BELL CURVE

BELL CURVE

Small at the beginning;
a journey, perhaps on a donkey,
some strips of cloth,
a few people unaccustomed to fuss.
A startling angel,
a baby in a trough,
and peace on earth, good will.

And small begins again:
an entrance on a donkey’s colt, 
peace in heaven and glory on high,
some strips of cloth,
some women torn by grief,
perhaps another angel,
and no one in the grave.

WEATHER: A Zuihitsu for the end of March

WEATHER:  A Zuihitsu for the end of March


It has rained too often this month and um. . .then we had a late snow storm which is not uncommon in March and um. . .it’s a good thing I didn’t plant peas yet, and um. . .I’m pretty sure the drought is over, and  um. . .I’m a little worried about the tulips but my friend Tony told me that, um, this climate is similar to Holland where the tulips come from, and, um. . . 

I hate March. Too much wind. Too much rain. Too many clouds. Too little sun. Not enough green. No green. Just gray. Puddles. Mud.

I like March because I never know what will happen next, like will it be sunny or will it rain and will it be windy because I like to fly kites like the orca one that I have in the back of the closet, at least that’s where it used to be, but I haven’t flown it for, like, years, not since the neighbor kids were still kids and now they’re, like, engineers and physical therapists and things.

The things in the yard that resemble  snowshoe tracks are not snowshoe tracks. They are dog’s body tracks, made not by a person who does the kinds of boring jobs no one else wants to do, but by our small yellow dog porpoising through the deep March snow in pursuit of a March Rabbit. There are no hares in this valley.

This morning while walking the dog, I passed a field in which turkeys were trying to scratch food from under the snow. The toms were also displaying to the hens: Puffing out their chests and making wide fans of their tails. The hens seemed to be ignoring them; they were more interested in finding something to eat.

Three-quarters of writing is about listening. Three things to listen for:  the rhythm of events, the patterns of speech, the idiosyncratic vocal tics. One thing not to listen for:  content. You already have enough.

March is like being old: You never know what will happen. Of course, you never do know, but when you’re old, you know that you don't know. When I was young, there were no turkeys here, and in the winters, it always snowed. Maybe this spring all fifty red tulips will emerge, and bloom. Maybe someday there will be a hare here, in this valley.





SERENITY


SERENITY

I can’t change the shape of my fear
or the shape of the world
or the coming eclipse
or apocalypse.
I can’t change the patterns of death
coming to our ancient white cat
and to everyone I love
and to me.

I can make dirty rooms clean 
and wrinkled shirts smooth,
mail letters and purchase bread,*
pour water into the cat’s dish,
play with the dog in the scanty snow.
I can say I love you to everyone
as long as we last.
And to the world.

What’s the difference?



.*from Naomi Shihab Nye's essential poem "Kindness."

Elegy for a New Friend

Elegy for a New Friend
--because we didn't have time to become old friends

Maybe if they are right
and afterward there is a there
and we are somehow in it
we can finally go for a walk.

I hope the sun shone on you
and that your dog was beside you.
I hope the last thing you saw
was a clear sky.

A ZUIHITSU FOR THE WINTER SOLSTICE

A ZUIHITSU  FOR THE WINTER SOLSTICE

Once, the Christmas cards were organic: potato prints, pasted trees, stamps sealed with spit. Friends who wrote letters summing up their activities had many activities. The list of friends was long. On occasion, an elderly uncle was deleted or a distance grew too great. This year I noticed many changes. Some addresses are longer: unit names, apartment numbers. We all send simpler cards and the list is shorter. More occasions. Greater distances.

Many years ago, I attended a little church that has since been converted to apartments. One Christmas Eve, when the church was lit only by candles and smelled like balsam and frankincense, a friend with a beautiful soprano voice sang “How Far is it to Bethlehem?” unaccompanied. Last spring, her funeral was an occasion. 

I have never abided in a field by night, watching a flock of sheep. I have been struggling to think of an equivalent: weeding the garden, perhaps, but I've never done that in the dark. I’ve decided that the best I can come up with is ordinary work, work that is somewhat tedious and common, but necessary. Picking up the living room, washing dishes, changing sheets, hanging clothes—that sort of thing.

Five animals that I know are passing through the scrap of woods on the north and east side of our house: gray fox, common raccoon, American black bear, deer, bobcat.  Seventeen birds that I know are in the woods, or in the back yard:  red-bellied woodpecker, hairy woodpecker, downy woodpecker, pileated woodpecker, white-breasted nuthatch, goldfinch, junco, chickadee, mourning dove, blue jay, raven, house finch, cardinal, tufted titmouse, crow, barred owl, and the great horned owl who was calling the other night, when I brought the dog outside in the moonlight. 

I have never been serenaded by the Heavenly Host. But now and then something, perhaps somewhat angelic, has broken through the darkness, or the tedium:  An oriole singing by the roadside, two owls on silent wings swooping close over my head, a coyote watching me from the edge of the woods, two deer running toward me in the fog. It’s interesting how often those experiences involve animals. Perhaps all of them do.

In The Hogfather by Terry Pratchett, one of my favorite Christmas books, Death (who has been substituting for a Santa Claus figure) says, “HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE. . . YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES.  (“So we can believe the big ones?” asks Death's granddaughter Susan.). . .YES. JUSTICE, MERCY, DUTY, THAT SORT OF THING.”

I find it interesting that the sign that a savior has been born to the shephers is a baby in a manger. Really? The story is so familiar and common, and even tedious, that it’s hard to remember what a very strange thing that would be.




GETTING BEETHOVEN AFTER ALL THESE YEARS

GETTING BEETHOVEN AFTER ALL THESE YEARS	
	

When I was young, I loved him, but
somewhere around menopause
I started finding him annoying.
(Wasn’t everything annoying then?) 
Bombastic was the word I used. 
I thought him a show-off 
like those high school boys 
revving their engines, and grown-up 
men trying to impress with Rolexes
or rockets—the kind of men
who make deals on golf courses.

So when something of his started up,
I turned off the radio 
like I always have when I hear 
some tenor singing Schubert
or anything by Schoenberg--
things I ought to like but don’t,
along with Whitman and goat cheese.

But the other night, I couldn’t help listening
when for the first time in ages I got stuck
in the Pastoral—remembering the place
in Fantasia, when the sun comes out 
after the storm and the centaurs 
watch Iris make a rainbow.
The next night, by accident, I heard the Ninth.
I listened through till after the Adagio.
I stopped so I wouldn’t have to
hear the chorus screaming away because

I’ve come to believe that Joy isn’t loud.
I think it’s more adagio, something
that sneaks up like the sun after rain.
And it occured to me that poor Ludwig
could rarely rest, couldn’t stand in the light
and admire the world and hum a pretty tune.
Not unlike myself—
so full of sturm und drang
until now and then, like a rainbow,
something tender and all unbidden fills the sky.

THOUGHTS WHILE WATCHING A FILM OF DANCERS IN A QUARRY*

THOUGHTS WHILE WATCHING A FILM OF DANCERS IN A QUARRY*	

right now, in my rose-colored room
I cannot tell you where my feet are
I suppose on the floor am I wearing
shoes probably since I put some on
this morning and presumably socks
am i sitting straight the way the physical
therapst told me to so I don’t hurt my hips
wherever they are as i watch the dancers
leap and run and teeter along the edges
of platforms in deep water they are wearing
dresses colored like flame and no life
jackets sometimes they close their eyes
one of them rolls fast to the edge where
two others run and leap and catch her
keep her from falling in if i don’t know
where my feet are or find the edge
of this stage will anyone catch me?



*The Quarry Project

(F)UTILITY

(F)UTILITY


Happening again, the futility.
Is a play ever finished, a painting,
a poem? This new vacuum 
is lighter so the house will be
cleaner. I don’t have to worry
about money now, but what shall
we eat for supper? Does it make 
sense to do anything new since
we’re old and it won’t last?

When I was twenty-two I was sure
I was going to die. Soon, I mean.
And again when I was thirty-five.
And when the covid lockdown
began I thought we were all
going to die. Soon, I mean, because
of course we all are. Is it silly
to buy new socks? Fifty red
tulip bulbs will arrive any day

and the garden space I need
is full of weeds. Again.
There are pissants nesting
in my garden stool. (Insert
pun here.) Soon I will order 
next year’s vegetable seeds. 
Again. I’ve sent the recent
rewrite to the director. I’ve
written a poem.  Again.

HUNTERS






HUNTERS

Every writer should have one, and read it.
	Inscription in my Edith Hamilton Mythology book

Once a fox stood on our front steps and looked around for awhile.
Once at dawn on a New Year’s Day two owls flew over my head.
Last night I dreamed a pine marten moved into our house.
The bobcat waiting in the hedge, 
the hawk circling and circling the meadow. . .
Oh how I love them all.
I used to think this an odd attraction 
since mouselike I stick to the margins,
rabbitlike I turntail and run,
squirrellike I hide in my hole.

