Exceptional Excerpts: The Greengage Summer

I can’t recall why my mother bought me The Greengage Summer by Rumer Godden when I was in 7th grade, if she ever said. I do recall coming into my blue bedroom and seeing it lying on my rumpled, darker blue bed, among castoff clothing and school papers and other books. The cover art fascinated me, with its genderless poker face peering up at me, full of a secret. I once read that the actress, Demi Moore, had named her oldest daughter after this author, and I’ve always been curious as to why and how books show up for people, and make such a lasting impression.

For me, personally, this book figured into my imaginings for a story of my own that I wrote in college, with its equally languid title, “Ripe Was the Drowsy Hour” from a line in the poem, “Ode to Indolence” by John Keats. In Rumer Godden’s story, greengages are the litter of heaven; in mine, hedgeapples appear, but they are rough and inedible, more of a nuisance than a treasure.  My story drew upon the coming of age theme of The Greengage Summer, and my prose, with its own secret, was as awkward as my adolescence, for all of the same reasons. It was long in length, but not quite balanced at its center, and ranging into directions both silly and sinister, which is how our first forays into adulthood can feel.

Rumer Godden wrote many books set in India, but this one takes place in France, and while I read it, I felt as if I had been introduced to a vintage of wine that had been hidden away for adults, until I had slipped into the bottle itself to become infused and a little intoxicated, breathing in the semi-autobiographical story that was not written for children, but about children, which I still was. The first few paragraphs, below, is what I would call Exposition by Immersion, and I hope you enjoy it as we feel the weight of summer roll away behind us, and down a grassy hill:

“On and off, all that hot French August, we made ourselves ill from eating the greengages. Joss and I felt guilty; we were still at the age when we thought being greedy was a childish fault and this gave our guilt a tinge of hopelessness because, up to then, we had believed that as we grew older our faults would disappear, and none of them did. Hester of course was quite unabashed; Will— though he was called Willmouse then— Willmouse and Vicky were too small to reach any but the lowest branches, but they found fruit fallen in the grass; we were all strictly forbidden to climb the trees.

"The garden at Les Oeillets was divided into three; first the terrace and gravelled garden round the house; then, separated by a low box hedge, the wilderness with its statues and old paths; and between the wilderness and the river, the orchard with its high walls. In the end wall a blue door led to the river bank.

"The orchard seemed to us immense and perhaps it was, for there were seven alleys of greengage trees alone; between them, even in that blazing summer, dew lay all day in the long grass. The trees were old, twisted, covered in lichen and moss, but I shall never forget the fruit. In the hotel dining room Mauricette built it into marvelous pyramids on dessert plates laid with vine leaves. “Reines Claudes” she would say to teach us its name as she put our particular plate down, but we were too full to eat. In the orchard we had not even to pick the fruit, it fell off the trees into our hands.

"The greengages had a pale blue bloom, especially in the shade, but in the sun the flesh showed amber through the clear green skin; if it were cracked the juice was doubly warm and sweet. Coming from the streets and small front gardens of Southstone, we had not been let loose in an orchard before; it was no wonder we ate too much.

photo credit: found on Goodreads review by Hana

"'Summer sickness,' said Mademoiselle Zizi.

“'Indigestion,' said Madame Corbet.

"I do not know which it was but ever afterwards, in our family we called that the greengage summer.

“'You are the one who should write this,' I told Joss. 'It happened chiefly to you.' But Joss shut that out as she always shuts out things, or shuts them in so that no one can guess.

“'You are the one who likes words,' said Joss. 'Besides'— and she paused— 'it happened as much to you.'

I did not answer that. I am grown up now— or almost grown up— 'and we still can’t get over it!' said Joss.

'Most people don’t have… that… in thirty or forty years,' I said in defense.

'Most people don’t have it at all,' said Joss.

