INVITATION
If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!
LISTEN TO THE MUSTN'TS
Listen to the MUSTN'TS, child,
Listen to the DON'TS
Listen to the SHOULDN'TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON'TS
Listen to the NEVER HAVES
Then listen close to me-
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.
HUG O' WAR
I will not play at tug o' war.
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses,
And everyone grins,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.
Ahhhh! Shel Siverstein. What a poet for the ages. His simple rhyme; his strong message to us all. These poems from his poetry collection called Where the Sidewalk Ends, are three of my all time favorites. I feel child like and full of promise. I feel giddy and silly as I read them outloud. I feel safe in this world... almost able to see spirit fairies and talk to gods. I feel validated and empowered to be me. I feel relieved.
When/how/why/what/when for you? Write any response that comes up... maybe a rhyming poem...or a ... or a ... or a ... a what? Write as child perhaps. Allow yourself creative freedom. Allow yourself to play.
Either send your responses to me by Sunday night for me to post on Monday morning, or post yourself at that time.
Always LOVE,
Petrina
Oh and one of mine too!
Oh Nature Spirits
A meadow.
A fence.
Spirit life give me memory of courage.
An open gate beckons -
Shall I take the adventure?
I am ready for my transformation,
Ready for all aspects of life and love.
My soul dances –
Lush carpet, green tickling between toes
I smell the lavender, the rose
The day is filled with wonder, an awe
Surprise…
Little spirit child bestow upon me love
Give gifts of wisdom, courage, strength.
Bestow upon me meaning of
Innocence and beauty
Struggle, hurt…
Where do I stand, Sprite?
With thee?
Honor me with knowledge
Allow me to listen,
Allow me to feel.
I want to feel the sting of tears
Hot and wet in steady stream
Down cheek and neck
Realizing
Resonance with my soul.
Where do I stand, Sprite?
With thee
As we pass through open gate
Into plush never-ending meadow
Leading onward
Toward joy
And purpose fulfilled
Hearing laughter
Feeling love…
My soul, Dear Sprite,
Remembers
Everything.
Everything!
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
On Becoming Conscious
What is it that begins the process of becoming aware? Is it personal? Is it universal? Is it trauma? Is it love? What begins that shift from being unconsciously unconscious, moving to consciously unconscious, next to consciously conscious and finally to unconsciously conscious? How does it feel to become aware? This a piece I wrote as a monologue about 15 or so years ago. Please note as you read to try a Southern accent, as I’m sure that’s how I originally wrote and read. I believe there had just been an airline tragedy – must have been early 90’s.
The Tragedy of Mariah Spence Products of Beauty
I’m here to speak to you tonight, but I’ve got to stop and make a… take a…you know, silent moment. We all need to acknowledge the recent tragedy. So many people lost forever. So, let’s take that silent moment now.
Thanks. O.K.
Now, I come to you tonight to talk of my success in selling Mariah Spence Products of Beauty. Somehow in light of this most recent tragedy, my thoughts as I was preparing this speech took a turn. I want to share with you these new thoughts.
First of all, let me say that, yes, I am very successful. I am the lucky recipient of this month’s diamond trio set! And that means I sold more Mariah Spence Products of Beauty than any other salesperson in our United States of America.
But, I wonder, what does it all mean? Here today – gone tomorrow. A diamond trio set today, tomorrow a lunatic could attack me and grab this necklace right off my neck! Then I wouldn’t have a diamond trio set anymore. I’d have a diamond duet.
You know, I have always been very proud of the fact that I sell Mariah Spence Products of Beauty – and in every neighborhood. Even in what I call the neglected neighborhoods. In fact, I have a little motto I use when I introduce myself to these less fortunate human beings. I say, “NNMNBT … Neglected Neighborhood Means Neglected Beauty Treatments!” Then I say, “And you Madame, could do with a little sprucing up!” Now just when it looks like I might get a right hook to the mouth, I hand over a packet of Mariah Spence Marigold Seeds.
“For Free!” I sing, “For a few minutes of your time!” Well that’s when we go in her living room or kitchen, or just sit right on the front steps. I see things you wouldn’t believe. I see things I could not tell my mother in those neighborhoods.
And these women don’t have much money. But they’ll spend. You know why? I can show them how to justify the expense. I equal a jar of $25 Mariah Spence Overnight Beauty Cream that will last her, if she uses it diligently, about five-six weeks – I equal that to the amount of beer her husband drinks in three days. I say, “If he can spend it on himself, honey, you can spend it on yourself! Right?”
And out comes the money! That’s how I work those neighborhoods.
Or always have. But today things feel different for me.
Last night, when I heard the tragic news, my husband and I were having sexual relations. Now I’m not here to give you an intimate view of my life. But, we are all adults here, right? This story is making an important point. My husband moaned this horrific moan of pure ecstasy and then the news announcer flashed on the screen interrupting regular programming. He interviewed an eyewitness that just so happened to be one of my Mariah Spence Products of Beauty customers form one of those neglected neighborhoods. The woman moaned an horrific moan of grief at the loss of her son.
So, it went like this – my husband’s moan of pure ecstasy; the news announcer announcing the tragedy itself; and then this moan of misery.
It was so odd. The moans were so much alike. And yet, they were so different. Kind of like life. So, it really made me think – you know?