But you knew, didn’t you?
Hunter is what you were,
with your flat Wisconsin accent,
your porkpie hat and sensible shoes.
It’s how you spent your long life:
looking for prey, for meat, 
stories and characters and names.
And when I was a kid, you knew it’s what I am.
It’s why you gave me mythology,
why you gave me the red notebook,
why you gave me the filebox,
claws and teeth and long silences.
It’s why when I return from my lurk and circle
I still write you letters and post them to the air.


			

	
	



				
					


	

		
OVERRUN


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






OVERRUN

Pissants have moved into the house.
The dog stands in the driveway, looking sad.
We didn’t walk very far today. Our eyes burn

as the northern forest burns. The valleys
flood. Every thing I do requires numbers
and secret words I can’t remember. 

My friends keep leaving town. 
All over the world, invisible
elephants trumpet on every edge.

(Do you know the military saying about pissants and elephants?)









			

	
	



				
					


	

		
STRADDLING THE HEDGE: A ZUIHITSU for AUGUST


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

STRADDLING THE HEDGE: A ZUIHITSU for AUGUST

Three types of liminal places:  hedges, riverbanks, county fairs. Three well-known liminal places I have visited: the Great Sippewissett Marsh, the Florida Everglades, the Slang. Three liminal times: Sunrise, Sunset, the years between middle age and old age.

Hag is a better word etymologically than crone. The latter is derived from an Anglo-French word that means “carrion,” the former likely from the Old English word haga, “a portion of woodland marked off for cutting” and related to “hedge.” In this sense, “hag” once might have meant something like “she who straddles the hedge” since hedges were boundaries that some old women knew how to cross.

One of the women who works at the fair wants me to take a chance. She has ragged green hair and wrinkled tattooed arms. My aim is bad and I don’t want to win a giant pink unicorn, so I wave and smile and walk on. There are other people urging me to buy caramel corn or Blooming Onions. I’m not hungry, so I wave and walk on. After we saw the cow barns and the tractors, I had an ice cream cone and rode the carousel with my grandchildren. The people who run the famous Racing Pigs do 30 gigs every year, then take 6 weeks’ vacation. I hope they go to a pleasant place.

Hawaii has been devasted by fires,  Vermont by floods, the American West and South by heat, all of us by disease and so on. Everything in our house is damp. Today I soaked my old garden hat in a bleach solution because it has become so mildewed. We’ve treated the carpets with baking soda. Laundry hangs on the screened porch where the air holds so much moisture that it takes five days to dry. 

Wendell Berry wrote that “to be sane in a mad time is bad for the brain, worse for the heart.” Has there ever been a sane time? We are stardust, but we are not golden, and we cannot get ourselves back to the Garden because there is no garden, only the mountain the little bird is wearing away, with a swipe of its bill once every million years. It’s very likely that first there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is.

This afternoon between rains, I spent a pleasant hour pulling up my tomato plants and throwing them in the compost pile. The leaves are brown and blotched with early blight and as the fruits ripen  the blossom ends rot or the chipmunks eat them. It is the most fun I have had in the garden all year.

I bought myself a new desk calendar for 2024. The style I have been using for forty years (which I get free from the Church Pension Fund) is too small and I no longer need Saints’ days or the Service for the Anointing of the Sick. My new calendar is much bigger and features a sinister cartoon each week. This is in alignment with my current style, which includes keeping track of millipede migrations, growing red tulips, and riding carousels whenever possible.


			

	
	



				
					


	

		
I AM THE EMPEROR WHOSE NAME I BEAR: A ZUIHITSU for JULY


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

I AM THE EMPEROR WHOSE NAME I BEAR:  A ZUIHITSU for JULY 

My husband built himself a little screened-in shed between our yard and the little bit of growing-over pasture we call “the woods.” He sleeps out there. He especially likes to sleep out there when it’s raining, or windy, or thundery, or any combination of those. The shed has a tin roof to magnify the sound. I like to sleep in the house, where it’s quiet. During thunderstorms, the dog and I stay close together. Neither one of us likes thunder, nor the sound of pounding rain.

The garden is too wet. In May it was too dry. I am never satisfied. The garden is planted on what was once the deep part of a lake that stretched between the Adirondacks and the Green Mountains after the last glaciation. Clay settles slowly in deep water. The clay here is likely several hundred feet thick. Water settles on top of deep clay. The garden is too wet.

“The sky is changed to brass, the earth to sand,” is Longfellow’s apt description of a usual July. This year is not usual. The sky is turned to tin, and at least in my garden, the earth to something like a bar of soap that’s been sitting in a wet soap dish, or maybe like fresh mozzarella cheese, neither of which is a very poetic image.

Until the death of Julius Caeser, the Romans called this month Quintilis, which just means fifth month, the way October means eighth, and so on. Julius was born in Quintilis. The names English speakers use for months are somewhat ridiculous. In Polish, months are named for heather and linden trees, for hard ground and falling leaves and for the seasonal preparations of flax and red dye.

When my husband finished building his shed in the back yard, he painted it red, and he asked our grandchildren what its name should be, since he assumed, quite rightly, that they would use it for a playhouse when they visited. Our granddaughter said it should be called “Our Clubhouse,” and our grandson said, “Wildcats.” My husband painted a sign for the shed: WILDCATS/ OUR CLUBHOUSE. Last time they were here, they slept out there with him, in the rain.







 



			

	
	



				
					


	

		
HEDGES ARE EDGES


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

HEDGES ARE EDGES

Come, dance around the edge of Odd —
the only place you can find god
(or gods) or elves or unicorns.
Try dancing on these gloomy morns
when all the world is grim and hot
and all we long to do seems not
so possible. 
Come, find the magic beneath the trees 
where birds sing carols with the bees,
and fairies twine flowers through the hedges
and do odd dances around the edges.



Another one for Emily Anderson and her wonderful bluebird fairies. 



			

	
	



				
					


	

		
HOW SHE LAUGHS


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

HOW SHE LAUGHS

It happened again, and we’ve all said
what we always say about time
and where it goes, and loss 
and how it takes us by surprise 
though we’re old enough now to know.

I called her daughter who is
coping with “arrangements”
and her father’s bewilderment
and the graduations of her sons.
I told her she laughs the way her mother

did. And I remember my old friend,
and how she sang and how
she always made coffee and how
I missed her when she moved away
and how I will miss her now again.





			

	
	



				
					


	

		
TULIPS


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

TULIPS


Last night, I planted tulips
behind the house we lived in 
forty years ago. It was a boring
house, with pale green carpet
and pale green walls and avocado
appliances, but we knew we could
sell it fast when our five years there
were up. Just five years: Our son’s
childhood, husband’s big job
change, my offering of myself
as a victim in front of the altar.

Someone else lives in the house,
but I go to the garden in my dreams. 
Last night, I planted tulips, 
the big blood-red ones
and the subtle french ones
I’ve come to love.
I like the process—
the catalog comes in spring, 
I choose new bulbs in the summer,
I plant them in the fall. 
And I wait. 



			

	
	



				
					


	

		
MINE IS THE MONTH OF ROSES, YES: A Zuihitsu


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

MINE IS THE MONTH OF ROSES, YES:  A ZUIHITSU 


John McPhee is 92, and has just published Volume One of what will be a series of books in which he writes things about all the things he has thought about writing things about. An “old people’s project” he calls it. “You’re no longer old when you’re dead,” he says. 

It is possible to die falling down stairs. It has happened to two people I know: Years ago to my sister’s elderly godfather who was very tall and had no cartilage in his ears, and a few weeks ago to my friend B. B’s funeral was one of those sad reunions that happens more often nowadays. It was amusing to see gray-haired children dressed in dark suits, or black dresses and pearls, trying to look like middle-aged people.

The sky here is gray, and it’s cool enough for a turtleneck and a jacket. There’s a faint smell of smoke in the air, and has been for several days.Where our son lives, the sky is orange and our grandchildren can’t go outdoors. Though these forest fires are mostly our doing, forests have always burned. It’s how they rejuvenate themselves. It has crossed my mind more than once that they’re conspiring to choke us out so they can get on with their own agenda.

Last night I woke from a strange dream and looked out the window at the waning gibbous moon shining orange through the branches of the tall pine tree in the little woods behind the house. I hadn’t seen the moon for awhile. 

There’s a great deal of haying and fertilizing and so on happening in our neighborhood these days. Giant equipment is roaring around in every hayfield. There is one piece of equipment that looks like a Star Wars battle machine. It came at me when I was coming home yesterday and I was tempted to try driving my car underneath its belly.

According to Longfellow’s “Poet’s Calendar,” in June: “The mower’s scythe makes music to my ear.” And June is the month of “all pleasant sights/ And scents.. . .” And June is “. . the mother of all dear delights/. . . the fairest daughter of the year.” 

Our neighbor’s pond is shaped like a crescent moon, surrounded now by invasive yellow flag iris, but never mind. We’ve seen otters there, and muskrats, and Canada geese with their clueless goslings, and mallards with ducklings, and great blue herons. Sometimes we find baby snapping turtles in the road. Right now there are a few bullfrogs, rumbling away. According to one naturalist, the males occasionally fight for territory, and “goudge one another with their thumbs.”


