Pocketfuls.

A Native American ceramic pot, a guide to jellybeans, sweatpants. These are a few of the gifts my sweet traveling husband has brought back to me because he doesn’t like coming home empty-handed from business trips. He travels to small college towns and his schedule is crammed with meetings, so with little time to browse, he usually ends up finding something in the university bookstore or the airport. I appreciate the gifts (the sweatpants have become my go-to item on cold, sick, or PMS days) but I appreciate the thought behind them even more. Still, we made a joint decision to put a moratorium on the trinket purchases; I know he loves me and I don’t need a lavender spice rub (lavender on meat?) to tell me so. A few months ago, though, S put a moratorium on the moratorium and returned from a trip with a present.

The university bookstore is following the trend of many college bookstores today, and is transferring their book sales to an online distributor. The university book store will no longer sell books. What will they sell, I asked S. Granola bars and teddy bears apparently. I’m dumbfounded, and the gift is bittersweet. Every book in the store (there were few left by the time S got there) was reduced to one dollar. I’m not sure if I should be celebrating or mourning this bargain. S lugged home eight books of poetry- he bought almost every book of poetry that was left. I was familiar with a few of the names, but the work was all new to me. So I’ve been digging through them, finding some gems and discovering the work of poets I probably would never have taken the time to explore. All for 8 bucks. The best gift, though, is the man who will scour deserted and forlorn book racks to find gems for his wife.

Another gift came via email yesterday when a friend emailed to ask for poetry book recommendations. She wants to buy her husband his first book of poetry and is not sure where to start. I was delighted to be able to help and to be included in a small way in the celebration of their love. It thrills me to know that people are talking about poetry and the discussion is leaking out of the blog forum into our daily lives. Last week I had lunch with my dear friend M. Same time, same place, same drinks, same meal (except M stepped to the wild side and ordered fish tacos instead of her usual). We gabbed and laughed, and even talked about a poem I posted a few weeks ago. I love how poetry clears a pathway to topics that might not typically be discussed. A poem is successful at the point where it stops being just about the poet, and becomes about the reader as well. A poem is a meeting place between writer and reader, and when the poem is shared with others the meeting place becomes a community, a gathering, a shelter from solitude.

And a final gift this morning: my mother came by this morning and gave me a book. My mom took an early retirement after my brother had his bi-lateral lung transplant. After retirement and after my brother’s recuperation, my mother devoted herself to pursuing interests she never had the time for, such as art and dance. The thing about my mother is that she succeeds at whatever she devotes herself to, so she became a successful artist and dancer. But recently she has been wanting to work again. So she put her suit back on and got herself a job. And all of this to say: she’s been going through old work books and materials and found an anthology of poetry about leadership which she surprised me with this morning. I’ve been leafing through it and I already adore it.  It has some poems I’ve never read before as well as some of my most beloved; but I especially appreciate it because each poem was submitted by a community leader as a piece which carries them and which they carry in their daily lives and work. Poetry put into action, read daily, used daily by teachers, administrators, mental health workers, congresswomen, pastors, mothers, you and me. Find a poem you love and put it in your pocket, then put a poem in someone else’s pocket.

I don’t think I’ve asked you yet: what’s your favorite poem?

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Today’s poem is one of the poems in the anthology. Today’s poem is because you do not know, and will never know, your own diameter.

The Diameter of the Bomb by Yehuda Amichai

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters….

Silent as a…

Mouse? No. Mice are quite loud. They scamper and click their way through this world. They nip at the corner of the cereal box. When you’re alone at home, listening, this sound can feel as noisy as the pound of a sledgehammer.

If you listen well, not listen hard, as the act tends to be called, but listen open, everything makes sound. Even silence, or the absence of sound, can thrum in your ears with energy. My silence these past days has been loud, churning with thought and energy. I’d say I’ve been silent as a turtle. Thinking. Silent as a clock, ticking. Silent as a snake, waiting.

Some of you are aware of what occurred after my last post— a ripple of incidents, one leading to the next like a Rube Goldberg machine. I edited comments and removed the poem link because I was notified by a dear reader to a strongly worded comment on the blog I linked to. The poet commented to express annoyance that his work was posted entirely and without permission. I am now communicating with the poet and actually quite fond of him;  but this series of events got me thinking (and worrying) that all this time I’ve been sharing something which might not be mine to share: the work of others.

