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Dear Readers,

Spotty wi-fi, a visit with daughter and granddaughter, and living out of a suitcase will mean a vacation from my weekly posts.  Please do peruse the archive for posts from the past year.  Perhaps you will find new inspiration from previous topics and prompts.

I will be back on line after August 11th.

Happy writing and happy summer.

Sharon Bray

(Portions of this week’s post previously published on May 26, 2013)

Paying attention, the act of being fully present to our outer and inner worlds is the writer’s work.  Susan Sontag advised aspiring writers to learn to “pay attention to the world,” calling it the most important skill of storytelling. Silence, she argued, “invites us to pay selfless and unselfconscious attention to the world the artist is creating” (Maria Popova, Brain Pickings Weekly).  But it’s not that easy to be silent in the noisy world we live in.  I’ve come to embrace silence, but I had to practice it intentionally at first.  Like so many, I was mired in the demands of my busy life, the rush-rush world that our culture is with its emphasis on speed, efficiency and instant communication.  My attention was pulled in a dozen different directions.  Even my writing suffered.

Embracing silence, learning how to be quiet, has become an important discipline for me.  Just as writing is healing, so is silence and learning to be truly present in the world around us.  My noisy mind quiets; I regain a sense of calm and openness, and I notice things I had previously overlooked.  Little by little, I have learned how important silence is to my writing and well-being.  It’s why, every morning, you’ll find me on our deck sitting in silence, my only companion a small, affectionate terrier.  It is my ritual now, beginning the day in silence and watching the world awaken, listening to the chatter and chirp of  birds, noticing the changing moods of nature in the early morning light. These mornings have become my meditation, my prayer,  a practice of embracing silence and paying attention. It is a ritual that buoys my spirit and informs my writing, opening my mind to new ideas and insights.

My experience isn’t unique.  I was experiencing something that poets had always known.  Ted Kooser, writing the introduction to his book, Winter Morning Walks:  One Hundred Postcards to Jim Harrison said:

“In the autumn of 1968, during my recovery from surgery and radiation for cancer, I began taking a two-mile walk each morning…hiking in the isolated country roads near where I live…During the previous summer, depressed by my illness, preoccupied by the routines of my treatment, and feeling miserably sorry for myself, I’d all but given up on reading and writing…  One morning in November, following my walk, I surprised myself by trying my hand at a poem.  Soon I was writing every day… I began pasting my morning poems on postcards and sending them to Jim…”

As a poet, the act of writing each day was important to Kooser’s healing, but so was his routine of walking in the early morning.  Throughout his book, we discover a touching portrayal of a poet recovering from the ravages of illness and treatment, whose spirit and sensibilities were reawakened in his solitary walks.  He too began to notice life around him once again and the beauty of the natural world.

I saw the season’s first bluebird
this morning, one month ahead
of its scheduled arrival.  Lucky I am
to go off to my cancer appointment
having been given a bluebird, and,
for a lifetime, have been given
this world.

Kooser reminds us of the importance of noticing, of paying attention, and being fully present and attentive.  As he began to notice the life around him again, we “see” his recovery, but it’s the spiritual recovery we are most touched by, not the physical one.

The poet Wendell Berry habitually spent his Sunday mornings in a kind of walking meditation, observing the world and writing poems that became his collection of “Sabbath poems” which spanned two decades.  In the preface Berry writes, “These poems were written in silence, in solitude, mainly out of doors…the poems are about moments when heart and mind are open and aware…”

Best of any song

is bird song

in the quiet, but first

you must have the quiet.

(In:  A Timbered Choir, 1998)

…but first you must have the quiet.  Quiet—embracing silence—invites us to pay attention, to opens our hearts and minds to all that is around us.  In the poem, “Gratitude,” Mary Oliver, asks–and answers—eight simple questions.

What did you notice?

The dew snail;
the low-flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark…


The poem continues, in a pattern of a question of the narrator and her response, a treasure of richly described observations of the natural world.  At the end of the poem, she poses one last question:

What did you think was happening?

And answers: …so the gods shake us from our sleep.

