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

Not an island

Not an island

Did a little yoga and
got down on my knees
cried out to the good lord
help me please please please
i'm tired of the madness
that goes on in my head
wishing i could skip and
be grateful i'm not dead

i'm so tired of being tired
i'm so tired of feeling low
of never facing forward
of always saying no
no to life and innocence
no to love and joy
yes to fear and arrogance
maybe to the void

in this life or another
i'll find out what i'm worth
without the bonds of self
that bind me to this earth
without the judge and jury
that rule inside of me
without this island living
that keeps me out at sea.
~mg 3/2011

I'm so tired...

I'm so tired. I'm tired of Republicans - all of them. I'm tired of the Tea Party. I'm tired of homophobes. I'm tired of people who cheer over the death penalty. I'm tired of people who watch Fox News (even though I do sometimes to see if it can possibly be as insane as the last time I watched it). I'm tired of the President not repealing "don't ask, don't tell." I'm tired of war. I'm tired of politicians, in all their outrage over the federal deficit, forgetting to mention that we are fighting 2! (wars that is). I'm tired of the racist subtext, described as criticism of his leadership style, against President Obama. I'm tired of the sexist undertones against Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton. John Boehner and Mitch McConnell - don't even get me started. And - just when we thought we were through with his smug, dense, one-syllable rhetoric - George W. is back to add to the misery of the mid-term election results....calling Kanye "Conway", declaring that waterboarding was [is] ok because a bunch of lawyers said so, and that invading Iraq was the right thing to do despite the lack of WMDs. The man has no conscience unless it has to do with the gruesome image of a fetus in a jar. WTF? I'm tired of trying to play to the middle. I wanna be a leftist communist socialist. There doesn't seem to be a middle anymore, if there ever was one.

And I'm tired of feeling angry and defensive about all the stuff that's making me tired. I don't want to be that person. And I don't want to use this socio-political fatigue distract me from the moments of my real, everyday life which is blessed beyond measure.

But, I am thinking that passive-aggressive rhetoric might be the way to go. You know, like when someone suggests that Obama and his administration did not do enough to create jobs or save the economy, I can say something cheerfully, of course, like: "You're right! If only George W were still around...we could invade more countries and reinstitute the draft! Then at least poor, young men who've been failed by our schools could make a living!" Or when someone says that Healthcare reform is going to kill grandma, I can say, "I know, right? And I got Kevorkian to take care of mine. Shoulda waited." How about the folks who contend that immigrants should just "go back where they came from?" I could say "I agree! Let's start with Irish bartenders in NYC and Boston!"

Anyway, I could go on. But I feel better now - just having ranted a little.

Groove Vacation

GROOVE VACATION
You feel like no one’s listening.
You’re sure all hope is gone.
You know, you’re probably right-
But still you travel on.

Can’t give in to inertia!
It’s healing just to move.
Don’t worry ‘bout the rhythm,
Just get into the groove.

Forget about what’s happened.
Forget about what’s next.
The clouds will all roll on
So you didn’t do your best.

The evening breeze is balmy
As it brushes through your hair.
You think you can’t control it-
You stare and stare and stare.

Then something brings you back
To the place where you belong.
Before you know the words,
You start humming to the song

Of all the secret mystery,
Of all the love that’s real,
Of all the silk inside you
And of everything you feel

That’s right or wrong but crucial.
It’s all from the same source.
Your mind is just the medium
And it uses brutal force to

Stamp out all the knowledge-
Of the earth, of trees, of fire-
That are given you at birth
By the Mother of desire.

Don’t give in to thinking.
Don’t give in to time.
Give up all that’s happening
In the trap you call your mind-

Remember where you come from.
Remember what you’re like
Without the fear of falling
Without the righteous hype.

Then dance through all the words
And rules and expectations.
Stomp out all the roles
And start your groove vacation.

MG 5/5/2005

Growing Up (from NPR's "This I Believe")

http://thisibelieve.org/essay/32967/

Take your ball and go home

Today at work, I suffered a small, but infuriating injustice. Was it real or perceived? Not sure. Here's what happened.

I recently brought a fitness ball to work to sit upon instead of my less-than ergonomic office chair. The ball is about 3 feet in diameter but it fits neatly in my open, completely unprivate cubicle. My cubicle is in a far corner of one of the 4 floors occupied by my employer in a high-rise office tower. Few people have reason to visit this corner except for those whose cubicles or offices are near mine.

