I am in the final throes of editing a collection of erotica. The collection consists of twelve stories, one for each month of the year. This afternoon I asked the writer of this collection what he saw as his vision for it, its reason for being. I have no doubt that he is pondering that question as I write this. Tonight, as we prepare to put to bed an old year and wake up to a new one, I am poised on the edge of a question: "what is the measure of a good year?" Here is my assessment. Life is built not of increments of time, of numbered squares on a calendar, but of experiences. There is a quote that hangs in my mind tonight, not unlike the crystal ball poised in Times Square. Paraphrased and unattributed as it may be, it goes something like this: "Life is not measured by the moments of breath you take, but by the moments that take your breath away." It occurs to me that a year of breathtaking sexual experience may, for some, be no worse a measure of a year than any other. We can assess our fulfillment, our impact, our grand accomplishments, but in the end it is our experience, the lives we touch of our own accord, and those that touch ours, take our breath away, that form our personal experience. After all, it is difficult to assess our overall impact on the world one meager year at a time. All we can ascertain, or contemplate, is whether we are on the right track. We can measure against benchmarks, and beat ourselves up when we inevitably fall short. And we will always fall short. If we did not, we would have little impetus to try harder next year.
So I propose stepping back from the big picture and looking inward, at the moments that have defined us, or inspired us, or made us feel something new, physically or emotionally, or even sexually. The brush of an unexpected kiss, the quickened pace of a heartbeat in reaction to the right words, the brimming of tears at a moment when one least expects it. A poem that speaks to one's spirit, or art that captures one's imagination. A friendship that fills one's soul and leaves one utterly aching. A liaison that inspires and soothes. Moments of possibility that truly take one's breath away.
My year has been rich with these moments. Perhaps all years have, and perhaps this is simply the first year I have been awake enough to notice. What are the moments that have stolen your breath, or ignited your imagination? My hope is that there have been many, and that the new year will be filled with many, many more.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Learn to be still
The fog rises from the forest, robing the naked silhouettes of maples, oaks. My daughter finally dozes on the couch, hoping to dream herself beyond the vestiges of a stomach bug. I have sent my husband and son off on the train to Manhattan to museum with some friends. The house is empty, except for the fleece-clad sleeping bundle on the sofa. There is an imposed quiet to this day, an unexpected and welcome peace in amidst a mother's concern. We have been here before. There is nowhere to go. Our course is clear. We must stay still, rest through this, and heal.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Possibility
I’m addicted to the moment immediately preceding a kiss, that place where time stands still, lips poised for the blessed contact. I’m a sucker for the first kiss in movies, on TV, because it signals a shift in dynamic, a moment of pure truth and honesty of feeling. There is no moment more magical, erotic. Like the tremble of water’s glasslike surface as it edges up to kiss a fingertip, giving in to the natural forces that exist within or around it, there is where potential lives. The same is true with a touch, if one slows down long enough to notice. Possibility exists in the electric moment when bodies are that dangerously close to touching. Possibility exists there and, if one can slow down long enough and hone one’s senses, enlightenment lives there too.
My children have been electrified by their anticipation of Christmas. They are full of an energy they are not quite sure how to express, which lends a deliciously and, at times, frustratingly frenetic quality to our already chaotic home. They are excited by the possibilities for magic and fulfillment, albeit in relation to material gain, but there is something more to their excitement. At eight and ten, my children still believe in Santa Claus, although begrudgingly so at times. It’s hard to know whether their belief is anchored in naivete, or whether Santa still exists because they need him to be real. The magic inherent in that belief is in part what fuels their excitement. Anticipation, bolstered by the knowledge that anything can happen, anything is possible.
One problem with life as many of us live it is that we have ceased to believe in magic, in possibility. The problem with kissing or touching a long-time partner is that we become de-sensitized to those electric moments. Kissing, touching, become routine, a means to an end. We know how the story will turn out, after all, the same way it always has. There is a need to know the outcome, to plan for it, expect it. Plan has replaced the deliciousness of spontaneity. At its best it's a comfort, at its worst, self-fulfilling prophecy. Either way, the magic is gone.
Sad but true, both kissing and Christmas have at times become items on a TO DO list, a series of activities necessary to move life on into the next action item, activity, hour, day. Santa has ceased to exist, except as an alter-ego of overburdened parents everywhere. At times I have become jaded, or simply unobservant, inattentive to the magic moments that precede most any action, moments in which anything is possible. I am aware that I must cultivate mindfulness in order become awake to possibility. In this, my fortieth year, I am making tremendous progress. I’m coming to the party late in this regard, but am thankful, nonetheless, to be here. My anticipation for 2008 is finally palpable. The new year holds tremendous promise, even in amidst the shortcomings of our world, and the suffering within it. We are capable of anything, most importantly compassion. But we must remain mindful, fervently so. Magic is everywh ere. It is all around us, in the pause before a kiss or a touch, and in the eyes of my children, and yours. Awake, my friends. Enjoy….