(From:  What Do We Know: Poems And Prose Poems, 2003)

Whether shaking us from our sleep or rescuing us from the demands of an over-busy, over-hurried life, paying attention, as Oliver and others remind us,  is about slowing down and being attentive to the present, to what’s inside or right in front of our eyes.  For the artist, the poet and writer, silence is indispensable, but for all of us, artist or not, we need these moments of solitude and of silence.  In Open House for Butterflies, a children’s book written by Ruth Krause and illustrated by Maurice Sendak, there’s one particularly lovely drawing of a small boy sitting by a stream.  The caption reads:  “Everybody should be quiet near a little stream and listen.”

Why not re-discover the gift of quiet?  Meander along a wooded trail, near the sea, sit by a stream or take a long early morning walk in your neighborhood.  Take in the sights, sounds, smells, and movement.  Write about what you see—one single observation.  Describe it and let it take you wherever it takes you.

At a certain point you say to the woods, to the sea, to the mountains, the world,
Now I am ready. Now I will stop and be wholly attentive.
You empty yourself and wait, listening.

Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

“How’s your knee?” This is my husband’s repetitive greeting each morning.  I know he’s concerned, but I typically brush his questions aside with something like “Okay for now…” and continue with my morning routine, warming up my body for the daily dog walk.  This morning, however, I couldn’t hide my frustration with a body that is, apparently, determined to speak far more loudly with complaint than I am willing to hear.  My knee, injured many years ago when I was hit by a car on a morning run, made climbing our front steps an exercise in pain and discomfort, even though I’ve been wearing a knee brace since the arthritis flared up again.  Since I favor the injured knee, the sciatic nerve in my left side is also complaining.  Aging gracefully, I’ve decided, is no mean feat.  Coming to terms with the changing body isn’t something I’m enjoying, certainly not today.  When John asked (again) how I was feeling this morning, I burst into tears.  It was less about pain and more about frustration.

and the body, what about the body?
Sometimes it is my favorite child,
uncivilized. . .

And sometimes my body disgusts me.
Filling and emptying it disgusts me. . . .

This long struggle to be at home
in the body, this difficult friendship.

By Jane Kenyon (From: “Cages” in Otherwise:  New & Selected Poems, 1996)

I managed a wan smile.  “Let’s not talk about my body today,” I said, sniffling.  “I feel like it’s falling apart, and that depresses me.”  John took me in his arms while I wept a little, immersed in self-pity.  Just days ago, aching knee and stiffness aside, I received the diagnosis for a swollen left toe.  Fearful I’d broken it somehow, I submitted to an x-ray of my foot.  The verdict?  “Arthritic changes in the toe.”  Huh?  Arthritis of the toe?  Although I joked about it with my husband, it was one more thing, and enough to send my spirits plummeting.

The thing is, my body seems intent on challenging my self-image lately.  I have always been active and energetic, someone who shoves furniture around without thought or carries potted plants from one place on the deck to another without concern.  I ran; I danced; I walked briskly, feeling like a woman able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, or at least, tackle them with agility and determination.  But now I’m crying “Uncle!” as my body, bit by bit, or rather, joint by joint, is forcing me to make imposing revisions to my self-image—like it or not, it’s all about the undeniable process of aging.  This long struggle to be at home /in the body, this difficult friendship.

I’m admit it:  I’m guilty of taking my body for granted despite some serious accidents in childhood, surgeries and illness.  I’ve pushed on, undeterred by these physical set-backs, or at least undeterred until my body protested.  Now I am learning to accept I may have to make concessions I never considered.

