Light – Page 4 – Grace Mattern

December 13, 2013December 13, 2013

Day 5: Pearl Light, Impossible Poems, Silence

Pearl light, empty and cold. Clumps of the off-and-on light snow from the last few days top the browned hydrangea blossoms. The white lying across the fields and caught in hemlock needles bounces the day back up into itself, a bit of brilliance. There won’t be many hours of light today, but at least what there is will be reflecting into the air, hard and dry.

David and I have been talking this morning, about the party we went to last night, a collection of poet friends, each of us quirky with creativity and the struggle to hold the making of poems, defenseless little expressions in such a chaotic world, as a primary focus in the face of enormous demands. Each of us gathered last night have such huge loads to carry – challenging and time-gobbling jobs, or aging family members who require constant attention, or young adult children slipping their tires as they try to get traction in adult lives. It’s a wonder any of us ever write anything.

Our holiday party tradition includes the hostess giving everyone a prompt to write a poem. After eating, we each read our poem – or not, those too overwhelmed to write are easily excused – and we tell ourselves we’ll just listen to each other, it’s not a night for critiquing, it’s a party, not a workshop. But we can’t help ourselves. Reactions to the poems leak out.

“I wish we could let go of feeling we need to comment on the poems,” a new member of the group said to me as we were leaving. This was her first holiday party. “Did you notice the silence after each of us read, as we tried to figure out what to say that wasn’t a critique?”

Mostly I just noticed how much more silence there was after my poem. Or did I imagine that?

The prompt: Traditions Made New. My poem:

The Table

“The table comes first,” the French say
and our table fills, and fills again, golden

oak sliding open on gears, leaves unfolded.
A voice carries from the snowy road, lilt

of the neighbor calling her dog, a woman
who never left her house, who now walks

every day past the pruned apple trees
and boxes of frozen garden. Chairs move

in and out of rooms, go back up on hooks
in the barn. The house has nothing to prove.

December 12, 2013December 13, 2013

Day 4: Create

The morning comes up pink. There’s going to be sun today and already the cast of the day has changed. I anchor myself in what I see, the line of sky against the slopes of the fields to the east, the color behind the bare trees.

David tells me I should engage my visual talents more. My drawing has certainly improved over the last year, as I draw cows and horses and penguins for Emilio. If I look at an object closely, I can draw a reasonable representation of it. Collage work is completely engaging for me – someone else has already done the representational part of the work, I just need to arrange it in ways that remind me of arranging the language in a poem. Two years ago, during one of our many visits to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, David and I walked through a small show of collage works, and there were two pieces by Anne Ryan, a writer, painter and printmaker who didn’t begin working in the medium of collage until the age of 58. Before her death at 64, she created over 400 works. She was inspired to take up collage work after attending an exhibition of Kurt Schwitters, a German poet and sculptor, as well as collagist. “Since Anne Ryan was a poet, in Schwitters’s collages ‘she recognized the visual equivalent of her sonnets – discrete images packed together in an extremely compressed space.'”

Why not me? Why do I take out my box of cards and books with images I’ve saved for the possibility of collage, my papers and pens and colored pencils, for a day or two at a time, then pack it all up and put it back on the shelf? I can be inspired too.

Permission to engage in visual expression is all mine. I can create because I want to create, it doesn’t have to be useful. My goodness, in what way is poetry useful? In what way is any creative writing useful? If I can tie working on something to an ambition to get it published, it might get me to the desk more often to work on it, but my focus, my stepping into the flow, is the same once I’m working on anything creative. Without any realistic way to be ambitious about visual art, it gets pushed aside even more than writing. So maybe I’ll start pushing my ambition aside and just create. Drawing a cow for Emilio is enough because he wants to see the cow. Moving a collection of images and ideas out of my head on to paper in the form of a collage or drawing, rather than a poem or essay or story, is a world I may let myself start stepping into more often.