			

	
	



				
					


	

		
FA-LA, IT’S MAY: A ZUIHITSU


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

FA-LA, IT’S MAY:  A ZUIHITSU

Elisha said to Elijah, “Let me inherit a double portion of your spirit.” I never said that to Eleanor, though perhaps I should have. Or maybe I did inherit some of it, without asking for it.  Or maybe we shared a kind of spirit. We at least shared a type of sidelong way of looking. She often signed her emails to me “General Motors” for a reason that is too silly to explain.

My physical therapist has explained to me that three days without pain does not mean that tendonitis is healed. She said to think of the injured tendon as made of tissue paper instead of Carhartt fabic. Tensile strength, or some such. It has to do with how much of a load it can bear.

There have never been so many purple violets in the lawn, or white violets, or dandelions. The orchard down the road is “like nothing else by day.” All of the forty red tulips I planted in the vegetable garden survived the wet winter and the chipmunks. Why must it all happen at once, so fast that it’s hard to take in, so beautiful that it’s impossible to appreciate?

I understand that May Sarton could be very difficult. She had a terrible temper, for one thing. I didn’t much care for the one novel of hers that I tried to read, but I do like the poetry that I’ve come across, and I believe her journals are superb. I’m finally reading At Seventy. I understand her irritability, her need for solitude, her struggle with interruption.

The Great Crested Flycatcher has returned to the garden, as he always does in the middle of May.  He is a “charismatic” bird, with his crest and improbable rufous tail and the raucous announcement he makes when he arrives. Now and then I glimpse him on the back garden fence. The first one I saw, years ago, was in a nest in the iron crosspiece holding up an ancient clothesline in my friend Bea’s yard. I’d like a double portion of Bea’s spirit, too, but that would be greedy.

Things I have in the pockets of my jeans:  a small heart-shaped piece of sandstone from my desert-dwelling cousin Maggie, a Swiss army knife with a blade and scissors and a corkscrew and a screwdriver and a toothpick, a white handkerchief with a blue rose embroidered in the corner, a dozen or so tiny bacon-flavored dog treats, a Christmas lima bean from my friend Kathy, and a moss agate bead from a necklace Eleanor sent to me when she was clearing out her things. 

Today it's snowing, and the north wind is blowing cold. I don't have to like it, or be grateful for it, or smile at it. All I have to do is notice that it's snowing, and that the north wind is blowing cold. And I can be grateful for warm clothes, and a warm house, and the songs of the brave birds.

			

	
	



				
					


	

		
CHANGING PHOTOS


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

CHANGING PHOTOS
In memory of Eleanor Jones
Nov. 10, 1921-April 15, 2023*


The day Eleanor died, I changed out 
the photos of the grandchildren
as I have every year since they were born.
I’d been crying a lot. How could I not
grieve for the friend who knew me 
since I was born, who took me seriously 
when I was a child who wanted to write, 
who sent me Wind in the Willows when I was six
and Edith Hamilton’s Mythology when I was ten.
When I was an adolescent with an alcoholic father 
and a silent mother, Eleanor acknowledged
my complicated life and told me to call her any time.
When I was an adult we talked and wrote and emailed
about families and griefs and how, for a writer, 
everything is material. 

I saw again the older photos of the children 
stuffed into the backs of the frames.
I thought of about impermanence—how I would not 
keep the children small, even if I could.
Now there is no baby to hold, 
but a grandson who plays music with me. 
Now there is no baby to rock,
but  a granddaughter who likes to read fairy tales
and play with my old dolls. 
And I thought about Eleanor
and the way she watched me grow 
and I thought about the way she grew. 
How she told me that being very old was a different country 
no outsider could understand. How after she couldn’t see
and started falling and had to move out of her house,
she thought of writing about the quirky people
in the place she got moved to—
the woman who ate only potatoes and hard-boiled eggs,
and the man who liked to sink Cheerios with his spoon. 
And I changed the photos.
Instead of Arthur in a wizard hat
there’s Arthur playing a guitar
because now he can play a tune on anything,
and instead of Ruth Eleanor on a bike with training wheels, 
there’s one of her engrossed in a book about Marie Tharp,
because now she can read.



*Not a typo. In 2022, Eleanor had an argument with a pharmacist who insisted she could not have been born in ’21.

			

	
	



				
					


	

		
A ZUIHITSU FOR THE IDES OF APRIL


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






A ZUIHITSU For the IDES of APRIL



“Friday the 13th comes on a Thursday this month.”
		~Churchill LaFemme (Walt Kelly)

My youngest sister married a widower on a Friday the 13th in Lent. She had to clean the first wife’s clothes out of the closet when she moved into his house. Her choice of a date was criticized. Eventually she and her husband had 7 cats. She died on a Sunday in June, twelve years later.

“I soften with my sunshine and my showers/ The heart of earth,” H.W. Longfellow wrote in his poem “April.” It recently occured to me that he was referencing Chaucer, whose “smale foweles maken melodye,/That slepen al the nyght with open ye,/So priketh hem Nature in hir corages.” However, I disagree with Henry’s choice of Zodiac figures: it’s hard to see April as a bull, no matter how wreathed his horns. I prefer Chaucer’s ram.

My maternal grandmother died in April. So did two of our cats and one of our dogs. An old colleague of mine just died and another is dying, as is my 101 year old godmother. What’s up with that? 

It will be warmer than 80 degrees today. If anyone dares say to me that it’s “lovely” or something similar, I might knock them down.

Yesterday, I found an enormous blob of springtails in the ephemeral stream that runs through the gully below our house, thousands of them. Tens of thousands of them, with more drifting in. Strangely, they are not considered insects, but Collembola and there are perhaps 8,200 species of them. There can be as many as 300 million in an acre of land. I looked at a few with a hand lens. They are charming little things with six legs and antennae. They appear purposeful, and seem to engage with one another.

Maybe “a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love” in spring, but it seems old women’s heavily turn to the pains in hips and feet and how gardening gets harder every year. That’s hardly fancy, however. Just simple fact. 

Five fanciful things: 1. The clay troll I made to guard the pallet bridge over the gully.  2. Mermaids.  3. Dragons.  4. Forty red tulips sending forth leaves in the vegetable garden. 5. Trying to write a zuihitsu on a hot April day.


 



			

	
	



				
					


	

		
MARCH FIELD JOURNAL: THRESHOLDS


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

MARCH FIELD JOURNAL
Bridport & East Middlebury



THRESHOLDS

We’ve already crossed a few.

From forest, 
field and barn, 
the patch of flax,
the cow, the sheep, 
the church and village store
we moved on to a place of more and more,
where water drove hard through a gorge of stones
to turn the wheels that broke the iron hills with smoke.

Everything seemed possible then,
with space beneath our roof for even more.

Now we sit in the village square.
We stare at the handbuilt barn.
We stand beside the ruins of the mills 
and take photos with our phones.
We wonder how and why
and what they’d make of us.

And are we standing in or out?
And what now can we do?
What holds us in, what keeps us back?
What must we keep, and what let go? 



			

	
	



				
					


	

		
ZUIHITSU FOR AN UNKEPT LENT


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

ZUIHITSU FOR AN UNKEPT LENT


When our grandson was not quite two, we brought him to a park, where we pushed him in a swing for a long time. After awhile, he wanted to stop. He just sat there in the swing, staring ahead of him, with a half-smile on his lips and a faraway expression in his eyes. I took a photo of him, like that. I keep that photo by my desk.

The Father is Silence. The absent, silent one. The Son is Word, the teaching presence within and with and beside and behind and before. The Spirit is Practice. So they say.

I take the dog into the pine woods every day. Sometimes I take her twice. I take her there in all weathers. Lately, heavy wet snow covers the path. It’s too sticky for snowshoes, so I slog through in my high heavy boots. The dog bounds. Lately, I’m watching a broken tree for signs of sheltering animals. I’m watching a hole under the roots of another tree to see if anyone is using that. So far, I have seen the tiny tracks and the tail-drag of a white-footed mouse disappear into that hole. 

A Bargain for Frances is about a little badger girl whose friend tries to trick her out of a china tea set she wants. When I was a little girl, we had a tin tea seat, turquoise and white. I will buy our granddaughter a tea set for her birthday, a china one, packed neatly into a little white basket. She already has a tea set that used to belong to her mother, but it isn’t in a basket.

There is a place on the front step that is always icy after a heavy snow. This happens because the snow piles up behind the bars that keep it from sliding off the metal roof. The weight of the snow causes it to melt underneath, like the water melts under a glacier. That melt drips onto the step, and freezes there. I keep a bucket of sand just inside the front door.

My friend Molly recently sent me a poem by Tim Jones, a poet who lives in North Carolina. I liked it so much that I looked him up and found a book of poems written by him, and I bought it. This is from his “Lent” poem: “Blessed are you, for yours/ is the lengthening of the light.” This morning, just at first light, I awoke to hear a cardinal singing in the shrub under the bedroom window.