Which body part will be the next
To make you think that you’re a wreck
That you’ve gone so far over the hill
All you can do is take a pill

From:  Body Parts:  A Collection of Poems about Aging, by Janet Cameron Hoult, 2010)

Sooner or later, our bodies fail us, whether in illness the process of physical wear or tear and age-related change.  When they do, it’s difficult to admit we’ve taken our physical health for granted—even denied their inevitable aging. Our bodies, in illness or decline, are the subject of many poems, as Kenyon Jane Kenyon’s “Cages,” or  Marilyn Hacker’s, “Cancer Winter,” for example, where  she referred to her body as “self-betraying.”  Mark Doty, in “Atlantis,” described the body of a friend dying from AIDS:  “When I put my head to his chest/I can hear the virus humming/like a refrigerator”  (www.poets.org).   But it is May Swenson, perhaps, whose poem, “Question,” I find most thought-provoking as I consider my body this week.   In it, she comes to terms with the inevitable demise of a body that has carried her through life, a life she can no longer take for granted.  She writes the questions we all contend with as our lives develop and change.  I read it and remember to be grateful for the body that has carried me this far—and will continue to carry me in years to come.

Body my house
my horse my hound
what will I do
when you are fallen

Where will I sleep
How will I ride
What will I hunt

Where can I go
without my mount
all eager and quick
How will I know
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure…?

(From: New & Selected Things Taking Place, 1978)

I’m learning to bow to the demands of my body, but it’s a process of balancing what’s good with the body without giving up what’s good for the soul.  Acupuncture, massage, chiropractic, physical therapy, daily exercise—I do it all.  I’m may not be entirely at peace with the aches and complaints of the body I inhabit, but it’s mine, the only one I’ve got, and I plan to use it for a good many more years.

Has your body spoken too loudly at times?  Betrayed you?  Let you down?  Forced you to come to terms with a “new” normal?  What precipitated the change?  How did you feel?  How have you made peace with an altered or changing body?  Write about the body.

(Portions of today’s post previously appeared on July 14, 2013)

When our semi-conductor
Raised his baton, we sat there
Gaping at Marche Militaire,
Our mouth-opening number.
It seemed faintly familiar
(We’d rehearsed it all that winter),
But we attacked in such a blur,
No army anywhere
On its stomach or all fours
Could have squeezed though our cross fire…

By the last lost chord, our director
Looked older and soberer.
No doubt, in mind’s ear
Some band somewhere
In some Music of some Sphere
Was striking a note as pure
As the wishes of Franz Schubert,
But meanwhile here we were:
A lesson in everything minor,
Decomposing our first composer.

(From: “The Junior High School Band Concert,” by David Wagoner;  Traveling Light: Collected and New Poems.  University of Illinois Press, 1999)

I thought again of Wagoner’s poem this past week as I dusted off my old alto recorder, struggling to remember fingering and play a simple piece I’d once done easily.  I found the recorder and a stack of sheet music as I went through boxes of old belongings. When I opened the box and held the recorder it in my hands, my desire to play rekindled.  My first attempts were awkward and unmelodic.  I’d forgotten fingering, and my fingers lacked the agility I once had.  It wasn’t unlike how I felt when I first learned to play the French horn as a twelve-year-old.  I wanted to play in the band. Our music teacher and  band leader needed French horn players, so I volunteered.

It wasn’t the musical experience I hoped for, but I went on to become first horn throughout junior high and high school  The trouble was that the  bulk of my musical in the high school band was relegated to football , September through November.  I remember how the icy brass mouthpiece banged against my frozen lips as the band performed on the field at every halftime.  Worse, I was forced to wear a most unattractive uniform covered in shiny brass buttons and gold cord, which only made look like the toy soldier out of “The Nutcracker. “

So it’s little wonder that given the opportunity to “shine,” as it were, in our annual spring concert, we French horns quite literally blasted out the theme to Dvořák’s “The New World Symphony.”  We played with all the enthusiasm of musical students who’d been denied anything but the after beat in the dozens of marches that made up most of our repertoire.  Our fervor over-rode our appreciation for subtlety and modulation.  The look on our bandleader’s face has stayed with me all these years later.  His surprise, no, shock, registering on his face as we belted out those unforgettable bars in our few moments of glory.  I quickly gave up my career as a French horn player when I left for college.

It turns out that all those years of piano lessons, singing in the church choir, doing pliés while a pianist accompanied my ballet class,  playing French horn in the marching band–even playing in a recorder quintet as an adult– were beneficial in ways I didn’t realize at the time.  Not only can music enhance youthful self-esteem and academic performance, musical training helps protect our mental sharpness and brain functioning.  As I’ve aged, I’m now intent on maintaining my mental acuity for as long as possible.