"If I stop what I am doing for a moment, or in any time when I am quiet, in those cracks in the night that have been with me ever since when I cannot sleep and thoughts seep in, I am back; I can smell the Les Oeillets smells of hot dust and cool plaster walls, of jasmine and box leaves in the sun, of dew in the long grass; the smell that filled the house and garden of Monsieur Armand’s cooking and the house’s own smell of damp linen, or furniture polish, and always, a little, of drains. I can hear the sounds that seem to belong only to Les Oeillets: the patter of poplar trees along the courtyard wall, of a tap running in the kitchen mixed with the sound of high French voices, of the thump of Rex’s tail and another thump of someone washing clothes on the river bank; of barges puffing upstream and Mauricette’s toneless singing— she always sang through her nose; of Toinette and Nicole’s quick loud French as they talked to each other out of the upstair’s windows; of the faint noise of the town and, near, the plop of a fish or of a greengage falling.”

To read Keats’s “Ode to Indolence” stroll over here:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52995/ode-on-indolence

Waiting for Permission to Rebel

CAUTIONARY NOTE: this post will refer to suicide as it relates to those who are identified as a creative type. I wrote it in 2014 and decided not to publish it. In light of recent events in 2018, I fear that it is an increasingly weighty topic.

Mexican-Western 1971

I've noticed a common dynamic in creative types toward their work. Whether the tension is about making their daily work more creative, or about endeavors outside of daily work, there is a back and forth between permission and rebellion that seems to stem from being trapped by guilt.

Before we get into that, I firmly believe that there is hardly anyone who doesn't have a creative capacity. Many people are considered to be creative simply because they were identified that way, and made some sort of commitment to maintaining that identity. While talent is subjective, and success has criteria, creativity is a human trait that finds its way out, even if we don't always recognize it as such.

Because creativity is not always under our control, we sometimes regard it dubiously and as a kind of illegitimacy, as if it fell off the back of a truck and we have to hide and launder it to avoid raising suspicion. We may feel guilty for neglecting this part of ourselves, and we offer it defensive explanations when it tugs at us. We minimize our need for it, and downplay our desire for it. If we didn't, then we would be threatening all of the other necessities that press on us, and we don't want to disappoint.

Disappointing others is painful for how much guilt and shame it can produce. When this goes unchecked it can lead to self-destructive impulses. Many suicides are compelled by guilt feelings in extremis. Having talent doesn't save people from their massive feelings of guilt and obligation. I often think of the double-bind that globally successful creatives have found themselves in. Their creativity comes under contract and then other people's livelihoods become attached to output and a financial bottom line. The person becomes a victim of their own talent. 

Unfortunately, we see far too many people rebelling against this system of being taken, by taking their own lives, instead. Many of us naturally respond to this loss by imagining and being certain that the superstar would have continued to produce and shine brilliantly for many more years to come. Their work is given a new life as a requiem. In this sense, the creative person paradoxically has died in a second birth.

Despite all of the potential for tragedy, we can protect our creativity, and not become an unmerciful stage parent to it, where reality becomes skewed. We get to decide which pearls of ours are of great price, apart from what we produce. There is absolutely no shame in trading our goods for a price, as long as we know what our work is truly worth. There is no shame in devoting ourselves to a work that few would want to buy. We are in service to creativity and not to the gods of criticism, nor to the groupies in search of an identity, who all get upset when the revered person changes their style. Think Bob Dylan going electric.

From seeing what can happen to creatives, many people fear going into that service, and the best way to get rid of a fear of something is to devalue it. But creativity is too strong to stay down indefinitely. Dismissing it is to underestimate it. Discarding it makes us vulnerable to allowing our creativity to become wedded to fear or hate, and like a reversed tarot card, the future becomes upside down and grim. We rebel against the guilty feelings caused by fear of disappointing ourselves and others, and all the while, use our creativity to do the rebelling rather than the work. 

