Some Days - A New Poem

Some days

you wake up

and discover

that you slipped

into the underworld

during the night.

The body aches and

the mind is haunted

with doubts and fears.

Some days

you watch a spider

drop down on the

window pane, and

you envy its deliberate,

graceful dance, its

simple, steady work.

Some days

when age is

what you feel,

when all you see

is fog or gloom,

then it is time

to straighten

your spine and

your resolve.

This day

is the day

to raise

your hands

and greet

whatever comes

out from the depths.

This day

is the day

to sing to

the morning light.

A New Poem - At a Restaurant in Berkeley

Birthday dinner

with friends.

Companionable.

Good Italian food,

artfully presented.

Across the way,

an old couple sits

side by side,

with a friend

across the table.

The wife’s long white hair

is pulled to the side

in a high ponytail.

So Berkeley - I think -

she perhaps an artist,

both perhaps old

academics.

Cocktails arrive

at their table, hers

in a full, wide 

champagne glass.

She struggles to lift it

with two trembling hands,

and I hold my breath,

concerned for imminent spillage.

Although it takes a torturous time,

she manages to raise it to her lips

without mishap.

He serves her tomatoes, basil,

mozzarella cheese from

a shared appetizer plate,

then turns away,

letting her attend to herself.

From time to time,

in silent spaces in

our own conversation,

I glance at her

and see how stalwartly

she makes her slow

and shaky way

through her dinner.

I think – This is her life

every day, and his

to cope with as well.

My friends and we

are all past seventy ourselves,

yet still preserve a modicum

of vitality and elan,

despite complaints

about our bodies’ failures.

But soon, I know,

that could be us.

If I were more courageous,

I would ask them -

How do you find the fortitude

to live with your infirmities

and challenges?

In my mind I imagine

them responding -

What is the alternative?

And yet, here they are,

in this vibrant town

by a gleaming bay,

eating at a fine restaurant,

together, and with

companionship.

This is the work then –

and the gifts -

of living into

a privileged old age.

Reframing

Our house in Menlo Park sold exactly seven years ago, and we were able to begin our new life in Oakland (and how grateful we are).

Interestingly, my friend who still lives in the old neighborhood told me the house was up for sale again, and I was interested and a little horrified to see the "improvements" they'd made - everything, and I mean everything, was painted white, included the brick fireplaces, our light wooden kitchen cabinets, and our beautiful blue bathroom tiles.  Well, it must have worked because it sold - and quickly - for almost twice what we sold it for!  Of course, our house here has also increased ridiculously in value as well.  The times we're living in... Oy.

But what I really wanted to talk about was the practice of reframing I embarked on when the old house was for sale.  I had broken my foot and was pretty housebound.  Of course, I had to vacate the premises every time a realtor brought a prospective buyer.  Man, I hated that knee scooter!  And it took a while before the house sold.  It was a challenging time.  I got the idea, though, to reframe my thinking and consider that period as a writing retreat.  I began this blog then.  It really helped me get through those weeks.

Maybe it's the timing of the anniversary of the sale, but in any case, I had reason to remember that reframing exercise this morning.  I've been having these wonky palpitations lately, and so my cardiologist decided to have me wear a patch that tracks your heartbeats for two weeks.  I did this once before, and all wound up fine, but still I can't help but be a bit anxious about it, especially since I can't swim for the whole time, and swimming is what I do for health and sanity.  

This morning, remembering the events of seven years ago, I had the thought that I could reframe the current episode the way I did then.  It will now be my exercise in heart-opening.  Every time I feel and get annoyed by the patch, every time my heartbeat pounds or feels weird, I will make an effort to think, Well, here's another reminder to open my heart.  I don't know how successful I will be, but it's worth a try.

And so, here's a poem I wrote some time back about the heart (and, of course, pomegranates):

What Your Heart Says

It is only just beginning,

this cracking open of grief.

Look into the crevices,

see what seeps out and

what longs to come forward.

Your heart is like a pomegranate,

split-skinned and spilling forth

dark rubies of fruit.

Let them break loose and tumble free.

Expose what’s at the core.

Bequeath it to

 the dark and friable soil 

of the soul. Hope for

the new green shoots

that sprout from suffering.