It’s one of the reasons I signed up for classes in African drumming four years ago.  I’d never played a drum, but I’ve played with the same enthusiasm as that youthful horn player I once was.  I often joked that I’d remain in the beginner class indefinitely because an accidental  shoulder injury cut my drumming career short.  Now what?  I love music and rhythm.  Drumming in a community of other drummers was joyous and exhilarating.  But it’s not just drumming: Anything to do with music makes me feel better.  Music is good medicine.

“The power of music to integrate and cure is quite fundamental,” Dr. Oliver Sacks, neurologist and author of Awakenings wrote. “It is the profoundest non-chemical medication.” Music has a long history in medicine and healing. The ancient Greeks believed music could heal the body and the soul. Ancient Egyptians and Native Americans incorporated singing and chanting as part of their healing rituals. Even the U.S. Veterans Administration incorporated music an adjunct therapy for shell-shocked soldiers after World War II. Today, music therapy is widely used in hospitals and cancer centers to promote healing and enhance the quality of patients’ lives.

Google “music and healing,” and you’ll find a number of articles attesting to the physiological and emotional benefits of music.

  • It aids our autonomic nervous systems, positively affecting blood pressure, heartbeat and breathing.  In fact, music can actually improve the overall functioning of our cardiovascular systems.
  • It helps reduce stress, aid relaxation and alleviate depression.
  • In cancer patients, music can decrease anxiety. Together with anti-nausea drugs, music can help to ease nausea and vomiting accompanying chemotherapy.
  • It relieves short-term pain and decreases the need for pain medication.
  • It’s effective in diminishing pre-surgical anxiety and beneficial for patients with high blood pressure.
  • Music even plays a role in improving troubled teens’ self-esteem and academic performance.

Music also improves memory functioning.  Think about it:  We associate songs and other musical pieces with the people, places and emotions we experienced in the past. Not only does music our trigger life stories, but it can enhance memory functioning and face-name recognition among Alzheimer’s and dementia patients. (http://clearinghouse.missouriwestern.edu/manuscripts/230.php).

My mother died of Alzheimer’s several years ago.  On one of my final visits with her, I was shocked by the physical and mental deterioration in the few weeks since I’d last  seen her.  Unresponsive and no longer able to walk, and she sat motionless in a wheelchair, her head bobbing listlessly to her chest. I tried to elicit a reaction from her, but without success.  I pushed the wheelchair outside and walked around and around the building, before finally stopping to rest, stationing her next to a Bougainvillea  furious with red blooms hoping to see a glimmer of life—some sign my mother was still inside her wasting body.  I took her hand in mine and impulsively began singing.  It was a song she often sang when I was a child.

“Let me call you sweetheart, I’m in love with you,” I began, struggling to remember the lyrics.  “Let me hear you whisper…”  My eyes filled with tears, but I kept singing as much as I could remember.  Very slowly, my mother raised her head to fix her eyes on my face.  With great effort, she smiled.  “Why,” she said, struggling for words, “it’s Sha-ron!”  She nodded and smiled once more, closing her eyes.  “I’m hap-py,” she said.  So, as it happened, was I.

This week, think about music as medicine.  What role does music play in your life?  Have you used music as part of your healing during illness or loss?  How did it help?  What memories does a particular song ignite for you?  What stories?  Music, even a song like “Happy Birthday,” is also a powerful prompt for writing.   Here are a few suggestions for writing:

  • Perhaps there was some particular music that helped you through cancer treatment or another difficult time.  Listen to it again, closing your eyes, and try to remember that time and how the music made you feel.
  • Recall a lullaby from childhood, a favorite song, a bit of classical music, or even the somewhat dissonant music from your high school band. What memories or stories does the music trigger?
  • Take any favorite recording, classical, jazz, new age, or pop, and listen to it.  Keep your notebook nearby. As you listen, capture the random thoughts and associations that come to mind. Once the recording ends, open your notebook and begin free writing.  Do this for five minutes.  When you finish, re-read what you’ve written and underline the sentence that has the most power for you.  Use that sentence to begin writing again on a fresh page. Set the timer for 15 minutes and see where it takes you.

