Tuesday, May 31, 2011
End Note Which is a Fresh Note to The Shadow
Two new girls are with Sunny now. They are Buff Orpington's, pullets. The kids and I went to "pullet days" over at Pistil's Nursery here in Portland. Fantastic place. They ooh'ed and ah'ed over the girls who were available for sale and I grilled a chicken farmer named Joy with all my questions. Why did my girl die? What can I do next time? What can I do about my crazy angry girl Sunny who scares me to death?
In the time it took for the kids to pick two new chickens, Joy gave me the inside story on how to dominate Sunny (rather than being dominated by her) and how to add vinegar to the water, as well as a sulfur type antibiotic and to accept that this a fact of life--chickens die and when they are in a hole, they have been sick for a while. Nothing we can do. It happens.
Fair enough.
My next post will be: How to Dominate Your Chicken.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Fresh Writing: The Shadow
Re-draft - I love your comments so please, leave one and/or share this:
My Shadow died Thursday morning at eight A.M. Pacific Standard Time. But that's not how to tell a proper story, is it?
Let's start again.
It's Thursday morning, another day of the same thing: I'm up at five, watch the sun lift in the sky, say my prayers, drink some tea, eat a bit of lavender chocolate (okay, more like half a bar) and then it's seven a.m. and Spencer comes into my room first--a big lug of a man-boy--who bends down to give me a big bear hug.
"Are you enlightened yet?" he asks.
"Afraid not," I confess.
Ten minutes later it's Jo Jo on my lap for a cuddle and she breathes morning breath on my face as she tells me about a dream. "It was weird," she says, in her light bright voice, "it was Christmas and Daddy was coming to give me a present but then my tooth fell out."
"Do you have a loose tooth?" I ask.
"Sort of but not really," she says. She moves her finger on her front canine. Mr. Wiggly, we call it.
The sky is blue and the sun is bright. Wind blows and it's cold like March. June is just a few days away.
I re-adjust Jo so the bone of her butt doesn't rub so much on the bone of my shin. I try to be careful though because too much jostling around and she'll be gone in a flash and I'll miss a moment more of holding her tight. How much longer will I be able to hold this girl on my lap? That's what I think and then more thoughts rush in: before we leave for school, will I have time to take a shower and clean the chicken coop?
"Sweets," I ask. "What do you want for breakfast? Bagel and cream cheese or cereal?"
"Cereal!" she declares. She tugs down her pajama top--pink with a poodle sewn on. The poodle is black fabric. It's a shadow of a poodle. Dog in profile.
One more hug and she's off.
I blow out the candles at my alter and go down to take a shower, pull on jeans, dry my hair and check the time.
In the midst of all this, Spencer and I get into a fight--what is it about? He's on the computer, I think, and that bugs me or maybe he didn't clean his dishes. I don't even know but it's not good. We're both pissed off and I think he yells or I yell and that's how it is with my teenager these days. We're both fast to fire and that's no good with a teenager. We're doing therapy to catch this tiger by the tail.
"Let's just table this until we meet with the therapist," I say.
"FINE!" he yells and storms out of the house, his pack over his shoulder.
I follow him down the steps, bare feet on cold concrete--overgrown ferns in the front yard, a sea of lush brilliant green. Past the pot of strawberries and the stand of lavender, I call out how he better come back and hug me because if something happens to either one of us before we see each other again--well, that would suck.
Spencer stops on the sidewalk, just past the thick trunk of the cedar tree and pauses for a second. His head his down, chin tucked and then, after a moment of thought--he slouches back--PISSED. He hates when I play the "this might be last time I see you" card but I can't help it. Death is real. The Buddhists remind us how life is a party on death row.
Spencer hugs me but it's a bullshit hug--this fast grip and squeeze with us belly to belly since he's that tall--and as I watch him go, I get all in my head about what a bad mother I am and how I'm blowing it with him in 15,000 different ways and then I check the clock. 15 minutes before Jo needs to leave for school.
Jo is on the floor in the living room, red wool carpet under her knees and she makes a world for a small rock she calls Rockie. It's her way to avoid the conflict that fires between Spencer and me. Jo disappears into fantasy.