My children have been electrified by their anticipation of Christmas. They are full of an energy they are not quite sure how to express, which lends a deliciously and, at times, frustratingly frenetic quality to our already chaotic home. They are excited by the possibilities for magic and fulfillment, albeit in relation to material gain, but there is something more to their excitement. At eight and ten, my children still believe in Santa Claus, although begrudgingly so at times. It’s hard to know whether their belief is anchored in naivete, or whether Santa still exists because they need him to be real. The magic inherent in that belief is in part what fuels their excitement. Anticipation, bolstered by the knowledge that anything can happen, anything is possible.
One problem with life as many of us live it is that we have ceased to believe in magic, in possibility. The problem with kissing or touching a long-time partner is that we become de-sensitized to those electric moments. Kissing, touching, become routine, a means to an end. We know how the story will turn out, after all, the same way it always has. There is a need to know the outcome, to plan for it, expect it. Plan has replaced the deliciousness of spontaneity. At its best it's a comfort, at its worst, self-fulfilling prophecy. Either way, the magic is gone.
Sad but true, both kissing and Christmas have at times become items on a TO DO list, a series of activities necessary to move life on into the next action item, activity, hour, day. Santa has ceased to exist, except as an alter-ego of overburdened parents everywhere. At times I have become jaded, or simply unobservant, inattentive to the magic moments that precede most any action, moments in which anything is possible. I am aware that I must cultivate mindfulness in order become awake to possibility. In this, my fortieth year, I am making tremendous progress. I’m coming to the party late in this regard, but am thankful, nonetheless, to be here. My anticipation for 2008 is finally palpable. The new year holds tremendous promise, even in amidst the shortcomings of our world, and the suffering within it. We are capable of anything, most importantly compassion. But we must remain mindful, fervently so. Magic is everywh ere. It is all around us, in the pause before a kiss or a touch, and in the eyes of my children, and yours. Awake, my friends. Enjoy….
Sunday, December 16, 2007
And A Little Child Shall Lead Them
For as long as I can remember, my family’s annual tradition was the search for the perfect Christmas tree. Each mid-December we would launch out on these quests, not for just any tree, but for the perfect one. A blue spruce, 7-1/2 feet tall, perfectly triangular in shape, trunk straight as an arrow, a single branch at the top, perfectly vertical, to hold the light-up star. In rain or sleet or snow we would go, as we were, with fevers, on crutches, armed with umbrellas or parkas, in the midst of busy holiday schedules. Each year my mother would move us from tree to tree, shush us quiet, and stand silently assessing each component of perfection, grading each tree in her mind, dismissing many, until we had the "perfect" tree. As children, one tree was as good as another to us, I’m sure, the quirky, fat-bottomed or crooked trees more endearing for their interest. But to my mother, the tree represented who we were, and what sort of Christmas we would have, and so it always had to be the best.
Now grown, with a family of my own, it is no surprise that the tradition continues. My husband and two children and I set out yesterday morning on our annual pilgrimage to find and cut our Christmas tree. We drove up into the hills of Shelton, to a local farm, recent snow blanketing the ground. The setting was idyllic, but we were feeling rushed, or at least I was, with just 10 days until Christmas and very little shopping, wrapping, baking done. To be honest, the Christmas spirit was lost on me this year. My heart has been heavy for so many reasons, and so I have let my intellect guide me through these last days, trying valiantly but in vain to muster efficiency when inside I am in utter disarray.
Last year's tree hunt went poorly from start to finish, resulting in a broken toe, a case of bronchitis, a shapeless tree too big to fit in the door or the stand, and lights the likes of which could cause a migraine in anyone prone to such things. It went so poorly, in fact, that we considered dispensing with the tree hunt altogether, and getting an artificial tree this year. Our children railed, though, arguing for age old tradition and all the trappings that accompany it. So on this blustery Saturday morning, we bundled ourselves in layers of fleece, pulled on our boots, drove to the farm, and marched through ice-covered snow like a band of soldiers searching for a fallen comrade behind enemy lines. We were quiet and vigilant, eyes peeled for a glimpse of the telltale peak of deep green that might be our tree. But every tree that at first glance appeared promising we pronounced too short, or too bushy, or too crooked upon further inspection. The tree on the hill craning its spine, its neck, toward the life-giving sun, or the tree that was wider on one side or the other. Or the one with two pointed branches at the zenith pointing in different directions, unable to hold a star. The scraggly tree, abundant but unbridled in shape. I’m sure there were natural explanations for those variations in appearance. But the fact remained, there was no "perfect tree" to be found in these acres of choices.