I believed that promoting the work of writers I adore and “spreading the gospel” of poetry is a good thing. I believed that if someone falls in love with a poem or if a single book of poetry is sold because of a poem I’ve linked to here, I’ve done a good job. I believed I was respecting the work of poets I admire by linking to poems rather than posting the entire poem. I don’t receive any benefit from sharing poems other than the joy of passing on love. Some poets might even appreciate it. But the smidge of guilt I felt upon reading the poet’s comment regarding reprint permission niggles at me, and I can’t deny the feeling of heartburn and dread.  I’m tangled up wondering what the right, true thing to do is, if such a thing as “right” and “true” exists.

I wonder what Rilke or Rumi would say about this.

The truth is I’m not really sure where to go from here. Should I cease posting links to the work of others? Am I taking something that doesn’t belong to me and giving it away? I love poetry. It sits inside of me, at the core of who I am, and I want to share it. Because poetry is generally not a commercial endeavor nor a commercial success, the rights, work, and meager profits of poets must be carefully protected. But for those very same reasons, successful work should be shared and celebrated. So I’m in a bit of a moral quandary.

My heart has a thumbtack in it right now: no poem today. I may have reached the end of lizislifelines in its current incarnation. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to post a link to a published poem of mine. Until then, or until my heart knows where to go, I’ll sit in silence and wait. Thoughts, ideas, and suggestions are welcome.

All creation holds its breath, listening within me, because, to hear you, I keep silent. -Rainer Maria Rilke

34.

This is how I celebrated 34 years of this life…

Los Feliz/a neighborhood in Los Angeles named for a land grant owner/feliz in Spanish means happy/can’t hear the name without thinking of happiness/coffee free birthday upgrade/blue sky afternoon for lunch with loves/pickle plate because i love my salty/mexican coke in glass bottle and hoegaarden/a bookstore worth loving/dinner with mother father brother angel S/laughinglaughinglaughing/have you ever tried to get your family to all fit on one chair for a picture/funny face pictures/kisses from S/story from the angel/presents/phonecallsmessagescards from friends near and far/facebook wishes peppered the day with exclamation points/crap maybe I’m not the loner I’ve always considered myself to be/sunshine and rain: love pouring down on me/(fuck you 37)/wrote: my birthday felt like a memorial/but so much better because I am alive to feel the love.

A few highlights…

A poetry section not relegated to the dark corner in the back.

Pickle plate at Umami. Mmmm salty!

Refreshment.

The token insane lady. Insanely happy.

I felt loved.

How fun indeed.

———————-

Although I hope to harass you indefinitely with mind dribbles and “today’s poem”s, today’s poem is the poem I’d give you if this birthday would be my last.

Moose In the Morning, Northern Maine by Mona van Duyn

At six a.m. the log cabins

nose an immense cow-pie of mist

that lies on the lake…

Rollin’.

She returned from camp happy, healthy, and brimming with stories and excitement. She came home with new friends, songs to sing, and dances to dance;  a scraped knee and adoration for her too-cool eighteen year old guardians who left indelible impressions on her. Chloe the counselor plays guitar and has a pet pig; she uses the f word a lot- she can’t help it. Jamie is more responsible but still tons of fun. Turns out you can be responsible and fun.

She kept a journal of her week there, including every meal and activity. Each day received a star rating and a level on the “fun-o-meter”.  Day 5, Beach Day, broke the meter. She told us that Day 4 (ropes course and s’mores at night) would have broken the meter as well but the idea of meter-busting fun hadn’t occurred to her until Day 5 happened.

She came home with lanyards (thank you, Billy Collins, for forever changing the way we see lanyards), copper bracelets hammered with love, the requisite tie-dye t shirt, sand in every crevice of the duffel bag, still-wet towels, and hugs. Lots and lots of hugs. Can you see me smiling? Because I am.

So what did mama do while baby was away? While making preparations for her grand summer adventure, I consoled myself with the thought of a writing retreat.  A “stay home and do nothing but write” retreat. No cooking or cleaning. No leaving the house for anything except coffee breaks. Writing, writing, and more writing. Of course, a little reading too. Sounds great, right? Write. Wrong. I decided that in between writing, I’d sneak a little time in to repaint the angel’s room. Lesson: one cannot “sneak” painting in.

This is probably the first time in my life that manual labor glittered with appeal. But perhaps I instinctively knew I’d need a physically demanding distraction from the mental chatter; a hard-core (for me, anyway) project to bury myself in while the angel was away. S took a few days off to help me and just like that, with a swipe of the paint roller, the idea of a writing retreat was erased. I wielded the paint roller like an M-16; I wielded the paint roller like a lullaby.

