On Paterson on Paterson

Who knew William Carlos Williams was

From Paterson, New Jersey, and a doctor to boot?

JJ knew, apparently, and probably lots

Of other folks who

[Might] call themselves “English Majors” or “Poets”.

I didn’t know, and I could be either, or both, or neither.

Poetry is everywhere, but most pressingly, most annoyingly,

it’s in my super-thin wrists.

Wrists too thin to wear bangles

Too weak to turn a wrench

Crushed and aching when I wake

Having slept with them clenched beneath

My own weight.

Today: a red and green cardinal pair

On a white winter blanket

And the ache of their beautiful cliche.

Yesterday: how the tree limbs fashioned that

same blanket into white gloves for a holiday ball

On elegant, leaveless fingers.

And the day before yesterday:  I wanted

To write a poem about you being here

And reminding me that love is not

The same thing as the absence of pain.

But it seemed foolish to stop the nothing

I was doing just to write a poem.

Until I learned that in Paterson

William Carlos Williams was a doctor

And a poet and that, in Paterson,

That’s just the way things go—

So why not here, too?

~MG 1/2018

New motherhood

New motherhood (or your very young childhood) –

Sitting in a rocking chair on the second floor of our Meriden house, on a summer night, around dusk. Holding you in my lap, your chubby baby body soft, pink, fragrant from a recent bath. You are perfect and perfectly sweet and I am overcome with a swell of pride and gratitude and the purest, pure love.

Driving in my aquamarine Honda on a back road in early spring – you are so new, and you are in a car seat in the back. You will not stop crying – wailing desperately for some basic need that I cannot begin to fathom. I just want you to stop. I am terrified in that moment of how much you need me and of how inadequate I am. I pull over and rip you out of the car seat, I yell into your tiny red face. Remembering this always floods me with shame.

Rolling down the hill at Hubbard Park – nauseous, dizzy, gleeful…

Swimming at West Haven beach on a hot summer weeknight. One of the few times I say yes to an activity of your choosing. You are so happy to be in the cool, salty water, so happy to be with me. And I am so happy you are happy...

More recently

We have an awful, awful family fight. You call John to rescue you and storm out when he arrives. I cry and cry and cry. You say you hate it here. I know that you mean it and I know that you don’t.

You appear in the doorway of the living room, ten at night, waiting for dad and me to look up from the TV. “I love you guys” you say, and then, just as quickly, you have gone back to your room.

2006/07

You sit in the window of our house on Livingston Street, watching for me to come home from a meeting at the time I have promised to.  Seeing your cautious relief when I walk in the door, I feel hopeful, for both of us, about this chance at redemption.

Dinner at the arcade/restaurant in the Milford Post Mall on January 21^st, 2007. You have made me a card. The image you drew is of a wine glass encircled in red, with a red slash across suggesting: “No Wine”. Inside you wrote: “Good Job”.

From where I sit, I see the same round-faced sweet baby girl that I carried. There’s a notch in my heart, almost as big, that you carved that day in January 1997 – and into which only you fit.  When you were yet to be born, I had a terrible nightmare that I lost you. Literally misplaced you – couldn’t remember where I put you down. It was terrifying to think of losing you before I even got to meet you. But I had met you. A thousand lifetimes before and since. With that in mind, I tell you that everything is so fleeting. The fears, the insecurities, the joys, the boredom, the heartache. Everything will be fine, or it won’t. But you, my love, will always be ok, despite the way we, and the world, have chipped away at your innocence. Despite the ways we have violated your trust, and broken your heart. Remember what Eugene O’Neill said: “Man is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue.”

The driest leaf

Some days I am the driest leaf -
brown and brittle, blown away,
dropped by my maker, and turned to dust -
longing for courage to reconnect,
to find my way back up.
But there is something to be done first.

Who knew that souls-in-training
could make so much noise?
When breastbone grinds with heart and
heart clashes with head, then
rattles out through fingertips.
There are so many ways to die.

Each day, a resurrection, a
chance to green up, show up, pay up,
chop wood, carry water with
axes sharp as thoughts,
buckets big as lake beds.
There are so many ways to die!

