you know they say you can't go home again
but i just had to come back one last time
ma'am i know that you don't know me from adam
but those handprints on the front step, they're mine
i thought if i could touch this place or feel it
this emptiness inside me might start healing
out here it's like i'm someone else
thought that maybe i could find myself
if i could just come in i swear i'll leave
won't take nothing but a memory
from the house that built me
--miranda lambert--
a long week, but we're finally in the new house! a little more cleaning and we'll be done done DONE with the old house. i'm exhausted. moving is hard. it hurts and it's frustrating and the weather is never right. but we had friends who are rockstars, and a mother/in law who is a complete champ, and between us all we got it done.
sitting here tonight in the quiet old house they've bought, i can't help but feel something new beginning. my bed is up high again and the Cat and I are watching the moon, which is shining in my window at the perfect angle. i'm puzzling out the change. this is the first time in years that i've settled so fast after a change, usually i'm a nice little hot mess for weeks after. this is new.
there is some overturn at work and the momentum keeps stepping up. more and more work, and still i'm feeling on top of it. fast-paced is my pace and i'm thoroughly enjoying staying on top of it. thoroughly enjoying finding absent parents and getting kids enrolled in tribes, working with new people and different organizations.
my writing has gained my focus again. being published is a wholly validating experience. seeing my words, the letters i put in order on a page six years ago and finally got the courage to submit, seeing them in print where anyone can read them is both terrifying and amazingly exhilarating. my mom read it and cried. my SIL read it and cried. then she asked me to read it at the wedding. and that right there makes every word i've ever written, the hours i spent on this one poem, worth it. even if no one ever publishes my work again, that makes it worth it. but i think if i work at it and make the time for it, this could go somewhere. i've found a writing mentor and she's amazing. before this i wrote raw and scraped, no refinement or thought, and she is reigning me in, calming me down, forcing me to slow my pace. at the heart of it i love the words. love that i have no control over them. writing is just...what i do. no rhyme or reason, no explanation. it's that simple.
so once again i find myself on a branching path. i am not often wise or usually intuitive, but i have learned that forks in the road can come up when you least expect them. and those are the best ones to follow.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
there once was a union maid
who never was afraid
of goons and ginks and company finks
and the deputy sheriffs who made the raid
she went to the union hall
when a meeting it was called
and when the Legion boys came 'round
she always stood her ground:
oh you can't scare me, i'm stickin to the union
i'm stickin to the union, i'm stickin to the union
no you can't scare me, i'm stickin to the union
i'm stickin to the union till the day i die
~woody guthrie~, "union maid"
suffice it to say there are things going on that i can't talk about. so in lieu of that, here is a story:
there once was a young man who escaped tsarist russia after being jailed for distributing anti-tsar leaflets. at 15 he jumped a ship bound for america and settled in to a new life in new york city. he was alone. in the bronx borough he found a home among other jews and working class men. after a time--several years, i would think--he met the love of his life, and married her. they had a daughter. along about the same time, there were labor strikes and disputes erupting around the country. there were riots. the conditions of the working people were exposed, and the young man joined the industrial workers of the world organization. their motto was one he could believe in: an injury to one is an injury to all. and in the earliest days of long-lasting labor unions in america, this young man (who was not quite as young anymore) rose in the ranks to become a vocal participant in union movements. he and his wife raised their daughter to believe she could be anything. they told her that she was as good as any boy and that she could achieve just as much.
as his daughter grew, she met a young man from the bronx as well, a young man who was in the IWW and spent his time working for his father and organizing within his local. over time they fell in love. he liked to write her love letters in green ink. she called him penny. and after they married they joined a group of young radicals in establishing a socialist society outside of the city. of course they didn't live there, but they spent their summers there. this group of young friends built a dock on the lake, built a meeting house and a common barn, camped on their sections of the land they had bought together, and eventually even built true houses on them. as people do when they are in love, the young woman (who was not quite as young anymore) and her husband had children: three boys. they spent their years in new york but their summers in three arrows, as the community was named, after a symbol from the young woman's father's days in russia, meaning down with communism, capitalism, and fascism. they believed in equality, in sharing their lives and lands and money with their friends and neighbors, they believed that everyone had a duty to help better the world. the boys grew up riding the subways and running in the woods. they played baseball, they went to school, they read and fought and were as boys are. but they also heard the stories of their grandfather's involvement in the union, of their father's involvement. they had songbooks full of union anthems. all of their lullabies were such. and in their hearts at first, and then their heads, they came to believe, as their parents and grandparents, in equality first. in strength in numbers. in unions.
by 1963, the focus of rights in america had shifted, from rights for the working class in the early 1900s, to rights for women in the 1920s, and onto civil rights for african-americans. on august 28th, 1963, dr. king's voice rang out on the lincoln memorial and the washington monument, the mall between them blanketed with people singing, crying, believing. the two younger boys (who were not as young anymore) were there. in their genes they had inherited big eyebrows and a passion for baseball, and a deep seated belief that everyone deserved rights as a human being among men. the youngest, especially, worked for the civil rights movement. he marched. he sang. he wrote. he stood up for others, as his father and grandfather and mother and grandmother before him.