Thank you. Thank you for the diamond trio! Go Mariah Spence!
Try your hand at a monologue, a piece of prose or a poem as you reflect upon this piece and write whatever it is that springs from it. Remember, your piece is yours – Whatever you write is what it is about for you. Allow yourself to become aware of your writing process – what it takes for you to write your piece. I’d like to make that part of our discussion. We welcome new Soul Writers! Please send your writings to me by Sunday night to my email iampetrina@bellsouth.net or post yourself on Monday morning!
Love Always,
Petee
The Tragedy of Mariah Spence Products of Beauty
I’m here to speak to you tonight, but I’ve got to stop and make a… take a…you know, silent moment. We all need to acknowledge the recent tragedy. So many people lost forever. So, let’s take that silent moment now.
Thanks. O.K.
Now, I come to you tonight to talk of my success in selling Mariah Spence Products of Beauty. Somehow in light of this most recent tragedy, my thoughts as I was preparing this speech took a turn. I want to share with you these new thoughts.
First of all, let me say that, yes, I am very successful. I am the lucky recipient of this month’s diamond trio set! And that means I sold more Mariah Spence Products of Beauty than any other salesperson in our United States of America.
But, I wonder, what does it all mean? Here today – gone tomorrow. A diamond trio set today, tomorrow a lunatic could attack me and grab this necklace right off my neck! Then I wouldn’t have a diamond trio set anymore. I’d have a diamond duet.
You know, I have always been very proud of the fact that I sell Mariah Spence Products of Beauty – and in every neighborhood. Even in what I call the neglected neighborhoods. In fact, I have a little motto I use when I introduce myself to these less fortunate human beings. I say, “NNMNBT … Neglected Neighborhood Means Neglected Beauty Treatments!” Then I say, “And you Madame, could do with a little sprucing up!” Now just when it looks like I might get a right hook to the mouth, I hand over a packet of Mariah Spence Marigold Seeds.
“For Free!” I sing, “For a few minutes of your time!” Well that’s when we go in her living room or kitchen, or just sit right on the front steps. I see things you wouldn’t believe. I see things I could not tell my mother in those neighborhoods.
And these women don’t have much money. But they’ll spend. You know why? I can show them how to justify the expense. I equal a jar of $25 Mariah Spence Overnight Beauty Cream that will last her, if she uses it diligently, about five-six weeks – I equal that to the amount of beer her husband drinks in three days. I say, “If he can spend it on himself, honey, you can spend it on yourself! Right?”
And out comes the money! That’s how I work those neighborhoods.
Or always have. But today things feel different for me.
Last night, when I heard the tragic news, my husband and I were having sexual relations. Now I’m not here to give you an intimate view of my life. But, we are all adults here, right? This story is making an important point. My husband moaned this horrific moan of pure ecstasy and then the news announcer flashed on the screen interrupting regular programming. He interviewed an eyewitness that just so happened to be one of my Mariah Spence Products of Beauty customers form one of those neglected neighborhoods. The woman moaned an horrific moan of grief at the loss of her son.
So, it went like this – my husband’s moan of pure ecstasy; the news announcer announcing the tragedy itself; and then this moan of misery.
It was so odd. The moans were so much alike. And yet, they were so different. Kind of like life. So, it really made me think – you know?
Thank you. Thank you for the diamond trio! Go Mariah Spence!
Try your hand at a monologue, a piece of prose or a poem as you reflect upon this piece and write whatever it is that springs from it. Remember, your piece is yours – Whatever you write is what it is about for you. Allow yourself to become aware of your writing process – what it takes for you to write your piece. I’d like to make that part of our discussion. We welcome new Soul Writers! Please send your writings to me by Sunday night to my email iampetrina@bellsouth.net or post yourself on Monday morning!
Love Always,
Petee
Thursday, February 14, 2008
It's Heart Day! Love Always...Always LOVE...
I know we are not through commenting on the last set of responses; please continue to respond to the last post and poems. I planned to post today, so I could share some of the love poems that have become my favorites. If you are looking for a great gift of love poetry to give your beloved, which of course could simply be YOU, The Gift written by Hafiz and translated by Daniel Ladinsky is the way to go. This book offers so much love and I love it so much. I've been reading this book since about the year 2001 and it is definately on my MUST list. Giving this book, The Gift, as a gift has given me such a gift of sharing - spreading the words of love and healing. There are so many more writers who are my favorites for love poetry. Especially those of you who are new to appreciating poetry, find the poetry section in the book store or library and immerse yourself. Find the words and writers, which can bring inspiration, tears and joy. There are so many combinations of words and sentences, syntax and form. A vast myriad of love expressed for our pleasure.
Ok. How about some love poetry? I'll put down a few of mine here. Sometimes I am writing about the love of my life and sometimes I am writing about my own love essence. I love love. Enjoy.
#1
the Beloved, thank G-d
understands the smell of
Rose and Jasmine
the curve of the trembling
lip
opened mouth
head arched back
ecstasy of Soul
Spirit
Body
Psyche
a moment of coming together
of absolute abandon
of complete balance
of release
into my essence
vitality spilling outward
passion spiraling
hot in my belly
daring me to be really me
risking my adventure home
grounding me
transcending earth
filling me with Joy
Laughter and
Love
#2 A For Real
Flashing sparkling eyes
Blinking up and seeing clearly
Into yours, finding –
Me in the reflection!