			

	
	



				
					


	

		
FEBRUARY FIELD JOURNAL


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

FEBRUARY FIELD JOURNAL
The Watershed Center

The name you can say isn’t the real name;
the way you can go isn’t the real way.
	~The Tao Te Ching, version by Ursula K. Le Guin


What can we observe
about this creature,
in this forest?
Stop and look.
Make no assumptions.

Sometimes she walked
straight along an open path,
sometimes she zig-zagged
under low branches.
She stopped here 
by a deer trail, and here
beside a coyote’s trotting way.

She stopped
in front of this yellow birch,
and this hemlock,
and this white pine.
See how she sank her heels
into the ground.

For awhile she sat
in this clearing,
looking toward the south.
Notice the nutshell 
and the breadcrumbs.
Notice the prints beside her.
She wasn’t alone.

We can see clearly
that she wasn’t here alone.


			

	
	



				
					


	

		
VERMEER:  The Glass of Wine


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

VERMEER—The Glass of Wine

A man, a woman, his hand on the jug, 
her nose in the glass, a curious smile 
on his lips. Seduction. The usual.
But the man does not look lascivious,
and the woman appears focused on the wine.

Perhaps, then, another story.
She is a prosperous businesswoman
and he an importer of wine from France. 
She inhales the bouquet.
Lemon, she says. Mignonette. 
He nods. She buys a dozen bottles.


			

	
	



				
					


	

		
Zuihitsu in February


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

ZUIHITSU IN FEBRUARY

Six good things about being old: It’s easier to say No. It’s easier to say Yes. The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated. . . One can recognize languages other than one’s own. One can no longer die young. Through many dangers, toils and snares we have already come. One unpleasant thing about being old: arthritic thumbs. 

Return to Clay Studio: The plan is to make a troll to put by the pallet covering the wet spot between the yard and the woods. The children know the stories. According to our granddaughter, every story should end with the sentence, “And then, the bees got her,” adjusted, of course, for gender and number.

The terra-cotta amaryllis was lovely. Four blossoms on two stems, just as advertised. The red one was even better: one stem with five blossoms and one with six, beyond all expectation. And last week, it made one more stem with six blossoms, smaller than the first eleven, but just as red.

Things one can do with arthritic thumbs: knit with medium needles, play the piano, make things from clay, change wax filters in hearing aids. Things one can’t do: play the harp, knit with small needles, pick up pins.

Be Gentle, says the Oracle of the Day, you’re hatching.  Hard work, hatching. That weird little egg tooth on the end of the beak. Coming out into the world all scrawny and hungry and wet, opening your orange mouth. Or if you’re a butterfly, with bent wings to pump up and stretch. So yes, gentleness is called for.

The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well. And then, the bees got him.

This old woman is learning Finnish. Why not. The nouns and pronouns are not gendered. It’s as foreign as Klingon. No means “Well” and Ja means “and.” Tuo has nothing to do with “you” as it likely would in an Indo-European language. Suomi on niin vaikea kieli, mutta kaunis. I have a plastic reindeer on my desk. No niin.



			

	
	



				
					


	

		
February First


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

Thank you for my hands—the broad palms, 
the long split life-line.
Thank you for my strong arms, 
my short strong legs.
Thank you for my dark hair 
turning white instead of dull.
Thank you for the garden and the craft,
the silence, the forest, the birds,
the fields full of four-leafed clover,
the deer on the edges everywhere.



Remembering my Dad, who died 16 years ago on February 1, which the Irish counted the First Day of Spring.
He was born on October 31, the Eve of the First Day of Winter.

			

	
	



				
					


				
					


	

		
O Again: 7. Emmanuel


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

O Again

--£…≥÷¢* 


7.
O Emmanuel (already)

O God-with-us
in NICU bassinets
and nursing homes
and truck cabs
and warehouses.

God-with-us-now
on battlefields
and bombshelters
in churches
and congress (even there).

God-already-with-us
dashing through the snow
on city sidewalks
in the bleak mid-winter.
O. That’s all. Just O.



*(cat typing. Why not here, too?)


			

	
	



				
					


	

		
O Again: 6. O Not


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

O Again


6. O Rex* (O dear)

No. Just no.
No king. 
It never works.
Even so-called good ones.
Not even a god because

nobody has ever agreed
about which, or how.
What we need 
is the desire bit.
O Desideratus.

O Desire for kindness,
O Desire for compassion,
O Desire for joy,
O Desire for peace.
O Desire. Amen.


*"King of nations and their desire."


			

	
	



				
					


	

		
O Again: 5. O Oriensast


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






O Again

5.
O Oriens (my favorite)

Oriens. O Oriens.* 
Our Star in the East
today rises as far South
as she goes. Tomorrow
she’ll cross the line
to lengthen our days.

O Oriens, O Morning Star—
Come and enlighten.
Sun of Fiery Dawnings—
Sun of Rooting Bulbs—
Sun of Joyful openings—
O Oriens, come.


*(Just say it. It does nice things in the mouth.)



			

	
	



				
					


	

		
O Again: 3. O Clavis


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






O Again

4.
O Clavis

O Key, O keys.
I lost my Irish grandfather’s keys 
on a sidewalk in the snow.
O necklace of skeleton keys.
But I have his broken clock,
and photos of his children
glued in a celluloid box.

O keys, lost keys.
I was afraid of Opa who spoke
Russian and German and Polish
but whose English was remote. 
I have his silver and porcelain
wine tray painted with plums. 
O lost Clavis, O Radix lost.




			

	
	



				
					


	

		
O Again:  3. O Radix


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






O AGAIN

3.
O Radix (misread)

O Root.
Before coffee, I read:
Root of Jesse standing as a sign 
among the peonies. 
Huh.

People, not peonies.
Had peonies once.
Tried to do them in
because botrytis blight.
They kept sprouting.

Radix, root, radish, etc.
If you plant a grafted apple tree
and bury the graft by mistake, 
the original takes over. 
Radical thought.


			

	
	



				
					


				
					


	

		
THE ANTIPHONS RETURN:   1. O Sapienta


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






O Again


1.
O Sapienta (Fifty Years later)

Holy Wisdom sets things
in order. If there is an order
to set. If there are indeed
things. Moreover, what
does it mean to be wise?

Premise: Holy Wisdom might
show us the path of knowledge.
Why would that be a path and how,
precisely, might it be revealed?
Furthermore, what can be known?

O Sapienta: Holy Wisdom. 
A good night to conceive
a philosopher on an unheated 
waterbed in a cold bedroom.
We didn’t have a clue.



			

	
	



				
					


	

		
DECEMBER ZUIHITSU


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






DECEMBER ZUIHITSU


It is easier to awaken in the dark of winter. The body opens slowly, warms slowly with Qi Gong practice, with hot coffee. The summer body is restless, quick, easily exhausted.

Why must my study be the coldest room in the house? From the windows I watch bare ash trees and brushy hemlock trees moving slightly in the North wind, dark against a silver sky. Sometimes a feeling of desperation. The weather, the news. The way my hips still hurt.

Driving into town we pass a herd of young horses racing across a frosty pasture. We agree that it must be a wonderful thing to be a young horse on a cold morning.

On weekends, the woman who calls herself The Lady From the Gravel Company sells Christmas trees for her son who is out West hunting deer. She hopes he doesn’t get one, she told me, because already she has two deer and a bear in her freezer.

The dog wants to eat her scraps on the living room carpet. The old cat wants the young cat’s food. The young cat wants the old cat’s food. My husband wants cooked chicken thighs. I want Rasta Pasta. At supper, I find the jalapeño pepper that had disappeared into the stew. Water does not put out that kind of fire.

Strange bedside fellows:  Neil Gaiman and Barbara Pym. I expect she could write about him: a mysterious man with tousled hair, much admired by excellent women. I cannot imagine what he could write about her.

The dog must go out in the dark again to see if the fiend who hides under the steps is still hiding under the steps and to see if every deer track down the driveway was made by the same deer. I must go out with her to see the moon and to listen for the owl who sits in the oak tree behind the house.





			

	
	



				
					


	

		
JUST ASKING


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

JUST ASKING

Why do you keep feeding us?
We don’t give you much:
a few bones, some onion skins,
now and then something like
a token of pinecones and twigs
or a lanyard we made at camp.

You’re tired, I know.
You look tired. And old.
All those wrinkles and cracks.
And you don’t smell so good,
not any more, 
not even after the rain.

What happened to your jewels—
those little birds and buggy things?
Are you letting yourself go?
I wouldn’t blame you
since we don’t seem to care much
about how you look, or what you do.

And where would you go?
And when we’re hungry,
where will we?


Thanksgiving, 2022



			

	
	



				
					


	

		
October Field Journal: Salisbury Kame Terraces


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		











OCTOBER FIELD JOURNAL
Kame Terraces, Salisbury


Once rivers limined the stone mountains
with gravel and sand.
Below, the ice-blocked valley;
across, the wild flow of melt.

Three kinds of oak.
Witch hazel and teaberry
undergrow the logged-over
never-plowed land.

So much time, 
yet not enough time.

I want to be like a river
on the edge of the ice—
letting go as I can,
holding whatever I must hold.