She has this thing where she collects brown cardboard boxes and makes houses for all kinds of things--rocks, shells, pine cones. Rockie has a three box house. "Remember to pack your snack, sweets," I say.
"I will, Mommy," she says.
"And comb your hair," I add.
"Ok," she says.
Out back, there is a deck, a hot tub with a green lid, two huge horses sculpted out of rusted metal and a chicken coop that we built snug against the side of the garage. There is only gravel out here which makes a zen kind thing to deal with the fact that very little sun shines here. As I jog down the steps, the sun that does come through today is wicked bright. I have to squint against the intensity of the light.
In the coop there is one Brahma named Sunny (Jo's girl) and my girl named Shadow. Sunny is all aggressive and pesky at the door of the coop--LET ME OUT--the way she is with her strong neck and wide chest. That damn chicken scares me to death. But Shadow, a quiet Jersey Giant, sits in a self made hole.
I know before I know.
A quiet chicken in a self made hole is a sick chicken.
In January, it was our other Brahma, Diamond. She was Spencer's girl. She was in a hole in the morning and 24 hours later, she was dead.
I scoop Shadow into my arms and feel around her behind. Is an egg bound up there? Is she hot? Is it bacterial? She is limp and non-responsive.
This is a girl I raised from a tiny little chick. When she first arrived, she was just a palm of beak and fuzz.
Chickens are supposed to live to be 11 or 12. That's what the damn urban chicken book told us but now--her she is. Sick.
Shit!
At two years old, Shadow is a big girl, ten pounds at least and she's all black feathers that shimmer green when you hold her in the sunlight. Her dark brown eyes blink in a slow, tired expression of surrender.
Denial throws up a wall and I tell myself she's not going to die. I'll think of something but first, first, I have to clean the coop right away. I ease Shadow into the top shelf of the coop, scoot Sunny into the run and rake the sand clear of poo, vegi droppings and greens. I make a pile and lift it all into a recycling bin.
That's what happens when I'm scared. I move fast and clean everything in sight. I'm scared a lot--even when things aren't scary. My house is spotless.
Add more food to the feeder, change the water and then I remember an old prescription for antibiotics I have in the house. I'll break one up, yeah, that's what I'll do but then again, I don't know. Those were for Spencer and what if it's too much?
Once the coop is clean, I decide I'll carry Shadow into the run to get a better look at her. I ease her to the ground, thinking maybe she'll just pop up and it will be okay but as soon as she is down, she rolls on her side and jerks a few times and that's it. Her dark eyes roll back and she convulses, kicking her feet. She's dying as I kneel next to her and there is nothing--not a damn thing I can do.
I call over my shoulder to Jo and ask her please, please to bring me the phone and while I wait, I stroke Shadow and tell her how sorry I am as if she blames me for being a lame chicken farmer (which I am).
In no time, Jo is behind me with the phone in her hand. Her blue eyes are wide. Her tangled hair tumbles over her shoulders.
"It's Shadow, she's dying I think," I say and try to suck it up but I can't. I start to cry.
Jo drops to her knees but she doesn't really have an emotional response. She's not a huge fans of the chickens. When her bunny died, she wailed but the chickens are big and stinky and lizard like. Jo's more of a gerbil girl.
I dial my husband but then mis-dial and then re-dial again and I wonder why in the world am I calling him? He knows less about these birds than I do. What's he going to do?
Sunny paces in this half circle pattern and she's all puffed out--her feathers lifted and full to make her twice the size. She is mix of bright white and black. She keeps her distance but makes this weird squawk sound. It's like a cluck but more primal.
I drop the phone on the ground and Jo touches Shadow's soft dark neck feathers.
"She's still warm," Jo says.
I sob, uncontrollable now and another part, the part of me watching this whole thing from the sidelines--that inner critic who is no friend--says I shouldn't be losing my shit in front of my little girl. My critic says I'm supposed to be the strong one, didn't I know? But I can't be strong right now. I can't listen to the mean-assed-inner-critic-bitch who is scarier, by far, than Sunny. I'm overcome with total helplessness, regret and skill-less-ness in the face of whatever has taken this chicken away.
Jo puts her slim arm around my shoulders. Doesn't even hesitate and I think about how solid she feels.