Painting The Room, Day 1:

This is fabulous!

Creedence is jamming: Big wheel keep on turning Proud mary keep on burnin Rollin rollin rollin on the river…

I have my man and my coffee to keep me company while I toil.

Sweat is a good thing.

Hallelujah! I finally understand my father’s love for working with his hands.

Paint rollers are fun. Roll up, roll down.

Now this is a good day’s work.

Painting The Room, Day 2:

My neck hurts.

My head hurts.

Sweat is not a good thing.

Paint fumes are not a good thing.

Dust is not a good thing.

Have you ever noticed the word pain inside of painting?

Toiling with your spouse may not be as romantic and sexy as previously imagined.

Why do you work so slowly?

Why are your paint lines so crooked?

Why did we even get married?

Painting The Room, Day 3:

Who takes three days to paint a single small room?

Painting The Room, Day 4:

We did it.

—-

The room, the house, and the marriage remain intact.

Baby is back and we’re all together now.

Big wheel keeps on turning, proud mama keeps on burning, and we’re rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ on the river.

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Today’s Poem is for days so fun they bust the meter, light splashed mornings, the wheel that turns, the rolling, the round.

The Round by Stanley Kunitz

Light splashed this morning

on the shell-pink anemones

swaying on their tall stems…

The eyes and adventures of a certain girl.

I’m in love with the world through the eyes of a girl…- Elliott Smith

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She asks me: What do these wildlfowers smell like to you? To me they smell like maple cinnamon syrup on mud pies.

She asks me: Are you published yet Mommy?

No, honey. Not yet.

It’s very hard to get published, isn’t it? 

It sure is.

(quiet pause)

Well, we’ll just have to keep writing and writing until we get published, Mommy.

She writes. Song lyrics, stories, chapters of books. Lately she has been working on a book about an orphan girl who becomes a pirate: If you traveled into our little town and kept going straight down the dusty dirt road, and found the blacksmith and the grain and feed shop, well right to the side, squished in the corner, you’d find the orphanage I live in. 

It’s a grand adventure.

Life with the girl who wrote those lines is a grand adventure.

———————–

This week, she’s having a story-worthy adventure all of her own, without Mommy and Daddy. For the first time ever, one week at sleepaway camp. The camp preparations were lengthy. Hunting, gathering, and labeling everything down to the last sock: sleeping bag, pillow, sheets, water shoes, bathing suits, towels, water bottle, bug spray, sunscreen, toiletries, stacks of socks and underwear, sturdy shoes, hats, and maybe a few little hidden treats. One particularly rebellious stuffed purple poodle sneaked her way into the duffel bag even though the angel insisted that she’s gotten too old for stuffed animals. Crazy poodle.

This is the longest amount of time we’ve been away from each other; even when I’m in the hospital, S or my mother bring her to visit me. Even though I want to keep her close, keep her in my arms, keep her safe and surrounded in love and nutritious food and early bedtimes, I have to let her go. I have to let her choose her own adventures and make her own memories and mistakes. I must allow her to ride the waves; highs and lows, storms and sunshine. I need to let her giggle secrets with her friends and feel what it is to go out there in the world as her own person. I must let her climb the thin wobble of rope up into the crow’s nest so she can look around her at the wide expanse. It’s dangerous, and scary, and so rollercoaster-heart worthwhile.

Before she left, I told her two things (two things besides wear sunscreen! drink water! i love you i love you i love you!).

First. Everything that happens on this new adventure, whether it is good or bad, is something you can use. You can learn from it, you can write about it, you can feed yourself with it if it turns out to be a satisfying experience. If it turns out to be a negative experience, you’ll simply be one step closer to choosing something you love.

Second. Wherever you go and whatever you do, you have our love with you. The next words, though, were left unspoken: Our love is in the boat that carries you through the waters, it’s in the water that holds you if the boat falls apart.

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Today’s Poem: (click link to read entire poem)

The Summer-Camp Bus Pulls Away from the Curb by Sharon Olds

Whatever he needs, he has or doesn’t

have by now.

Whatever the world is going to do to him

it has started to do….

