Power

I would like to consider power, which I can do only from my own perspective, which is both steeped in power and roasted in powerlessness, giving off the aroma of fragility with an after-burn of ferocity.
I would like to consider the potential power of unpopular opinions, the power trapped inside the magazine gorgeous body of my eighteen year old daughter who is unafraid to speak her mind. The power she showed looking her school administrator straight in the eyes and declaring she did not need him to tell her she is intelligent. Nor does his opinion much matter.

I would like to consider the power of being in power. I have watched hospital administrators crush the souls of physicians and nurses. I have watched my childrens' school allow racism and bullying to run freely while pretending to be representative of our self-proclaimed liberal town. I am watching and not doing a thing about children being imprisoned by my government, kidnapped from their parents, and placed in facilities not fit for any living thing. The power of those in power is they make the rest of us feel paralyzed with uncertainty. How can it be true that homeless people are disparaged by a Catholic hospital? How can it be true that a school protects itself on the back of a child who just happens not to be white and who happens not be able to remain silent? How can it be true that the country that once elected Obama is letting babies die in captivity? It is all so unfathomable, I feel like I spend half my life just trying to pick my jaw up from off the ground.

It can be hard to consider power when you come from feeling less than. Not pretty enough, not talented enough, not a good enough mother, not a competitive enough medical student, not a well-dressed enough physician, not fast enough, not thin enough, too thin. Staring in the mirror at boobs too small, unless wearing a cross country uniform, in which case I should have no boobs at all.

Power without wealth is rare. A favorite quote of administrators, and one I have even spouted once or twice myself is "no mission without money". Healthcare without resources is only cool if you are in the wilderness, on purpose, and remember the tricks you learned at your wilderness medicine conferences.  In my rural area, where poverty reigns, we are lucky to have specialists and some technology. But don't ask for a hysterectomy at our hospital, nor a tubal ligation, nor anything that might have to do with transgender healthcare. Jesus was very clear about these things, in his sermon on the Mount of Majesty, where declared blessed were those who did not act weird, smell funny, request birth control, or kiss people of the same anatomical sex.

I was thinking the other day that one of the most dangerous types of people is a wealthy, white liberal. I am white and liberal and compared to most people on this planet my wealth is grand. I know what is right, but spend my free time going on trail runs and reading fiction and playing piano. Meanwhile, a young black college student was murdered in my town and no one ever figured out who did it or why, my daughter was treated like shit at her high school and no one ever apologized, and little children are sitting in their own excrement in cement cages on our border to make a political point. I am mad as hell, and not doing anything about it. Dangerous in my complacency. Dangerous in my desire to just keep my children safe in this scary and unjust world, even if other people's children are having a hard time.

Having a son in prison reframes things, with the perfect family portrait tinged with a backdrop of the noir, the family theme song slightly ominous, and the proverbial neighbors looking knowingly at our particular failure to thrive. I used to dread lunches in the doctor's lounge, with everyone's children winning the state science fair. I often quipped about being glad my son was not in jail. Definitely a conversation stopper. Let me eat my gorram peanut butter and jelly sandwich in peace. Course he did end up in jail, then prison, and let's consider the power dynamics he faces every day. Young, baby-faced, not terribly tall, a goof ball, and irritatingly smart. A target for those who find power in physical prowess. The guards steal things from the letters I send him (like stamps and envelopes so he can write back). If he does well at work (which he has been), the guys there longer and much older give him grief. If he has one impulsive reaction to someone making him feel small and insignificant, it could lead to more time in prison, and the endless cycle of taking young men with addiction and short fuses and making them even more angry and scared and so powerless that they finally just give up. Blessed be the Prison Industrial Complex.

I would like to consider the power of women. At a recent writing and running retreat, led by and attended by women, there was so much power in the room that it felt like I could breathe for the first time in a long while. Because the power was not toxic. It was steady and fierce. Like one of those redwoods that it would take ten people to wrap their arms around. Like the way the ocean rolls in and in and in with a roar of serenity. The food was also good and I don't think we talk enough about the power of good food, good water, and a decent bed to sleep in at night.

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez has that kind of power. Nourishing and honest. Can you see how she makes the very house of representatives quake in its boots and powdered wigs? Can you bear her truth telling? Can you believe she started her campaign with $2 and a job as a waitress? The scariest thing to those in inherited and bought power is a pissed off, highly educated, brown-skinned waitress from the Bronx.