Giggling from the inside out…
A delicate tingle transmuting cells,
Awakening energy;
Oxygen breathing into nooks and crannies.
Holding these feelings precious…
Allowing them to linger
In between
Times when I get to flash my eyes
Into yours again
And refill.
#3 thank you
your venison stew
that’s what did it for me
broth so thick and sweet
potatoes perfectly cooked
carrots still firm like I like
venison tender
delivered hot and fresh
with kindness and feeling
what an unexpected pleasure
#4 evolution of the moon
a gentle and creative lover
the full moon engages the
water
causing a shimmering
reflection
shuddering with delight
intimacy creating a
rippling rhythm
revealing truth and
beauty
exposing vulnerable passion
loving the vitality
experiencing the
sacred
and we
are
dancing
underneath
that moon
#5 like riding a bike
so he kissed me.
and i kissed him.
on the lips
full and soft lips.
this is what i remember
i turned because my friends had hugged and kissed his friend
i was glad because that meant
i could hug and kiss charlie
we went down the line and i was last
a quick hug for his friend and i turned
it was like a dance move
the grace with which he pulled me out of
that embrace
(or was it his eyes)
curling me into his arms
he pulled me to him and pulled me tight
against him and
it was then
against him
face to face
his lips
met my lips
and he kissed me
and i kissed him
on the lips full and soft
this is what i remember
his gentle hand firmly on my back
so I wouldn’t fall
#6
breathing deeply
i will
find a melody within my inner spirit
a harmony within my humanness
love myself dearly
brightly reflect the love I receive
replenish the love I spend
work through whichever piece of my story calling out
journey into the unknown
RISK
ALL
to become more
genuine and
WHOLE
Empower My Being
it is my time
it is my responsibility
it is my joy
with commitment
with honor
i gift myself
with me
and in such
i gift myself
with you
remembering our
beloved friendship
Love & Peace
Breathe in the Love. Write your own love poems. Allow yourself to love yourself, your essence, your God, your lover, your spouse, your mother, your child, your passion, your favorite thing, something. Love something as you write.
As you send your poems to my email, realize I do not even really look at them until I post them on Monday morning. I want the effect of us reading in the room. One following another. To respond to each person separately is a great idea so that you can really read and appreciate each piece. For now - READ; BREATHE; WRITE; LOVE!
Always Love,
Petee
Remember you may still post comments on the last prompt...and put March 8 on your calendar to come together to write at Solutions for a Soul Writing Saturday Workshop!
Ok. How about some love poetry? I'll put down a few of mine here. Sometimes I am writing about the love of my life and sometimes I am writing about my own love essence. I love love. Enjoy.
#1
the Beloved, thank G-d
understands the smell of
Rose and Jasmine
the curve of the trembling
lip
opened mouth
head arched back
ecstasy of Soul
Spirit
Body
Psyche
a moment of coming together
of absolute abandon
of complete balance
of release
into my essence
vitality spilling outward
passion spiraling
hot in my belly
daring me to be really me
risking my adventure home
grounding me
transcending earth
filling me with Joy
Laughter and
Love
#2 A For Real
Flashing sparkling eyes
Blinking up and seeing clearly
Into yours, finding –
Me in the reflection!
Giggling from the inside out…
A delicate tingle transmuting cells,
Awakening energy;
Oxygen breathing into nooks and crannies.
Holding these feelings precious…
Allowing them to linger
In between
Times when I get to flash my eyes
Into yours again
And refill.
#3 thank you
your venison stew
that’s what did it for me
broth so thick and sweet
potatoes perfectly cooked
carrots still firm like I like
venison tender
delivered hot and fresh
with kindness and feeling
what an unexpected pleasure
#4 evolution of the moon
a gentle and creative lover
the full moon engages the
water
causing a shimmering
reflection
shuddering with delight
intimacy creating a
rippling rhythm
revealing truth and
beauty
exposing vulnerable passion
loving the vitality
experiencing the
sacred
and we
are
dancing
underneath
that moon
#5 like riding a bike
so he kissed me.
and i kissed him.
on the lips
full and soft lips.
this is what i remember
i turned because my friends had hugged and kissed his friend
i was glad because that meant
i could hug and kiss charlie
we went down the line and i was last
a quick hug for his friend and i turned
it was like a dance move
the grace with which he pulled me out of
that embrace
(or was it his eyes)
curling me into his arms
he pulled me to him and pulled me tight
against him and
it was then
against him
face to face
his lips
met my lips
and he kissed me
and i kissed him
on the lips full and soft
this is what i remember
his gentle hand firmly on my back
so I wouldn’t fall
#6
breathing deeply
i will
find a melody within my inner spirit
a harmony within my humanness
love myself dearly
brightly reflect the love I receive
replenish the love I spend
work through whichever piece of my story calling out
journey into the unknown
RISK
ALL
to become more
genuine and
WHOLE
Empower My Being
it is my time
it is my responsibility
it is my joy
with commitment
with honor
i gift myself
with me
and in such
i gift myself
with you
remembering our
beloved friendship
Love & Peace
Breathe in the Love. Write your own love poems. Allow yourself to love yourself, your essence, your God, your lover, your spouse, your mother, your child, your passion, your favorite thing, something. Love something as you write.