"Creative accounting” in how our ego measures our accomplishments is an example of this, as well as fabricating stories, making empty promises or threats in an effort to keep others from seeing our failings, grinding out justifications for squandering our talent or opportunities, and worst of all, indulging in naiveté. Many of our negative experiences come out of schemes designed to deceive ourselves. Although I hold the truth as one of the highest values, I have often made a concerted effort not to see it and stay mystified because I simply didn’t want to believe it. That sort of ambivalence and cowardice is a dealbreaker for originality. If our hearts aren’t sincere in what we’re doing, with devotion to skillfulness, then the whole thing feels tedious and overdone.

If we experience our creative selves only in conjunction with our darker or hidden sides, then we can begin to believe that we require the components or paraphernalia of dark purposes in order to feel some creative juice. Any tender intentions may end prematurely, because they were commandeered without our full consent. We're involved in some sort of racket, where we have to wait for permission or the perfect setup before we act on our aspirations. That permission will never come. Even if we have a "mob" in our lives, who truly want us to be happy, their blessing will never feel like permission, or even encouragement, unless we truly value creativity as a birthright and expect it of ourselves without excuse.

Everything surrounding that right becomes negotiation that is doable, when it comes to how time, money and energy is spent. We all have chips to bargain with-- some more than others-- but part of the fun is in finding chips we didn't know we had. We were just giving them away invisibly, under a feeling of duress to ward off disappointment and guilt. We helped to build the trap so that we could blame everyone else for our indecision, passivity and resignation.

From "Casino Collectible News", Vol. 2 pg 24 found on antiquegamblingchips.com

Discovering what is truly the case-- what we are laying down our lives for, one hand at a time-- is liberating in its clarity. First we must recognize to ourselves, "No, I can't do all of that and also live with any healthy sense of self. But here is what I can do." If the response to that stance is fear, obligation or guilt— attempts to control or further entrap— then the answer is clear. These people want what they want from you regardless of what it does to you. They want you to make sacrifices so that they don't have to make any. This is because supporting someone comes with a price. If a person says all of the right things about supporting you, yet is unwilling to give anything that actual support requires, then you know that support to them just means, “Whatever is leftover after me.” This is not the right attitude of true family or friendship. That is consumption of another. That is grounds for not just rebellion, but a full-scale, at home revolution.

Part of compassionate support that we can all provide for each other is to help someone find their own chips, so they are not as fearful about giving up what protects them from the demands of creativity. It is understandably difficult to watch a person struggle, and want to design a path for them as we see fit. I, myself, at times have wished for someone to just tell me what to do, in order to lay down the burden of my own potential, like some sort of celestial blueprint, or an Everlasting Hall Pass that allows me to skip over the responsibility for my own life. Self-determination is often up in the air, but it isn’t weightless. The difficulties are real, which is why we need to guard against the abandonment of the self and its requirements, even when pushing all of that aside would be easier. While ease is an enjoyable state, it is only temporary and not a virtue. It leads to stagnation and depletion which fail to reinforce autonomy. Struggle is not the desired end, but autonomy is, in ourselves and others. Protecting the autonomy of another can mean letting go of our plans and misguided efforts to provide comfort rather than encouragement.

There is nothing noble in doing something for someone when they could be discovering and deriving enjoyment from doing it themselves. It is not our place to rob them of that joy, just to keep the peace. If we are misjudged in the midst of taking a stand for ourselves or for them, and allow a space for their frustrated creativity to emerge, then we may have to accept that misjudgment. If we are trying to control and keep everyone completely on track, pain-free and entertained, then we have only cheated them from what they really need, which is our priceless, true self that keeps the faith.  Autonomy need not equal aloneness.

How do we go about living within self-generated freedom? How do we grant ourselves permission to rebel? Simply by making both conscientious advances and retreats and seeking wise counsel from whomever appears to be making progress and not going in circles. Within and without, there are countless examples, demonstrations and expressions for us to excavate, emulate and exercise, until we realize that we have been bursting with a declaration of adoration all along.