AOC reminds me of my daughter, the one who has been standing up for her rights despite the perturbed discomfort of angry administrators and challenged teachers. I worry and worry that they will try to hurt her further. Let's consider the misuse of power and its penchant for destruction. Abuse of power will, in the not too distant future, be the end of homo sapiens. Unless...

...power is considered less important than courage. And compassion. And speaking up for those that may not be able to on that given day, and when they are able to, stepping aside so they can speak for themselves.

A bunch of small, insignificant people could theoretically decide as a group that they have had enough and it could change everything. And can we please elect a woman to the presidency of the United States of America?

It is time someone magically awakens the inner vampire slayer so many seemingly timid beings possess. Blessed are the slayers, for they will inherit the earth.

Questions Pertaining to Freedom Molecules

Are we still calling French Fries "Freedom Fries?"
Is everyone comfortable with a President that lies?
Is a black man composed of molecules of freedom?

Does a homonuclear molecule, like ozone, fear?
Does God hate that part of the stratosphere?
Are only heteronuclear molecules allowed the status of freedom?

If a child is told she is a monster is it true?
Should we cage her in the name of red, white and blue?
Does an immigrant fleeing deserve their freedom?

In my liberal town should I expect more?
Should my Chinese child quietly absorb every racial slur?
Does the spit spraying from a bully's mouth count as molecules of freedom?

Can a uterus be an optional childcare zone?
Are clothes hangers of wire sold on Amazon?
Do spermatazoa have all the power and freedom?

When I write and fight do I scare you away?
Does anyone face off chest to chest these days?
Or are automatically rifled bullets and social media how we celebrate freedom?

When I care for the vulnerable does it make me a pussy?
Does hate for the other make Jesus weepy?
Philosophically, can you define freedom?

In fifty years will earth be dead and what will happen to all those hats of red?
Is greatness white?
Is freedom free?

Molecules unite!
Go not softly.
Can you taste the freedom of delight?
Is it bittersweet with hints of a floral citrus bouquet, like compassion?

Mother's Day, Shmother's Day

When I was pregnant, I was in the weekly class for pregnant people the hospital put on. I was large, my legs were swollen and I was exhausted. Also scared. As we were all nearing our due date, the teacher asked how we were feeling. One woman said, through tears, "I just love being pregnant SO much. I am really going to miss this." And I thought to myself, what the hell is wrong with me?

Myth: Being pregnant is the most wonderful thing that could happen to any woman in her life.

When my Mom was in her early 40's, I was in grade school. We lived in a neighborhood that let me walk to school. After school, she would often still be at work as a nurse and teacher. Oh my father was also at work but always till dinnertime and no one actually would've even asked where he was because of course he is at work, as he is the man. So I would come home and let myself in, and go out and play, and when I came back an hour later the house would smell of the dinner my Mom made immediately upon coming home from work. One day I came back from my afternoon of play and the house was empty. I sat and waited for another 30 minutes? 5 minutes? 2 hours? Who knows. Mom and Dad came home, and I yelled at her (not him). I was so mad. Turns out she had been at the doctor being told she had breast cancer. I was still mad, because Moms are supposed to be there exactly when you need them, every single time, no matter what.

Myth: A little cancer shouldn't stop a Mom from being home on time to make dinner.

When I was in residency, my husband dropped me off one morning on the top of Parnassus, where the fog was swirling around the Hospital on the Hill. My son, all of two, was in the back seat. He gazed up at the Mecca of Medicine, pointed and said, "Look! there's Mommy's house." He is in prison now.

Myth: Working mothers hurt their children.

When I was at a show at our kids' elementary school, I was chatting with another Mom. She did not recognize me, though knew my husband, the usual dropper-offer to the classroom. She looked me in the face, and with a very sad tone says "I don't know how you can work the way you do. I could NEVER leave my children like that." In my mind I was thinking "well, I think helicopter mothers who never leave their child's side for one minute are pretty creepy."

Myth: Women should stay at home with their children.
Myth: Women should work and model being strong for their children.
Myth: Women can have it all.

When I was offered a job at a major university medical center, my children cried but we thought it would actually be a good move for the family. When the principal of the school where my troubled son heard, she came up to me and said "I can't believe you would think about moving. Doesn't he have enough troubles already? He is JUST starting to make more friends." We did not move. Later, an occasional remark was made to me about things would've been better if we had. I actually did not make the move because I wanted to stay here and work, but WOW,  people really do say the meanest and most thoughtless things.

Myth: Women want you to give them advice on how to be better mothers.

