Author: Danita W.

Micro poetry is just what it sounds like: very short poems about any subject you like. Just for fun (are we having fun yet?), I will look at my stack of books and pick three topics from what I see. 25 words or less

BURN                            Burn  By Linda Howard
My blood boils
Bubbles of troubles.
Blistering skin
Peeling off.
Breathing in
Steam heat.
Dreaming of icy cold water
Ah!
Swimming in ice cubes.

DROP THE ROCK           Drop the Rock….the Ripple Affect
Carrying this weight                   By: Fred H.
I can’t keep up.
My feet shuffle
Back hurting.
Choices?
What choices?
It’s so obvious
Let go now…
Drop the rock.

HOARDING
Sweet stuff…
Piles of treasures
And trash.
Surrounded by walls
I built and
Mazes I made.
I am hiding.
Can you find me?
Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding by Randy O. Frost
And Gail Stetekee
I am paying attention to the moment, looking at my books and writing about them. This is a good exercise for me when I am losing my place. The past is gone and the future is not here yet. The only place and time that is real is NOW. Getting lost in the past or the future are options that come too easy for me. I worry about what will happen and regret what has happened. Choices? What choices? My sister,Lisa, is a gratitude guru, and helps me to remember gratitude can give me the gifts of the Present. I love presents!

Lisa’s blog : habitual gratitude.blogspot.com

I am learning how to play the banjo. My teacher is a wonderful man; patient, funny and supportive. Please send him ear plugs. Learning to play was not on my radar, but when I picked up Roger’s old banjo, I thought “why not?. Maybe it was a way for me to feel closer to him after he died. How on earth would I ever learn to play the banjo? My confidence level hovered around zero. I needed a teacher. I didn’t want to be a beginner, but I got humble real fast. My fingers were complete strangers to the chords. This finger here and next finger there… the result resembled a crab.When I strummed it was obvious that my fingers were not feeling the music. I kept showing up at my lesson time and begging to be let in.

Every great banjo player was at one time, a beginner, just like me. Bela Fleck was not born with a banjo in his hands and even Earl Scruggs had to learn to play banjo. That’s what we humans do; we learn and we practice! I have tried not to practice mistakes, so I play slow before I play fast. I place each finger carefully, press the strings down and strum. I do this over and over until my fingers remember where to go and my brain knows what sound I should hear. Then I do it faster and still correctly. I have practiced a lot of mistakes over my lifetime, and wondered why things just didn’t get better. I have practiced choosing men who were big mistakes, and self hate when these doomed relationships self-destructed. Practice can never make life perfect . After awhile even wrong notes and clumsy technique can sound O.K. When you hear the correct notes and timing you finally realize your version is a mistake and sounds awful. How did I learn to play life so wrong? No one gave me lessons to help me play well and beautifully. The lessons I was taught protected the status quo, and I never knew I had my own music inside me.

So now I can play a few songs on my banjo, my practice is about using the equipment and my new skills to finally make music. It feels amazing to play “Mary had a Little Lamb”. “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” is just around the curve (of planet Earth) but I will get there.  Bluegrass here I come. I don’t mind the slow going on my banjo skills, because I am very concerned about getting it right. I have found the right teacher. Thank you John! Roger is probably laughing at me. I know he is proud of me and so am I.

Minutes, hours, days, weeks and years. Clocks and calendars do the counting for me. I fill my time, take my time, waste my time and lose track of time.Can I really ” take” my time,or “waste ” my time.? I am not sure, but I am certain that time adds up to be my lifetime. When I am crafting, reading, or writing I often feel that I step out of time. I am often surprised how much time may have passed while I was occupied. As Roger’s dementia was progressing, I was painfully aware that each moment brought new losses and more grief. In each situation, a minute was 60 seconds long, and a day was still 24 hours, but my experience of time was very different.

For the last few months , I have used a lot of my time in conflict with the board of my HOA. My friends, my son, and my sisters might tell you I have been obsessed with this conflict. I hate to admit they are right. I got angry about an injustice to a homeowner, and I set out to prove that I am right, the board is wrong. And while I was at it, I organized a meeting with the board where homeowners could express their grievances with how the board and property manager were not doing their jobs. It was like I jumped into a lake with dirty water contaminated with anger, resentment and righteous indignation. When I got out of the water I carried all these nasties on my skin, and a shower could not wash them away. I was unaware how they infected my life. I wrote letters, speeches and perfect retorts in my head. I vented in emails and I hit the send button. I made lots of phone calls to gather information to prove how right I was. This was how I spent my time when I wasn’t crying in frustration. I actually resigned from the board this spring because I felt shamed at 3 different meetings and each time I went home crying. What was my first clue that this was a toxic group for me!?