And if you've got the summertime blues, Revolution can come to you in a red dress.

"Miss Celie's Blues" by Quincy Jones from the film The Color Purple, 1986

While I Weep, Your Guitar Gently Plays

Desire for the Earth

Your name means "valiant fighter".

Beloved,
I wrote this poem about you, months ago, before I went looking for the song below. I had sent you a different version from this one, during a conversation about guitar solos. 

The Light From Outside

Wherever you are, now

you’re not my brother anymore.

You’re someone else.

I don’t know how I felt the change.

You’re someone who exists as

Desire for the Earth.

You want things to happen here

for the people you love,

and yet, you don’t want to be here anymore,

not part of it, in the same way as you were, before.

You are quite relieved, I feel. So deeply and thoroughly relieved.

There aren’t any seas as deep as the relief you feel.

One day, I listened to your music for quite a while,

for longer than seemed wise.

I used my hands to feel the solid flesh of my arms

and cushions, and the drape of the sheet.

The shadows around the room were warm and not lonely.

The lights from the cars outside,

all going home at the end of their days

were cast low to the ground,

meeting the road with every revolution, very much here.

But I didn’t feel tears start to well up

until many songs had been played and replayed.

And that seems good.

You are starting to be part of 

feelings outside of grief, now.

You don’t live within its confines as much.

I think that will be more and more

the case.

And seeing the word, case

I’ll now make a bad pun

and think of you as the guitar that is no longer in its case.

But you’re not your guitar

and not your music.

I know that I am not the words I write, not the thoughts I think a few seconds

before I type them. I’m not all of these feelings.

I don’t know what I am, but I think someday,

we will recognize each other enough that it won’t

seem strange at all to just 

start seeing, instead, what we both want

for the Earth.

                                                                                        ~~~~~~~~~~

Now that you're gone, and there will be no more two-sided conversations, I wanted to write and attach this song to my poem. This video came up that I'd never seen before, with all of its uncanny images. Every string of my heart wishes this could have been your fate, instead. And maybe, now it is.

No more performing or teaching and not getting paid, no more worrying about the sale of your gifts, no more being controlled by what you could not conquer, no more cheap hotel rooms, canceled gigs, bait and switch, no more buying and selling your guitar. You are with the right ones, now. They delivered you from all that was unbearable. And those of us here, we still love you and thank you.

Carlos Santana plays George Harrison, accompanied by Indie Arie and Yo-Yo Ma

I look at you all, see the love there that's sleeping

While my guitar gently weeps

I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping

Still my guitar gently weeps.

I don't know why nobody told you

How to unfold your love

I don't know how someone controlled you

They bought and sold you.

I look at the world and I notice it's turning

While my guitar gently weeps

With every mistake we must surely be learning

Still my guitar gently weeps.

I don't know how you were diverted

You were perverted too

I don't know how you were inverted

No one alerted you.

I look at you all, see the love there that's sleeping

While my guitar gently weeps

Look at you all

Still my guitar gently weeps.

Honor and Humility: The Kissing Cousins of Love

If you want to be a person of honor, then you must bring honor to what is valuable in life. We need not honor only what is light, beautiful, and pleasant, but also the good that can be learned from what is dark, messy, and difficult. I prefer the first set, but without the others, my set of values would be incomplete. I don’t have to go very far to find any of those tussling values. We’re surrounded by opposites at every moment, and accepting them (liking them is another thing) brings a balance and harmony that feels close to a peace with one’s self. When you’re at peace with yourself, that can bring the right conditions for a clear-eyed love for your self, as temporary as the self is, with all of its frailty and strength combined.

"Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss" by Antonio Canova, 1787,  the Louvre, Paris

In my own life, I’ve discovered that a necessary ingredient for regarding the self lovingly is humility. The definition of humility mostly comes with other words to describe it: humble, modest, unassuming, not excessive. Although today is about Saint Valentine, I find Saint Paul to be a good resource for the definition of humility when he admonishes us to not think of ourselves more highly than we ought, but with sober judgment, according to the measure of faith that we are given.