As you send your poems to my email, realize I do not even really look at them until I post them on Monday morning. I want the effect of us reading in the room. One following another. To respond to each person separately is a great idea so that you can really read and appreciate each piece. For now - READ; BREATHE; WRITE; LOVE!
Always Love,
Petee
Remember you may still post comments on the last prompt...and put March 8 on your calendar to come together to write at Solutions for a Soul Writing Saturday Workshop!
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Always In Process...Write On!
It seems we are. We are always in process, searching, trying out new ways of thinking; feeling and being. One thing that has always held ground for me - no matter how I'm evolving/changing/transcending/transmuting/evensittingstill - is writing. As I allow the process to process on paper, I become clearer and easier with my focus. I am less likely to criticize my issues that are at hand. I can write and revel in my thoughts and feelings. I can scream... and cry... and say no... and say yes - I can have a voice that maybe I cannot muster out loud. Listen to the many voices of healing. I offer several of my own poems/writings and one great poem by Marge Piercy.
one morning
it seemed like the right thing to do
get up early and sit behind/in front (?) of the keyboard
allowing my fingers to play across keys spelling words
it seemed the only thing to do i had long before lost control
sleep was no option dreams woke me to this fate
and so I sit staring at blank page and isn’t it funny that
even though actual typewriter or legal pad or clipboard is not
physically in hand the page is still blank (I like that thought!)
i think i am waiting for my psyche to open to unconscious flow
words somehow channeled out of a sleepy brain
only somewhat able to manipulate syntax and spelling
and somehow motivated to this task before the sun rises
realizing time is my own this morning and naps are a saturday
commodity (Another thought I like!) and the thought that i can
unconsciously allow thoughts that i like is a comfort… a thrill
in this time for me when most waking moments are filled with
sadness and pain from events i cannot control at all
only my psyche would have thought of this maneuver
because here i am thinking lovely thoughts
am i sprinkled with fairy dust?
after the hours
it is with anguish i live each day
waking with original pain and
my insanities
inhibiting my wholeness
blocking my growth
my simplicity to live in balance
with the rest of the world
even my creativity…
i am visionary
i do know too much
i do feel too much
my poetry leaks out
oozes word by word by phrase
to make claim
to make sense
revealing to me each lens
through which i see
it is all i can do with ease
alone
finding solace in words exposing
my uncomfortable spaces
crying out to others who can hear my
angst and reach to me with
a feeling of connection
to touch their own
unknown
thereby acknowledging my soul
allowing me to feel myself
…just barely breathing
just now
it is you who has come to me in peace
in trickster disguise to teach
my personal shaman
how perfect
it is you who walks with god
espousing truth and love
my heart is listening to you
my heart is opening
albeit slow to trust
so many years of blackness
a severed blade dulled inside me
only a matching dull ache
until now
when i am learning
that this truth and love you teach
this god you speak of
is me
and it has been all along
i forgot
just now i see it in my eyes
to the left
teetering sure footed
stars are
shooting madly all around
expressions of excitement and energy
made with sound and light
and feelings dancing in my belly
which way to go which way to go
my current path deep and wide
rutted with steadfast surety
i cannot fail
however just a foot to the
left is where
silence is breaking the sound
barrier with raucous inconsistency
love is brilliantly steaming from
morning cereal bowls
abandon is laughing holding out his arms for me
beckoning
abundance is absolute
and you are standing there smiling
tottering surefooted
galaxies
are changing area codes
heads are thrown back in ecstasy
flowers are blooming for all to smell
this is just a foot away
a phone call away
a smile away a
winkakissapoema
jug of wine away
a universe could be inside
the baseball knocked outside
the park
which way to go which way to go
moment by moment
(to the left)
Unlearning to not Speak
Marge Piercy
Blizzards of paper
in slow motion
sift through her.
In nightmares she suddenly recalls
a class she signed up for
but forgot to attend.
Now it is too late.
Now it is time for finals:
losers will be shot.
Phrases of men who lectured her
drift and rustle in piles:
Why don’t you speak up?
Why are you shouting?
You have the wrong answer,
wrong line, wrong face.
They tell her she is a womb-man,
Babymachine, mirror image, toy,
earth mother and penis-poor,
a dish of synthetic strawberry icecream
rapidly melting.
She grunts to a halt.
She must learn again to speak
starting with I
Starting with We
starting as the infant does
With her own hunger
and pleasure
and rage.
Piercy, by the way, is a very published contemporary poet-writer. She has many great things to say. Pick up a book and get to know her work. In the meantime, read here and write a response. Send your writing to me by Sunday and I'll post for comments. So it's time to write. Allow the poems to touch something, connect somehow. Allow yourself. Breathe. Write. Love.