"I'm so sorry, Mom," Jo says.
She is the mother to me, the strong one and I am lost in how I failed, I failed, I failed.
Isn't it something the way we are--the stories we tell ourselves--and isn't this the story I tell myself every time death and I meet at this threshold? I think about deaths that have come before now. The death of my last marriage--yes, it was all my fault. When my old dog Carmel died, yes, that was my fault too--I let her down. And then when my brother killed himself, my father had his heart attack and my mother died of pneumonia--all my fault. I could have done something but I didn't and they are gone.
Why stop there? Why not go further back in time to the day I was born and my mother was so upset because if it wasn't for me, she could have had her innocence back.
Someone had to be blamed. Why not? Why not let it be me?
In Buddhism, death is called an opportunity. You can make a massive leap in consciousness just by being fully present and that is what I try to do. I try to be wholly present to all that I feel--the sadness, the regret, the story and the origin of the story. The emotion is the amazing thing. It's so powerful.
And what the hell? It's just a chicken, right?
I know.
I know.
Later in the day, I will be told, "chicken's die. It happens. It's not your fault. You're going to have to get a tougher skin if you are going to be a chicken farmer."
And I guess it's true but right now--I don't have a tough skin. I'm raw the way you get when death comes to call. My Shadow is gone and now Jo is late to school--something she hates more than anything.
"Honey," I say as I swipe my nose with the sleeve of my shirt. "I need to get you to school. You're late."
"It's okay, Mom," Jo says. "It doesn't matter, I can be late one day."
Sunny pecks at the phone, like she wants to make a call and I realize I have to reach Spencer. He'll be home for lunch to check the chickens and when he sees Shadow gone, that won't go well.
I shoo Sunny away from phone and dial up the school. "We should do something with her body we can't just leave her out here," I whisper to Jo while the number rings through.
"I have a box," she offers.
"Good, good," I say.
Jo runs into the house, full of purpose.
Ten minutes later, Spencer is home again and we all stand over Shadow, who has been wrapped in silk and placed in small box. Jo has added a plastic chicken and a few a shiny rocks. I covered her with rose petals. Spencer put in some leaves from a fragrant bush.
"It's like you said," Spencer finally says, "you never know."
"I know," I say.
We all stand there and stare stupid into the box. We hold our arms around each other, survivors who look at death--really look at it--and find there is nothing any of us can say. That's the way it is. Death is quiet.
Finally, it's Spencer who suggests we put Shadow over by the statue of the Buddha in order to let her body rest like the Tibetan's teach. It's believed the consciousness of a being, all beings, resides in the body for up to three days. Call me crazy but I believe in that kind of thing.
"Maybe she'll be reborn in a better place," Spencer adds.
"Maybe she's already in chicken heaven," Jo says, taking the more Christian approach.
I carry the box over to the Buddha and we all say a few mantra: Om Mani Padme Hung, the universal prayer of compassion.
On the way back to the house, I hold Jo's hand and Spencer and I hug, a real one this time, and he says he's sorry he yelled.
"Me too," I say. "Let's forget it and start over."
"Fair enough," he agrees.
Sunny, alone now--the last chicken left in the coop--pecks at the ground but that's not going to do. Chickens need other chicken's and I'm going to have to get rid of her or get more girls to re-fill the coop and start over again.
For now, I've got to get Jo Jo to school. I'll figure out the rest later.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Willamette Writers May Meeting Pt. 4
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
If You Knew By Ellen Bass
Stunning poem by Ellen Bass
What if you knew you’d be the last
to touch someone?
If you were taking tickets, for example,
at the theater, tearing them,
giving back the ragged stubs,
you might take care to touch that palm,
brush your fingertips
along the life line’s crease.
When a man pulls his wheeled suitcase
too slowly through the airport, when
the car in front of me doesn’t signal,
when the clerk at the pharmacy
won’t say Thank you, I don’t remember
they’re going to die.
A friend told me she’d been with her aunt.
They’d just had lunch and the waiter,
a young gay man with plum black eyes,
joked as he served the coffee, kissed
her aunt’s powdered cheek when they left.
Then they walked half a block and her aunt
dropped dead on the sidewalk.
How close does the dragon’s spume
have to come? How wide does the crack
in heaven have to split?