There are some interesting things to notice about this statement on humility. Firstly, he doesn’t say that people should debase themselves or deny what is good and valuable about themselves. He just reminds us not to forget our shortcomings, without despairing of them. Secondly, the word “sober” is another descriptor that gets misused sometimes, to mean somber, stern, or not lively. One of its given meanings is “sensible.” When we’re sensible, that means our senses are engaged, and we’re not leapfrogging around in our minds, from one view of ourselves to another, assuming the best and worst alone. We can sense the truth, feel its shape, and see and hear how it expresses itself. We aren't cut off from our ability to know the truth of ourselves and the situations we find ourselves in.

One movie that portrays self-love, sober humility, and honor, is Cast Away with Tom Hanks. The story is the well-worn trope of a person finding themselves alone on a desert island, in this case, Chuck Noland, an employee of Federal Express. Chuck has to keep his senses engaged in order to survive, which means that he has to honor his body by taking care of its needs, even when that is burdensome, frustrating, and monotonous. He has to honor his need for companionship, communication, and reflection in the creation of Wilson, the volleyball. He honors his need to be out of pain and isolation by weaving a rope to hang himself from the tallest point on the island. He honors his need to not make things worse for himself by testing the rope and seeing it fail. He honors his desire to get the hell off that island, even after painful failures, by bringing his mental and physical faculties to bear upon the hope and problem of rescue.  When love is in action, the psyche can bring forth all sorts of inspiration and possibility.

Twentieth Century Fox, DreamWorks, 2000
The fire of the psyche needs room to breathe

On his life raft, he is confronted by what I can only describe as one of the most sobering sights I’ve seen onscreen. While he is floating on a gradually dismantling raft, with the sea beneath him bearing him up and along, and the air above him out to the stars, the sudden eye of a whale emerges and regards him for a moment. What could you possibly conceal about yourself and your life, paradoxically moving and in situ upon the waves, with no words to cover yourself with? There’s nothing to claim or to argue. You are a naked creature, one of many, and also one of many like you. You’re not rare and noble. You’re just another part of what the ocean contains, what the heavens look down upon, and that level plane of existence is peaceful, in spite of its potential danger and awe-inspiring gaze.

Found on Deviant Art, Etaris 333

Yet, we can also honor our uniqueness within that commonality, by choosing a meaning for what we perceive and what is behind our actions, making ourselves a little less cast away, a little more at home with ourselves, a little more tapped into many currents. On a current for this unique Chuck Noland character, there comes to the island, floating up from the plane’s wreckage, a number of parcels that are never delivered because he keeps and finds a proper and unique use for them. All except one. It has the sender’s business logo on it, a pair of wings. This logo gives him pause, and he decides not to open this package, in hopes that he may one day be able to deliver it. He later uses that symbol to decorate the sail of his raft, both a bold statement of faith, made with humility in the knowledge that the whole endeavor may collapse.

When it comes to symbols, though, they can become illusory artifacts of the past if they fail to continue to lead forward to the future.  For Chuck, there comes a moment of confusion and disappointment regarding his treasured photo of his fiancé, Kelly. When, near the end, he realizes that what kept him motivated to returning home-- a faded, idealized image of her kept locked inside a gold watch-- is no longer available to him, he takes an honest appraisal of that turn of events with a trusted friend. His Kelly belongs to the past, and the actual Kelly belongs to her own future. He honors the story of that disappointment by sharing it, soberly, with a little humor, and without blame or embellishment. 

And yet, at this point, we are only near the end of the tale, and not yet at the transitional threshold of the end. He also will realize, at a crossroads on a vast ocean of prairie land, that the symbol for his future life– the outspread and upturned wings– was on the island with him the whole time, too. Like many things, the symbol that appears can only be seen clearly in hindsight. But, like all symbols, this one only points in a direction and is not the end in itself. And even as he moves into this new life, he keeps his faithful witnessing mind by his side, his Wilson, that can always be renewed in another form and other places. Wilson was not bound to the island, either.