December 10, 2013

Day 3: Finding Light

Last night I went to a Kundalini Yoga class, my first time with that practice. Lots of “fire breath,” quick in and out through the nose, while we held long poses that challenged my muscles’ strength, as much as their stretch. Kundalini is based on the concept of moving the latent energy at the base of the spine up, through the higher chakras, into the brain. During our final sitting pose the teacher said “May our bodies be more open and our minds quieter. May the light in me find the light in each of you.”

Finding light. That’s one of the answers.

Eric and I had a well-established tradition of creating our own holiday cards, using a poem I’d written and an image we often got off the internet, or copied from another card. In early December I would give Eric several poems I’d written in the previous year. Almost always he would easily pick the poem he wanted to use, saying about the others, “these are too dark.”

The year after Eric died I picked a poem from the manuscript of The Truth About Death. I ran it by Adrienne and she thought it was fine. I paired it with a photo Adrienne had taken that fall, of Matt and Sam walking under the tall white pines further down our road, a tunnel of diminished light. The poem references that spot. Perfect.

Except when Sam saw the card, which I’d already printed and had ready to mail, he said, “You can’t use this as a holiday card. The poem is too dark, the photo is dark. There’s a suicide in here.” I knew he was right. I scrapped the cards and started over.

This morning as I ran under those trees in the dimness I thought about that card. I thought about yoga class last night. I thought about getting more energy up into my higher charkas, my crown. I thought about looking for light and as I ran back to the house I noticed frosted grasses along the edge of the road, a hint of sparkle in the thin morning light.

First and Last

Dawn has shifted. This morning wild turkeys
scurry among the tall white pines that shelter
the farm dump, a needled lane lined with tires,
piles of scrap wood, rusted stoves and refrigerators,
a baler. A neighbor shot himself here, in his car.
The turkeys are short ghosts, short soldiers,
upright between long trunks, ruined rectangles
behind them, nothing but frozen road before me.
At dusk another shift, an edge of steel falls
from the sky. I watch it fall, hard and familiar,
comfortable and cold. I can taste the metal.

December 9, 2013

Day 2: Two Weeks to the Turn II

Dark when I wake. Darkness wrapping the house and yard, blackness a soft touch on my shoulders. The new clock, all white, with feathers for hands, points from its small circle base, a straight, bright line on the wall: 6:00 a.m. No light on the horizon yet, the first light the embers in the wood stove that I pump to orange with the bellows. The kindling pops up in flame, then a log. I sit in front of the glow and the darkness sits around me.

Anne P. commented on my blog last night. The new you. Comprised of the past, but not consumed by it. Surrounded by happiness, it shines through you. As the darkness recedes, crests, retreats once more. Left on the shore with a new wholeness. Life, surfing the waves.

David and his brother and I drove to the coast on Saturday, old people going for a drive, because David’s brother’s back and hip are too sore to walk much. That’s life surfing the waves, getting to the pulse of tide however we could. Little Harbor was brimming, tide as high as I’ve seen it. Driving north, after a loop around Rye Harbor, we passed a stretch of marsh, grass golden between the pools of hard blue water chopped up by a cold wind, a striking contrast.

Beauty is so often about how one visual bumps up against what is next to it. “No one travels to see flat land,” someone once said to me and it seems true. People travel to see mountains and cities. Or great expanses of water, which are flat but fluid, the contrast between firm ground and a sloshing medium, all movement, wash and warble, come and go, in and out. A shore where we find ourselves, before, after, now.

When the light comes it’s gray.

December 8, 2013

A New Look and A Return

A number of writer friends have been admonishing me for well over a year to change my photo on this blog. Yes, it was an okay photo for my book, because after all The Truth About Death is just that and why wouldn’t I look grim on the back cover? But this blog is about all of life, not just the sad passages, and surely I could find a better photo of who I am as a whole self. One friend snapped some shots of me with her mini iPad the last time our writing group was gathered, figuring anything was better than what I had.

So I took that as motivation to get some real head shots done. Which turned out to be easy when shortly after the iPad photo session I met a colleague of Adrienne’s, a talented photographer who was happy to snap a bunch of shots when I met her. So thank you, Michelle Frantino, for the new look.