Last week, I went to an evening Alanon meeting. When I got home, a nasty email from the board president welcomed me. I had to respond..take this, and this…and you are so wrong! I kept rewriting it to get the right amount of sarcasm. After an hour of this, I stopped and reconsidered. It felt like someone tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to look at what I was doing. My dog’s beautiful eyes were watching me and I wasn’t paying attention to him. I was hungry and tired and wanted to eat and chill out. And here I was writing a nasty email so that I could “win” a battle of words. What is the truth? Likely the president and I both have bits of truth and bits of misinformation. I am sure of only one truth, I want to spend my time doing what I love. Resentments and judgements steal my time and poison me. Every moment with Roger I tried to focus on him and make a connection. Those moments are infinite.
Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils. ~Louis Hector Berlioz

I was thinking of nursery rhymes as I was crocheting this morning, my fingers and my mind both wondering along. If you pay attention to content, many nursery rhymes are really not appropriate for children.There are sad rhymes, violent rhymes, and sexist rhymes. I know I tend to overthink, but I have several examples of nursery rhymes that are not rated PG.

THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN
There was an old woman
Called Nothing-at-all,
Who lived in a dwelling
Exceedingly small;
A man stretched his mouth
To its utmost extent,
And down at one gulp
House and old woman went

This rhyme screams of sexism, ageism and has the icky element too. The old woman is called “Nothing -at- all”, invisible to the world. She is so without merit that her house is “exceedingly small”. Put her away so we can’t see her. We don’t want to be reminded that we too will grow old and become worthless. Of course, it is “a man” who takes care of the “problem” by eating the old lady and her house. He does it in one gulp! This is not warm and fuzzy.

THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.
She gave them some broth without any bread.
She whipped them all soundly and put them to bed

Where is the Father or Fathers of all these children? Child support? Joint custody?  The overwhelmed Mother/old woman whipped the children “soundly”. She gave them a “hard and severe” whipping. What a pleasant thought. This old woman needed lots of therapy. I hope the child abuse was investigated. What a dysfunctional mess!

THE THREE SONS
There was an old woman had three sons,
Jerry and James and John,
Jerry was HANGED, James was DROWNED,
John was LOST and NEVER WAS FOUND;
And there was the end of her three sons,
Jerry and James and John!

What a sad tale for children. Old women have miserable lives; they get eaten, whip their children, or all their children die before them. Of course, we make them the stars of nursery rhymes for our children. This is not how I want to earn my gold stars.  Old women are not even valued in nursery rhymes, and certainly not by our culture.  I bet Jill tried to talk Jack out of going up the hill to get water….

Sounds can tell us what is going on around us. We can close our eyes and sounds help us know where we are and what is happening . “The Silent Spring” by Rachel Carson is a powerful title because it is very difficult to imagine spring without the sound of birds singing. Right now it is early morning and I get to hear the bird symphony. This is one of the sounds that tells me I have another day to create joy, or waste with worry. Listen up!

I grew up on a farm in Iowa, and I loved the sounds that surrounded me. Lying in my bed in the early morning, I heard birds sing, roosters crow, and the muted sound of my parents conversation in the kitchen. The roosters crowing was impolite. My sleep was interrupted without apology, but I still appreciated the unrestrained and majestic quality of the roosters’ song. My twelve brothers and sisters and I agree on just one thing, and this is like herding deaf cats. The sound from our childhood we all remember and loved, was the sound of the train whistles as trains passed in the night. The train tracks were a couple of miles away, but the sound of the train whistle carried far in the quiet nights of rural Iowa. The train whistle was a lonely sound but strangely it was also a comforting sound like a lullaby. If we awoke during the night and heard the train whistle it was easy to fall back to sleep. It meant all was well….

I read the animal sound books to my son, but I told him the real animal sounds were different. When we visited the farm he got to hear all the animals making their real sounds. Ducks don’t
“Quack, Quack”, cows don’t “Moo”, pigs don’t “Oink, Oink” and of course roosters don’t say”Cock-a-doodle-do”. The real deal is not on the page: cows are in the pasture, pigs in the mud-wallow, and ducks are swimming in dirty pond water. The “meany”rooster we named Virgil crowed like other roosters, but he also attacked my baby brother with intent to do serious
harm. True story.

The sweetest sounds are the voices of people I love. Just a “hello” and I know who they are. Mom’s hello is tentative, almost afraid. She does not trust that the phone usually brings good news; trauma was a staple of her childhood. “Watch me Mommy.”is often heard while kids play on the playground. They don’t worry if they are worthy, or good enough for Moms’ attention. I can hear my son’s voice calling me to watch him, and I still do today. I try to remember Roger’s voice before he got sick and how he called me “Dinker”. He was a great storyteller and I would be so honored to hear his stories one more time. His voice got very weak as his dementia progressed, and I would have to be close to hear him. Our goodbye at the end of our visits was always the same–Danita: Who loves you? Roger: You do. Danita: Who loves me? Roger: I do. Danita: Who loves each other? Roger and Danita: We do! Roger will always be like the whistle of the train passing in the night, my lonely lullaby.