Where we are at today, St. Valentine, Aphrodite and Cupid (who fell in love with Psyche) are all getting a big celebration in their honor. I spent part of that day with one of my favorite writers about love, the late Amy Winehouse. Because if you can write out thoughts about love, like I do, that’s a good friend of love. But if you can write it out, put music to it, and then sing it in front of people who are gazing at you in the humility of all your ecstasy and misery, well, then that’s a lover of love for all time, and should be honored as such:

"I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know" by Donny Hathaway, 1973

""Cause there's nothing, there's nothing you can teach me

That I can't learn from Mr. Hathaway."

–– Amy Winehouse from "Rehab"

A Mother Pie of Gratitude

When I was in Junior High School, after my parents' divorce, I encountered a book by a Young Adult writer, named Helen Cavanagh, that was life-altering in the perspective it provided me, and I have shared its wisdom with a few close people. Now that most of my mothering days are behind me and will be reviewed by my progeny with credits and demerits, it feels like a good time to spread the message of the book to a wider audience. The message holds up over time and also in my personal experience.

The book's title is simply Honey, and the cover merely shows a girl with honey-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail with perfect glowing skin and a cute yellow t-shirt. I wanted to look like that girl, and its sweet title was an easy draw, so I checked it out of my English teacher's classroom library. Thank you, Mrs. Gordon, wherever you are.

As I read about Honey, the main character, though, I no longer thought of her as the model on the cover. I began to identify with the girl of the story, because her parents were also separated, which, in 1980, wasn't as commonplace as it is today. The details of Honey's life were very different from mine, but close enough that I could relate to some of her feelings. Yet I also felt relieved that I couldn't relate to all of them.

For instance, Honey's father has abandoned her mother and her, and is simply a vanished phantom throughout most of the book. Her mother is nearly comatose with depression, and Honey is obligated to care for herself, and sometimes both of them, through relationships she has formed with various people in their small town. We're introduced to the helpful and encouraging librarian, as well as a kind but nearly-blind widow who needs Honey's help with reading and small tasks. There is also a neighboring family with two sisters around Honey's age, and her boyfriend, Danny, who is long-suffering and devoted, despite Honey's mercurial mood swings.

The character who is the most intriguing, and who belongs to a literary trope, is the black maid to the neighbor family. She's designed to be intriguing, because-- like all solitary black individuals in a story peopled by white Americans-- she is the one who delivers the essential insight to Honey, and to the reader. With the legendary mystical wisdom which will serve the main character by being a bit exotic, a bit other, and a bit like Mary Poppins, she shows up in the story possessing a nearly magical competence and shrewdness, as well as stern and amusing personality quirks that will save the day. Helen Cavanagh does avoid a few traps in the character of ... wait for it ... Vanilla, by making her a young, politically-conscious college student with an unapologetic afro and a sassy impatience for her charges, which often includes Honey, who hangs around their large home and lawn with the two sisters who have everything Honey does not.

This benevolent family provides Honey with an escape from her own somewhat bleak existence on the other side of a forest of pine trees that separates the gracious lifestyle of one part of town with the working class desperation on the other. Honey will traverse this forest many times throughout the book and sometimes takes home hand-me-down clothing and leftovers from the large meals that Vanilla cooks for them. The mother of the girls is perfectly groomed and always welcoming to Honey, but remains at an elegant remove from whatever travails Honey and her mother are going through.