I have never been a big fan of Mother's Day. It is nice, I suppose, that people take the time to acknowledge the mother figures in their life, but let's think about what Mother's Day really tells us:

1. You should be getting cards and gifts from your kids on mother's day. If you are not, what is wrong with you?
2. You should have a relationship with your mother that is as precious as the treacle of a Hallmark greeting card.
3. You haven't had kids yet? What is wrong with you?
4. Your Mom is dead? Oh how sad, now move over while I order another mimosa at brunch.
5. Moms are super heroes. They can raise kids, go to work, clean the house, do the laundry, go to every PTA meeting, bake cookies, and get their kids into elite colleges.
6. It is a sacred thing to be a Mom, and a sacred thing to have one.

All that said, there is nuance in motherhood. Is it beautiful? Oh my gosh, yes, yes yes! Except when it is not. Is it rewarding? If you are looking for a reward, perhaps motherhood is not for you. But the process is rewarding in the same way anything else challenging and real in life is rewarding. For instance, I just spent several months training for a marathon, only to get injured at mile 15 in the race. So though I failed in one way, I still can look at the months of work I put in and the moments of joy I had along the way, and feel like I can go on to the next marathon or maybe a half marathon because marathons are just plain crazy.

I love my children. I wouldn't trade being a Mom. But that's just me and we seriously need to stop making women (and children) feel like Motherhood with a capital M is some kind of magical fantasy of bliss. A mom just has to keep showing up every day, no matter what the universe throws her.

My proposal for Mother's Day:
Screw Hallmark, and see a Mom doing her thing; her hard, every day, non-glamorous thing, and ask her what you can do to help.

Confections

-for Vera

When the banana slug on the porch step

just above where I sat

had the audacity to reach down

for my donut, a chocolate-glazed old fashioned

starting to melt a little in the sun,

my life as the mother of Vera flashed before my surprised eyes.

The weight of my baby's head in the palm of my hand.

Her fat fingers grasping sand

in a San Francisco park.

Hair flying, running, smiling

at an inside joke like a Zen Master.

Crafting words,

describing the absurd world,

running faster with egg-beater gait 

like Seabiscuit.

Quick wit with pointy

knees and elbows

shoving Dad out of bed on stormy nights.

Big sister

with brown eyes that

remind me to notice

every moment.

The quickening, like insistent kicking,

not gas,

while I sat in my wooden front row medical school seat

looking at histology slides,

the cells of the liver,

where pregnancy met hepatology.

Not knowing then how I'd grieve when she

no longer could be lifted 

to rest on my hips while we walked,

skinny, tan arms wrapped around my neck.

Redwoods, runs, books,

slugs in sun attempting donut thievery.

Mundane, underrated, interrelated 

miracles of confection and conception.

The Eighth Amen

Messiaen wrote this piece called Visions de l'Amen after being released from a prisoner of war camp in 1943. Seven movements, each an Amen. Hearing it played live just last week by Daniela Mineva and Ryan McEvoy McCullough ,I felt displaced from the mundane, emotionally and physically moved beyond the little box I call my life. I got bigger and I contracted. Messiaen was a synesthete. He saw music in color. I see letters in color. Like so much else in my life, I can almost taste the brilliance  the world can offer but it is like a small tongue touch of the tip of a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone. A is red, but I cannot hear the color of A in blue (sky, eternity) as did Messiaen.

Prisoner of war camp Stalag VIII-A was probably a cold place. While there, with cold fingers, he wrote Quartet for the End of Time. When released, he wrote Visions and played it with his student and later his wife Yvonne Loriod.

When I heard Visions I was not quite sure what could possibly come next and knew, sitting in my audience seat as the piece neared completion, that I needed a plan of action. Thus I declared that we would have a bowl of ice cream when we got home and it would be "The Eighth Amen".

Eight is my favorite number. It does not perhaps carry the spiritual significance of seven, and three, but if you turn it on its side it is infinity so something mystical therein lies. If an eight was turned on its side it would likely bounce right back up again, much like a Weeble Wobble. By age 8 I knew I would be a concert pianist. By age 18 I knew I would not be a concert pianist. By Age 48 I didn't care and just played piano anyway. 8 is a great age when you have kids. Benjamin has at least 8 years more in prison.

Eight by eight is sixty-four
Someone's knocking at my door
I think it might be Messiaen
More likely him than Benjamin.
To hold my son at home again,
That would be the Eighth Amen.