After a fruitless hour and a half, our children became bored and took to playing. The endless crunch of boots in ice-glazed snow was punctuated by their rowdy shouts and giggles, snowball fights and snow-eating contests. Quite frankly, their fun annoyed me. I was goal-oriented, driven, on a schedule, in no mood for distraction or nonsense. I stood there feeling the cold on my face, checking my watch, waiting for them to be done playing so that we could move on. The day was getting away from me. The time was marching forward toward the holiday finish line and this one item was no closer to being marked off my list. Eventually, with prodding, we moved on.
Halfway through the fifth grove of pines, we spotted a small barnyard, and we took a break to commune with two calves, a handful of goats, and a hutch full of bunnies. My children frolicked and laughed, talked to the animals and fed them snow. At first I was impatient with the delay, but after a few moments, something kicked in, and I began to see the scene that was unfolding in front of my eyes, feel it for what it was. Their joy in this day, all of it, the search, the snow, the animals, was more than visible, it was palpable. My children were making the most of this family tradition, of the time they were given. They had been all along, as I’m sure we all did as children. Somewhere along the way I had lost that joy, even the memory of it, so that all that was left was the stress and imperative fight for perfection of it all.
In age, I was becoming my mother, or perhaps just becoming an adult in the most cynical, if practical, model of adulthood. My thoughts turned then to a great many things, but mostly to the idea of what defines perfection. I pondered the commercial definition of perfection in trees that flies in opposition to perfection in nature. I moved then to the imperfection of that purported childbirth in a stable on which this holiday is based, that suggests that greatness can be born in any setting. Finally, I arrived at the imperfection of the human spirit that defines us. Christians believe that Jesus, the child of that stable, died for our communal imperfection. I’d rather not look on it as imperfection. I think we’re more like trees, actually, diverse in the appearance of our bodies and spirits, perfectly suited for our natural environments, each craning our necks toward the sun, in whatever form that takes. It took my children’s steadfast oneness with the world, their utter joy in it, to make me see these truths.
For whatever reason, the day became warmer there by the stable, and I was suddenly aware of the beauty that surrounded me, in this place, this time. I lifted my head, turned my cheek toward the December sun. Perfection is overrated. Beauty is everywhere.
Now grown, with a family of my own, it is no surprise that the tradition continues. My husband and two children and I set out yesterday morning on our annual pilgrimage to find and cut our Christmas tree. We drove up into the hills of Shelton, to a local farm, recent snow blanketing the ground. The setting was idyllic, but we were feeling rushed, or at least I was, with just 10 days until Christmas and very little shopping, wrapping, baking done. To be honest, the Christmas spirit was lost on me this year. My heart has been heavy for so many reasons, and so I have let my intellect guide me through these last days, trying valiantly but in vain to muster efficiency when inside I am in utter disarray.
Last year's tree hunt went poorly from start to finish, resulting in a broken toe, a case of bronchitis, a shapeless tree too big to fit in the door or the stand, and lights the likes of which could cause a migraine in anyone prone to such things. It went so poorly, in fact, that we considered dispensing with the tree hunt altogether, and getting an artificial tree this year. Our children railed, though, arguing for age old tradition and all the trappings that accompany it. So on this blustery Saturday morning, we bundled ourselves in layers of fleece, pulled on our boots, drove to the farm, and marched through ice-covered snow like a band of soldiers searching for a fallen comrade behind enemy lines. We were quiet and vigilant, eyes peeled for a glimpse of the telltale peak of deep green that might be our tree. But every tree that at first glance appeared promising we pronounced too short, or too bushy, or too crooked upon further inspection. The tree on the hill craning its spine, its neck, toward the life-giving sun, or the tree that was wider on one side or the other. Or the one with two pointed branches at the zenith pointing in different directions, unable to hold a star. The scraggly tree, abundant but unbridled in shape. I’m sure there were natural explanations for those variations in appearance. But the fact remained, there was no "perfect tree" to be found in these acres of choices.
After a fruitless hour and a half, our children became bored and took to playing. The endless crunch of boots in ice-glazed snow was punctuated by their rowdy shouts and giggles, snowball fights and snow-eating contests. Quite frankly, their fun annoyed me. I was goal-oriented, driven, on a schedule, in no mood for distraction or nonsense. I stood there feeling the cold on my face, checking my watch, waiting for them to be done playing so that we could move on. The day was getting away from me. The time was marching forward toward the holiday finish line and this one item was no closer to being marked off my list. Eventually, with prodding, we moved on.
