The Blog: Spellbound by our own imperfect lives...: snow angels: my daily can of whoop ass

Sunday, January 06, 2013

snow angels: my daily can of whoop ass

Snow Angel

It’s easy to make one,
lying on your back
in the newest snow.

You sweep your arms
up and down to make
a pattern that looks like wings.

Later you forget your creation,
go inside for some hot chocolate.
That’s when she rises from the snow,

takes a feathery breath, tries her wings.
She skims over frozen lakes
like the faintest handwriting.

Later when you climb beneath the covers,
she peers in through your frosty window,
happy you called her into the world.

I went for a walk yesterday afternoon when the sun was perfect for a snow angel picture. I walked by many yards with undisturbed snow and I was so tempted to flop down and make one, but I was sure that I would be seen and medical authorities would be called before I could make my escape.

When I got home, there was a nice spot on the boulevard so I went to work. Sure enough, the neighbors across the street walk out their front door and the neighbors to the north pull into their driveway. Jan rolled down the window and asked it they should call 911. I said no, I'm making a snow angel.

Maybe I should do this after dark. People would wake up, look out the front window, and there would be a perfect snow angel.

Hannah and Miles make snow angels. Thanks, Jill, for sending the poem and the picture!

While reading about snow angels, I found the world record for most snow angels made at one time. February 14, 2011 — Nova Scotians are confident they have broken the Guinness World Record for making the most snow angels in different places at once.

The article says the event proved to be more of an uplifting experience than anticipated. “From what people have told me, the exact moment the kids all fell back, it was a really emotional experience for those watching.”

Which proves my theory. Making snow angels is good for you. It's like an emotional can of whoop ass for the bad shit that happens. Make snow angels instead of reading the news. Make snow angels instead of dusting and sweeping. Make snow angels instead of thinking about cancer. And a place where schools take the time to organize snow angel events instead of standardized testing sessions? Heaven.

I have my next chemotherapy treatment on Thursday. Adriamycin and Cytoxan. My chemical cocktail for the day. A friend of mine asked me yesterday, how will they know it's working? That stopped me for a second. How will they know it's working?

I almost wish (not really) that I had some side effects because side effects would be a reminder of the fact of cancer being a part of my life. The way it is, some days I can forget I have cancer. This is a good thing except that it makes the moment when I realize, again, that I do, more of a smackdown that it would be if cancer was hanging around in the front of my brain all the time.

I feel like I am coming up on the top of the roller coaster again and Thursday morning will be the crest...looking at the down hill screaming side. That's my reminder that I have cancer...going to the Cancer Center, getting blood drawn, meeting with the research nurse and the oncologist, sitting in a room full of other cancer patients many of whom look tired and sick, having a nurse come at me with bag after bag of toxic shit. And I know it's toxic because they look like this:

That's why I need the snow angel whoop ass...to fight off the open can of fuck.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...: I could get down to make a snow angel but I'm not sure I could get back up! I might be there for hours just waiting for someone to rescue me.
Old neighbor and friend Deb; 9:39 AM
Jill said...: There were quite a few snow angels in our yard last week made by the little kids. They loved to do it, and invariably ended up rolling around in the snow.

When I was teaching lang. arts methods, we'd read some snow angel poems in early February for a particular lesson with the intention of going outside to make our own angels. Because of no snow (often) or howling winds, or 20 below zero, and even pouring rain once, we'd often have to make them on the floor in the classroom instead. Invisible snow angels, but snow angels nonetheless.; 12:31 PM
Caroline said...: I love the pictue of of the rows of snow angels. Check your email!; 3:03 PM

Winter Grace

by Patricia Fargnoli

If you have seen the snow
under the lamppost
piled up like a white beaver hat on the picnic table
or somewhere slowly falling
into the brook
to be swallowed by water,
then you have seen beauty
and know it for its transience.
And if you have gone out in the snow
for only the pleasure
of walking barely protected
from the galaxies,
the flakes settling on your parka
like the dust from just-born stars,
the cold waking you
as if from long sleeping,
then you can understand
how, more often than not,
truth is found in silence,
how the natural world comes to you
if you go out to meet it,
its icy ditches filled with dead weeds,
its vacant birdhouses, and dens
full of the sleeping.
But this is the slowed-down season
held fast by darkness
and if no one comes to keep you company
then keep watch over; your own solitude.
In that stillness, you will learn
with your whole body
the significance of cold
and the night,
which is otherwise always eluding you.

The Journey by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Permission Granted

by David Allen Sullivan

You do not have to choose the bruised peach
or misshapen pepper others pass over.
You don't have to bury
your grandmother's keys underneath
her camellia bush as the will states.

You don't need to write a poem about
your grandfather coughing up his lung
into that plastic tube—the machine's wheezing
almost masking the kvetching sisters
in their Brooklyn kitchen.

You can let the crows amaze your son
without your translation of their cries.
You can lie so long under this
summer shower your imprint
will be left when you rise.

You can be stupid and simple as a heifer.
Cook plum and apple turnovers in the nude.
Revel in the flight of birds without
dreaming of flight. Remember the taste of
raw dough in your mouth as you edged a pie.

Feel the skin on things vibrate. Attune
yourself. Close your eyes. Hum.
Each beat of the world's pulse demands
only that you feel it. No thoughts.
Just the single syllable: Yes ...

See the homeless woman following
the tunings of a dead composer?
She closes her eyes and sways
with the subways. Follow her down,
inside, where the singing resides.

"Permission Granted" by David Allen Sullivan,

from Strong-Armed Angels.