I know "limined" wasn't a word. It is now.


			

	
	



				
					


	

		
OCTOBER 13


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






OCTOBER 13

The leaves are scattering
and so too the people
who came to see them,
their glorious impermanence.

For a little while, until the snow,
I don’t have to wait in lines
at shops or cafés. I don’t have to
remember to stop and gaze myself:

those red maples, sugar maples,
popples gold against the evergreens.
Oaks will come later, but no one
comes here to see the somber oaks.

For a little while there is no demanding, 
just the ease of amber and gray,
the silence of these late days,
the beauty of this coming dark.

			

	
	



				
					


	

		
SEPTEMBER FIELD JOURNAL: KINGSLAND BAY


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






SEPTEMBER FIELD JOURNAL


KINGSLAND BAY






What is your name and what


do you know and what


together can we do?




Folded, weighted, shifting,


broken and remade,


the layers hidden underneath.




And where on this map


of shifting stone


do we belong?




Come walk and name


this place, this very place,


this weather and these trees:




limestone bluff,


the edge edged with white cedar


—and the rain.




And when the blowdown comes


may we trust 


our own entangled roots?











			

	
	



				
					


	

		
BUTTERFLY EFFECT


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

BUTTERFLY EFFECT





This one from the milkweed growing against





all odds on the edge of my driveway or





one of those rescued from a predator





in Polly’s patch. Remember the story





that one might change the weather of the world?





Maybe not the movement of its wings.





Maybe just the vision: that brave orange





and black animal, fragile against a leaf,





blown across the sky, what it’s like to change





that way, and who knows who, seeing it, will change?
















			

	
	



				
					


	

		
Alexandria: a hopeless play


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

Alexandria: a hopeless play





Cast of Characters



NARRATOR:  	     Gender doesn’t matter. Modern clothing.	           

THE LIBRARIANS:     All in vaguely Greek-style garb, may be 				          bearded. Untidy, barefooted, somewhat 							ravaged looking. 

ZENODOTUS	A bit pedantic.	

CALLIMACHUS   Very close to insane.

APOLLONIUS    Arch.

ERASTOSTHENES	 More expansive than the others, even 		  				 cheerful

ARISTOPHANES	 Brisk.	

ARISTARCHUS	 Somewhat vague. Even untidier than the 						 others.

HYPATIA:	           Supernaturally calm, reserved. Her garment       				 is blood-stained.  


Scene
  
No curtain. No flats or backdrops, just the rawness backstage.  The floor is covered with torn, broken books and/or scrolls--so many that the characters must kick them aside as they enter, one by one.

Notes
Each Librarian enters from stage Left as his name is called by the Narrator, steps to the very edge of the stage, and addresses the audience. When he has finished, he wanders back among the mess of papers and fiddles around among them, ineffectually.







NARRATOR
(Enters slowly, shuffling through the books, 
stopping occasionally to pick up a fragment and read it, sometimes aloud, ad lib.  
To center stage:  
looks at the audience in silence 
for an uncomfortably long time.)

Things happen. Despite what historians unearth, it’s not possible to know exactly what happened.Despite what the prophets and pundits say, it is not possible to know what will happen, or what would have happened. May I present to you, for example,  the librarians of Alexandria? We will never know what was lost when that great library was destroyed. Would it have saved us? It is foolish to hypothesize. And yet—-perhaps—-can we regard its loss as a warning? What are we losing now? In any case, I shall introduce you to the librarians. They have their opinions. First:  Zenodotus of Ephesus, grammarian. 


ZENODOTUS  
You, librarians! Hear me! Are you listening? I was the first to alphabetize, label, and weed—-no doubt occupations with which you all are familiar. Like myself, you must constantly decide: What is important now? What must be saved and catalogued? What will you discard? You never know what they might want someday. You never know what some scholar will require,if not now, a hundred years from now, a thousand years from now. But, my fellow librarians, you never know what they will burn. No matter what you do, no matter how careful you are, you do not know if it will last. Oh, my work, my work. . . and all of it lost! May your great work never be lost!

NARRATOR  
And here is Callimachus, father of bibliography.  

CALLIMACHUS  
Half a million books! One hundred and twenty volumes of catalogue alone. Catalogue! Catalogue! Lost. All, all lost.  
(He is overcome by emotion, throws himself on the floor, and continues to weep—mostly quietly—through to the end.)

NARRATOR
  (Regarding Callimachus with resignation.)  
Ah, well. It can’t be helped, I suppose. There’s a kind of obsession here. Next, Apollonius who wrote Argonautica in the old and epic style and was mocked from the city in shame. It is highly unlikely that this sort of thing would happen today.

APOLLONIUS
(To the Narrator.)
Do not be so sure, my friend. 
(To the audience.)
Like you, we were not strangers to scandal and gossip, to exaggeration, the power of untruth. Perhaps among you now, a poet would not be physically driven from a city for rhyming poetry. And yet, and yet. . among you, even now, I hear that “this sort of thing” still happens all the time. Mocking and shame are still rampant. Reputations rise and fall with the gossip of the day, with the opinions of the learned critics and, I hear, the opinions of the ignorant masses. Human nature, always, always, is the stuff of epic. The library might be gone, but some things are, shall we say, indestructible.

NARRATOR
(Pause. Opens mouth to speak, but decides not to.)  
Now Eratosthenes, whom Strabo called “a mathematician among geographers and a geographer among mathematicians.” Who measured Earth and its tilt from where he stood, who invented leapday, who mapped the whole known world, invented the armillary sphere, who wrote poetry and chronologies, who criticized Aristotle. . . 

ERATOSTHENES
(Enters during the narration and interrupts with a gesture.)  
Aristotle and the foolishness of racial purity! There’s good and bad in everyone, and the world—-Ah! The great globe! It gets smaller all the time. How I wish I’d lived into your century! And time itself gets smaller, no matter the number of days. Maybe you find my accomplishments impressive, but
They called me “Beta”, nonetheless, since I was always second best.
So much to discover, so much to learn, so much—-So many doors were opening then, in Alexandria. So many doors still opening. Ah!

NARRATOR  
Well then. Now here’s Aristophanes, who invented punctuation.   

ARISTOPHANES  
And still the comma bears the name I gave. I like that. “Comma. Comma. Comma.” Cut-off piece. To show you where to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe, my friends.

NARRATOR  
I’ll make a note. Now I present Aristarchus, original critic, editor of Homeric poetry, 
(Sotto voce.)
fusspot. . .

ARISTARCHUS  
Ah yes, that would be I. So much of Homer as handed down, well, let me say that it was doubtful. Not up to the standard. It took a careful eye and a discerning ear to sort things out and arrange them properly. Everything correct, everything in its place, you see. And so I am the original aristarch. And thus, my name lives on.  

NARRATOR
(Gestures toward the Librarians who are picking through the papers.)
So. Behold the Librarians.

LIBRARIANS
(Look up and organize into a circle, somewhat clumsily and randomly, and join hands—all except Callimachus who is still on the floor—and begin to circle around the Narrator. Individual librarians break out of the chanting rhythm to say their lines.) 

In ten great halls with marble walls 
amid gardens and fountains we walked.  
The Muses were our mistresses.  
We ached to open, burned to know.   
Our eager hands unrolled the scrolls.

ZENODOTUS
The Book of Manetho written by Seshat in the Hall of Heliopolis on the sacred tree.  

ERATOSTHENES
The History of Babylon in Berossos’s own hand.  

ARISTARCHU:  
Acts of the Greeks and Barbarians under the Tyrian Kings.

APOLLONIUS  
Inscriptions from the Phoenician pillars of the sun. 

HYPATIA
(Enters, menacing.) 
Nothing, of course, by Hypatia. Let’s not forget her.

(The Librarians stop and break the circle. The Narrator and the Librarians—except Callimachus— cluster together and watch her, wary and awkward.)

NARRATOR
(Uneasy.)
You weren’t exactly a Librarian. . . .

HYPATIA  
Oh, that’s what you think. What does that mean, “librarian”? I kept things, sorted things, discovered things, lost things. I lost my life, but that did not matter. In the long history of all things, that did not matter. Loss does not matter.

LIBRARIANS 
(Murmuring ad lib to one another.) 
Lost things, kept things, sorted, what matters? barbarians. . )

HYPATIA
(Her quiet voice over them, silencing them.
Addressing audience from the very edge of the stage.)  
For a little while, here, the world was full of light. Then it was dark. Not the soft dark of night, nor the comforting dark of the tomb, but a darkness of mind—-a flat, cold dark. A darkness of absolute, a darkness of certainty. Nothing reflecting, nothing penetrating, nothing to breathe but dust. Instead of questioning, silencing. Instead of learning, burning. Instead of conversing, murdering. Instead of wonder, fear. And on it goes, and on it goes. Light to dark and back again. But always, always, there is somewhere a glimmer. Always a root that will sprout up green. I think your world is dark now. And you are losing things. Always, always losing things. But is there still light? I think so. Looking down into your times, I see lamplight here and there. Even a little light keeps the darkness from being complete. A question, an exploration, a new word, a new work of art, a laugh, an act of kindness. So yes, here in Alexandria, we lost more than you know. But that is not your concern. What was lost is not your concern at all. Look to what is. Keep what you can and keep going. Keep your lamps alight.
(She turns and exits.) 