I’ve been admonishing myself about updating the overall look of the blog. I’ve recently been redecorating my house, taking down paintings and prints and photographs I hung decades ago and putting up new pieces of art. I’ve replaced light fixtures, rearranged furniture, and greatly reduced the cluttery stuff that accumulates on counters and sills and shelves like the dust all those tchotchkes collect. My blog needs the same kind of attention, a bit of which I’ve started. (Like the house redecorating, this is a process, not a once-and-done task.)

But one thing I’m repeating. I’ve already written about my project last year of writing 300 – 400 words every day for the two weeks leading up to the winter solstice. I’m doing it again, Two Weeks to the Turn II. This year I’m going to put up at least some of each day’s writing on this blog, every day. In the midst of the gathering darkness, and the frenzy of celebrating designed to push back against that very darkness, I’m going to find at least some time every day to focus on writing and try to find something worthwhile to share. Here is a tiny bit from today, and it’s not even original. It’s what one of my writer friends suggested was my real topic when I read a selection from last year’s Two Weeks to the Turn at our last group meeting.

The question is, how do David and I make happiness in the face of all the loss and heartache that brought us together?

I’ll be working on some answers.

September 15, 2013

Yom Kippur

It’s become part of my Yom Kippur tradition to read my blog posts from past years, then add the current year’s reflections. Can this really be my fourth year of posting Yom Kippur thoughts? The eighth year of celebrating the High Holiday days without Eric?

Yes, this is year four, and yes, Eric still isn’t here. But life is rich with family and friends. Adrienne, Matt, Emilio and Melia were all here. Adrienne and I attended Kol Nidre and Yom Kippur services with Mark and Andi, as usual, and as usual had a lot to discuss about what we did and didn’t like in the service, the sermons, our own reflections as we thought about transgressions of the last year, forgiveness of ourselves and others, and intentions to do good and be well in the year ahead. The afternoon of fasting at home found us gravitating towards the sun on the porch and in the yard, as it always seems to, our hungry bodies wanting at least some of the last warm sun of the season.

Our festive break fast was joined by friends last night. We began by remembering those who aren’t still here to celebrate with us, then feasted on the garden bounty of three of us at the table and more good discussions about life and art, endurance and jelly fish and tractors, tomatoes and the after effects of fasting.

After dinner, Emilio wanted to go out outside, so he and I walked out on the porch together to watch the last of the light on the western horizon go from pale to dark. “The sun is going down,” Emilio said. “But it will be back.” He nodded his head. He’s closing in on 3 years old and is constantly putting together more and more about how the world works.

“Yes, it will come back from over there,” I said, pointing to the other side of the house. “The sun comes up in the east, and goes down in the west, over there,” and I pointed to the horizon of trees now silhouetted against the low light. Emilio watched me, alert and listening. “We live in a world that’s like a big ball,” I said and made my arms into a circle. “The sun comes up over there, and crosses the sky during the day,” now pointing, tracing the arc of the sun with my finger. “Then it goes behind the other side of the ball where the light can’t reach us.” And I ran my finger around the bottom edge of an imaginary circle, Emilio and I sitting on the porch in the middle.

Emilio nodded again. “That’s why it’s dark,” he said.

March 20, 2013

Spring Skiing

Spring began at 7:02 this morning, just as it started to snow again. Scattered flakes thickened, picked up speed and blew past the windows, accenting the black and white world outside. The flurry only lasted a few minutes, but it added to the 3″ of powder we got last night, on top of the 10″ we got yesterday.

Today is the Vernal Equinox, when daylight and darkness are equal. Now we slip over into each day being a bit longer than each night, a reason for celebration beyond the treat of having another day of skiing. I was sure an afternoon ski on wet snow last week was my last, because I knew it was going to rain the next day. I’m happy to have been wrong.

David and I finished our coffee and headed out to the trail, as we did yesterday. Thankfully a neighbor was out on his snowmobile last night, so we had the delight of skiing through a few inches of powder on top of a packed trail, rather than having to make our own track which is what we did yesterday. “I love how storms like this show the horizontal in the woods,” David said and I agreed, taking in the snow draped limbs surrounding us.

