passenger seat poetry

Today is my dad's birthday. He's fifty-four, I think, and across the country from me. I sent him a book of W.S. Merwin poems, in part because Merwin is one of my favorites. (I keep a classic of his--River of Bees--taped to the inside of my kitchen cabinets.) And in part because my father is a poet, himself. Like me, he keeps scraps of verses litered around all the spaces he occupies--his truck, his office, and the small laundry room my mother lets him fill with gym bags, golf clubs, and other messy male things. He writes all the time, mostly, it seems, to clear the ideas out of his mind and deposit them onto any waiting bit of paper. If you happen to share a long car trip with my dad, the luxury of the passengar seat comes with the obligation to scribe.

I think my dad and I are a lot alike in the ways we are inspired. It takes motion. You can see it when either of us catch an idea. We get the gleaming eyes of someone lassoing a wild pony--toss the rope quick and hang on. We've both loved travel since we were old enough to get away, I think because of the promise of inspiration out there on the breeze. It hits me when I'm flying, or jogging, or riding my bike to the bar.

For some reason, it makes me think of the physics classes from high school I can barely rememeber and the lowercase 'd' with the line over top--displacement, movement, change. It was the active part of the equation and an indicator that something new was emerging.

Today's my dad's birthday and I'm on a trip. It feels appropriate and I feel great here on my own, appreciating my displacement and the movement ahead. I look outside and see Colorado's wide sky and smell adventure in my four days away. It almost makes me want to write a poem. Because after all those times scribing in the passenger's seat, I've definitely learned one important lesson from my dad--the real inspiration comes when you're drivin'.

astro-nuts

An astronaut has been charged with attempted murder. She was stuck in a love triangle and trying to kidnap and kill her way out the news alledges. My coworker just called me over to her computer to see the photos of the convicted woman. One the left (taken less than 2 years ago) she smiles with outdated bangs, clear skin, and the signature orange NASA jumpsuit we've all admired since grade school. On the right, in the mug shot, she looks sallow and shrunken. "Like a meth addict" my officemate says. I remember being told about the rigorous tests and trails it took to become an astronaut--beyond surgeons, beyond firemen, astronauts were a league of their own. They wanted to be sure those men and women could take the mental strain of life in space. Most people didn't even make it, but this woman had! My mouth was hanging open.

Clearly, based on the news frenzy, I'm not the only one who feels this way. In a bizarre way it's terrifying and reassuring at the same time. I mean, even a woman who's been given the NASA seal of sanity can lose it over love. Clearly, passion is powerful stuff. There she was, haggard and guilty-looking. You can't help but wonder, what hope do we mere earth-dwellers have?

I can almost imagine what she feels like. Well, maybe not the stocking up on garbage bags, duct tape and rubber tubing part, but the anxiety, desperation, and depression that are the underbelly of passion. I look at the dark eyes in the mug shot and I can't help but feel empathy. Not so much for what she's done, but for where she might be in 9 months when the shadow lifts and she has that crucial realization all jilted lovers have had: "there are millions of other men in the world..." It's a life-saving epiphany. I'm afraid, though, this astronaut may be wearing an orange jumpsuit when she has it--and not the NASA issue kind.

elephant ears

Elephants communicate with each other over long distances using infrasonic communication. At 21Hz, these low frequency calls lie below what we could hear with the human ear. And in this ultra-low rumble they sing, like whales, to each other. I imagine it sounds like the low buzz of a plucked bass string, deep and bulbous. A woman named Katy Payne was the first to discover these songs. I listened to her talk about it on the radio last night as I cooked myself dinner. She described families of African Elephants as if they were her own relatives. And although Katy can't hear her elephants' songs with her human ears, she can feel them. When the elephants are communicating, she said, the air throbs.

As I stood in my Portland kitchen bathing scalloped potatoes in boiling milk, I wanted to wrap myself in that feeling. I've been to Africa once. I can still picture the savannah and imagine a sound so deep and full it fills the enormous air, silently. To think of the world filled with sounds, sights, feelings, and ideas larger than our senses can comprehend is humbling. And it's astonishing.

In the songs, she said, it was clear that elephants had community, culture, and relationships. When we discover animals are talking to each other, she said, we assume the main purpose is mating--birdsong, whalesong, it's all seen as courtship. After long descriptions of the intricacies of constantly evolving elephant songs it seemed like a limited, even laughable, perspective. Katy chuckled with the interviewer. Perhaps it wasn't elephants who were more complex than we thought; maybe humans were simplier. Perhaps the "communication is for mating" theory could apply to our own chatter.