(As the Narrator begins the next speech, 
the Librarians join hands—
all except Callimachus who is still on the floor crying—
and begin a stately circle dance around the Narrator.)

NARRATOR
(A pause, watches Hypatia exit.)  
Well, maybe. Maybe what we lost doesn’t matter after all. Maybe it’s all about what we do now. But we don’t know. We’ll never know. That’s the problem. That’s the point. We’ll never know what was lost. . .The past. . . the way things were. . .We don’t know what’s going to matter. We don’t know what matters now. . .
(Repeats, ad lib, while the Librarians dance and chant, 
words rising above and around the chanting.)

LIBRARIANS 
(Chanting. Breaking into ad.lib.)
The barbarians are still at your gates.
Still, your libraries burn.
Still, the wisdoms are lost.
Beware, beware, beware, beware. . . 
 
(After awhile,the Librarians break the circle and advance on the audience, stopping at the edge of the stage. Sudden silence.)

HYPATiA 
(Off.)
Keep your lamps alight.

(Librarians turn, exuent, still chanting. Callimachus remains, sobbing on the floor. The Narrator stands still for a moment, then runs off. The curtain falls.)





			

	
	



				
					


	

		
BREAKING THE NEWS


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		


BREAKING THE NEWS

by

Mary F. C. Pratt




This play was part of a 24 hour play festival from "The Garden of Voices," a producer of podcasts like "old fashioned radio dramas." We started at 7 p.m. The playwrights had till 9 a.m. to send the scripts to the producer, and the directors and actors had till 7 that evening to rehearse. The plays were then presented live on Zoom, and will be available later as a podcast.
 The participants decided on a charity--Planned Parenthood--and came up with  some themes that fit in with the charity's mission. I chose these: 
 
Generational differences in mentality of what families should be.
Young couple deciding if it's the right time to start a family


CHARACTERS

SUSAN	        A retired teacher, in her 70s. 
JENNIFER	Susan’s stepdaughter, a businesswoman in her fifties.
JASON	        Jennifer’s son, working the gig economy. In his twenties.

SETTING 	A coffee shop. The present.






















At “Rise”:	Coffee shop sounds. SUSAN is seated.


JASON
Hi Gram. Thanks so much for coming. 

SUSAN
Not a problem. What are grandmothers for?

JASON
Cookies? Birthday presents? Moral support? 

SUSAN
All of the above. Where’s your mother, speaking of moral support?

JASON
She texted awhile ago to say she’s running late. Some meeting she can’t get out of.

SUSAN
Well, okay then. This will give us a chance to get caught up. I’ve hardly seen you since you’ve been driving that delivery truck.

JASON
I know, right? Weird hours. But it’s the best job I’ve had for awhile. Anyhow. It’s good to see you, Gram. 

SUSAN
Likewise. I’ve missed you. So what’s up? All you said was you didn’t want to talk to your mother alone. It sounds serious, kid. What’s going on?

JASON
Well, it is kind of serious. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we should wait till Mom gets here.

SUSAN
Why? So you won’t have to repeat yourself, or because you don’t want her knowing that you talk to me sometimes when she’s not around?

JASON
Ha. All of the above. Can you read my mind?

SUSAN
Of course not. It’s just that it’s a lot like mine.

JASON
Yeah, it is, isn’t it? And that’s weird because I’m not even related to you.

SUSAN
Be that as it may. Your grandfather is related to you, and I’ve been married to him long enough to know how his mind works.

JASON
Um. Not like mine for sure.

SUSAN
Exactly. Now what’s going on?

JASON
Well, you know Darcy?

SUSAN
Of course I know Darcy. You’ve been together two years.

JASON
Three.

SUSAN
Wow, already. But yes, I know Darcy. 

JASON
Well—we’ve been thinking about having a baby.

SUSAN
You and Darcy?

JASON
Yeah, Gram. Me and Darcy.

SUSAN
Of course. You just caught me by surprise there. Your mother will have a shit fit. But I guess you know that or you wouldn’t have asked me to be here.



JASON
Yeah, she will. And it’s weird because you won’t. Have a fit. I mean, you aren’t, right? And I knew you wouldn’t. And she’s younger than you, no offense. I mean, obviously because you’re her stepmother and all, but. . . 

SUSAN
Well, technically I could be her stepmother and younger than she, you know. If your grandfather had married somebody very young after your real grandmother died.

JASON
Hey, you are my real grandmother. Cut it out.

SUSAN
I know, I know. And you are definitely my real grandson. So, real grandson, your mother will have a fit. That’s a given. How about your father?

JASON
Wbo knows? I don’t care. I haven’t seen him forever. He’s never even met Darcy. All the family that matters is you and Grandpa and Mom. Would it bother Grandpa?

SUSAN
Of course not. He’s all about live and let live. You know that.

JASON
Yeah. He didn’t bat an eye about Darcy.

SUSAN
We’re old hippies you know, sweetie. We invented sex and drugs and rock and roll and shacking up. “Living together without benefit of clergy” they used to call it. How quaint is that?

JASON
So what happened to Mom? How come she’s so—straight?

SUSAN
She got religion. And—she rebelled, right? Goes both ways. Our parenting style was pretty casual, to say the least.

JASON
Yeah, but you married Grandpa. I mean, you weren’t like in a commune or something.

SUSAN
Okay. All right then. So, Jason, you and Darcy want to have a baby?

JASON
Ooops. Here comes Mom.

			(Door opens, JENNIFER enters.)

SUSAN
Jennifer, over here!

JENNIFER
(From the counter.)
I’m going to grab a coffee and I’ll be right there. Though God only knows I don’t need more.

SUSAN
Take your time. (To JASON) Okay. You’re on. And no matter what, I’ve got your back.

JASON
I’m really nervous about this.

SUSAN
Of course you are. It will be fine. Really.

JENNIFER
(Comes to the table.)
So what are you two plotting? Jason, you look so guilty. And so do you, Sue. What are you plotting?

SUSAN
The revolution, what else?

JENNIFER
It wouldn’t surprise me. God only knows we need one. We need something. The traffic on Main Street, even before rush hour, is as bad as rush hour. And the price of gas! And now they want to raise our property taxes again, and for what? And clearly the government’s gone to hell.

SUSAN
Jennifer dear, we know all about the world. It is a mess. We agree. So let’s not talk about that. We all agree it’s a mess. We’re here because Jason has something to say that’s even more important than property taxes. Jason?

JASON
Yeah. Well. Um. Mom. Darcy and me are thinking about having a baby. We’ve pretty much decided to. I mean, it isn’t completely definite yet, but we’re pretty serious.

JENNIFER
What? A baby?

SUSAN
No need to inform the whole café, Jennifer. It is exciting, but still. This is a family matter.

JENNIFER
Exciting? Exciting? It’s appalling. Jason! I thought you’d outgrown this business. I mean, living with Darcy without being married, but now this. . . 

JASON
Mom, you’re the one who didn’t want us to get married, remember? You thought it would blow over. Well it didn’t. We really love each other. And now we want to have a baby.

JENNIFER
But why? Whatever for? With the world going to pieces, and you don’t have a real job—

SUSAN
When your father and mother had you, Jennifer, the world was going to pieces, too. The war in Viet Nam was going on and on, we all figured the Soviets would nuke us, we were just beginning to understand about how bad air and water pollution were. And, well, my dear,  we had no real jobs. Your dad was doing seasonal apple picking when your mom got pregnant.

JENNIFER
But he went to college. He became a professor. He wasn’t just a—a barrista, or a van driveror whatever.

SUSAN
When your mother got pregnant, your father was a dope-smoking wanna-be artist, Jennifer, and your mother thought she was the next Edna St. Vincent Millay. I was a budding herbalist, pardon the pun. Your father didn’t go to college until after you were born, after we were married. I was there. I know.

JENNIFER
But he always told me. . . 

SUSAN
I know what he always told you, and I never corrected him. You were conceived on a commune, presumably by your father. You survived your birth, but your mother, who was my dearest friend, didn’t. And your father never wanted you to know because it was so awful and so hard and because, yes, he managed to make something of his life after all.


JASON
Wow, Gram.


JENNIFER
Sue, I didn’t. . . .

SUSAN
I know. And it’s all right. Those were the best of times and the worst of times. It was crazy, but we thought we’d change the world. We really thought we would. And we really loved one another out there on the farm, and it all sort of worked for awhile. You were the second baby born there, and we were all so happy till your mom started bleeding and we didn’t get her to the hospital in time, and she died and it all just fell apart after that. It all just fell apart.

JENNIFER
But I thought she. . . 

SUSAN
I know, Jennifer. I know. Your dad and I will sit down with you later and tell you the whole story. 

JENNIFER
Sue. . . 