as the man grew he met a woman with fiery hair and a loud laugh. they had two dogs, and a house on the prairie in kansas (far from home for both), and then a son. they moved west in the pioneer tradition, and then they had a daughter. these two spent summers in three arrows with their cousins. they all heard the stories of their great-grandfather and great-grandmother, their grandfather and grandmother, their dads and moms, in their work to stand up. they heard the lullabies and sang the songs and grew up believing in the worth of every person around them. they joined the unions they could join. and at family reunions, funerals and birthdays and anniversary celebrations, they sang songs of freedom and never forgot to remember who had brought them to where they stood.
after their grandfather died, their fathers crawled into the old attic and found his original union membership card, signed in green ink.
and the daughter, this proud descendant of brave men and brave women, well, someday she'll sing the songs to her own children. and then to their children. but for now, for tonight, she settles in with memories that were bequeathed to her, of long ago days when a young boy jumped a ship-- and in that one act, started a legacy.
who never was afraid
of goons and ginks and company finks
and the deputy sheriffs who made the raid
she went to the union hall
when a meeting it was called
and when the Legion boys came 'round
she always stood her ground:
oh you can't scare me, i'm stickin to the union
i'm stickin to the union, i'm stickin to the union
no you can't scare me, i'm stickin to the union
i'm stickin to the union till the day i die
~woody guthrie~, "union maid"
suffice it to say there are things going on that i can't talk about. so in lieu of that, here is a story:
there once was a young man who escaped tsarist russia after being jailed for distributing anti-tsar leaflets. at 15 he jumped a ship bound for america and settled in to a new life in new york city. he was alone. in the bronx borough he found a home among other jews and working class men. after a time--several years, i would think--he met the love of his life, and married her. they had a daughter. along about the same time, there were labor strikes and disputes erupting around the country. there were riots. the conditions of the working people were exposed, and the young man joined the industrial workers of the world organization. their motto was one he could believe in: an injury to one is an injury to all. and in the earliest days of long-lasting labor unions in america, this young man (who was not quite as young anymore) rose in the ranks to become a vocal participant in union movements. he and his wife raised their daughter to believe she could be anything. they told her that she was as good as any boy and that she could achieve just as much.
as his daughter grew, she met a young man from the bronx as well, a young man who was in the IWW and spent his time working for his father and organizing within his local. over time they fell in love. he liked to write her love letters in green ink. she called him penny. and after they married they joined a group of young radicals in establishing a socialist society outside of the city. of course they didn't live there, but they spent their summers there. this group of young friends built a dock on the lake, built a meeting house and a common barn, camped on their sections of the land they had bought together, and eventually even built true houses on them. as people do when they are in love, the young woman (who was not quite as young anymore) and her husband had children: three boys. they spent their years in new york but their summers in three arrows, as the community was named, after a symbol from the young woman's father's days in russia, meaning down with communism, capitalism, and fascism. they believed in equality, in sharing their lives and lands and money with their friends and neighbors, they believed that everyone had a duty to help better the world. the boys grew up riding the subways and running in the woods. they played baseball, they went to school, they read and fought and were as boys are. but they also heard the stories of their grandfather's involvement in the union, of their father's involvement. they had songbooks full of union anthems. all of their lullabies were such. and in their hearts at first, and then their heads, they came to believe, as their parents and grandparents, in equality first. in strength in numbers. in unions.
by 1963, the focus of rights in america had shifted, from rights for the working class in the early 1900s, to rights for women in the 1920s, and onto civil rights for african-americans. on august 28th, 1963, dr. king's voice rang out on the lincoln memorial and the washington monument, the mall between them blanketed with people singing, crying, believing. the two younger boys (who were not as young anymore) were there. in their genes they had inherited big eyebrows and a passion for baseball, and a deep seated belief that everyone deserved rights as a human being among men. the youngest, especially, worked for the civil rights movement. he marched. he sang. he wrote. he stood up for others, as his father and grandfather and mother and grandmother before him.
as the man grew he met a woman with fiery hair and a loud laugh. they had two dogs, and a house on the prairie in kansas (far from home for both), and then a son. they moved west in the pioneer tradition, and then they had a daughter. these two spent summers in three arrows with their cousins. they all heard the stories of their great-grandfather and great-grandmother, their grandfather and grandmother, their dads and moms, in their work to stand up. they heard the lullabies and sang the songs and grew up believing in the worth of every person around them. they joined the unions they could join. and at family reunions, funerals and birthdays and anniversary celebrations, they sang songs of freedom and never forgot to remember who had brought them to where they stood.
after their grandfather died, their fathers crawled into the old attic and found his original union membership card, signed in green ink.
and the daughter, this proud descendant of brave men and brave women, well, someday she'll sing the songs to her own children. and then to their children. but for now, for tonight, she settles in with memories that were bequeathed to her, of long ago days when a young boy jumped a ship-- and in that one act, started a legacy.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
take me out to the ballgame
take me out to the crowd
buy me some peanuts and crackerjack
i don't care if i never get back
let me root root root for the home team
if they don't win it's a shame
for it's one two three strikes you're out
at the old ball game!