I think I should have no other mortal wants if I could always have plenty of music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without effort when I am filled with music.– George Bernard Shaw

Preface:  Three weeks ago, my six-year-old grandson gave his sister, age 4, a haircut, “artfully” executed with his Sesame Street scissors.  My daughter was sleeping a little later than usual on a Sunday morning, and as far as she knew, her dynamic duo were playing quietly together. 

She awakened to find Emily’s long blonde locks wound around the brushes of the carpet sweeper—a careful clean-up job undertaken by her brother.  She greeted her mother with a huge smile and a rather uneven pixie cut, while Nathan held back, aware, I think, that his hairdressing skills weren’t quite up to snuff.  My daughter handled it with more grace than I might have.  When she suggested to Emily that perhaps they could go to the local hairdresser to “straighten it up a bit,” my granddaughter was adamant.  “NO Mommy!  My brother gave me a haircut.  I be cute now!” 

And so she was—with her long hair or without it.  Claire accepted her wishes.  “She’s happy,” she said, “so I’m happy.”  (Nathan did, however, lose possession of his very own scissors). 

This week’s post about having—and losing—hair was previously published March 12, 2012.
___________

A dozen women, all living with cancer, were seated around the table with their notebooks open.  I had given them a short “warm-up” writing exercise, something I do at the beginning of a workshop.

“What’s on your mind this morning?  What thoughts or concerns have accompanied you to our group?” Write for five minutes; just keep the pen moving.  Don’t worry about what gets written.”  Notebooks opened and within seconds, only the sound of pens, moving across the pages, could be heard. “Who wants to read first?” I asked.  One woman, her head covered with a brightly colored scarf, raised her hand.

“I’m angry about losing my hair,” she said as she began to read what she’d written.  “My hair has been my signature, long and full…”  She looked up from her notebook and reached for a tissue.  Her eyes were red and teary.  Several of the women nodded sympathetically.  Two of them also wore headscarves or wigs, two others had removed theirs in favor of short, newly grown heads of hair, grateful chemotherapy was behind them.  I recalled my embarrassment when twice, as a teenager, I sported a bald head after neurosurgery, covering it with scarves when I returned to school and praying no one would laugh at me.  I felt unattractive and vulnerable to taunts or teasing, all from losing my hair.

Hair loss is one of the unfortunate side effects of chemotherapy that the majority of cancer patients experience.  While some of the newer, more targeted chemotherapy drugs don’t result in hair loss, the majority do.   Thankfully, the loss is temporary, and there’s solace in knowing that the drugs are helping you fight your illness, hair loss can have a powerful effect on our emotions.

Hair, whether male or female, losing it or not, affects the vast majority of us.    Consider how much time and money is spent in support of your hair, whether cut, colored, shampooed or styled, or waxed, tweezed and shaved.  Remember the rock musical “Hair?”  The styles of the sixties?  Long, full, permed, and wild, our hair was evidence of youthful freedom and rebellion.

Gimme’ a head with hair
Long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming,
Streaming, flaxen, waxen

Give me down to there hair
Shoulder length or longer
Here baby, there mama
Everywhere daddy daddy

Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair
Flow it, show it
Long as God can grow it
My hair…

(Lyrics from  Hair: The American Tribal Love-Rock Musical, by James Rado & Gerome Ragni)

Hair and hair styles are a distinctive feature of history.  Think of the powdered wigs from Mozart’s day, or the fashionable pony tails the men of Jefferson’s era.  Our stories of hair existed long before that sixties musical.  Remember the biblical story of Samson?  His power lay in his hair, giving him the strength to rip apart a lion or destroy temples with his bare hands.  He vowed never to never to have it cut.   His downfall came, of course, when he fell in love with Delilah.  Her powers of seduction gradually wore him down, and he revealed his secret:  if a razor were used on his head, he would lose his strength.  Delilah waited until Samson slept and ordered the servants to cut his hair.  When he awakened, his magnificent locks were gone, and with them, his strength, and he could no longer resist his captors.