SUSAN
But this conversation is about Jason and Darcy. And by the way, Jason is not what you call “just a”van driver or “just a” anything. He’s a responsible person, trying to make a living in a hard world.  And Darcy is a law clerk, for goodness’ sake. So even though the world is going to hell, they’re as equipped as anybody to be parents. Better equipped than we were, believe me.

JENNIFER
I don’t know what to say.

SUSAN
Try saying nothing.

JASON
Uh, Mom? You okay?

JENNIFER
I don’t know. I’m not sure. I don’t know what to think. I didn’t know any of that. I thought Dad and Mom lived in a house with a bunch of people when they were in college. I didn’t know it was a—commune. I’m going to—I’m going to the restroom. I have to go put some water on my face. I’ll be right back.

JASON
You sure you’re okay, Mom?
JENNIFER
I will be. I will be okay. This is just a lot. I’ll be okay.
			(Exits.)

JASON
Grandma!

SUSAN
Yeah?

JASON
Is that for real? I mean, all that weird stuff about grandpa and drugs and communes?

SUSAN
Of course it’s real. You’ve seen the photos of us on the farm.

JASON
Yeah, but I didn’t know it was—I mean, I didn’t know it was something like that. Mom said it was when you were in college, like she said.

SUSAN
Sweetie, I told you we invented sex, drugs and rock and roll. Flower power. All you need is love, right? And your grandpa and I don’t talk about it much because—well, we just don’t. It’s our past and it’s hard to get younger people to understand what it was like. Like we didn’t understand our parents growing up in the depression and World War Two. And your kids won’t understand you growing up in the trump and covid and climate change years. 

JASON
Thanks, Gram.

SUSAN
For what? It isn’t over yet. Your mom will have more to say.

JASON
I know But thanks just for saying that about my kids not understanding. My kids. Mine and Darcy’s. Or kid. I think we might only try for one.

SUSAN
Here she comes.

JENNIFER
(Entering.) There. I feel a little better. I can handle this. Okay. So Jason,  maybe you can handle parenthood. It will be harder for you than it was for your father and me, but maybe not as hard as it was for your grandparents. I get that. I think. But Jason—-

JASON
Yeah?
JENNIFER
You’re going to adopt, right? I  mean, Darcy’s a—man.

JASON
Yeah, but no, Mom. We’re planning to—I mean we’re thinking about—trying for a biological one.

JENNIFER
But Darcy’s. . . 

JASON
He has a uterus, Mom.

JENNIFER
But Jason. That’s—-what will people think? What will—

SUSAN
What will the neighbors say? Is that what you mean, Jennifer? Is that what you’re worried about? 

JENNIFER
Well, it’s just—unnatural. It’s too strange, Jason. It’s just too strange and unnatural and you just shouldn’t do it. If God wanted men to have babies—

SUSAN
. . . he would have given them uteruses? Or is it uteri? In this case, Jennifer, that’s exactly what God, or whatever,  has done.

			(Brief silence, and an increase in coffee shop sounds.)

JENNIFER
Oh. Oh. I didn’t think of that. There’s so much I don’t understand. The world is so complicated. I just don’t understand anything any more.


SUSAN
Has anybody ever understood anything? Really understood anything?

JENNIFER
Well, I always thought I would someday. When I got to be your age, maybe. Sue, don’t you understand at least some things?

SUSAN
Nope. Hardly anything. And you know what? It doesn’t matter. Life goes on. And now you get to look forward to being a grandmnother yourself. That is, if Jason and Darcy decide to go through with it. Are you going to, sweetie?

JASON
Well, yeah. We’ve pretty much decided to. We were just hoping Mom wouldn’t mind too much. And, well, we’d kinda like to get married first. Do you mind that now, Mom?

JENNIFER
It will take—well. It will take some getting used to. Seeing Darcy pregnant? Okay. I think I can do that. I always liked Darcy. And sure. Clearly you two love each other, so get married. I think 

JENNIFER (Cont.)
it’s time. My son-in-law, the mother of my grandchild. It sounds strange, but—yes. I can say it. Can’t I, Sue? My son-in-law, the mother of my grandchild! I like it!

JASON
Thanks, Mom. Love you.

JENNIFER
I love you, too. And oh! Look at the time! I’ve got to run. I’ve got to get dinner on the table before  choir practice. ‘Bye!

SUSAN
‘Bye, Jennifer. I am proud of you.

JENNIFER
Thanks, Sue. ‘Bye.

JASON
Weird. I all worked way better than I thought it would. What happened? 

SUSAN
Stories work. Perspective works. And love, Jason. Love works. We’re among the lucky ones, you know? Love’s not all you need, but—it’s most of it. 
JASON
Thanks, Gram.

SUSAN
Any time. 


End of Play







 





			

	
	



				
					


	

		
TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT DISASTER


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT DISASTER

1.
It’s a recipe they’ve been cooking up
for ever so long.
Leaf through a shiny magazine,
pore over today’s headlines
and tell me I’m wrong.

They whipped up 
like a glop of imitation cream
the illusion that rich means good, 
then spoonfeed up the iffy dream
that anyone can have it all.

Lesser creatures never matter
birds and forests, air and water.
They keep stirring fast and faster—
cooking up yet more disaster.

2.
Caterpillars ate every leaf
on every oak and moved on
to the popples and pines. 
They poured over one another,
creatures of bristle and hunger,
objects of an inner recipe
that transforms leaves into frass 
and shed skins and cocoons 
of iffy goo and moths and
more caterpillars.
	                Today
the oaks are showing
what can be done.
Every twig, sports a tiny leaf or bud.
Every twig. Every single one.









			

	
	



				
					


				
					


	

		
BEARS


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		






BEARS

1. 
Now come the bears.
They’re everywhere.
They’re fed up with our cars,
our hayfields, our guns and dogs.
They’ve studied our weaknesses.
They remember when we worshiped them,
when they ruled our deepest dreams.
They are hungry again.
They have demands.

2.
"Should you be worried?" 
the media query, their hysteria 
palpable through the screen.
Monkey pox, Autumn surge, 
flood and fire, Putin’s bombs. 
And I answer, No.
Since they are back,
I have a single holy fear—
Will I be eaten by a bear?










			

	
	



				
					


	

		
Start Talking: Conclusion


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

And here's the conclusion:



PLAYWRIGHT
I don’t know, Pat. I really don’t remember. Why don’t you tell me? What are you doing in my head?

PAT
Jesus. Search me. You’re in charge, right? Supposed to be anyhow.


ALEX
(To Playwright.)
 Maybe you need her. I mean, maybe you need somebody like Pat in your head. Like Demeter and Hecate, right? When Demeter was all like “I don’t know what to do” Hecate helped her, right? So maybe that’s what you need and your brain’s just telling you that.

JOAN
Alex, love, you have been paying attention to all those myths I’ve read to you.

ALEX
Well, yeah. How could I not? They’re pretty great.

PLAYWRIGHT
So you think I made Pat up because I need her?

ALEX
Yeah. Maybe. Whatever.

PAT
I sorta like that.

PATRICIA
So, Playwright, my question is, Why do you think you need Hecate in your head? What is the witch at the crossroads saying to you?

PLAYWRIGHT
Oh crap. All I need is for my characters to start psychoanalyzing me. Come on, you people. I MADE YOU ALL UP. Sure there’s bits of me in all of you, but I made you up. You’re not real. You aren’t. I made you up. 

GRANDMOTHER
Then what are we doing here?

LAURA
Yeah, Playwright. Why did you invite us here and tell us to talk if you don’t want to hear what we have to say?

PLAYWRIGHT
Once again, Laura, for the record, Laura, I did not invite you. Your being here, however, shows me really clearly why you and your mother did not work out in the novel, or in the play. I had an agenda for you. I was being preachy. Subtly, or so I thought, but it really wasn’t, and at some level, I knew it. It turns out, now that I hear you out of your context, that you’re both stock characters and vehicles for my preachiness. So thank you, and good-bye. You, too, Annie. Good-bye.

LAURA
But. . . 

PLAWRIGHT
Go. I said go. Do not darken my computer screen again.

LAURA
This is worse than being shot by that clown.

ANNIE
(Stands.)
Come on, Laura. She’s done with us.

LAURA
(Breaks down in a childish temper tantrum.)
No! I don’t want to!

(Annie takes Laura firmly by the hand and bodily drags her offstage.)

PAT
(Calling after them.)
Well done, Annie!

PATRICIA
(To Pat.)
Wait a minute. Why are you still here? The Playwright said she’s done with your play or novel or whatever.

PAT
Yeah but. She didn’t say she was done with me.

PLAYWRIGHT
No. I didn’t, come to think of it. Because I’m not. You’re the only one in that play who isn’t a stock character. I think. Let’s see.
(Looks around the table.)
Okay. What have I got? Two grandmothers who do their own thing—

PAT
Three. I do my own thing too, right? 

PLAYWRIGHT
(Revelation.)
Oh. Yes. Of course. Sorry, Pat. You do. Your divorce and the kid you disowned and the greenhouse and speaking your mind. . . 

PAT
Yeah, yeah. I am a tough old bitch. Huh. Maybe I am a what you say is a stock character?