What would people look like
if we could see them as they are,
soaked in honey, stung and swollen,
reckless, pinned against time?
- Ellen Bass
Monday, May 23, 2011
Part Three of Willamette Writer Meeting
Thursday, May 19, 2011
On the Road: Coming Home to Teaching & Website Launch
Last night, pre-summer heat, there were bare arms, sundresses and Bermuda shorts. People lounged at sidewalk cafes, before them were glasses of wine and plates of food.
And still others were packed, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, knee to knee at The Press Club for the monthly reading at The Mountain Writer's Series. Smiling, shining faces. Lover's of poetry and prose. 
I stood at the podium, after the lovely Cindy Stewart-Rinier and read from Found. Again. Since the release on March 1 of this year, I have been reading and reading and reading a little more, from that story of stories, that summation of my long Hero's Quest to the home I lost at my birth.
Oh Lord my journey home to my mother and her original love has been a bumpy one indeed. And this is how it is. Some days, I am too often like Dresden after being bombed at the end of the war. My first experience is of brutal separation and emotional stifling. My mind has been nursed on fear. The Buddha called it Maya. Where there is mind, there is Maya. Suffering and more so when the body and brain are ravaged from the moment of birth. 
And I am like a brilliant lotus flower emerged from that mud. I am bright, impossible colors and beauty--not because another tells me so but because it is true. We are all this and more--not the mud, not the bloom, not not the mud, not not the bloom. We are gorgeous and perfect and Buddha and, as sweet as all that sounds, our brief life is also a party on death row. I read that phrase in a book on Buddhist teachings last week and it's true. Death is coming and with that in mind--what matters? What really matters?
Well, of course, healing the soul is what matters...healing the self and becoming whole! That is what matters above all else.
And so, as I come home for the summer and look at my schedule for what is ahead, I am thrilled to announce our new Teaching Site has launched. A Free Teleseminar on Memoir writer's is coming May 26th and you are invited to listen in. Come sign up and make your reservation. Learn how to tell yourself the story of your own great suffering and transcendence, learn to set your priorities and love yourself as you find your way back to that original wholeness and love that is there--just past all the mess of Maya.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
On the Road: The Gift of Memoir
This is the continuation of a talk given at the monthly meeting of the Willamette Writers.
Great conversation about memoir and the transformational promise of the genre.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Fresh Writing: Mother's Day
They explode through the door, my children. "Moooooom," they cry, her voice high, his voice low. A dozen roses from him, a box of chocolates from her and behind my children, there on the porch with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, is their father. Steve. I call him the Dorse-man.
How long have we known each other now? I'm forty seven, he's forty nine, we met on his twenty seventh birthday at an auction where he was celebrating another year gone. All those years ago, like it was yesterday, Steve sat at the table with a group of guys who wore dark gray suits and white shirts. Ties were loose and drinks were in front of the men--whiskey on the rocks, tequila straight up and of course, bottles of beer. Steve had the flush of a man who was a couple of drinks gone.
Handsome? My goodness, he was so handsome to me back then.
The mystery of attraction.
It wasn't his looks which were fine--better than fine--it was the energy that snapped off him and fired from his eyes.
Snap.
Crackle.
Pop.
All these years later and his dark hair has gone to streaks of gray but his eyes--a metallic blue--still snap the way they did. Steve has the sharp look of a man who makes plans deep inside himself. He is on a singular path. We raise the kids together but he goes his own way the rest of the time.
"This is the day that changed my life," Steve booms in his big auctioneer voice and he steps across the threshold of my house, offering me one of those wine bags from Fred Meyer. It's decorated with a thousand corks. Inside is a bottle of wine.
"That's right," I say. "I went into labor with Spencer on Mother's Day."
Spencer--dark hair and darker eyes--looks from his father to me and back to his dad again. Steve pulls his son into an embrace. "Those were some long nights, Buddy," Steve says. "Man did you take your time getting here."
Roses, chocolates and now a bottle of wine are in my arms and I set everything down on the table in the entry way. Jo has run up the stairs to her room, she says she'll be right back and it's true. Spencer took four days to arrive. My water broke on Mother's Day and finally he arrived on the fifteenth.
