, leading literary influencer of the 20th century.  Like Dr. Seuss he dealt with heavy subjects, but unlike Dr. Seuss he didn't make it easy for us (by "us" I mean me.)  Just try reading one of his 50 page epics. And he tackled the hard stuff.  

He, along with Christopher Isherwood, wrote Goodbye to Berlin which inspired  Cabaret,  the dark musical that showed us the decadent underbelly of Germany that opened the door for Hitler. 

The last stanza of Auden's poem The More Loving One helps me cope with our current crazy situation, especially the last line. I've found that, with a little time I can get used to a bunch of things  - including things I should not be getting used to.  

Were all the stars to disappear or die,     I should learn to look at an empty sky                                                                                           And feel its total dark sublime,      Though this might take me a little time. 

Auden's best known poem - because it was featured in the film Four Marriages and a Funeral - puts our fresh suffering into words when we are too bereft to do it ourselves.  As you know, I have been in this place and my guess is so have you. 

                                                                                                                                                                             Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,  

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,                                                                                       Silence the pianos and with muffled drum                                                                                                 Bring out the coffin, let the mourners com.  

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead                                                                                               Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,                                                                                               Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,                                                                        Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West,                                                                                        My working week and my Sunday rest,                                                                                                      My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;                                                                                                        I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;                                                                                   Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;                                                                                               Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;                                                                                                For nothing now can ever come to any good. 

W H Auden

Yesterday morning David Miller quoted  the last line from Auden's poem, For The Time Being. It's about the real meaning of Christmas.

Everything became a You and nothing was an it.

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Let's Write a Book

A few days ago I was talking with my smart friend about how many people dream about some day writing a novel but never do.  Novels are much more glamorous than non fiction books because you don't have to do that pesky research. 

Somewhere in the middle of the conversation we both revealed that we'd each written our dream novel.  Neither of us was surprised.  Nor were either of us surprised they had not been published. 

I wrote my novel over 20 years ago when I was confined to the house for long periods of time when my husband, Ken, was ill.  It started with an interest in Florida history, especially Central Florida where I live.  So, I started hunting down and reading everything I could find on Old Central Florida.  

Yes, I loved doing the pesky research, as well as the writing. 

And, no, it did not get published.  But I learned so much about Florida, about writing, about what it takes to get a novel published - and I learned some things about myself along the way.   

So, while we're once more confined for a chunk of time, I hope you're doing something creative that  you've put off for a rainy day.  Now's the time -we're in for a few more "rainy days" of confinement.

I'm not doing much writing nor heavy reading right now but, for the last several days, I've been reading my novel.  I was afraid it might be cringe worthy but I'm enjoying myself.   Maybe I'll work on it some day.  It needs a rewrite. 

But not anytime soon. I'm not up to writing or reading anything heavy.  Now I feel like Pete Rose who was  once quoted as saying, "The only book I ever read was the one I wrote."

***

Memories in the Time of Covid

 

A while back my grandson found this collage hidden away in my condo.  I don't remember when it was given to me but it had to be late 1970s or early 80s because that's the time frame that my husband, Ken, was the minister at  Broadway United Methodist Church in downtown Orlando. And I recognized a handful of these Broadway folks. 

Today I took the collage to be laminated because it was in rough shape.  It's been fun to discover little clues about who these folks are - or were.  I still can't place many of them, but here are some fun finds. 

The little blond kid in the upper right corner is my son John.

The young lady in the lower left corner is my daughter Cathy.

Pat Moses was a dancer, among other things, who studied at the Buddy Ebsen Dance Studio in Orlando, and has remained a life long friend.  You can easily find her in the collage. 

Helen Hurt, pictured on the bottom row, had two sons, Maury and Pete, who were well known artists.  I don't own any of their work but my children do.  All those many decades ago when I visited Helen, there was a painting just inside her front door that I loved with a passion.  It's at the center of this college.  My picture is just below.  

And I could go on.....but the strangest thing regarding this college happened yesterday. 

In a totally unrelated matter, I posted a desk chair I wanted to give away on my Facebook page.  The first person to reply was a woman named Diane.  I had no idea who she was.  Her last name was unfamiliar to me.  Yesterday she and her husband met me in my garage to take the chair.  We, of course, all wore masks.  But when she removed her mask for a minute I immediately remembered her from the Broadway Church.  I grabbed the college out of the car - and there she was!  Forty years younger.

How crazy was that?

***

What It Feels Like

 

As you know, I love my New Yorker magazines.  The poetry, however, has always been daunting, to say the least.  They're notorious for not making sense to us regular folks.

But this week's issue has a treasure of a poem written by, Margaret Atwood,  one of the most prodigious, prolific poet/novelist alive today.  (The Handmaid's Tale comes to mind.)