Speaking of empty nests, my last dragon flies away soon. Six and change years old when I met her, she has added infinite richness to my life, and eight new gray hairs for each day I have known her. Imagine being dropped on planet Arcata from planet Hunan. Our town, though professing to be progressive, can be racist, I have learned. It has lovely trees and mostly very lovely people. It rains a lot and when I look at the ocean I get bigger and I contract. When I run for hours I listen to books and music and the waves and the rain and the rednecks shouting at me and I think about my children and how I used to think it was just about love and a good nest but now I know only each person can find their own happiness and path, no matter how precise a map you draw for them

Home from China at half-past six
Pale new parents just perplex,
Yet their only aim:
Her words like fire saying
"I know exactly who I am"
That would be the Eighth Amen.

When I run for hours I get excited about chocolate milk. At about mile 18, I start to text my husband with a place we might meet when I am done, and can he bring chocolate milk in a glass bottle, the local brand that can then be used later to hold the flowers that one patient always brings me from her garden. These look nice on the window sill in the kitchen, as you stand rinsing your coffee cup in the morning and watching the birds at the feeder. Next to that window is a crayon drawing, framed, done by eldest daughter around age 8. It is a portrait of the mother with a large cup of coffee, larger, in fact, than the mother herself, and she is declaring "I can drink this." I lead by example in all important matters.

April makes her twenty three
Which makes me
Older than I was when I could run
Sub one thirty for a half marathon
If only I could do that once again
That would be the Eighth Amen.

Since I was a twenty six year old new mother I have learned eight things. Seven of them are irrelevant and the eighth is that I know nothing. Speaking to my wise Godparents on a recent visit we discussed, in reference to the Messiaen piece, whether truth and beauty must always be paired in Art with a capital A. It is a worthy question, but the only answer I can honestly give is I don't know what truth or beauty is. I mean I don't know for sure. I have some speculations and opinions. The Messiaen seemed to have both but it wasn't pretty in the way things can be pretty. The trillium are out and certainly pretty. The outfits Beyonce wore at her concert were gorgeous. The smell of my husband's fresh baked bread hitting me upside the head when I walk in after a day at work is divine. The Messiaen Vision de L'Amen was excruciatingly beautiful and maybe even true. He wrote it in the color blue and played it with his wife to be. After leaving Stalag VIII-A.

This year makes it twenty seven
Married-years and today, my significant
other, I proposed again
And you said yes, even knowing 
How I act on call. Married my best friend.
Also known as the Eighth Amen.

Spiritually speaking, I feel best when I run in the redwood forest. Spring mist is inhaled by the trees and they stand in attentive disinterest. I am so small and they make me contract further but my heart expands and my standard poodle pants and I dodge mud and slugs and it is better. Better to be in the rain and to have to clean the dog in the bathtub later than to miss it all.

The Eighth Amen only needs to be invoked. The Eighth Amen is a prayer, a song, a declaration. Something blue and eternal. A dragon's breath, a warm place to reflect on everything that just happened or that is happening now or will happen next. True and excruciatingly beautiful. Like an ice cream headache.

Irish Blessing, Christchurch

Be in heaven a half hour
Before the devil knows you are dead
There your terror has no power
Welcome brother

Path rise up to aching feet
Sun on back
Beckons us to turn our cheek, so we
Welcome brother

God hold you in the palm of His hand
Not like in Christchurch
Or a basement in Birmingham
Welcome brother

Respect from neighbors
Joy surrounds, peace abounds
Semiautomatic rounds
Welcome brother

Healthy children grow your family tree
Innocents
Like Mucad Ibrahim, age three
Welcome brother

Tea by the fire
Roof deflecting rain
A cozy funeral pyre
Welcome brother

Wind blowing at your back
A gentle moving forward
A state of grace, you lack
Welcome brother

Old man at door
Brown eyes smiling
A grandfather! Open-hearted, you were
Welcome brother

Wisdom despises
Lies of "good people on both sides"
So may the Lord's fist close tight around you until your hate explodes into nothingness
Leaving your soul such as it is in agonizing flames for eternity
No brother of mine

3/16/19

When An Elder Dies

I took this the day he died. (Jan 2019)