I am bruised. I was ignored at another brutal HOA meeting. Please do me the courtesy of arguing with me, so at least I will be sure that you see me and hear me.

I feel old and discounted. I guess I really am…

Nobody Special

I am still hoping
My 15 minutes of fame
Hasn’t happened yet.
I don’t think it will.

My self -worth doesn’t stick
To my Teflon self.
I slide out and
Make a mess.

The road less travelled?
Too late…
I chose the illusion of security
And that exit was many years ago.

I meet the young and ambitious on the road.
This is the direction I chose.
Wrong way/ one way street/ do not enter.
I am an obstacle in the road.

“Hey old lady
Get out of the way!”
At least they see me
I am not invisible.

I need a big old tree
So I can sit in an elbow
High up and quiet,listening to the birds.
The birds [and my doggies] don’t care that I am

Nobody special.
When I was a child I would ask my Mom who was going to be at an event. She would say “Nobody special, just the families that live around here.” I wonder who were the special ones and why they were special?

“Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.” Forest Gump

Forest Gump , brilliantly played by Tom Hanks, didn’t study the chocolate diagram or the descriptions of each chocolate. He taste-tested the chocolates, and found some to his liking and others not. Let’s call this the trial and error method. Or making it up as you go along. “Stupid is as stupid does”, or a courageous way to live?

Does taking a calculated risk mean more courage and fewer bad choices? Does calculation or”exercise of practical judgement” increase your odds and decrease fear. I do pro and con lists, worst case scenarios and collect copious information on alternatives, and then….. I am paralyzed. When the time comes to act, my courage is often buried under a mountain of facts. I need a course on “How to Find Your Courage”, but then I would fill my brain and many notebooks with how to’s and be back where I started.

After many wasted years of “self-Improvement”, I now believe Nike nailed “courage” when they said “Just Do It!” When I first saw these ads, I thought they were stupid and shallow. I can’t “Just Do It!” I thought, not until I find my courage! And then I heard this quiet voice inside asking me to fill in the blank. I can ______. I can run one lap. I can call about a class. I can talk to that cute guy at the gym. I can learn to play banjo. I can write one sentence or one paragraph. Take a tiny step. If you do it,courage will come, so “Just do it!”

So how can crocheting , “Just do crochet!” be an act of courage? Crochet hardly seems dangerous or scary. I suffered a nasty stress fracture of my foot during the hell of trying to get a diagnosis for Roger. The final straw was having to use one of those rolling things to get around and keep all weight off my foot. I just couldn’t work under those conditions, so I took medical leave. My leather recliner became my own little island. I sat a lot because it was just too hard to move from place to place, and I eventually broke the chair!! So what to do when you are terrified to find out what is wrong with your husband and stuck in a chair…crochet of course! I learned to crochet and crocheted my chair and my heart inside pretty patterns of yarn. Of course, I could not stop the disease that was slowly turning Roger into unrecognizable pieces, but I could crochet.

I crocheted to stop the unraveling of my life. It was truly an act of courage to slide the yarn thru my fingers, and learn many difficult patterns. I still crochet, and I tell myself “Just do it!”. I can crochet, one row at a time.

Yesterday, I was checking out at Barnes and Noble, excited to be getting a “real” book, when the clerk and I saw a little boy walking up to the register. When the clerk asked him how she could help him, his face crumpled , tears rolled down his chubby cheeks and he blurted out “I can’t find my Mom.” Would you rip my heart out and stomp on it please? There was no preamble, no careful choosing of words. He was terrified, but was able to supply his Mom’s first name, so the clerk used the P.A. “Brittany, please come to the front of the store.” Mom appeared very quickly and he ran to her, getting the hug he so desperately needed. Mom did not discount his fear and just said “Oh honey , I was just over there, I’m so sorry.” Good Mom. Later I thought that the clerk had been very perceptive and never used the word lost. She could have said “We have a lost little boy up front, looking for his Mom, Brittany.” The little boy was not “lost”, he didn’t need a map, he wanted his Mom.

I cried when I got to my car. After Roger died, I remembered how many times I cried and wanted my Roger. I knew he would not magically appear and hug me, or say “Oh honey, I was just over there.” I still look for Roger, every day. Adults are supposed to “filter” what we say, and control ourselves. My grief is messy, raw and can’t be filtered, and my rage needs lots of expletives to express it. My unsocial and naked feelings sometimes escape, but l try to rein them back in. Maybe instead of reining in my feelings, I need to run the horse until we are both sweaty and tired.