Gratitude by Barbara Crooker

This week, the news of the world is bleak, another war

grinding on, and all these friends down with cancer,

or worse, a little something long term that they won’t die of

for twenty or thirty miserable years—

And here I live in a house of weathered brick, where a man

with silver hair still thinks I’m beautiful. How many times

have I forgotten to give thanks? The late day sun shines

through the pink wisteria with its green and white leaves

as if it were stained glass, there’s an old cherry tree

that one lucky Sunday bloomed with a rainbow:

cardinals, orioles, goldfinches, blue jays, indigo buntings,

and my garden has tiny lettuces just coming up,

so perfect they could make you cry: Green Towers,

Red Sails, Oak Leaf. For this is May, and the whole world

sings, gleams, as if it were basted in butter, and the air’s

sweet enough to send a diabetic into shock—

And at least today, all the parts of my body are working,

the sky’s clear as a china bowl, leaves murmur their leafy chatter,

finches percolate along. I’m doodling around this page,

know sorrow’s somewhere beyond the horizon, but still, I’m riffing

on the warm air, the wingbeats of my lungs that can take this all in,

flush the heart’s red peony, then send it back without effort or thought.

And the trees breathe in what we exhale, clap their green hands

in gratitude, bend to the sky.

From Line Dance (Word Press, 2008).

Starfish by Eleanor Lerman

This is what life does. It lets you walk up to
the store to buy breakfast and the paper, on a
stiff knee. It lets you choose the way you have
your eggs, your coffee. Then it sits a fisherman
down beside you at the counter who says, Last night
the channel was full of starfish. And you wonder,
is this a message, finally, or just another day?

Life lets you take the dog for a walk down to the
pond, where whole generations of biological
processes are boiling beneath the mud. Reeds
speak to you of the natural world: they whisper,
they sing. And herons pass by. Are you old
enough to appreciate the moment? Too old?
There is movement beneath the water, but it
may be nothing. There may be nothing going on.

And then life suggests that you remember the
years you ran around, the years you developed
a shocking lifestyle, advocated careless abandon,
owned a chilly heart. Upon reflection, you are
genuinely surprised to find how quiet you have
become. And then life lets you go home to think
about all this. Which you do, for quite a long time.

Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one
who never had any conditions, the one who waited
you out. This is life's way of letting you know that
you are lucky. (It won't give you smart or brave,
so you'll have to settle for lucky.) Because you
stopped when you should have started again.

So life lets you have a sandwich, and pie for your
late night dessert. (Pie for the dog, as well.) And
then life sends you back to bed, to dreamland,
while outside, the starfish drift through the channel,
with smiles on their starry faces as they head
out to deep water, to the far and boundless sea.

Do Not Expect That If Your Book Falls Open

Dana Gioia

Do not expect that if your book falls open
to a certain page, that any phrase
you read will make a difference today,
or that the voices you might overhear
when the wind moves through the yellow-green
and golden tent of autumn, speak to you.

Things ripen or go dry. Light plays on the
dark surface of the lake. Each afternoon
your shadow walks beside you on the wall,
and the days stay long and heavy underneath
the distant rumor of the harvest. One
more summer gone,
and one way or another you survive,
dull or regretful, never learning that
nothing is hidden in the obvious
changes of the world, that even the dim
reflection of the sun on tall, dry grass
is more than you will ever understand.

And only briefly then
you touch, you see, you press against
the surface of impenetrable things.

Riveted by Robyn Sarah

It is possible that things will not get better
than they are now, or have been known to be.
It is possible that we are past the middle now.
It is possible that we have crossed the great water
without knowing it, and stand now on the other side.
Yes: I think that we have crossed it. Now
we are being given tickets, and they are not
tickets to the show we had been thinking of,
but to a different show, clearly inferior.

Check again: it is our own name on the envelope.
The tickets are to that other show.

It is possible that we will walk out of the darkened hall
without waiting for the last act: people do.
Some people do. But it is probable
that we will stay seated in our narrow seats
all through the tedious dénouement
to the unsurprising end — riveted, as it were;
spellbound by our own imperfect lives
because they are lives,
and because they are ours.

"Riveted" by Robyn Sarah from A Day's Grace: Poems 1997-2002

I Was Always Leaving by Jean Nordhaus

I was always leaving, I was
about to get up and go, I was
on my way, not sure where.
Somewhere else. Not here.
Nothing here was good enough.

It would be better there, where I
was going. Not sure how or why.
The dome I cowered under
would be raised, and I would be released
into my true life. I would meet there

the ones I was destined to meet.
They would make an opening for me
among the flutes and boulders,
and I would be taken up. That this
might be a form of death

did not occur to me. I only know
that something held me back,
a doubt, a debt, a face I could not
leave behind. When the door
fell open, I did not go through.

Sometimes, I Am Startled Out of Myself

Barbara Crooker

like this morning, when the wild geese came squawking,
flapping their rusty hinges, and something about their trek
across the sky made me think about my life, the places
of brokenness, the places of sorrow, the places where grief
has strung me out to dry. And then the geese come calling,
the leader falling back when tired, another taking her place.
Hope is borne on wings. Look at the trees. They turn to gold
for a brief while, then lose it all each November.
Through the cold months, they stand, take the worst
weather has to offer. And still, they put out shy green leaves
come April, come May. The geese glide over the cornfields,
land on the pond with its sedges and reeds.
You do not have to be wise. Even a goose knows how to find
shelter, where the corn still lies in the stubble and dried stalks.
All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.
They stitch up the sky, and it is whole again.

Sunday, January 06, 2013

snow angels: my daily can of whoop ass

3 comments:

observations from my first day of school