"And things have never been the same," Steve adds.
Spencer bear hugs his dad back and lifts him off his feet. My son, our son, is now strong enough to carry the man who gave him his life. Amazing.
Jo tromps down the steps and then makes a leap to clear the bottom three steps. She has shoulder length wavy blond hair, which she hates to comb, and filly long legs that make her the tallest girl in her class. She rattles an envelope between us.
"I made you a card. I made you lots of cards," she announces. The front of the envelope reads, "MOM!"
I get down on my knees to look inside and there are three cards to be exact. Jo overflows when it comes to art and messages of love.
"And this one was conceived on Mother's Day too," I say, a tilt of the head over to Jo as I fish out her beautiful art--hearts, drawings of the two of us holding hands and little poems that detail her love: "You are so nice to me, Mom." "I love you, Mommy." "You are a nice Mommy."
Steve shakes his head like he remembers that part too, how three years after Spencer was born and we had finally figured a tiny bit of parenting out--surprise. We were pregnant again!
"That's a lot of water under the bridge," Steve says.
"It sure is," I agree.
In the foyer of my house on spring day in May--we are all here--together and it's funny how there are four humans where there used to be just two. We are intertwined by the mystery of attraction and DNA and time. We were once strangers to each other--me to Steve and Steve to me and when Spencer was born, wasn't he a stranger too? Wasn't Jo? Haven't I been getting to know these people--these little mysteries--more and more each day as they grow into the fullness of themselves? Aren't they getting to know me? And what of Steve? Isn't he a still stranger in so many ways? Aren't we still a confusion to each other even though we are together in this adventure of raising two human beings to adulthood as we turn the other way and head towards the end of our own lives?
It's my 14th year of being a mother--my 14th official Mother's Day. It's hard to believe, me, the motherless one has children, celebration, good health, safety, happiness and a little more time. I have time to celebrate being a mother and being alive and watching everything as this mystery of being continues.
The kids give me big hugs and are back out the door with their dad. He's taking them to school today and I'll be the one to pick them up. The routine of raising children. It's a few days a his house, a few days at mine, school and homework and taking baths. That's what we do. Everyday. Until we stop for a moment and celebrate and remember and give each other hugs and cards and roses and chocolate and wine.
Next stop Spencer's birthday, then Steve's and another holiday where it will all go the other way--Father's Day.
Wednesday, May 04, 2011
On the Road: Portland Events all Month Long
First, last night was a FAN TAB ULOUS event at The Willamette Writer's Monthly meeting and I want to thank everyone for coming up to me after, offering your stories and having me sign your books! I hope everyone WRITES A MEMOIR.
And here is an even BIGGER thanks! If you were at the Willamette Writer's Event please write to me with Willamette Writer's in the Subject Heading and I will get you a FREE copy of The Writing Life audio book on Memoir Writing. I ask only that you listen and answer three questions to help me fine tune the teaching! Deal? Send me your emails today and I'll get you details.
Second, the Oregon Colony House beach retreat still has an opening! This is a steal of a deal. Writers get lodging, two nights at the beach and a couple prime time hours with me to talk about their project. An hour with me in Portland--no overnight at the beach and writing time--is $125.00 an hour. So book this, if you can.
Third, here comes the summer Master Class Schedule via Skype and in Portland on E Burnside.
The Portland class will be held Monday evenings 5:30-9: June 6, 13, 20 & 27 and July 13 & 20. This is a six week Master Series Class with eight readers/space for observation too. Readers pay $350.00 and observers pay $175.00 -- EVERYONE LEARNS!
The Skype Master Class, on line, will be held Sunday mornings 10-1 : June 19 & 26, July 10, 17, 24 & 31! This is for six readers, no observers and the cost is $350.00. Contact me, via this site to reserve a spot!
I cannot wait to help YOU write your memoir!
Fourth, the free Webinar on Memoir is coming. SAVE THE DATE of May 26th @ 11 a.m. and send me an email saying you'd like to join in. Write in the Subject Heading: Reserve Webinar and I'll make your reservation. I'll be giving a live presentation on the power of memoir, teaching you a few tricks and offering up as much inspiration as I can in one wonderful hour of conversation! More details coming soon!