S

When I asked S to write a guest post, he readily agreed. He told me he wanted to write a public love letter to me.  Boring, I told him. If you want to break up with me in public, now that would make for interesting reading, but a piece on “how do I love you, let me count the ways”? Yawn. I asked him to write about life as someone who is married to a person with CF. Boring, he told me: it is what it is and there’s not much to say.  While I admire and appreciate his certainty that CF has little impact on our relationship and the evolution of our love, I think it’s a worthy topic that may be of interest to people who have CF, to parents of children with CF, or to people who are currently in a relationship with someone who has CF. Perhaps S will be willing to venture into the murky depths of CF and his feelings about it for a future blog post. For now, the winning topic is… poetry. Poetry always wins; do you remember a time without someone writing it and someone else complaining about it? Along with cockroaches, poetry will survive the end of the world.

Please welcome my tall, dark, and handsome S who after writing this guest post is now tall, dark, handsome, and poetically inclined.

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When Lizi invited me to write a guest blog, I was honored and excited. But also, if I’m honest,  nervous. What could I, a neophyte to poetry, add to the dialogue?

I considered commenting on the Slate article that found poetry in the official descriptions of dog breeds.

I considered song lyrics such as The Police’s “Message in a Bottle” (Walked out this morning, don’t believe what I saw/Hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore/Seems I’m not alone in being alone/Hundred billion castaways, looking for a home) or the lyrics at the end of “Eclipse,” a song in what is often considered the greatest rock album of all time, Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon: And everything under the sun is in tune/But the sun is eclipsed by the moon.

I also recalled my teachers who told us of the debate between those who think poetry can and should be read without any knowledge of the poet or time in which she wrote, and those who think poetry can only be fully understood with the proper historical, cultural and political context. Which reminded me of another scholarly debate about whether text is alive, a breathing animal, or a petrified relic of times past. All heady topics ripe for dialogue.

But it was a discussion at work of all places that answered my question. A colleague of mine ended several emails in an email chain with one or two line aphorisms, whose authors he considered “poets,” and not just any poets, but “famous” ones. He took umbrage when I questioned whether the quotations met the test for poetry. I may have offended him when I said the lines he chose belonged inside  fortune cookies.  I told him that what I considered poetry, by contrast, was a piece recited by Billy Collins at the recent poetry reading Lizi and I attended.

I thought back to something Billy Collins mentioned: kids invited to hear poetry as part of his “Poetry 180” program often scoffed and squirmed at the concept of poetry until they heard a poem that resonated with them. Then they felt conflicted by their visceral reaction to the word “poetry” (with its connotation of sonnets and stanzas and Emily Dickinson and Keats) and their enjoyment of the powerful words they just heard. And it occurred to me: the reason I didn’t like poetry before, or thought I didn’t, was that I didn’t understand what poetry actually was.

It would be presumptuous for me try to define poetry, and anyway I wouldn’t know where to start. For me, poetry has an emotional content that transcends the fonts on the page or the pixels on the computer screen. Sometimes it’s humorous and maybe serious and serene and mournful and bittersweet, or all of those. And sometimes, it is set to music. But the commonality is that hearing a poem, in whatever form, always challenges me. Sometimes the challenge is to unwrap its lyrical knot. On other occasions, it’s about holding still, not resisting, and letting the torrid currents wash through me.

I have Lizi to thank for patiently leading me into its shallow water and helping me to gradually immerse myself in the pool of poetry. I now see that poetry is not an exotic forest but more like the air we breathe and the water we drink, the collections of words and feelings that come spilling out from people every day, whether they have PhDs or MFAs and conduct poetry readings, or write inspirational cards, dog breed guidelines, or stuff fortune cookies. The truest test of a great poem has nothing to do with who wrote it, or its length, or the sophistication of its vocabulary. It’s about whether, upon reading or hearing it, one’s view of the world will never be quite the same.

Have you encountered any poetry lately in unconventional forms?

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S loved the experience of hearing Billy Collins read his poetry. That experience, more than anything else I’ve ever discussed or shared with S, warmed him up to poetry. Today’s poem is in honor of S and anyone who is willing to give poetry a try. (click link to read entire poem)

Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem

and hold it up to the light…

10 ways to a woo a word lover.

10. Do not give her diamonds; give her books.

9. Date night? Scrabble. Bananagrams if you want to shake things up a bit.

8. Court via letters. Your hand-writing on paper does something that no email, no matter how romantic and well-written, can ever achieve.

7. When she cries about feeling lonely and misunderstood, tell her she is avant-garde. What a word! She’ll perk up. Immediately.

6. Do crossword puzzles together. Gives new meaning to the phrase you complete me.

5. Tell her that her glasses make her look like a sexy librarian.

4. When she mentions that she’s never read Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint, give her the copy you read in college so that she can devour the book with the sprinkling of your adolescent marginalia adding to the flavor.

