Meeting

I’ve heard it say that

Life is nothing but an electron looking for a place to rest.

But the very tangibility of life

the intangibility of electrons

speaks to me in a way that says

we are the ones in the universe who have found rest

and there may be others out there

there may be other electrons that have finally taken their last loop

around this world and vanished towards other shores

But life: that, we can touch

Reach out and taste it, juice dripping down our chins

Skinned knees and lathered hair

wrapped ourselves in it and allowed perspective to warp

down to a single pinprint of light

You may already know that

(on a per gram and per second basis)

you convert 10,000 times more energy than the sun

So that yellow ball in the sky

deity to our forefathers and the beach bums of today

speaks in many ways and says

we are the ones in our lifetimes who shine bright

and there may be others out there

other Shiners who are hidden away in the dark

with walls and a ceiling packed to bursting with the bright

glow of those inside

But light: that, we can touch

Feel on our temples, the bridges of our noses and the curve of your back

dapple ourselves with it, fingerpaint in the sunscreens

down to a million billion moments in time

I’m sure you know about E. coli

Disasters thrown at you about reasons to wash

your fruit, wash your hands, wash the world

For if E. coli had a limitless food source

it could divide so fast that in one day

one revolution of our planet around that bright yellow ball

that one organism could split so many times

that the pile of descendants would be over a thousand times larger

than the mass of the earth

E. coli shines its light the best it can

though few appreciate it

and most try to wash it down the drain

it speaks to me the best it can and says

we are the ones to leave something for those coming behind us

says here: take my genes

and here: see my light in the water

E. coli splits in two faster than it can copy its genome

and a copier which needs to make rapid-fire copies

it starts on the next before the first is washed away

Once, when we were younger, my little sister took time lapse photos of the stars

She set up a camera with a tripod and we looked for constellations

and when she looked at her images, the stars had become little lines

drawing their light across the sky like white Magic Markers on black paper

(that ineluctable combination that somehow never hit the shelves)

and the movement that we could not see

as we found Orion and the bears

stuck in space and time

the little lines on that photograph

spoke loudly, freeing the constellations to dance

We are the universe – at least a part of it

and we too know how to slow dance to the rhythm of the stars

streaking our lives out across time

brief Shiners, short shinings,

but we shine

we say here: take my genes. take my all

pass them along to someone who will use them even better than I

someone that I have not met yet

and may never meet

until this I becomes mountain air, wetland sludge, star stuff

until this I remembers that it was human for a little while

until this I is scattered to electrons

finally coming to rest

Flying Home

Sometimes I am tired of being the mother

to these daughters who are not my own

Play nice. Say you’re sorry. Honey, you hurt her feelings.

I sit on the swings

One of those old swingsets that still contains swings for people over the age of six

Not brightly colored plastic: metal, a little rusted

As my feet lift off the ground

pump back and forth

the beat of the A-frame matches my heart but

The sigh of protest from the structure

Strains to help gravity pull me down

Sometimes I feel like a terrible leader

to these children who squabble and fuss

Honey, you hurt her feelings. Play nice. Say you’re sorry. 

I sit on the swings

Committees of grown-up babies linked together

trying to fly higher and higher

always pulled down to earth

Higher, mama, higher, Icarus calls

unable to match his sister

wanting to fly with his brother

And I push once more against gravity

Sometimes I wish we could fly

shoulder bones snapping out into wings but

Say you’re sorry. Honey, you hurt her feelings. Play nice. 

I sit on these swings

One of those old swingsets firmly bolted into the earth

A little rusted, but strong

We cannot resolve our differences on the ground

I hear the Canada geese flying overhead,

the sigh of protest from above

the sound melding into what I hear

If my feet lifted off the ground

Gravity collects us all, in the end

Words, and letting things air out

So I’m being bad and not going into the studio today.  Despite the fact that I have two teapots that need to be trimmed & assembled soon.  Instead, I’m dealing with life-thinky-thoughts.

I broke, last year.  As if I was a freshly thrown bowl, cut off the wheel ever so carefully, lifted with two sliding metal pieces — and then my potter stood on the table, climbed on the wedging board, and dropped me.

I’ve been having difficulty getting through that – it was no less and no more than the cruelty of teenagers and a lack of support and a feedback loop of feeling like I wasn’t doing good enough so I did less so I knew I wasn’t doing good enough… ad nauseum.

This year, though.  I scraped myself off the floor when I left the old job, but I was still shell-shocked, still dealing with the bits of dried clay and hairs and air pockets left from the fall.  I think my period of healing took the time to totally dry out, smash into bits, and rehydrate.  I have come around to the correct consistency for thought. I think that – nearly six months later – I have started to wedge myself back into the shape I want to be.

I do not need to be all-effacing.  I am not doing a terribly important job right now, and nothing would fall apart if I did not do what I am doing — but I am doing what I should be doing, and I am beginning to grow comfortable.  My lumps and bumps mixed in – I am enjoying what I am doing, and I am learning from doing and observing –  my air pockets slammed out.  I am beginning to feel more confident, to feel that I do not need to be perfect, to be doing my best.

Knowing that I am not the best with words, or faces, but working on both of those things.  Knowing that I am not the best at raising up a cylinder, of reaching a piece into the sky while keeping enough support underneath it, I am beginning to be comfortable speaking out, again.  Accepting my intellect, again.  Challenging my intellect, again.  I am beginning to think about going back to school, and beginning to believe that I can be respected, and cherished, and raised up.