This afternoon I was told to take my ball home. Apparently, someone complained to my boss that it was unprofessional and takes up too much space. I was not told who made said complaint. I accepted the request from my boss without argument. I was caught off guard and unsure of how to react. We are expecting lay-offs due to budget cuts and my first thought when she asked to speak with me was that this might be it.

After the fact, however, I am irritated-outraged even! Do I let it go or is it my duty to protest? Does whoever complained about it really care about professionalism? Or is it more about keeping the cubicle-dwellers in their right place? My first instinct is to ask my boss who-- who had the audacity to make such a petty complaint about something so seemingly innocuous and none of his or her business.

My second instinct is to complain, loudly, to anyone who'll listen. This I have already begun to do. In the few hours since my boss made her request, I have told no less than 7 co-workers, and my husband, my daughter, and a friend. To experience my own outrage through the eyes of others is a way of affirming my justifiable rightness.

Of course, a question I've been asked to consider is "would I rather be right or would I rather be happy?" Can't I be both? Whatever is the "right" thing to do, I realize that this seemingly small offense touches a deep nerve. I have learned in recent years, whenever I have a problem with someone (or someone's request), the real problem lies with me. Take for example, the pursuit of instinct #1: Just asking the question would put my boss in an awkward position. Perhaps she is counting on my - um - professionalism to just take my ball and go home. And let it drop. She most likely has bigger fish to fry. And if I find out who it is, what purpose will it serve? Do I really want to start a "take your fitness ball to work" crusade? Is that a good use of my energy? Part of me, the part that asks whether it's my duty to protest, knows that the deep nerve that feels raw is about what's "fair" and about standing up for myself; but mostly it's about pride and ego. Sitting in a regular office chair will not make me less of a person - unless I allow it to.

And what about the pursuit of instinct #2: that's a tougher one and one that is harder for me to let go of. Sharing my frustration with loved ones is one thing. They don't work where I work. They won't be overheard by my boss or my boss's boss or other coworkers. They can offer me support and advice without being tied into the drama of my personal relationships at work. Sharing my outrage with my co-workers is a a whole different "ball" of wax. I'm purposely looking for signs of outrage as well as hints as to who the culprit is! Not very mature or thoughtful behavior. But I find it difficult to "let it go." Ah! The allure of justifiable anger!! Unfortunately, that's a luxury I can't afford.

In my pursuit of a resolution, I will have to ask for guidance on the next right thing to do. My boss did offer a consultation with our workplace's ergonomic expert. That's probably a good place to start. Wonder what he sits on?

For Benny

I’m sick of this bed

I’m sick of my head

Telling me things that aren’t true

I wish I weren’t here

I’m glad I’m not there

So many things to push through

Memory’s a prison,

Memories are reasons

To carry on over the dam

The river is swollen

The river is raging

I’ll drown in the way that I am.

No younger, no younger

I’ll never get younger

Sitting here, waiting for rain

With my ego undone

I’ll walk into the sun

And start to swap nothing for pain

For pain is one side

Of the joy that it hides

And all of the muck down below

Will gather God’s glory

In its infinite story

As up to the surface I go.

~M. Gardner, 1/18/10

"I exist as I am. That is enough." Walt Whitman

Is it? Last night I had the experience of dining with "accomplished" people. People roughly my age who are uber-professionals. One, a doctor, journalist, and TV producer. The other (her husband), a published author and contributing editor for a very well-respected, well-known publication. They have the sort of house that you see in movies about interesting, intellectual, complicated, accomplished, people. Whimsical and eclectic art; a grand piano; a dog and a cat with equally charming personalities; many, many books on grand, built in bookcases; unusual and well-worn furnishings--more chic in their shabbiness. This is a house where grown-ups live. Grown-ups with full and interesting lives that take them to foreign cities and dinners with famous people and the sets of famous TV shows to which they consult.

The other adult guests were charming and fascinating as well. The daughter of the other guests, and of our hosts, a pair of 12 year-old girls, cooked the meal that we shared. We were regaled over dinner with stories of famous and not-so-famous, interesting, accomplished, people.