I am single again and living alone. That means more time for radio programs and lots of quiet. With all the talking that goes into courtship and the belabored "communicating" that goes into a relationship and a break-up, the aftermath can feel like expansive nothingness. But I'm thinking these days that standing still in the silence, like Katy did, can be the beginning of a discovery of something else--a low-frequency throb. It's something bigger than I've known before. It's humbling and it's astonishing.

Labor (Day) of love

Labor day weekend stretched for four days for me. It was a sublime break from my normal routine and I slipped easily into a new one of sleeping in, enjoying the sunshine in the front yard, and working around the house. But, Tuesday morning I was back to it--hair dripping from the shower, I scrambled for keys, scooped up my laptop, and grumbled at the un-percolated espresso pot. I didn't have time to wait. I turned off the stove and decided I'd grab an americano on my way in. Back to it. My sweet hound dog looked up at me as I slipped on my shoes and grabbed the doorknob...have the last four days together meant nothing to you? his brown eyes seemed to cry. I literally sighed out loud but avoided a dramatic goodbye the way I do with him every morning: "Be good and guard the house." I said, petting his square, flat brow with my barely-free hand. "I'll be home tonight. I love you!"

This past weekend was nothing in particular--I did my normal stuff--but felt big. Actually, it marked my sixth year in Portland, my first full year in my home, and five years at my job at the museum. I had thought about going away for my four days off. Concecutive days off always seem like a potential vacation to me. I usually take advantage--climb a summer summit in the Cascades, camp on the coast, something like that. But, in the end I just stayed where I was. It was perfect. The highlight, (greasy) hands down, was the soul food feast my boyfriend and I made on Monday night. He'd left town about a month ago, with an east coast trajectory and plans to head to Mexico for a few months after that. I expected we wouldn't see eachother for the better part of a year. We'd said good-bye and meant it with the bipolar emotional mix of loss, possibility, love, and resentment that tends to accompany departures. About two weeks later he called to say he was headed back.

He's in the midst of a lot of change, now. I can see it on his face, though I've stopped wondering what he's thinking or anticipating what he might do. I know what it feels like to waffle between putting down roots and heading off with just your self. Both are worthwhile roads, I think, but very personal choices.

I am glad he's here with me now, for sure. We've had some of our happiest times together in the past two weeks doing nothing special just the normal routine, but I've become aware of how often that feels precious. In the midst of his new choices, I think I see my own in a new light. I'm sure I'll hit that crossroads again myself--the choice between roots and wanderlust. As the Labor Day anniversaries roll past I realize how content I have been just staying put. My life is good and I'm happy. I can tell when I feel it in each small moment of my routine, even (and sometimes especially) in my daily work--scrubbing the dishes in the kitchen sink, driving home just before sunset after a long day of work, taking the dog to the park--and I love it.

It tooks us about two and a half hours to make our from-scratch, soul food dinner last Monday (longer if you count the hour we spent picking blackberries). Fried chicken, collard greens, black-eyed peas, maccoroni and cheese, buttermilk biscuits, blackberry cobbler--it was a big effort. It was beyond delicious. I've always known that the good things are worth the work, that dedication (and patience) pay off. But, I've never before felt so satisfied with the work I do, everyday, just making my life move. I'm grateful for it. I'll celebrate that; no holiday needed.

sleeping through

I'm at the airport. It's the day after they decided liquids are too dangerous for carry-ons. I'd heard rumors that airport security was making mothers drink the breast milk in bottles before they could get clearance to board. I've not seen this myself since I arrived, but the idea of it gave more gravity to the homeland security situation than the "now elavated to orange alert" posters I saw at check in. I was scouting for an infant with a mother and diaper bag attached so I could see how bad things really were.

Airports aren't scary to me, though I know they are for some people. For me, airports are more often sad. Even when I'm about to head off on a fabulous adventure, they always make me feel a little melancholy. It's a place full of displaced people, all anticipating some sort of shift. No wonder it makes people nervous and suspicious that something unpleasant might happen, there's something in the air. No, not anthrax. It's change. I'm preparing with a strong IPA and a melatonin tablet (overly optimistic of me, though--as ideal as it might sound, I never, ever "sleep through it").

There have been some departures in my life recently. They've left me unsettled. I'm in transit and as exciting as that can feel sometimes, I also have my usual melancholy. In a dream the other night I fell alseep and woke at an old boyfriend's family's vacation home in the mountains. (Dreams with sleeping in them always really get to me--there's more believable because of the context, you know?) The old boyfriend told me I had slept through the 14 hour drive and we were there, with his family, on a trip I'd never planned on. But what seemed most unbelievable to me wasn't where I was, who I was with or what was happening around me, it was the fact that I'd slept through. As I mentioned, not my style.