Margaret Atwood and I are approximately the same age.  She has pretty much nailed it for me in describing what this feels like.  

FLATLINE

Things wear out. Also fingers, 

Gnarling sets in,

Your hands crouch in their mittens,

Forget chopsticks, and buttons.

Feet have their own agendas,

They scorn your taste in shoes

and ignore your trails, your maps. 

Ears are superfluous:

What are they for,

Those alien pink flaps?

Skull fungus.

The body, once your accomplice,

is now your trap.

The sunrise makes you wince:

too bright, too flamingo.

After a lifetime of tangling,

of knotted snares and lacework,

of purple headspace tornados' 

with their heartache and rubble,

you crave the end of mazes

and pray for a white shore,

an ocean with its horizon;

not, so much, bliss

but a flat line you steer for. 

No more hiss and slosh'

no reef, no deeps,

no throat rattle of gravel.

It sounds like this:

            - Margaret Atwood

 

                                                                                                                               

  

Childhood Friends

 

Sluggo Malene lived in my neighborhood for a time when I was growing up.  He was my age but he was smaller than me, and that's saying quite a bit because I was a scrawny little kid.  He got his name from a comic strip called "Nancy." Nancy lived with her Aunt Fritzi and Sluggo was Nancy's tough little friend.  My little friend Sluggo was not tough.  He got the name because he was the polar opposite of Nancy's Sluggo.

Just by coincidence, my little brother Paul had the nickname Butchie.  That name also came from the "Nancy" comic strip. In the strip,  Butch would occasionally beat up Sluggo.  In real life Paul was delicate and small for his age and sick much of the time, hence the (opposite) nickname Butchie.

My friend Sluggo lived on the other side of the street in a big old house that had been divided into tiny apartments.  I don't remember his mother but the two of them lived in two of the cordoned off rooms.  People came and went quickly in the house but Sluggo and his mother stayed a while.  Sluggo was always happy and full of fun and ideas.

What I remember most about him was his love of makeup.  One summer when we were very young, he and I spent hours under a big tree in my back yard smearing on foundation, lipstick and mascara that he'd lifted from his mother's makeup box.  He assured me she'd never miss it.  Sluggo told me that even when they didn't have enough to eat his mom bought copious amounts of makeup on a regular basis.  

I was too young and too naive to give any thought about how unusual it was for Sluggo to be heavily into the makeup routine.  And, in my defense, cross dressing had not yet been invented.  

We had a fun couple of years being friends and then he and his mother were gone and I never heard from him again.  

My brother Paul soon outgrew his nickname Butchie and he grew up to be a devoted husband and father and a truly stand up guy in all areas of his life.  I've often wondered about whatever became of Sluggo. 

***

 

Stress Relieving Frog

 I've had an especially stressful last few days - and it's not going to end soon.  But then I don't need to tell you this because we're all in the hot soup right now.  And we're all trying some healthy and not so healthy ways of dealing with our days of stark terror with a little overlay of chronic sadness. 

I was seriously thinking I should seek out some professional help but it would take several hours to explain what all is currently going on in my life.  And in the end, another person can't fix it.  

But, I live in a nifty village of friends and family so, a couple of days ago,  I did share bit of it with my friend Trish.  And Dr. Trish knew just what I needed.  She told me a sweet, funny story and sent me sweet funny photos.  Trish lives in the woods. She's crazy smart and crazy artistic. 

She has a little tractor/pickup she calls "The Frog."  She told me about having visitors and how she'd taught one of the kids to drive the frog - and afterwards rewarded her with a Frog Driver's License.  

So, this morning, when Trish texted me to see how I'm doing, I replied:

I'm hanging in there.  But a VERY stressful week.  Wish I could get in my Frog and drive around the forest but I don't have a frog driver's license. 

So Trish sent me this "Official" driver's license.  It even has the star, enabling me to drive my Frog to Europe. 

I hope you are blessed with powerful friends like Trish. 

***

Celebrating

Life is tough for all of us right now.  I try to intersperse the daily "we're all gonna die" narrative  with pockets of celebration.  Recently my grandson and his wife came by to give me the exciting news that they're expecting.  So we are now, along with all the stuff that daily smacks us in the gut,  anticipating this new tiny new person being formed by God.  This couple has wanted this blessing for a while so we who love them have prayed for this to happen.  The sweetest thing they told me was that both of their dads cried when they got the news.  

On Monday they learned the sex of their budding baby.  I had already warned them about how I did not care for gender reveal parties that sometimes cause major catastrophes so the night before last they came by for my own personal gender reveal party.  

There was a big "Popper" explosion of pink confetti but no firestorms in California were started by this reveal.  Life is good and life continues to move along in good as well as horrific ways in this time of Covid19. 

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