My Uncle died recently, aged 89, a retired Lutheran minister.
His Dad, five brothers and brother-in-law (his sister's husband) were all ministers as well.
My Dad and uncle were very close. I remember listening to their late Saturday night phone calls as a kid. Late, because the long distance rates were cheaper. Saturday because they were polishing up their sermons for Sunday.
They both preached about and more importantly lived their lives in support of peace and social justice. I recall being so confused when I realized how much of the vocal Christian world spews hate. This was not the tradition of Christ I saw, which involved helping other people, all people, no matter who they are. I suppose my first lesson was round age 8 when I picked up the phone at home and some angry man delivered a death threat aimed at my "daddy". Not cool.
I was very close with my Dad, but he died when I was in my 20's, about 6 years after a heart transplant. My uncle came and stayed with Dad for the 3 months he had to stay at the transplant house after the surgery, as my Mom had to go back to work. My uncle and aunt were also there with us at my Dad's bedside when he took his last breath. Both my father and his brother were reverends and I don't mean to be irreverent, but some of my Dad's last words were a fart joke. Which I shall cherish to the end of my days.
Mu uncle became like a second Dad to me, and my aunt a second Mom, and my cousins like siblings. How fortunate I feel to have this bonus family! That puts up with me! I am pretty sure my uncle was teed off at me our last day together, as I was being a bossy doctor type in the hospital. There is actually a picture of us flipping off the camera (sorry--I know this is irreverent), but my son, with whom I shared this picture, and who happens to be in prison, pointed out that while I was flipping off the camera, my uncle was technically flipping off me.
I have a son in prison and I gave the finger with my beloved uncle on my last day with him. Do you guys think I am ready for sainthood yet?
The other thing that happened that day is he almost said he loved me. My uncle (unlike my Dad, who told me pretty much every day of my life that he loved me, usually several times, and I do this to my kids and they find it so annoying, one of them actually threatened to block me on texting) NEVER responded in kind to the phrase "I love you." It just was not in his vocabulary. So after the middle finger incident, I was saying goodbye to him, and I leaned in for a long hug, him in his hospital bed and now both of us crying. I said "I love you" and I'll be damned if he didn't say "me too". Which I shall cherish to the end of my days.
I keep trying to figure out what I have such strong connections to people I love but have not been able to be the world's best parent. Maybe this skips a generation? So my kids will be stellar parents. When they are ready. And out of prison. And stuff. Family is complicated and life is short and biology thinks it is key but I actually don't buy it.
What I learned from my parents, and people like my Aunt and Uncle is this:
Do kindness to others. Fight the good fight. Risk yourself to stand up for justice. Have a sense of humor. Know some good swear words in German. Love like it is your last day on earth, even if the word "love" is a confusing one to you.

When life happens to me, I write about it. So here are two poems. Dedicated to Rex, my Dad, my Aunt, my cousins, my children, and everyone else who might feel inclined to find solace and inanity in the strange beauty of words.

Pantoum on Exchanging Sermons

Brothers exchange sermons
over lemon yellow phone, cord
taut from wall to couch where little brother lies in socks,
cradling the words between shoulder and ear.

Over lemon yellow phone cord
God's Gadflies gather biblical gems,
cradling the words between shoulder and ear,
scrawling ideas in the moonlight.

God's Gadflies gather biblical gems
late Saturday nights.
Scrawling ideas in the moonlight,
while I quietly curl in a chair and spy.

Late Saturday nights,
cost of long distance calls less dear,
while I quietly curl in a chair and spy,
they preach justice, peace, human rights.

Cost of long distance calls less dear,
my pajama arms clutch teddy bear,
they talk justice, peace, human rights,
sometimes in German.

My pajama arms clutch teddy bear.
Only rarely do they swear,
usually in German,
For my sake perhaps.

Only rarely do they swear,
about cancer and war,
for my sake perhaps,
or about that terrible used car purchased on a dark rainy night.

About cancer and war,
so far as I knew,
or about that terrible used car purchased on a dark rainy night,
these men deal in mysteries.

So far as I knew,
they would always be here,
singing "O Canada" in German.
Brothers exchanging sermons.


Old Soul Flying

When an elder dies
Maybe his soul flies
In search of familiar
Smells of waxed wood on pulpit,
Of Mother's bread baking.
Hearing wolves howl
On an icy Canadian road.
Old soul feels sun through the parsonage window
And the heartbeat of a soft baby rabbit
Thudding on hands which brush
Briefly against his sweetheart's when he hands her the gift.
Hands that will brush often over 63 married years,
Wet with grief's and laughter's tears.
Old soul swoons with the top of each
Child, Grandchild, Great-grandchild's head inhaled,
With the hypoxia of mountains scaled.
A piece of old soul resides in India's soil,
And along American highways, convertible top down,
Pulling into a Wisconsin town.
32,485 meals filled old soul
Plus black coffee from favorite waitress
Cup warming hand,
Fueling courage to stand up for peace.
Cracking jokes with youngest niece,
Who feels old soul brush away tears,
A model of life well spent.
When an elder dies,
I hope the coffee is eternally excellent.