But to the trees, they're all the same.
 
  ~MG 10.30.13

All politics is local...

What I learned on the campaign trail: a post election reflection of mostly personal and some political lessons

I recently ran for an open position on my city's board of aldermen. I entered the race at the last minute and ran against a well-known personal injury attorney. My campaign was a purely grassroots, volunteer effort, and I raised about $1,700 from neighbors, family, and friends. My opponent spent over $10,000 of his own money. After a grueling and exhilarating five weeks of intense canvassing, I lost in the democratic primary on September 10th by 166 votes (ouch)!

Here, in no particular order, are some things I learned:

- A lot of people are really hurting - and worse - despairing about the state of their neighborhood
- My father was right
- When it comes to footwear, candidates and canvassers should always forsake fashion for comfort
- Some friends will love you because of your politics
- Some friends will love you in spite of your politics
- Many people don't believe their voices (votes) matter
- Democracy in action is awesome, but could use a tune up
- People will lie to get what the outcome they want, especially when they feel entitled to that outcome
- Divisions of race, ethnicity, gender, and class are staggeringly real right here at home
- The stalwart foot soldiers of community activism are not, by and large, politicians

Scouting for acceptance

Last year, 2011, was a year of some loss. The mother of my best friend for 30 years  died in February. Known affectionately as Joanie, she was, in my teen years at least, much like a second mom. My uncle, my father's older brother Jack who accompanied him on his maiden voyage from Northern Ireland to New York, left this world in September. And my childhood friend, Matthew died in November after a long hospital stay where he lost a grueling battle to auto-immune cirrhosis.

We also lost two pets. Our round 11-year old gray cat, KC (short for Kitty Cat, the name given her by a 3-year old Rachel) died at the end of August. She was thin and wobbly those last few months. When she began gnawing off the end of her own tail, and not eating or drinking, we knew her days were numbered, poor thing. We put her down on August 29th, my birthday. More surprising was the death of our beloved orange boy cat, Jasper. He died very suddenly one spring afternoon, leaving us all shocked and heartbroken. He was very special - the kind of cat you love to come home to. Desperately cute, irresistible in his fine, feline elegance. He was super cuddly, a lap cat extraordinaire - gentle, sweet, loving. He was only 4 years old.


My daughter Rachel and my husband Andy would not allow adoption of another cat until a respectable amount of mourning time elapsed. Three months after Jasper died, I convinced them to adopt a kitten by sending them a picture of Ferris, posing in a mailbox. We went to PetSmart to meet the rescue agency rep, pay our fee, and pick up our little fellow. In the car on the way there, we came up with a name. Andy recommended Jasper. Whether this was for ease of remembering what to call it - or because he thought by giving it the same name, it would resemble Jasper in every other way - is unclear. I suggested keeping Ferris, liking the reference to one of my favorite fictional characters, Mr. Bueller. Rachel had just finished reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" and offered the name Atticus. Andy and I vetoed it, saying three syllables were too many for an animal that size. We settled on Scout - the rascally female character from the same book.

Though also orange and male, Scout is the anti-Jasper. Where Jasper was dainty, Scout is brutish - klutzy, bow-legged, and smelly. He has a penchant for passing gas and cleaning himself with loud, indelicate slurps. The first few days after we brought him home, we found him sleeping in his litter box! He rarely likes to cuddle, preferring rather to jump on your head during a dervish-like frenzy. Jasper was easy to love...and I mean, easy! Even people who don't like cats couldn't resist him. Scout is quick with his claws, malodorous, lacking in stealth, and ornery. His is black sheep to Jasper's golden child. And he most likely has a serious kitty complex for all the times he hears us declare things like "Jasper wouldn't do that!", "Jasper would do that." "You're no Jasper, Scout!" and, as he stares blankly while you pat your lap, hoping he'll curl up there for a while: "I miss Jasper!"

So I am forced to think that Scout is our lesson in acceptance; forcing us to love him exactly the way he is. Not as a second-rate replacement of a beloved pet, but as a new member of our imperfect family.

R.I.P. Jasper

R.I.P. Jasper