PLAYWRIGHT
No, no. I don’t think so. I’ll think about that later. So now I’ve got three grandmothers, two colluding grandchildren and one difficult daughter.

GRANDMOTHER
Two. Mine’s just not on stage.

PLAYWRIGHT
(Typing while she talks.)
Yeah, yeah. Good. So now the question is: Do I want to keep going with Red Riding Hood and/or the whole tree business, or do I want to do something else with you?

JOAN
I like the tree business, but that’s not surprising, is is?

ALEX
Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why not write about a bunch of old women sitting around talking about things? Like their grandchildren, or their daughters, or whatever.

PLAYWRIGHT
Hm. I guess that’s a possibility.

PAT
What the hell do you call this? Here we are.

PLAYWRIGHT
Oh. Oh, you’re right, Pat. Here we are.

PAT
You could stretch it out some, I guess, if Joan and Grandmother. . . hey, do you have a name? I mean, “Grandmother” isn’t exactly a name, you know, and I really don’t want to call another old lady “Grandmother.”

GRANDMOTHER
I don’t have one, do I? Why not?

PLAYWRIGHT
Well, you see, in the play, you’re basically just Grandmother. It’s what Red calls you. You don’t actually need a name because. . . 

GRANDMOTHER
Defined by my role. Despite your idea that I would be a so-called “good example” for a grandchild?  That makes me a stock character, doesn’t it? Well, I’m out of here. If you can’t even be bothered to name me, forget it. I’m not going to be in any of your plays.
(Stands to go.)

(Playwright is speechless.)

JOAN
(Stands.)
I’m with you. That’s appalling. (To Grandmother.) You and I do have to talk. What do you want me to call you, since you aren’t Grandmother?

GRANDMOTHER
How about Amelia? I like the sound of that.

JOAN
Amelia. Excellent. 

RED
Wait! Grandmother! Can I still call you Grandmother?

GRANDMOTHER
Huh. I don’t know. It depends on where you end up. Joan, where shall we go?

PAT
(Stands.)
Mind if I come, too?

JOAN and GRANDMOTHER
(Assenting sounds.)

PAT
‘Cause I know a nice greenhouse. At a crossroads. Coffee’s on.

JOAN
That sounds perfect.

(The three women link arms and exit.)

PLAYWRIGHT
(Stands.)
Hey! Hey!

RED
(Stands, looking after the grandmothers.)
Grandmother?

ALEX
(Stands and puts an arm around Red.)
Let ‘em go, kid. They were pretty good grannies, but we’ve got stuff to do. How about we head back to your gram’s studio and make our own coffee and do some art?

RED
Sounds good to me.

(They exit.)

PLAYWRIGHT
Well, damn it all. Now what?

PATRICIA
(Stands.)
I suppose I should go, too. That is, unless you need me.

PLAYWRIGHT
Yeah, you might as well go. Go ahead. Go ahead. 

(Patricia starts for the exit.)
Oh, but wait!

PATRICIA
(Turning.)
Yes?

PLAYWRIGHT
Maybe you should stay. I might need help getting things re-organized. There is some stuff in here I might be able to use, I think.
(Sits at the computer again.)

PATRICIA
Oh. Well. I guess I could. All right. Let me see. . .
(Stands behind playwright and looks over her shoulder at the screen.)

PLAYWRIGHT
(Looks up at Patricia.)
Well? Any thoughts?

(Curtain.)


			

	
	



				
					


	

		
the world, the flesh


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

An unexpected poem.





        the world, the flesh

They did it to me when I was too young
to resist: in my name they renounced 
my skin, my heart, my lungs,
my sex, my brain, my little fingers. 
They renounced my senses, 
my fears, my hungers, my animal urgency.

They renounced the world. 
The deserts and trees, mountains and seas,
everyone who crawls and swims and flies:
denizens of the dirt, tigers and dogs and whales.
They don’t have souls the story goes,
and all that matters is what isn’t.

When the trout lily leaves emerged, 
when the bears came out of their winter dens,
when the buds swelled on the maples,
every spring we remembered our renunciation. 
How strange when the empty tomb
recalls the garden and the flesh. 

I repent. I reclaim all I was taught, 
along with the devil, to renounce. 
Beginning with this patch of ground 
where rotting trunks flower out their fruits,
where robins overturn the unraked leaves
and acorns sprout along the edges of the unmown grass.





			

	
	



				
					


	

		
Start Talking, continued. . .


				

			
				
			
					

			


		

		

PLAYWRIGHT
(Typing furiously.)
Good, good, good. Hang on. I need to get this down. “A job, not a passion . . .”  

PATRICIA
Give me a break.

ALEX
Wait a minute, Mom, I didn’t know that. I just think Gram is cool and you aren’t. What did you want to be when you were my age?

PATRICIA
Oh, a singer, if you must know. Singer-songwriter. I had a nice voice and I wrote some pieces that were very well received at open mics, and a local company wanted to make a tape.

JOAN
I didn’t know that.

PATRICIA
I never told you. You were always working on a book and you always had that Do Not Disturb Under Pain of Death sign on your study door.

ALEX
Gram? Really?

JOAN
Yes, Alex. It’s true. Trisha, I’m sorry. I am so sorry. It’s just that after your father left I was determined to make something of myself. I had to get the academic world to take me seriously, —to show him that folklore was every bit as important as organic chemistry. 

PLAYWRIGHT
Wait, wait, wait. . . . I can’t keep up. What did you say after the “Do not disturb” sign business?

PATRICIA
Wow. I never thought about that. You were in competition with Dad?

JOAN
Did I ever tell you why he left?

PLAYWRIGHT
No, no. Stop. Stop right there. That’s all I need to know about you right now.

PATRICIA
But. . . 

PLAYWRIGHT
No. I mean it. So. Joan came out of my undones, and I guess Patricia is, in a way, a kind of offspring of that. I am super organized and controlling, too, but for other reasons.

ALEX
What reasons?

PLAYWRIGHT
None of your business. But okay. You, Alex. I wanted a relationship with a grandmother, so I invented one. One of my grandmothers died before I was born, and the other died when I was seven and she lived in Cleveland and I only saw her three times. So I always wanted a grandmother.

RED
Wow. Did you invent Grandmother for the same reason?

PLAYWRIGHT
Probably sort of, but I think she’s a little more complicated than that. When I became a grandmother, I got to thinking that maybe the best thing a grandmother can do for the kids is be an example of someone who can do what she wants, in her own way. So, Red, your grandmother came about for that reason. She loves you dearly, and. . .

RED
Yeah, when I come over, she’s always busy at her easel and I have to wait till she’s at a good place to stop before she talks to me. 

GRANDMOTHER
(To Red.)
And you had an easel in my studio, remember? At least, in one of the drafts. Or maybe that was in the story version. Whatever happened to that, Playwright?

PLAYWRIGHT
Oh, you’re right. I’d forgotten. I think it was in the story. Better put it back in. Hang on a minute.(She types.)

JOAN
Grandmother, I’m curious. Would you rather be eaten by a wolf or the sun? Fenris, of course, eats the sun, so if you are in the sun, he’d eat both.

GRANDMOTHER
The sun itself works better for me. You see, in the first couple of pages of our play, I told Red that I was trying to find out the exact color of the sun, and one day—at least in one version— I vanished.  So Red came over as usual with that horrible bag of granola bars and yogurt from my daughter, and I wasn’t there. I think nobody, even the Playwright, knew what had happened to me. But since you ask, I’d prefer the sun. It’s simpler, and stays with the grandmother-as-artist idea better, don’t you think? The search for color?

JOAN
Maybe. But I am intrigued by the idea of introducing the Nordic myth, and, of course, the wolf who is in the original Red Riding Hood tale, but it does complicate things.

PLAYWRIGHT
Okay, okay. Enough already. Who’s next?

PATRICIA
I think that’s all of us.

PAT
Ahem.

PATRICIA
Oh, right. Playwright, what about Pat? And why, pray tell, do we have the same name? We’re hardly the same character.

PLAYWRIGHT
(Looking up, long thinking.)
Same name. Hm. Okay. As I recall, ages ago I did “The Artist’s Way” and I had to come up with five imaginary selves. And I called one of them Patricia. She was an office manager, or something like that. Very efficient. Basically you. Huh. I’d forgotten that. The subconscious is rather fascinating isn’t it? And Pat. Well, who knows? I do know a really sensible woman named Pat, but I didn’t meet her till after I started this whole story. It just suited her.

PAT
But hey. I mean, you said back there I was Hecate or whoever. I don’t know who she is.

JOAN
She’s a goddess. Witches summoned her. She was the goddess of crossroads, and magic. In the Demeter myth, she . . 

PAT
Hold your horses there. Crossroads? That’s the name of the greenhouse I own. In the novel and play both. So that’s why. But still. How come a greenhouse for, whatever, a witch’s goddess?

PLAYWRIGHT
I don’t know, Pat. I really don’t remember. Why don’t you tell me? What are you doing in my head?

PAT
Jesus. Search me. You’re in charge, right? Supposed to be anyhow.