Always LOVE,
Petee
one morning
it seemed like the right thing to do
get up early and sit behind/in front (?) of the keyboard
allowing my fingers to play across keys spelling words
it seemed the only thing to do i had long before lost control
sleep was no option dreams woke me to this fate
and so I sit staring at blank page and isn’t it funny that
even though actual typewriter or legal pad or clipboard is not
physically in hand the page is still blank (I like that thought!)
i think i am waiting for my psyche to open to unconscious flow
words somehow channeled out of a sleepy brain
only somewhat able to manipulate syntax and spelling
and somehow motivated to this task before the sun rises
realizing time is my own this morning and naps are a saturday
commodity (Another thought I like!) and the thought that i can
unconsciously allow thoughts that i like is a comfort… a thrill
in this time for me when most waking moments are filled with
sadness and pain from events i cannot control at all
only my psyche would have thought of this maneuver
because here i am thinking lovely thoughts
am i sprinkled with fairy dust?
after the hours
it is with anguish i live each day
waking with original pain and
my insanities
inhibiting my wholeness
blocking my growth
my simplicity to live in balance
with the rest of the world
even my creativity…
i am visionary
i do know too much
i do feel too much
my poetry leaks out
oozes word by word by phrase
to make claim
to make sense
revealing to me each lens
through which i see
it is all i can do with ease
alone
finding solace in words exposing
my uncomfortable spaces
crying out to others who can hear my
angst and reach to me with
a feeling of connection
to touch their own
unknown
thereby acknowledging my soul
allowing me to feel myself
…just barely breathing
just now
it is you who has come to me in peace
in trickster disguise to teach
my personal shaman
how perfect
it is you who walks with god
espousing truth and love
my heart is listening to you
my heart is opening
albeit slow to trust
so many years of blackness
a severed blade dulled inside me
only a matching dull ache
until now
when i am learning
that this truth and love you teach
this god you speak of
is me
and it has been all along
i forgot
just now i see it in my eyes
to the left
teetering sure footed
stars are
shooting madly all around
expressions of excitement and energy
made with sound and light
and feelings dancing in my belly
which way to go which way to go
my current path deep and wide
rutted with steadfast surety
i cannot fail
however just a foot to the
left is where
silence is breaking the sound
barrier with raucous inconsistency
love is brilliantly steaming from
morning cereal bowls
abandon is laughing holding out his arms for me
beckoning
abundance is absolute
and you are standing there smiling
tottering surefooted
galaxies
are changing area codes
heads are thrown back in ecstasy
flowers are blooming for all to smell
this is just a foot away
a phone call away
a smile away a
winkakissapoema
jug of wine away
a universe could be inside
the baseball knocked outside
the park
which way to go which way to go
moment by moment
(to the left)
Unlearning to not Speak
Marge Piercy
Blizzards of paper
in slow motion
sift through her.
In nightmares she suddenly recalls
a class she signed up for
but forgot to attend.
Now it is too late.
Now it is time for finals:
losers will be shot.
Phrases of men who lectured her
drift and rustle in piles:
Why don’t you speak up?
Why are you shouting?
You have the wrong answer,
wrong line, wrong face.
They tell her she is a womb-man,
Babymachine, mirror image, toy,
earth mother and penis-poor,
a dish of synthetic strawberry icecream
rapidly melting.
She grunts to a halt.
She must learn again to speak
starting with I
Starting with We
starting as the infant does
With her own hunger
and pleasure
and rage.
Piercy, by the way, is a very published contemporary poet-writer. She has many great things to say. Pick up a book and get to know her work. In the meantime, read here and write a response. Send your writing to me by Sunday and I'll post for comments. So it's time to write. Allow the poems to touch something, connect somehow. Allow yourself. Breathe. Write. Love.
Always LOVE,
Petee
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Ode to Mother...and the 2008 Presidential Election!
It is January 2008. The Primaries are upon us… I am not a political person per se; I have my issues; my soap box. I have been voting since I was 18, I worked a campaign. I have my JFK memory of his fatal day. Most of all I have my mother. Had my mother. She’s almost 11 years gone now, March 1st. She died just before Monica Lewinsky changed the lives of the Clintons; just before Princess Dianna lost her life as well.
Mother loved Bill Clinton as she had loved Kennedy. She loved Dianna as she loved all fairy tales. Mother loved politics and political debate with her whole heart – her whole mind. She wanted you to disagree so she could go on, and on…and on. (I come by my gift for gab quite honestly.) Mother, although from California, or maybe because she was from California, loved individuality, creativity, equality for all, justice and her fellow men and women. Mother was judgmental, and although some of that was superfluous and imprinted the same within me, most of her judgment was against prejudice. She loved people of other races…sometimes just because she connected to her interpretation of their pain from segregation. Did I mention she lived the majority of her life in Alabama? …A Mecca of freedom and choice for all.
Mother was a writer. She made her living as a news writer, a feature interviewer and an essayist, published in most state papers in Alabama, especially as an associate editor for Auburn University’s Public Relations Department. She also wrote travel columns, published the Billy Big series of stories – Billy was a balloon – for Highlights magazine; Episcopal national church school historical fiction for 5th and 6th graders; she also wrote for True Confessions and Modern Romance…back in the day. Mother loved words.
Mother loved people and people loved mother. When she passed, letters came in from all over the U.S. stating affection for her, claiming lives had been changed from a story she had written, missing her. I loved my mother. We talked every day about 6:00 a.m., about everything and about nothing. She loved and cared for my three sons with love and dedication. They loved her back.