Hair loss, whether the result of chemotherapy or genetic inheritance, affects men and women alike.  My husband’s hair has been thinning for years, and for a long time, he obsessed over his widening bald spot, yet resisting Rogaine treatments or comb-overs.  More than once, however, he returned from his hairdresser with a “new look,” an effort to mask the relentless disappearance of his hair.  Those attempts didn’t last—the fits of laughter induced by his new “do” from our daughters and me were enough to send him back to the barber for a less “hip” cut.  Thankfully, the bare head has become fashionable for men, and he’s embraced his shorn head with relief.

Gregory Corso, a Beat poet in the era of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, creates a kaleidoscope of images about how we treat and worry about our hair in his poem, simply entitled, “Hair.”

Come back, hair, come back!
I want to grow sideburns!
I want to wash you, comb you, sun you, love you!
As I ran from you wild before —
I thought surely this nineteen hundred and fifty-nine of now
that I need no longer bite my fingernails
but have handsome gray hair
to show how profoundly nervous I am.

(From Minefield:  New and Selected Poems)

The young woman from my writing group who mourned the loss of her hair that one morning has since recovered from her treatments.  Her hair has grown back, long and full.  She’s grateful, not just for her hair, but for enjoying a life without cancer.  In thinking about her, I remember a beautiful poem, “Farewell to Hair,” by Terradon.  She watches as her hair floats away in the breeze, but she finds solace—even gratitude—as she imagines how it might comfort other living creatures:

I stood outside on a windy day,
and ran my fingers through my hair.
Long strands of silky threads,
blew across the lawn…

I imagined a nest,
lined with my mane.
Woven by a mama bird…

Now on the wintry nights,
when my head is cold,
I pull my wool cap over my ears and smile.
As I dream of baby birds,
sleeping in my hair.

(In The Cancer Poetry Project, Vol. 1, Karin Miller, Ed.)
Hair.  It’s a topic that invites an unending supply of opinions, discussion, stories or poems.  This week, why not write about hair:  having it, losing it, styling it, coloring, cutting or even a time you experienced a hair style disaster.  Open up your old high school yearbook and take a look at that young person whose face in framed in a hair style that was popular at the time.  Chances are if you’re like most of us, you have a story or two to tell about hair.

This morning, as my husband read the humorous Father’s Day cards I bought for him, he laughed, but joked that the sentiments of Father’s Day cards don’t seem to carry the emotional impact of those for Mother’s Day.  I had to agree, since I’d perused the card racks for weeks before finally opting for sillier of those offered for purchase.  It turns out that it’s true.  In 2008, San Diego Union Tribune reporter, Jenifer Godwin, titled her article, “Father’s Day:  Even the cards are different.”  She stated:

     Moms and dads are more equal parenting partners than ever before, with studies showing men do far more housework and spend more time with their children than previous generations.

     Yet Father’s Day still doesn’t inspire the same need to bestow sentimental cards, gifts and dinners out as Mother’s Day.

There you have it.   Godwin cited a number of statistics to show the contrast between how we celebrate mothers and fathers.  More cards are sent to mothers on Mother’s Day and more money is spent on mothers’ gifts.  One more ironic note my husband observed was in the flowers, roses sent to me on from my oldest daughter on Mother’s Day and those she sent to him today.  His were fresher and more beautiful.  Why?  “I think it’s because everyone sends flowers to their mothers on Mother’s Day,” he said.  “The florists are in a rush trying to meet demand, whereas on Father’s Day, there aren’t nearly as many people sending fathers a dozen or two rosebuds.”

I think he has a point.   Father’s Day wasn’t even an official holiday until 1972, when then president Richard Nixon made it official, over a half century after the designation of an official Mother’s Day.

Yet child-rearing has changed since I was a kid, and they were changing even as I reared my own children.  There have been more than subtle shifts in parenting assumptions between mothers and fathers.  I see it manifested between my daughters and husbands:  a shared partnership of child-rearing responsibility.