Toward the end of the book, Honey's absent father returns unexpectedly, her mother is suddenly happy again, as if nothing had happened or changed, and they announce to her that their family will be moving to another town. Honey is not having it. She presents herself to each of her friends as an orphan who needs to be taken in, and will work and be perfect in every way if only she can stay. One by one, the friends explain to her why this would not be good for her, nor for them. She racks up disappointment which begins to fuel resentment toward them and hatred toward herself. The final dashed hope comes when she discovers that the cast-off clothing of the neighbor girls did not come from their thoughtfulness, nor their mother's, but from Vanilla, who has been compassionate toward Honey, but not entirely sympathetic. After all, Honey does have parents, shelter, friends, and a future that could get better with time.

While I no longer have the physical book, and should probably get myself a replacement copy, I can paraphrase the advice that Vanilla gives to Honey (And yes, I, too, am now noticing that these names seem fitting for two showgirls talking backstage): Motherhood is too big of a job for one woman, and so it needs to be somewhat divided up, the way you would apportion a pie. Anyone who has nurtured you, even if they aren't all that maternal, is part of your Mother Pie. While your mother might make up the largest piece, offerings from fathers, other relatives, teachers, coaches, partners, friends, and even lovers (although they are young, her boyfriend Danny regards her tenderly and is patient with her flashes of coldness, even when she doesn't understand them, herself) are the ingredients that may be recognized for what they could give, rather than resented for what they could not.

There may be people who have Mother Pies made from lives that are smooth as cream. But that seems unlikely and maybe a little suspect. Even the neighbor girls must eventually grow from sheltered innocence to experience that will add texture and the necessity of the unexpected. The assortment that can make up a pie are people of all kinds: the fruits, the nuts, and the cheesy. While children can often teach us about life, I don't think they should be part of this pie. The effect on Honey, of parenting her mother, is what brings on her emotional storms of guilt, self-doubt, and anger, which hovers over a self-destructive bitterness.

I would be feeling a little uncertain about this whole Motherhood ideal, too. 

Not all of the people in your Mother Pie will necessarily agree on what you need, or how they feel about you or each other. Opinions and judgments won't always mix well to provide the perfect whole. There may be times when things bubble over, or some patches of crust fall away. It may not be a pie that wins a blue ribbon at the fair, but it can still be rich and filling, and most importantly, real. A fantasy of the perfect parent into which we fold all of our expectations doesn't serve us well.

And now, if you really want a mashup, your mother pie might be part of your higher power, but that can be a thought for another day. Also, I don't know of a book that has an extended metaphor for what makes up Fatherhood, but there probably is one, and that may be an interesting quest for anyone who wants to find it or create one.

Andy MacDowell singing a paen to the unique pleasure of pie, from the overtly saccharine 1996 movie, Michael

For the practical among us, who have had their sweet tooth tempted by this post, here is a good recipe for pie crust from Allrecipes.com:

1 1/4 cup flour
1 tsp salt
1/2 cup butter, chilled and diced
1/4 cup ice water

In a large bowl, combine flour and salt. Cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Stir in water, a tablespoon at a time, until mixture forms a ball. Wrap in plastic and refrigerate for 4 hours or overnight.

Roll dough out to fit a 9 inch pie plate. Place crust in pie plate. Press the dough evenly into the bottom and sides of the pie plate.

MY NOTE: As with most things, don't overwork, and if it's not handling well, start over.

Poem: Sun Moon

Artist: Veronica Radelet, Abstract Landscape 13

At the mid-point of the year,

mid-summer,

mid-life,

in the night

the Moon rises

to show half her light.

The Sun will roll over in his bed

and breathe in his own heat

and rest easy

knowing that She

will wax into her fullness

in darkened plain sight.

For a time,

He need not

scorch nor burn

the pathways

across the earth

set down for lions

in tall, sharp grasses,

and He need not

boil the ocean

with the sting ray

and the eel;

the mountain tops

need not melt

and flood

into parched ravines

lined with curling leaves.