I remember the time before she went into the hospital in December 1996. She was 75. Until November she walked two to three miles a day; she traveled extensively with her boyfriend across the continent and abroad. She wrote every day, publishing weekly in her retirement. She read at least three newspapers every day. She was a 15 year breast cancer survivor. And…her health had been failing; we didn’t know what was wrong. She had begun to have a far away look in her eyes. She would often be in pain. Only a couple of days into my teenage sons and I beginning to take turns staying over to make sure she was eating and able to get her needs met, my oldest son called, he was 16. He related that he had had to physically carry his grandmother to the bathroom at two o’clock in the morning.
He had to physically carry his grandmother to the bathroom at two o’clock in the morning. Things went downhill so quickly. She kept asking if she had cancer. She could never really say the word itself; she often called it the C word. Her doctor told me she was manipulating me. He assured us she did not have cancer. Her pain was outrageous. The pain medications caused her to hallucinate to the point a long time psychologist friend diagnosed her with Alzheimer’s. What? What? What? Her teeth didn’t fit anymore. She was so vain, though, and a dutiful daughter, each day I would help fit her big teeth into her increasingly smaller mouth. She couldn’t really eat. Either she wasn’t hungry or the meds reaction caused nausea…or…or…or. She had no strength to use utensils and for some reason we all allowed that when we were not present. Her fingernails were always filled with dirty old food that no nurse would clean. I did. Every day I cleaned her fingernails and rubbed lotion on her arms and hands and feet and back. I cried as I watched my mother go down. I promised her she did not have cancer.
I shut down her house and moved her in with me. I hired a home health nurse, we took her off all medications; we wanted her sanity back. In lucid moments she begged for rational thought. I never realized the sacrifice she was making… a trade off…sanity or pain. She took the pain. Her boyfriend would come over at cocktail hour and spend an hour or two with her. My teenage boys spent less time at home. I was exhausted, working and caring for my mother. What was wrong with her? I was promised she did not have cancer. She asked me every day. Every day I said no.
A month later, my mother died of metastasized breast cancer, which had appeared in her spine and bones. It had been there for months according to the new doctor who diagnosed her in 4 days. The first doctor, her doctor of 15 or more years, misread the test results. Since the result would always be death, there was no apology and no remorse for his incredibly unconscionable behavior. My mother passed after so much pain in such a short period of time. I honestly thought she would live to 112.
Mother is gone. And yet she is so present. She is in my body, laughing with the political humorists…out loud by yourself laughing. Mother would be so alive in this political climate of this presidential election year. Hillary and Barack? Mitt and Rudy? Good God, Mother – a woman (Mom was the first working woman at Auburn University to wear slacks to work in 1969), a biracial man (she was on the front lines with George Wallace and Bull Connor in Alabama in the 60s), a Mormon (religion, her second favorite topic of discussion) and a past mayor of NYC (her favorite city in the world)! Not to mention a Vietnam vet and all the others. Oh mother, you would so love the rash honesty of these times, the fervor with which some people can see the possibilities of the future.
I know you are with me, Mother. I breathe you in and out as these days pass by. I am so happy that I can have these wonderful memories of your passion as you lived in the mission and purpose of your life. I am so incredibly glad that I had you as my mother, my teacher, and my friend. I love you.
Petrina
This essay offers opportunitties to spark your writing in many different ways. You can write poetry or prose to respond to this prompt. Remember, at this point in the process, you are writing whatever is SPARKED for YOU. You are not responding to me personally about my story. Please email your responss to me at iampetrina@bellsouth.net and on Saturday or Sunday I will post all of your responses at the same time. We will read and respond at that time to the writings, processing our feelings and connections with each other's writings. We will see if this works! You all are fabulous and are adding so much to my life by participating in this experience. Post or email with questions.
Always love,
Petee
Mother loved Bill Clinton as she had loved Kennedy. She loved Dianna as she loved all fairy tales. Mother loved politics and political debate with her whole heart – her whole mind. She wanted you to disagree so she could go on, and on…and on. (I come by my gift for gab quite honestly.) Mother, although from California, or maybe because she was from California, loved individuality, creativity, equality for all, justice and her fellow men and women. Mother was judgmental, and although some of that was superfluous and imprinted the same within me, most of her judgment was against prejudice. She loved people of other races…sometimes just because she connected to her interpretation of their pain from segregation. Did I mention she lived the majority of her life in Alabama? …A Mecca of freedom and choice for all.
Mother was a writer. She made her living as a news writer, a feature interviewer and an essayist, published in most state papers in Alabama, especially as an associate editor for Auburn University’s Public Relations Department. She also wrote travel columns, published the Billy Big series of stories – Billy was a balloon – for Highlights magazine; Episcopal national church school historical fiction for 5th and 6th graders; she also wrote for True Confessions and Modern Romance…back in the day. Mother loved words.
Mother loved people and people loved mother. When she passed, letters came in from all over the U.S. stating affection for her, claiming lives had been changed from a story she had written, missing her. I loved my mother. We talked every day about 6:00 a.m., about everything and about nothing. She loved and cared for my three sons with love and dedication. They loved her back.
I remember the time before she went into the hospital in December 1996. She was 75. Until November she walked two to three miles a day; she traveled extensively with her boyfriend across the continent and abroad. She wrote every day, publishing weekly in her retirement. She read at least three newspapers every day. She was a 15 year breast cancer survivor. And…her health had been failing; we didn’t know what was wrong. She had begun to have a far away look in her eyes. She would often be in pain. Only a couple of days into my teenage sons and I beginning to take turns staying over to make sure she was eating and able to get her needs met, my oldest son called, he was 16. He related that he had had to physically carry his grandmother to the bathroom at two o’clock in the morning.