3. Understand that she might never pay attention to you with the same intensity that she lavishes on the book she’s reading.

2. Use the word “covenant” as a verb in a poem you’ve written. Yes, this means you must write her a poem.

Almost 1. Edit her work and point out typos. Especially glaring mistakes in the title.

1. Take her to hear Billy Collins read his poetry.

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I love people that make me laugh. I love poets. Billy Collins is a poet that makes me laugh. Here is just a little taste.

Today’s Poem: (click link to read entirely) by Billy Collins

I Chop Some Parsley While Listening to Art Blakey’s Version of ‘Three Blind Mice‘

And I start wondering how they came to be blind.

If it was congenital, they could be brothers and sisters…

Awkward conversations.

Awkward is such a perfect word. It looks awkward; it feels awkward. Whenever i write it, I’m certain I’ve misspelled it. I peer at it and wonder, did I spell you wrong again? The answer is always no, it is simply on the page in all its awkward glory.

Now for an awkward segue into our main topic….

A few days ago, I spent a couple hours of my morning listening to a lovely presentation about ovaries, uteruses (uteri?), fallopian tubes, hormones, vaginas, urethras, and penises (penii?). This is the annual euphemistically titled Mother/Daughter Chat held at my daughter’s school for fourth and fifth graders. The Chat is a presentation to prepare girls (and boys in another room with their fathers) for the onslaught of changes that occur during puberty. At the very least it opens the door to discussion and lets the kids know that these things can be discussed without anyone keeling over from mortification.

While no one will keel over from intense mortification, everyone might wobble and stammer a bit. The first hour of the meeting was awkward. There was evident discomfort and embarrassed giggles from both the girls and the mothers. After a while though, the presenter managed to make everyone feel at ease and questions from the girls began flying like paper airplanes. Tampons! Mood swings!

Unplanned pregnancy:

Presenter- What made you ask that question, Janey? Was it something you saw on tv?

Janey- No, it happened to my mommy.

No question was off-limits. Well, with one exception: the presenter told the mothers in advance that any question regarding sex would defer back to the parents because talk about sex was not allowed and the word sex was to be avoided. Hmmm. That makes things a bit more difficult to explain and understand. The presenter explained that in order for a pregnancy to occur, one egg and one sperm must unite. But how do they unite, asked one girl who was understandably mystified by this missing piece of the mysterious puzzle. Great question, and that’s something you should definitely ask your mom tonight at home. Although I know that not all the mothers there agree with me, I think this piece of information should have been answered in a simple, age-appropriate, straight-forward way instead of shrouding the word (and the act) in a burqa-like sense of mystery. If we’re able to discuss the human body in an open and comfortable manner, shouldn’t we be able to discuss the way human bodies are created in this same way?

Death is another topic that most of us do not like to discuss or think about. Whenever I’m sick enough to go in-patient, a nurse or staff member will invariably ask if I have a living will. Every time I’m asked this (and it happens numerous times with each hospital stay) I feel slapped in the face. How dare you, I think.  Deep down I realize that they’re correct to ask, but first I must wade through the feelings that there is no way it will happen and there’s no need to discuss it right now. It’s almost as if talking about it will make it happen. And that’s exactly the reasoning behind the ban on the dreaded s-e-x word during the chat: talk about it and it will happen. Perhaps, though, we’d be wise to challenge ourselves and our comfort levels because sex and death are a natural part of life, inextricably linked. We’re not ready for our babies to go through puberty, we’re certainly not ready for them to be sexually active, and of course, we’re not ready to die. But change is the way life flows.

Since I already dragged you with blushing cheeks through the pimpled landscape of puberty, let’s extend this discomfort for a moment longer and talk about dying. I’d like to ask you to ponder your death for just a moment. In order to consider our dying, we must first become aware of how very alive we are in this moment and the constant work our organs do to keep us that way; pumping blood, circulating oxygen, filtering waste, absorbing nutrients. Even the organs that aren’t functioning particularly well (of which I have several) are still working hard. Our organs serve us well while we’re living and moving through this world but the earth doesn’t need them as fertilizer; so maybe, just maybe, we don’t want to take them with us. Please consider becoming an organ donor.