--jack norworth--
i am lucky, i know, to have two wonderful parents. two amazing parents. they listen and share their opinions, they trust who i am and what i want to do, they have shown me unconditional love and a great acceptance throughout my lifetime.
as a child my dad and i were exceptionally close. from woody guthrie lullabies to good books, from him teaching me to pitch a perfect curveball and then teaching me to drive, he has been a steady presence in my life. there is one night that stands out, when i was exceptionally sad for no apparent reason. i was about 8, it was hot and i was overtired and up too late. and instead of talking to one of them i just sat on the stairs and cried. well he found me, made me some iced peppermint tea, and didn't ask why i was sad. just kind of let me be in it, and didn't leave me alone. that stuck. i didn't realize it at the time but i knew from then on, consciously knew, that he would have my back whenever i needed him.
as i got older we would go to the coast for the day, just him and me and our cameras, taking pictures and swilling coffee and staring at the gray or blue or vibrantly orange sky. we love old bridges, old buildings, negative space that exists in and around ruins and streams, love getting lost in the woods and the ocean.
and when i went off to school he believed in me. when i came back with my tail tucked low he believed in me. when i went on tour he believed in me. and when i went back to school he believed in me.
today was his christmas present, a trip to seattle to see the yankees play the mariners. we love the yankees, all four of us. my grandpa (his dad) grew up watching babe ruth, he grew up watching mickey mantle. we have a seat from the original stadium that we pulled out for every baseball season. i fell in love with this team during the '98 world series, with the classic yankee team of my day: pettite,jeter, brosius (an oregon native!), strawberry, knoblauch, el duque, cone, girardi, o'neill, williams, nelson. it was an amazing series. i was 13, dad and i had fallen into that rift that happens between fathers and daughters as they grow out of the tomboy phase. but baseball, baseball and the yankees, was our constant. when people these days give me grief about loving the team now, in a less than stellar era, i just tell them it's hereditary.
today we took the train up, the starlight express--another favorite of ours---and walked to safeco field, getting a hot dog along the way. we sat way up on the 1st base line, watched sebathia pitch a fantastic game, watched our bronx bombers hit pitch after pitch, smart baserunning. we laughed and screamed and talked about everything from his upcoming trip to Venezuela to my plans for graduate school. we agreed to do this every year.
i don't know if he reads this, but thanks. thanks for the songs of my past and the pitches you taught me to throw. thanks for never doubting me. thanks for today. i love you.
take me out to the crowd
buy me some peanuts and crackerjack
i don't care if i never get back
let me root root root for the home team
if they don't win it's a shame
for it's one two three strikes you're out
at the old ball game!
--jack norworth--
i am lucky, i know, to have two wonderful parents. two amazing parents. they listen and share their opinions, they trust who i am and what i want to do, they have shown me unconditional love and a great acceptance throughout my lifetime.
as a child my dad and i were exceptionally close. from woody guthrie lullabies to good books, from him teaching me to pitch a perfect curveball and then teaching me to drive, he has been a steady presence in my life. there is one night that stands out, when i was exceptionally sad for no apparent reason. i was about 8, it was hot and i was overtired and up too late. and instead of talking to one of them i just sat on the stairs and cried. well he found me, made me some iced peppermint tea, and didn't ask why i was sad. just kind of let me be in it, and didn't leave me alone. that stuck. i didn't realize it at the time but i knew from then on, consciously knew, that he would have my back whenever i needed him.
as i got older we would go to the coast for the day, just him and me and our cameras, taking pictures and swilling coffee and staring at the gray or blue or vibrantly orange sky. we love old bridges, old buildings, negative space that exists in and around ruins and streams, love getting lost in the woods and the ocean.
and when i went off to school he believed in me. when i came back with my tail tucked low he believed in me. when i went on tour he believed in me. and when i went back to school he believed in me.
today was his christmas present, a trip to seattle to see the yankees play the mariners. we love the yankees, all four of us. my grandpa (his dad) grew up watching babe ruth, he grew up watching mickey mantle. we have a seat from the original stadium that we pulled out for every baseball season. i fell in love with this team during the '98 world series, with the classic yankee team of my day: pettite,jeter, brosius (an oregon native!), strawberry, knoblauch, el duque, cone, girardi, o'neill, williams, nelson. it was an amazing series. i was 13, dad and i had fallen into that rift that happens between fathers and daughters as they grow out of the tomboy phase. but baseball, baseball and the yankees, was our constant. when people these days give me grief about loving the team now, in a less than stellar era, i just tell them it's hereditary.
today we took the train up, the starlight express--another favorite of ours---and walked to safeco field, getting a hot dog along the way. we sat way up on the 1st base line, watched sebathia pitch a fantastic game, watched our bronx bombers hit pitch after pitch, smart baserunning. we laughed and screamed and talked about everything from his upcoming trip to Venezuela to my plans for graduate school. we agreed to do this every year.
i don't know if he reads this, but thanks. thanks for the songs of my past and the pitches you taught me to throw. thanks for never doubting me. thanks for today. i love you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)