He had to physically carry his grandmother to the bathroom at two o’clock in the morning. Things went downhill so quickly. She kept asking if she had cancer. She could never really say the word itself; she often called it the C word. Her doctor told me she was manipulating me. He assured us she did not have cancer. Her pain was outrageous. The pain medications caused her to hallucinate to the point a long time psychologist friend diagnosed her with Alzheimer’s. What? What? What? Her teeth didn’t fit anymore. She was so vain, though, and a dutiful daughter, each day I would help fit her big teeth into her increasingly smaller mouth. She couldn’t really eat. Either she wasn’t hungry or the meds reaction caused nausea…or…or…or. She had no strength to use utensils and for some reason we all allowed that when we were not present. Her fingernails were always filled with dirty old food that no nurse would clean. I did. Every day I cleaned her fingernails and rubbed lotion on her arms and hands and feet and back. I cried as I watched my mother go down. I promised her she did not have cancer.
I shut down her house and moved her in with me. I hired a home health nurse, we took her off all medications; we wanted her sanity back. In lucid moments she begged for rational thought. I never realized the sacrifice she was making… a trade off…sanity or pain. She took the pain. Her boyfriend would come over at cocktail hour and spend an hour or two with her. My teenage boys spent less time at home. I was exhausted, working and caring for my mother. What was wrong with her? I was promised she did not have cancer. She asked me every day. Every day I said no.
A month later, my mother died of metastasized breast cancer, which had appeared in her spine and bones. It had been there for months according to the new doctor who diagnosed her in 4 days. The first doctor, her doctor of 15 or more years, misread the test results. Since the result would always be death, there was no apology and no remorse for his incredibly unconscionable behavior. My mother passed after so much pain in such a short period of time. I honestly thought she would live to 112.
Mother is gone. And yet she is so present. She is in my body, laughing with the political humorists…out loud by yourself laughing. Mother would be so alive in this political climate of this presidential election year. Hillary and Barack? Mitt and Rudy? Good God, Mother – a woman (Mom was the first working woman at Auburn University to wear slacks to work in 1969), a biracial man (she was on the front lines with George Wallace and Bull Connor in Alabama in the 60s), a Mormon (religion, her second favorite topic of discussion) and a past mayor of NYC (her favorite city in the world)! Not to mention a Vietnam vet and all the others. Oh mother, you would so love the rash honesty of these times, the fervor with which some people can see the possibilities of the future.
I know you are with me, Mother. I breathe you in and out as these days pass by. I am so happy that I can have these wonderful memories of your passion as you lived in the mission and purpose of your life. I am so incredibly glad that I had you as my mother, my teacher, and my friend. I love you.
Petrina
This essay offers opportunitties to spark your writing in many different ways. You can write poetry or prose to respond to this prompt. Remember, at this point in the process, you are writing whatever is SPARKED for YOU. You are not responding to me personally about my story. Please email your responss to me at iampetrina@bellsouth.net and on Saturday or Sunday I will post all of your responses at the same time. We will read and respond at that time to the writings, processing our feelings and connections with each other's writings. We will see if this works! You all are fabulous and are adding so much to my life by participating in this experience. Post or email with questions.
Always love,
Petee
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
SOUL WRITERS ...on your mark...get set...WRITE!
I am so happy for those of you who have commented here. I am getting the hang of it all; I intend to comment on your comments as time goes on. I want this to be the space where you can try on writing styles and forms as you respond to the prompts I will offer. I am hoping I am not in competition with myself! My thought is that we will be so inspired that we will want to keep up a conversation from the Saturdays that will take us all the way to next! I encourage you to try various styles of writing as you express yourself. I encourage you to use Grammar B as you poetize your words. I also encourage you to read poetry as you go through your daily lives. There are so many wonderful poets who speak in our language and the languages of old. Hafiz is my favorite Persian poet, although I'm sure I haven't read them all. The book called The Gift is truly an exceptional piece of work translated by Daniel Ladinsky. I corresponded w/ Daniel Ladinsky on several occasions. It was more than fab! You know I'd love to tell that story! Yes, I probably will on Saturday - for those of you who haven't already heard it!
So here is how I want this to work - I'm going to write a poem here (or another kind of prompt) ; read the poem, read it again; answer the questions like what does it mean to me? or what in the heck is she trying to say? (just answer the questions for yourself!); allow yourself to reflect upon the piece ...and then..and then ...take a deep breath and write. Something. Anything. Remember this not a conversation with others at this point, this is a response to a prompt. When the responses are in, then we will talk about them if you wish, always responding in love. Ready? Let's go!