What makes a person accomplished? Why did (do) I feel so "less than" after my evening with these grown-ups? I think of Emerson's words: "To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded." Alas, this has become the measure of my days, the goal I strive for. It may be too late for some kinds of success. But it is never too late to live in the moment. In fact, the older I get, the more imperative it seems. In the moments that make up a 24-hour day, can I be kind and loving? Can I reach out to someone in need? Can I make someone laugh, and not at someone else's expense? Can I set a good example for my daughter about what it means to be human in relation to another human? Many, many days I fail at one or most or all of these things. Just as I have failed at grander enterprises: jobs, dreams, relationships, careers. But every day, if I want it, I have the opportunity to try again to succeed at being the best person I can be. A worker among workers, a true and caring friend, a grateful and loving daughter, a gentler mother and spouse. That can be enough, if I am humble enough to let go of my ego and if I remember not to compare myself with others.

Heck, I'm no Walt Whitman!

To live in this world...

"...To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go."

Humility

Say with each breath
"Make me humbler,
Make me humbler;"
when you are small as an atom,
you will know his glory.
~Rumi

Wishbones

Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.
~Clementine Paddleford

What great advice! Am I encouraging my daughter to grow a wishbone or a backbone? This is something I think about (worry about) often. For most of my own life, I definitely cultivated, lovingly and not so lovingly, the wishbone. Wishing for my prince instead of nurturing my inner princess. Wishing for a better job instead of giving my best to the one I had at the time. Wishing for my diploma instead of going to class. Wishing for everything to go my way instead of flowing with the current of the day. Wishing for someone to take care of me, to carry my load, instead of strengthening myself in order to carry my own burdens. That wishing led me to take people hostage, to feel sorry for myself, to rationalize my bad behavior at every turn. Maybe today the wishbone, hollow and empty, frail and brittle, is being transformed to backbone - strong and sturdy, fortified with love and grace. This is the best way I know how to show my daughter that wishes are wistful without the integrity to stand up tall, with her back straight.

Time is like a river - it flows by and doesn't return.
--Chinese Proverb

Sometimes at night, just before I go to sleep, I feel this pit in my stomach, a feeling of fear and loss over all the things I can't get back, ever. It's dense and immobilizing, I have to remind myself to breathe. It's melancholy and painful, like the universe has inverted and there is nothing left but a black hole...and me. Alone. So I have to close my eyes and feel my way out of the hole. On the edge of panic, I use Andy's snoring as a guidepost. I reach out for the curl of the cat asleep next to me. I recall Rachel's "I love you" an hour before when she kissed me good night. I smell the sweat in my blankets and remember that I am here now. A soul trying to be human. A human, being.

The Saint of Lost Causes

My daughter, Rachel, attends a Catholic School called St. Rita. Recently, I asked her what St. Rita is the saint "of". Yesterday she reported to me, excitedly, that St. Rita is the Saint of the spouses of alcoholics. Today, when I googled St. Rita, I found that, more exactly, she is the Saint of impossible causes. Hmmmph! If that doesn't say a mouthful! How grateful I am--just for today--to not be lost. To be found. To be free.

Patterns in the family quilt

I spent this weekend at my sister's house in NJ. It was my nephew's 10th birthday. Family can be so difficult, right? Family members know how to push my buttons, to catapult me back into the patterns of my past. My character defects operate at 110% during a weekend with my family of origin. I become lazy, overly sensitive (read: crybaby), judgmental, and argumentative. I default to self-protection mode. I forget my own truth, I forget to stand up for myself. I forget to be accepting and gentle of my family members' defects. Three plus years into sobriety, I still forget the tenets of the 11th Step prayer when it comes to my family. Not always, not entirely...but I do find it difficult to skip out of the groove of those old recordings. And I see it manifest with the way we treat our children. But, each time I do have the opportunity and the luxury to spend time with my family, there is something I manage to do "right" (maybe "better" is a better word!). Perhaps I hold my tongue one time out of five when I want to lash out, either overtly or with underhanded sarcasm. Maybe I remember to tell my sister what a great cook she is or how nice she looks. Maybe I give my dad my undivided attention for one of his four million stories. In the end, it's about me, right? It's about what I do to change myself and to be a better sister, daughter, wife, mom. That's all I can change.

On Wednesday night, I saw "Death of a Salesman" performed at the Yale Rep. It brought up a lot of "stuff" for me. The mixture of deeply personal and broad social themes is so masterful in that play. It is the personal themes that resonated most poignantly with me though: Marital infidelity; kids facing their parents' humanness for the first time; the cost of lying to ourselves about our own truth; the destructive nature of denial, expectations and subsequent resentments....brought it all home!