Remembering Fire

A few months back, when I met Bradley thirty years late, he gently suggested I might want to write about the fires. I wasn't very happy with my first tries (and critiqued one of them here). This is a new attempt, and maybe begins to get at the things I want to get at...

"Quick"

Who found faded yellow,
brown box, jimmied
tin lid with spoon's end
taken from our new
kitchen; the old one
spit out this blackened
package of sugar chocolate
crying for milk, pink bunny
laughing though his ear
had been eaten by flames—
who started it I wonder, who
burned down linoleum-cracked
floor, table where sister choked
on peas like we are choking our
blond baby niece
with mealy brown powder
on a tongue crying
for milk, mama,
milk.

Self-Portrait at Chelsea Gallery, photo by L.L. Barkat.


POETRY FRIDAY:
HighCallingBlogs's Life on the Street
Laura’s I Am the Gate
Nancy’s Our Street
Melissa’s she, stirring
Eric’s Hidden Joy
Jim’s Parables
Susan’s No Fairy Tale
Glynn’s Hope, Blinking and Rues de Martyrs
nAncy’s a road
Dave’s On Quincy Street
Kathleen’s Dear Frankie
Maureen’s Reunions: Father
Marilee’s Laurel Hedge
LL's 56 Irving Place, Gramercy Park
Cindy’s Crossing at Kicker Road
Simple Country Girl’s Street Address: End of Dirt Road and Farm Door Beckons
Liz’s Highway 60
Prairie Chick’s One Country Mile
Linda’s The Farm on Buffalo Ridge
Claire’s Blikkie
Monica’s When He Lived on Horsefly Road
Susanne’s 716 El Rancho Drive
Emily's Stonybrook
Kelly's March on St. June
Missy K's West Washington

The Danger of Mary

"May it be unto me..."

Those are inspiring words. They suggest an enviable attitude-of-heart. Like I said before, oh to be gracious, like Mary long ago.

But they are dangerous words too— perhaps not for the reasons that first come to mind. (And this is a good place to express my delight over the offerings many of you are making, in your own posts and poems... offerings that delve into the wonder of Mary's resolve to face danger for the love of God.)

Anyhow, let me explain a secondary danger.

This weekend I'd planned to go to a birthday party (sorry, Sis! :), but instead lay sleeping in the grips of a nasty cold. The secret of enjoying such disappointment is to bring a few books to put beside your pillow. When you wake, you are treated to an opportunity to lie in bed, read and muse (green tea and chocolate are optional; I self-medicated with both.)

When I woke and poked through the book stack, I pulled out The Drama of the Gifted Child: The Search for the True Self. Before falling asleep, I'd enjoyed the preface of The Wisdom of Wilderness: Experiencing the Healing Power of Nature, in which May had spoken of spending time outdoors to discover your inner wilderness, which is "the untamed truth of who you really are."

What?

Upon opening Miller's The Drama of the Gifted Child, the message was the same, "In order to become whole we must try...to discover our own personal truth, a truth that may cause pain before giving us a new sphere of freedom." The truth Miller speaks of is partly to move past denying one's emotions and needs, to "experience consciously certain feelings" that childhood may have taught us it was dangerous to feel... "jealousy, envy, anger, loneliness, helplessness, or anxiety."

If we never feel these things (and many who experience difficult childhoods— or whose parents experienced hard childhoods— do not feel these things, or work very hard to repress them), we risk a lot... unexplained seasons of vengefulness, depression, perfectionism, addictions, even rage.

And this is the danger of Mary— to sit only with "May it be to me...", to interpret it as a self-effacing submissiveness and denial of needs and feelings... not to see the other side... a woman who felt free to cry, ask, mourn, fight.
________

I do believe Scot McKnight captures the balance of Mary's personality— the woman of feeling, fighting. There's still time to win his book; just comment here before Thursday, Oct. 8, 6:00 pm EST. The winner will be offered an opportunity to write his/her thoughts about the book in a guest post on Beliefnet!

There's also time to offer your thoughts about Mary and/or grace. Just drop your link info here and I'll link to your post. Or respond to our poetry prompt, "the real...", for possible feature and definite links from HighCallingBlogs. Drop your poetry link here before Thursday, Oct 8, 6:00 pm EST.

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE:
Book club discussion of The Wisdom of Wilderness, at HighCallingBlogs
Monica's Wilderness Call on the Freeway

"The Dress" sculpture by Sara. Photo by L.L. Barkat.

I Close My Eyes

Maybe it seems ironic to close one's eyes to see. But when we shut out the pressing world, we can open our memories. There in the dark, we dig for what was and find that we need companions like courage, joy, curiosity, grief, and hope. Such companions help us open this or that box... maybe the big locked one in the far corner (our father's leaving), or perhaps just a small one on the attic sill (a happy adventure with a brother or sister).

This morning I stayed in bed just a little bit longer and kept my eyes closed. I thought about the lovely place where I grew up. I wrestled with the news my sister had shared (as a result of a previous post): some of the beauty of that place has been swallowed up in housing development. There is no bringing it back, except to put a piece of it into poetry.

'The Return'

I close my eyes
blot out one hundred
and fifty shale driveways
pickup trucks, Ford
pintos, trailers barely
tied to this ground
by wires, gas lines
cable TV.

I can still see
dirt road, Queen
Anne's Lace, goldenrod
blue chicory
field mice nesting
under leaning timothy
and the apple orchard
rooted beyond tall firs

where a woman
in navy sweat pants,
red Budweiser t-shirt
is just now hanging laundry
to drift upon the wind,
sing with ghosts
of spring white
blossoms, honeybees.

If you would like to participate in the invitation to see and possibly be featured at High Calling Blogs, post your contribution by Thursday afternoon. And don't be afraid to call on the helping companion you need: courage, joy, curiosity, grief or hope. I look forward to seeing what you see.

Photo by Amy Fabbri. Used with permission.

RELATED:
The Seeing, at High Calling Blogs

Church of Childhood

I saw this poem on my sister's blog. She wrote it. God, I love that girl. And can you believe I didn't even know she sometimes writes poetry?


"In the Church of Childhood,
a poem to share with my x-Catholic friend"

In the Church of Childhood
I take communion from you,
genuflect to the Procreators.
Place your ideas in my mouth,
teach me, feed me, mold me
on Sunday and everyday.
In your collection plate
I offer up my innocence.
You are my gods,
I am your lamb.
One day the world will reap
what you have sown.
So say a prayer for me.


I like this poem for its emotion, though I realize that poetry is a very personal thing— some of us preferring form over emotion or artfulness over content, etc. So I thought I'd add this little commentary from Pooh to Piglet, on the art of writing poetry:

"And that's the whole poem," he said. "Do you like it, Piglet?"

"All except the shillings," said Piglet. "I don't think they ought to be there."

"They wanted to come in after the pounds," explained Pooh, "so I let them. It is the best way to write poetry, letting things come."

"Oh, I didn't know," said Piglet.

Poem by Sandi S. Used with permission. Church photo by Stefani M. Rossi Used with permission.