Most times I feel all parts of a shift. I cross at the fast moving part of the stream and fight the currant all the way. I'm wondering about this strategy recently. Maybe I could make things easier on myself. Maybe I'm not learning enough from the struggles to make them worth it. And maybe the best thing to do is order another pint, have the stewardess bring me an extra pillow, and pass out. Afterall, unless the breast milk bottles (of which I still haven't seen a single one in an hour and a half) are all filled with explosives, I'll wake up in Philadelphia in the morning. All I have to do is ride out the time, but sometimes that feels impossible to me. But I'm in the airport and this place is all about change. So, here's to sleeping through...

lunch break

Recently I’m starving. I started eating my lunch at 11:52 and finished the entire thing as the clock hit 11:59. I couldn’t wait another second. I didn’t even make it until noon. By 12:08 I’m at the downstairs vending machine for yogurt-covered pretzels. The nutrition label says “Servings Per Container about 3” and I know for fact I will be back at my desk and finish the entire bag by 12:15. What is wrong with me? These days I just want to eat; eat and sleep—yeah, I’m exhausted, too. Usually I’m the opposite in the summer—salads, a handful of blackberries on a mid-day hike, tall ice waters. Something’s off. I wonder if it’s the energy of summer wearing me out. I’ve been thrashing around trying to keep my life in motion—house remodeling to be done, rooms to be painted, berries to pick/process/freeze, training for the triathlon, socializing, dog-walking, plant watering (twice during the scorching days), writing to keep up with, ambiguous plans with an even more ambiguous “boyfriend” to make…I’m tired. I feel life rolling forward, peeling off me like a page-a-day calendar. I want a pause button; I’m desperate for an afternoon nap.

I feel like an idiot whining about this. As I re-read my to-do list between the dot-dot-dots above, I feel pathetic. Compared to, um, just about anyone else, my life is simple and calm. My head literally shakes involuntarily with disbelief. I have no idea how people (world leaders, entrepreneurs, surgeons, parents) do it. People are starving, for real. People are exhausted, too. Me, clearly, I’m just bitching. I need more snacks…

bachelorettes
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bridesmaid revisted

According to some evolutionary psychologists we all move through life trying to find the most successful, intelligent, attractive, healthy partner that will be willing to be with us. For obvious reasons, this theory was running through my mind as I spent the weekend at an old friend's bachelorette party. I watched the bride, draped in a bright pink feather boa, her cheeks flushed, surrounded by people committed to making her feel beautiful and desirable (which she was). I wondered how this wedding-season ritual could be connected to our relationship hard-wiring. Coupled people like to tell single people that you have to be okay with yourself before you can be in a relationship and that nothing is sexier than confidence. I used to think that (often unsolicited) advice was about “catching” a partner. But now, I wonder if it has more to do with staying together. Maybe the only way we can feel content pairing ourselves with one person is to feel like we are at our peak when we do it—that at that moment we are going to get the best of what’s around, because we are at our best, too. That kind of confidence is hard to grab hold of, and even tougher, if not impossible, to sustain. It runs, like mascara the next morning; it sags and sputters and stinks up the bathroom. In theory, our partners could be our reminders, but if you have to be okay with yourself before you can be in a relationship to begin with, my hunch is, that qualification is also what keeps a relationship working. Maybe helping people try to accomplish that long-term confidence is too hard. So, instead, we focus on one night--dress up, throw a party, make the girl feel beautiful. Put her in that magic moment, then give her bottled water at the end of the night to qwell the forthcoming hangover and pay the bill.

That night, I was surprised to be one of only two single women in a group of 12. Most were recently married, getting married, or "about to be engaged." I felt like the one who hadn’t learned the trick, yet—like I wasn't at my best. In these situations, it’s easy to wonder why not, or if you ever will be. The line between bridesmaid and spinster in a hair’s width. As a single woman it’s easy to feel that you’re living out your penance until you discover your own self-worth. It smacks of pre-school—“Go sit in the corner alone and don’t come out until you've learned how to be okay on your own.” When I was punished that way a kid I used to come back after a minute, or even less, “I’ve learned my lesson and I won’t do it again. I’m done crying now.” I still do it--but the grown up version, a few weeks after a heartbreak: “I’m really doing well on my own. I’m happy with my life and I’m not really looking for anyone right now.” (Can I come out of the corner now and find the man of my dreams?) Even biologists agree were always looking for a mate, but wise, coupled friends insist the only way to find "the one" is to stop looking. I think I'm still too hungover from the weekend to sort out the genetics from the social norms and pick sides. So, I'll stay skeptical of it all and single, I guess.

Sometimes I feel like I haven’t learned how to be “okay” on my own; to be at my best without the proof of a partner by my side. But in reality, I’m doing it everyday. And I’m proud of it. My bare fingers are tan and strong; I can feel growth, incline ahead. For the moment, I can’t imagine anything more satisfying to be committed to than that.