A few weeks ago I ran into a friend at the grocery store, and he heard the hesitation in my “Okay,” when he asked me how I was. When he asked what was wrong, I listed my latest set of worries and troubles.

“Well you never get 100%,” he said. “So I try to concentrate on the 65 or 75% I do get.”

Today marks 50% daylight, 50% darkness. And my attention to gratitude for the 75%.

December 13, 2012December 13, 2012

Two Weeks to the Turn

There are many reasons I love The Sun magazine. One is that they published four of the poems from my then-manuscript of The Truth About Death in the December 2008 issue. And they paid me well for those poems. Not only do they not include any advertisements in their magazine, they actually pay writers and photographers, as in real cash, not two copies of the issue (which is what most literary journals do). The writing is fresh, strong, real and not afraid to tackle tough subjects. One of my poems that they published is titled, “Death.” Every issue includes poems, fiction, creative nonfiction, and always an interview that is provocative, timely and gets me thinking in a least a few new directions.

Part of the payment for those poems in 2008 was a free subscription for a year. I had been a regular reader of The Sun decades ago, but that free subscription got the magazine back in my mailbox, back in my house, back on my bedside table. I haven’t let my subscription lapse since, have bought gift subscriptions for others, and make a donation to the magazine every year also. If you haven’t checked it out, I highly recommend it.

A recent issue included “Ten Days in November” by Eric Anderson, from a project sponsored by chapbookpublisher.com, which invited 30 writers to write 300-400 words each day for the 30 days of November, 2010, and then produced hand-bound books, one for each day by each author. That’s 900 books.

I don’t do well with diminishing light, and I do well with assignments. Looking for a catchy way to get myself to write every day, and any way to distract myself from the encroaching darkness of these December days, last weekend I decided to write 300-400 words each day until the winter solstice. When I looked at my calendar I realized that the solstice was exactly two weeks away.

So far I’ve kept at it, and even named it: “Two Weeks to the Turn.” Without a predetermined focus for this chunk of prose I’m creating, I’m not reviewing the previous day’s writing when I sit down each day. Whatever has bubbled up enough to get me to the desk is what I write. I don’t know what will turn up, but I’m willing to find out. Maybe some of it will turn up here.

December 9, 2012December 9, 2012

New Hampshire Does Chanukah

“Do you have Chanukah candles?” I asked the young woman at the customer service desk at Hannaford’s grocery store yesterday. I’d forgotten to check and make sure I had candles to light last night, the first night of Chanukah, and figured I’d pick some up just to be sure.

“Yes, in front of checkout 5,” she said, and I could see a tall cardboard display, remembering the display from two years before, Chanukah in a box in the card aisle. At least now Chanukah has moved to the front of the store, I thought.

Then I got to the display. No candles, but a “My First Chanukah” bib, a hostess set of tea towels, oven mitt and pot holder, a latke spatula, ornaments and gift tags and wrapping paper and blue bows. Oy! This is a festival of light!

I was happy to find I had two boxes of candles when I got home.

November 14, 2012

Walking Evening Into Dusk

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My days have felt focused and scattered, frenetic and flattened, too short and too long. Trying to hang on to my balance in the swirl of events I’ve been living through lately, I’ve found walking the evening into dusk and then darkness has helped a lot. I grind through the day getting what must be done done, or whacking away at some item on the long list of things I thought would have been done long ago, but aren’t. Suddenly the day is almost over and a walk lit by the last of the light has been seeming just right.

A favorite track crosses the hay field at the top of Harmony Hill, then follows a trail into Northwood Meadows State Park, making a loop around the pond. Yesterday the evening light turned rose as the clouds picked up color from the setting sun and the pine needles along the trail fired into a deep orange. The pond reflected the changing light, from pink to gray to the last of the day’s blue. Walking back to the car the trees were black and the path was white, drawing my attention to exactly where it should be, right there, right then, right now.