There are so many rules about looking like we have it all under control. Be cool and chill out, and never let them see you sweat! We even created a new word, chillax, which combines chill and relax. In the seventies, we were told to “Let it all hang out.”, and reveal our feelings. Remember Primal Scream therapy? I liked the “idea” of being real with all of my feelings, but I didn’t really live it. I didn’t let it all hang out, and I don’t think my screams qualified as primal.

When I cry, I almost always apologize for being out of control and so obviously sad. I cry when I am angry too.Tears are a one size fits all response to any out of control emotions I have. Why do so many women apologize for crying? Are we hurting anyone? Are we care taking even as we cry? Please don’t be upset, or I don’t want my tears to make you feel uncomfortable. Just a little crazy-masking ….  Men do not want to be called a “pussy” or be “pussy-whipped”, which translates to “Don’t be like a woman!” We all know this reference is not about felines. Men do not fret and they are absolutely never “aflutter”. Men are calm, cool and collected. I need a good cry…

In just a few years, the authentic little boy who cried and showed fear, will say ” I know where I am going, I am not lost and I don’t need a stupid map.” He will be the keeper of the remote because the shows you like to watch are all “stupid” and All Star Wrestling ” is a learning experience. He may even say “Please don’t cry.”

Success is based upon a spiritual quality, a power to inspire others. Vince Lombardi
It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you played the game. Grantland Rice
Oscar Wilde: It’s not whether you win or lose, its who you can blame. (Good old Oscar)

I love to win. I want to raise my fist in the air and shout “Yes!” as many times as I can. Winning feels good, and losing not so good. I care as much about winning an argument as I care about winning a sport or game. Actually I get more satisfaction from winning an argument or a war of words. I am my intellect. I think . Descartes and I never met but I know he was talking about ME when he said “I think, therefore I am.” I wish I could get my “score” every day. How am I doing? The announcer says “Danita is sitting in second place, when will she make her move?”

Currently I am engaged in war with the board of my homeowner association. I think they are not worthy opponents, but they do have power,and I want to be the most powerful person on earth and especially in my neighborhood. I shoot my word weapons and hope for a direct hit that disables their side. I am right damnit! I want to hear them say it. I will make them dizzy with my sarcastic wit. Take that! And that! Soon they will have to admit that I am the winner of this little war. Victory will come?

As I read over what I have written, I realize that as I have aged, the”fight” in me is retreating. Victory is not as satisfying when it is celebrated alone. Who are my enemies? Being vulnerable is the real victory, and requires more courage than reacting with rage. I am Tom Cruises’ character in “Born on the 4th of July”, who returns from Vietnam a paraplegic. Lying in bed, with tears in his eyes, he asks his father “Who’s gonna love me?”. I want to hug the child I was,wipe her tears, and tell her many times she is loved and does not need to earn love. Would I have been able to hear? I probably would have struggled away from the hug, and the wise words, and went back out to the arena of life even more determined to win at all costs. After all, I had everything to lose. Who would love me if I didn’t win?

If /then- (my son is a logics instructor)- If I win, then I will be loved. Love is a result of winning anything,everything,and everywhere, all the time. “Staying Alive” is on the radio, maybe it’s the white suit that made the difference. If you don’t get this reference, then….just forget it. What I know for sure is that no one wins every time. We can withhold love from ourselves even if we are victorious and the crowd is cheering us. Maybe winning or losing is not a variable in the love equation. Love is given and received freely, or not at all . It starts with ME and grows with WE.

This last Sunday May 1, was six months since Roger died on November 1, 2015. I’m  fine, really I’m fine. Just a little angry. Well to tell the truth, more than just a little angry. I want to punch walls and smug faces. If my words could be lethal weapons, that would be great too. It would be best if you didn’t tell me that I’m angry because Roger left me all alone to deal with this messy life. I will deny any connection between my rage, and Rogers’ death. People just really piss me off right now. See, I went from anger to rage in just this paragraph, and now I am crying too. This calls for some poetry.
I Hate You, Thank You

You are the perfect target
For my Rage.
A poor excuse for a man,
Or a hissing reptile
And easy to hate.
Your mouth opens only
To vomit lies and arrogance.
I will find a way, will find a way
To bring you down.
I rehearse my sarcastic comebacks
And make plans to attack.
Directing my rage, at You.
For now you are a perfect target
For my grief/ rage.
Thank you

Beads

There is a moment
when a tear fills an eye,
and the eye shimmers.
Looking out those
tear-filled eyes
my beads shimmer too.
Their roundness is blurred,
But their colors break into prisms.
I wipe my eyes,
Sure that I can see clearly now.
For awhile I miss the tears
I miss the beauty they bring
To my beads.
Shimmer.