Artist: Sharon Cummings, Divine Solitude

Instead, She will suffice,

and in softness

step lightly away from

Him, in quiet freedom 

unveiled

and invite

the luna moth,

the plopping seal,

the snowy owl

to a midnight

of peace

and sighs,

as the sea

pulls up

the foaming

hem of her

dresses

to reveal

her tidal bed

of gleaming shells

and stranded weeds

until

song rises

into vapor

and the Sun must

have his way

once more,

battering

against

glinting

windows,

glaring at orange cranes

that swing

the stacked

objets d’effort

that have traveled

from another

hemisphere

of strife

and poisonous clouds.

Artist: Simon Kenny, On a Day Like Today, 2012

And then She 

will cover her face

and weep

that He sees

the flecks

of glittering

sand in the

pavement

but never

sees Her,

or the man

on her curve,

fashioned from deep mares

of tranquility.

He, deaf and blind

from both

refusal

and preservation

of the righteous,

who tread along

lush rows,

blundering

standard bearers

who

trample

out vintages

of sleep

and dreams

to the end

of their days.

                                                                                                      –Lizbeth Leigh

Artist: Nataera, Paris, France 2009 Original Landscape with Flowers

© copyright 2017 by Guilded Lily Press

The Mid-life Crisis That Wasn't

I wrote down the first part, and then I surprised myself by the finish.

"When I think of all that I have thought, felt, said, written, cried over, laughed off, gone without, run for, packed up, traveled to, bought, lost, worn, made up, brushed out, painted on, squeezed into, balanced on, and pressed together… I realize that’s what made it so fun."

I wish I could attribute this quote to someone famous and revered. But it's just me.

Dorothy Parker was known for her sharp tongue and witticisms. But there's always a little something sad underlying her jabs, and I guess that's how I like my snark. Not too proud, not too bitter. Hers is a good vintage, coming from the Rothschild line, born to a Scottish Protestant and a German Jew but taught by Roman Catholic nuns. I don't know how one could escape that childhood without having a mind full of wry observation and angst tempered with a sense of the absurd. When I read her, she strikes me as the Oscar Wilde of her time, or maybe he was the Dorothy Parker of his.

Some of these one-liners and verses are well-known, and seem like precursors to Twitter:

"Salary is no object: I want only enough to keep body and soul apart."

"What fresh hell can this be?"(whenever someone rang the doorbell)

"Brevity is the soul of lingerie."

"You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think."

"Never complain, never explain."

"A hangover is the wrath of grapes."

"I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy."

And here are a few for self-knowledge and acceptance, to stave off a crisis of identity:

"In youth it was a way I had,
To do my best to please.
And change, with every passing lad
To suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know
And do the things I do,
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you."

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"And if my heart be scarred and burned,
The safer, I, for all I learned."

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Inventory

Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, a foe.
Four be the things I'd been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles and doubt.
Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.
Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye."

Here is one about writing, that I feel the same way about, having come to discover myself a writer and poet. Although I have a degree in Creative Writing, and have been published and paid, I've only ever thought of myself as someone who writes, rather than a Writer. She touches upon the great fear that comes along with a professional title:

"If you have any young friends who aspire to be writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they're happy."

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"If I don't drive around the park,
I'm pretty sure to make my mark.
If I'm in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again.
If I abstain from fun and such,
I'd probably amount to much.
But I shall stay the way I am,
Because I do not give a damn."

Honestly, I do give a damn, many damns, and I would love to see more young people (having been one for several years) take up writing along with their damns. But I would filch their copies of The Elements of Style, "a book not to be tossed off lightly. It should be thrown with great force."

I love her irreverence surrounding death, which, for me, removes its sting so satisfyingly.

"That would be a good thing to cut on her tombstone: wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment."

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"It costs me never a stab nor squirm
To tread by chance upon a worm.
Aha, my little dear, I say,
Your clan will pay me back one day."

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"I never see that prettiest thing--
A cherry bough gone white with Spring--
But what I think how gay 'twould be
To hang me from a flowering tree."

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Resumé

Razors pain you,
Rivers are damp,
Acids stain you,
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful,
Nooses give,
Gas smells awful,
You might as well live.