When I was young, my father wasn’t as involved in our day-to-day upbringing as my mother, but his influence was felt in other ways.  He provided the emotional glue that held our family together; he was an affectionate, easy-going, and fun-loving father who, whenever we stopped at his store to beg for an after school treat at the local drugstore , he always produced a quarter from his pocket.  Sometimes, just as we were at the door, ready to leave, he’d call out, “Hey Kiddo…how about I come with you?”

He wasn’t hard on us kids,
never struck us, took us to
doctors and dentists when needed.
He used to sing in the car
bought us root beers along the road.
He loved us with his deeds.

(From: “A Father’s Pain,” in A River Remains by Larry Smith)

Dad was the father upon whose feet I stood to dance with him around the living room to a favorite Glen Miller or Benny Goodman tune, who taught me how to pitch a baseball and even execute a decent pass with a football– even as my mother wished I’d choose more “feminine” activities.  A man raised by an exceptional cook, he never failed to praise my meager attempts to bake one of my grandmother’s famous berry pies, often with a too much flour and not near enough sugar.  Even if the pie bordered on inedible, he ate the entire ample slice I served, flashed me a big smile and said, “My, but this might be the best blackberry pie I ever tasted.”

When my father died of lung cancer on Thanksgiving Day, 1992,  three months following his diagnosis,  none of his children were ready to let him go. The emptiness I felt in the wake of his death lingered for months afterward.  Perhaps my father’s death—and life—is one of the reasons I gravitated to leading expressive writing groups for cancer survivors.  Maybe it was because of all those afternoons I sat by his side as he prepared to die as he filled my head and heart with the stories from his life.  Even on the day of his death, he managed to get to the table and, for a short time, share the meal with his family.  He even asked for a second piece of pumpkin pie, smiling at my mother as he finished eating, “I think that was the best pie I’ve ever eaten.”

In a couple of hours, I’ll take my husband out for a celebratory brunch.  We’ve already sent cards and made calls to the other fathers in our immediate family.   But amidst all the celebration, I will be remembering my father today.  In my mind, I still hear the echo of his chuckle, remember his love of a good story.  As Jim Harrison wrote in a poem, “Larson’s Holstein Bull,” death steals everything but our stories.  My father’s legacy lives on in  stories, the ones he told and re-told year after year, the memories cancer can never take away.

I miss you every day–the heartbeat
under your necktie, the hand cupped
on the back of my neck, Old Spice
in the air, your voice delighted with stories.

(From:  “Father” in Delights & Shadows by Ted Kooser)

This week, write about fathers: their memories, the stories, and legacies.  And to all fathers who may read this post, Happy Father’s Day!

(This week’s post drawn from material originally published September 22, 2013 and June 10, 2012)

I celebrated another year of life this past Friday, reminding me that despite my resistance, advancing age is unavoidable.  I alternated between thinking I’d ignore the day altogether, yet peering in the mailbox to see there were any envelopes, greeting card size, with my name and address carefully written on each.  There were, but I had to laugh at myself.  Birthdays bring up the memories of that just-turned-six little girl I was so long ago, the one I see now in an old photograph.  Blonde hair curled for the occasion and topped with a giant hair ribbon.  The picnic table piled with gaily wrapped gifts and a chocolate cake in the center, six candles aflame.  My child’s face, lit by the candlelight, bears an ear-to-ear grin.  Those were the years when I eagerly counted the days until my next birthday, becoming a “big” girl with each year promising many more possibilities than the one before.  I was ready then, even impatient, to claim an older age.

Not now.  I swear I’m going to stop counting.  The smile I wear, although pleased, as friends and family wish me a “Happy Birthday!” is tinged with something other than just enthusiasm.  I’ve resisted joining the category of “senior citizen.”  When I discovered that my husband planned an early birthday dinner on Friday evening so we could attend a jazz event afterward, one that began at 7:30, I protested.  “What?  It’s too early.  No one eats that early except…”  My voice trailed off.  Why complain?  He was doing his best to orchestrate a celebratory evening.  Yet as we walked into the restaurant at 5:25 p.m., it was empty.  We were the first  seated; the first served; the first to leave, reminding me of that slow, but relentless march toward older age, year after year, and life changing.