Have the discussion about organ donation with yourself and with your family, because if you do decide to donate your organs, your family needs to know your wishes. Please take a look here for further info, common misconceptions, and FAQs (but you must register with the state you currently reside in). Hopefully, you’ll be on this earth for many years making sweet love til the cows come home. But one day your body will (I guarantee it) decide that it is finished. This becomes the time to share the love, your deep love for life, by letting someone else have one more chance. Our bodies are miraculous and complicated: use it while you got it, then pass it on.

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Today’s Poem:

Living in the Body by Joyce Sutphen

Body is something you need in order to stay

on this planet and you only get one…

The underbelly.

Below is a conversation I had with S on Saturday..

S: It’s right turn only here?

L: Make a u-turn. It’s what we always do here. Make a right and make a u-turn!

S: Jeez, alright, why do you get so mad?

L: I’m emphatic, not mad. Just don’t pay attention to me.

S: Okay, fine;  I won’t pay attention to you anymore if that’s what you want.

L: There is nothing you can say or do that scares me.

[silence]

L: How’s your latte?

Nothing is ever simple. Black and white is simple; we dwell in gray. Following directions, paying attention, fear, possession, frustration, desire, shared coffee: just a few of the different file folders that fill the cabinet of marriage. There is bliss too. That sun-dazed place you wake up in every so often, surprised at having found the secret island again because you’ve both lost the directions to get there.

You can’t hold love–romantic and otherwise–in a cup without spilling. You can’t hold it in a cup and understand it. It’s messy and it dribbles down your chin.

———————

Poetry makes us think about things in a way we might never have before. Below you’ll find a poem by a writer who thrills me with her ability to disturb my world and make me think. This isn’t greeting card poetry. If you prefer a blanket-swaddled view of motherhood and womanhood you might want to skip this one. It offers difficult ideas and imagery, and I offer it to you as just one more shade of gray to the complicated tones of motherhood. I offer it to you because nothing is simple.

Today’s Poem:  (click link to read entirely)

Christmas Carols by Margaret Atwood

Children do not always mean

hope. To some they mean despair…

Mirth returns in the shape of cake.

Happy birthday to my angel who turned nine yesterday. In the typical blossoming cooler-than-thouness of nine year olds, she has adopted the practice of rolling her eyes whenever I hug her. I tell the child she can roll her eyes from here to Kentucky because she’s stuck with my hugs forever.

Now for some housekeeping…

*For those of you who read about my recent clinic visit, I have an update. The no-show endocrinologist called and offered me a sincere apology and a telephone consultation. Although it doesn’t make up for the hours I lost, the courtesy is worth something. Points, doc.

*For those of you interested in the April raffle, I promised I’d announce the books that are up for grabs. I’ve selected anthologies to increase the odds that there will be something for everyone. Although I don’t own any of these titles, I’ve been wanting to add them to my own heaving bookshelf and the next best thing is to give one as a gift. The winner will choose from one of the titles below:

She Walks In Beauty: A Woman’s Journey Through Poems, selected and introduced by Caroline Kennedy

Poem A Day, Volume 2, Edited by Laurie Sheck

Best American Poetry 2008, Guest Editor Charles Wright

Begin booklust now.

*A reader whose blog I visit on a regular basis responded to my last post with this virtual gift:

It’s a reminder we all need every once in a while, and now I have it on my phone to look at whenever I  need to be reminded. I’m so thankful to MSB for capturing the sentiment and sending it over.

*Another treasure came in the mail from N in reply to my momentary rant against words:

A fabulous article from the great Michael Cunningham on writing…a writer should always feel like he’s in over his head.

N has sent gifts in the form of interesting tidbits, links of interest, and literary treasures since Day 1 of this blog. Just seeing her name in my inbox brightens my day.

*Yesterday my beautiful R sent me a photo of something she encountered on her way to work:

I hope you gave the driver a thumbs up, R. Thumbs up (and quiet, heartfelt gratitude) for everyone working to end this disease. Your name will be on the cure.

So many presents to unwrap and savor, I feel like it’s my birthday.

*One final bit of excitement…

I found this in a jacket pocket the other day:

A crinkled fortune in an old jacket, but there’s no harm in recycling fortunes. Perhaps the unexpected event has already happened, but maybe, just maybe, my life is about to sizzle with excitement.  Either way, I’m thrilled. I put it back in the pocket to find it again next year.

Birthdays, mirthdays, delight in the mail days, and excitement on the verge days…all cake worthy.

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Today’s Poem: (click link to read entire poem)

A Little Tooth by Thomas Lux

Your baby grows a tooth, then two,

and four, and five, then she wants some meat…