humanness
so this incredible sunny day and freezing
one of those where even the brightest sun
couldn’t warm the bitter cold
my cheeks were chapped
stinging salt water
spilling from tear ducts
streaming as feelings could not
be saved for a rainy day
eroding make-up and moisturizer
my nose red raw
no sorrow hiding out
salient pain for anyone to pick up
and he did
about 35 or so
maybe 50
too street torn
to tell his age for sure
brown and gray smudged
any other day
my defenses would have prevented an interaction
any other day
this wrinkled dirty bum would have
stayed in his place
this day
the universe presented him to me
a gift
he offered me bus fare
on 14th street and 2nd avenue in
nyc
january 1974
and I didn’t accept his money
i continued to cry
to sob really to shake to weep
hardly coming up for air
he stood there with me in a silence
that held us separate and still on the busy morning
city street
a moment from a movie screen where all else
fades away or is
frozen or
black and white and
we were color and action
a damsel in distress
a bum
an angel
protecting me
asking me to trust
bloodshot eyes
locking our souls
he told me
all pain goes away
he offered me his brown bagged bottle
i declined
i did understand his humanity
our humanity
all humanity
something inside me gave way
he put his arm around me
and held me
until the bus came
when he released me
to go into the
cold world of
my life
© 2001 Petrina McGowen
first printed in This Old Human Woman 1998
Always LOVE,
Petee
So here is how I want this to work - I'm going to write a poem here (or another kind of prompt) ; read the poem, read it again; answer the questions like what does it mean to me? or what in the heck is she trying to say? (just answer the questions for yourself!); allow yourself to reflect upon the piece ...and then..and then ...take a deep breath and write. Something. Anything. Remember this not a conversation with others at this point, this is a response to a prompt. When the responses are in, then we will talk about them if you wish, always responding in love. Ready? Let's go!
humanness
so this incredible sunny day and freezing
one of those where even the brightest sun
couldn’t warm the bitter cold
my cheeks were chapped
stinging salt water
spilling from tear ducts
streaming as feelings could not
be saved for a rainy day
eroding make-up and moisturizer
my nose red raw
no sorrow hiding out
salient pain for anyone to pick up
and he did
about 35 or so
maybe 50
too street torn
to tell his age for sure
brown and gray smudged
any other day
my defenses would have prevented an interaction
any other day
this wrinkled dirty bum would have
stayed in his place
this day
the universe presented him to me
a gift
he offered me bus fare
on 14th street and 2nd avenue in
nyc
january 1974
and I didn’t accept his money
i continued to cry
to sob really to shake to weep
hardly coming up for air
he stood there with me in a silence
that held us separate and still on the busy morning
city street
a moment from a movie screen where all else
fades away or is
frozen or
black and white and
we were color and action
a damsel in distress
a bum
an angel
protecting me
asking me to trust
bloodshot eyes
locking our souls
he told me
all pain goes away
he offered me his brown bagged bottle
i declined
i did understand his humanity
our humanity
all humanity
something inside me gave way
he put his arm around me
and held me
until the bus came
when he released me
to go into the
cold world of
my life
© 2001 Petrina McGowen
first printed in This Old Human Woman 1998
Always LOVE,
Petee
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Welcome to the Soul Writing Blog!!!
I had a wonderful and first ever spa day in early November. It was so very glorious, feeling so pampered…and even though their definitely were others who were licensed professionals handling me through the day, I felt as though I was all alone and putting myself through this sacred ritual of self care. There’s not a lot of talk, mostly just the quiet reflective music, the mind hum, some meditating, some dreaming, some resolution making and quick cat naps. In a sense, I was in an altered state of being, smelling oils and lotions, feeling the feelings of touch and gentle care. It was a supreme moment…that day in the spa.
I think a lot. I talk a lot. I write a lot. There is great joy when I allow myself the luxury of these pastimes. I realize that my spa day was another luxury, I so well deserved. I realize that the kind of time I can spend reflecting and finding meaning in my life is the most perfect and important time there is. I am so acutely aware that I have to make that time, create that time, manifest that time, allow that time, give myself that time – because there may be no one else who will give it to me. I mean, how would they know which time I needed? Or wanted? Or had time for?
So, as I take my time each morning to plan my day, which I do on paper as I sit at my old wooden table looking out into my garden, I am committing in 2008 to create time for me. Whichever time I wish...I am creating lots of time for me. I am creating taking care of me time; having fun time; healing time; writing time; healthy time; a fine time; laughing time; dancing time; sacred time; grandmother time; lover time; friend time; mom time; sister time; prosperous time; creative time; spa time; a good old time…a good old time.
I always call writing together a gift of time…join me for Soulwriting in 2008.
Always love,
Petee
I think a lot. I talk a lot. I write a lot. There is great joy when I allow myself the luxury of these pastimes. I realize that my spa day was another luxury, I so well deserved. I realize that the kind of time I can spend reflecting and finding meaning in my life is the most perfect and important time there is. I am so acutely aware that I have to make that time, create that time, manifest that time, allow that time, give myself that time – because there may be no one else who will give it to me. I mean, how would they know which time I needed? Or wanted? Or had time for?
So, as I take my time each morning to plan my day, which I do on paper as I sit at my old wooden table looking out into my garden, I am committing in 2008 to create time for me. Whichever time I wish...I am creating lots of time for me. I am creating taking care of me time; having fun time; healing time; writing time; healthy time; a fine time; laughing time; dancing time; sacred time; grandmother time; lover time; friend time; mom time; sister time; prosperous time; creative time; spa time; a good old time…a good old time.
I always call writing together a gift of time…join me for Soulwriting in 2008.
Always love,
Petee
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