Are we ever ready for the changes life presents to us?  It’s never either/or.  Each stage has challenges, but there are rewards too.  I’m quite content to embrace the title, “Gramma,” for example,  but on the other hand, I am less enthusiastic about my physical changes—the relentless pull of gravity, loss of muscle tone, and the silvering of my hair.  I balk at regular visits to my cardiologist, reminding me of a condition I once thought belonged only others, elder others like my grandparents.  Ready or not, you can’t escape aging.

“Ready,” the title of a poem by Irene MacKinney, begins with a memory:

I remember a Sunday with the smell of food drifting
out the door of the cavernous kitchen and my serious
teenage sister and her girlfriends Jean and Marybelle
standing on the bank above the dirt road in their
white sandals ready to walk to the country church
a mile away, and ready to return to the fried
chicken, green beans and ham, and fresh bread
spread on the table…

Memories.  Every single birthday reminds me of others long past.  Memories come alive:  the scent of chocolate as my mother baked my birthday cake, the candle flames dancing as everyone sang to me, eyes shut, wishing as hard as I could for something I wanted to happen.  In a role reversal that made me smile, Flora, one of my four-year old granddaughters, belted out “Happy Birthday” over the telephone.  She sang with all the enthusiasm of a youngster who revels in celebrations, parties and birthdays.  She will, many years from now, hear that same song and as I do, remember the delights of her birthdays from much younger times.

There’s an exercise in Roger Rosenblatt’s wise little book, Unless It Moves the Human Heart (Harper Collins, 2011), a glimpse into his “Writing Everything” class, I’ve used in my writing groups, always with great results.  It began with Rosenblatt asking if anyone in his class had recently celebrated—or was about to–a birthday.

I…then burst into song:  “Happy Birthday to You.”  They [his students] give me the he’s-gone-nuts look I’ve come to cherish over the years.  I sing it again.  “Happy Birthday to You.  Anyone had a birthday recently?  Anyone about to have one?” …just sit back and see what comes of listening to this irritating, celebratory song you’ve heard all your lives” (pp.39-40).

I tried the same exercise with one of my writing groups.  They looked at me with curiosity as I began singing, laughing a little before joining in.  “Now write,” I said as the song ended.  “What memories does that tune inspire?”  I wrote with the group too, my mind flooded with recollections of other birthdays: the blue bicycle waiting for me the morning of my sixth birthday, the surprise party my husband and daughters managed to pull off few years ago, the headline in my small town newspaper’s society page:  “Sharon Ann Bray turns six today.”  (Never mind that my aunt was the society editor!)

What happened in the group, of course, was that everyone had a host of memories associated with the birthday song—like so many writers.  Rosenblatt isn’t the only writer who used birthdays for inspiration.  Go to www.poets.org and you’ll discover William Blake, Sylvia Plath, Christina Rossetti and many others inspired by birthdays, like Ted Kooser’s “A Happy Birthday,” a short poem that captures the introspection another year can bring:

This evening, I sat by an open window

and read till the light was gone and the book

was no more than a part of the darkness.

I could easily have switched on a lamp,

but I wanted to ride this day down into night,

to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page

with the pale gray ghost of my hand.

Poems about birthdays reflect the passage of time, aging, even the opportunity for change, for example, Joyce Sutphen’s “Crossroads:”

The second half of my life will be black 

to the white rind of the old and fading moon. 
The second half of my life will be water 
over the cracked floor of these desert years.

So try it.  Hum the tune, or if you’re feeling brave, sing it:  “Happy Birthday to you.  Happy Birthday to you…”  Then take stock of the memories, good or bad, this traditional birthday ditty evokes  Whether you’ll soon have  a birthday, recently celebrated one, or joined in the birthday celebrations of family and friends, explore your memories of birthdays past as a way to inspire your writing.  In each memory lurks a story or a poem…   Write one.

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