Halfway through the fifth grove of pines, we spotted a small barnyard, and we took a break to commune with two calves, a handful of goats, and a hutch full of bunnies. My children frolicked and laughed, talked to the animals and fed them snow. At first I was impatient with the delay, but after a few moments, something kicked in, and I began to see the scene that was unfolding in front of my eyes, feel it for what it was. Their joy in this day, all of it, the search, the snow, the animals, was more than visible, it was palpable. My children were making the most of this family tradition, of the time they were given. They had been all along, as I’m sure we all did as children. Somewhere along the way I had lost that joy, even the memory of it, so that all that was left was the stress and imperative fight for perfection of it all.
In age, I was becoming my mother, or perhaps just becoming an adult in the most cynical, if practical, model of adulthood. My thoughts turned then to a great many things, but mostly to the idea of what defines perfection. I pondered the commercial definition of perfection in trees that flies in opposition to perfection in nature. I moved then to the imperfection of that purported childbirth in a stable on which this holiday is based, that suggests that greatness can be born in any setting. Finally, I arrived at the imperfection of the human spirit that defines us. Christians believe that Jesus, the child of that stable, died for our communal imperfection. I’d rather not look on it as imperfection. I think we’re more like trees, actually, diverse in the appearance of our bodies and spirits, perfectly suited for our natural environments, each craning our necks toward the sun, in whatever form that takes. It took my children’s steadfast oneness with the world, their utter joy in it, to make me see these truths.
For whatever reason, the day became warmer there by the stable, and I was suddenly aware of the beauty that surrounded me, in this place, this time. I lifted my head, turned my cheek toward the December sun. Perfection is overrated. Beauty is everywhere.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Celebration of Earthenware
I am no lipless Lenox diplomat.
My mouth has thick red curbs that stop
the flow of words, inhale ideas, keep secrets,
press them into smaller lies and spit them out.
These lips, the indelicate curve of hip, heavy handle
of my womanhood, form an empty vessel for your pain.
Feel the hand-smoothed heft of bone, tempered
by the elemental drench of water, fire –
Nestle me between your palms, run your winter fingers
Along each blessed edge, face close enough for steam on glasses.
Remember that the light does not move through me,
I absorb, transmute, swirl it out in kiln-fired countrysides
of color. I am utterly opaque. I hold a healthy portion,
sustenance. To live, you must gulp instead of sip.
-- (c) J.E.S. 1995. All rights reserved, in all media, both domestically and internationally.
My mouth has thick red curbs that stop
the flow of words, inhale ideas, keep secrets,
press them into smaller lies and spit them out.
These lips, the indelicate curve of hip, heavy handle
of my womanhood, form an empty vessel for your pain.
Feel the hand-smoothed heft of bone, tempered
by the elemental drench of water, fire –
Nestle me between your palms, run your winter fingers
Along each blessed edge, face close enough for steam on glasses.
Remember that the light does not move through me,
I absorb, transmute, swirl it out in kiln-fired countrysides
of color. I am utterly opaque. I hold a healthy portion,
sustenance. To live, you must gulp instead of sip.
-- (c) J.E.S. 1995. All rights reserved, in all media, both domestically and internationally.
Forward
I lost a friend recently.
He was a fellow traveler on this journey. Only his baggage grew too heavy and he fell behind, or made a pitstop, or perhaps a detour. I'm not quite sure how or why it happened. My initial reaction was that of one punched hard in the stomach: the breathlessness, the valiant attempt to take in oxygen, the failure, the panic. Once I recovered my breath, the words of Robert Frost drifted to mind: "nothing gold can stay." I felt sorry for myself, and cried and mourned and railed against this life, asking why it is that the beautiful moments must be so fleeting, and why in their leaving there must be so much pain. Then there was the awful realization: There is no way I can go forward alone. I don't have it in me, it was in him all along, or in us together.
Then: I don't want to go on without him.
I was overcome with the desire to lay my body down, nestle my head in the leaves, and give up. Not write this, or anything. I was flooded with the desire to trudge home to my comfortable little brokenness and shut the door, lock it behind me, and stay. But then, like a flash of daylight through the aspen, I remembered that the journey began long before this one leg, and I began this journey alone after all, as did he, always knowing that we would probably end it alone as well. The words of a wise and passionate poet rang in my ears: "freedom is won alone, or not at all." Perhaps no truer words were ever written.
It occurs to me that in the scheme of things, this friendship has been a bit like a soft bed, a warm fire, a nourishing meal in the course of these travels. Our time together adds up to a handful of truly great thoughts, amazing connections, moments of stark clarity, of pure beauty, of much needed hope. It occurs to me that perhaps we were not meant to share the journey but to spur each other on in our separate paths. Or perhaps we were just a checkpoint, a respite, on this long, difficult venture toward becoming our truest, best selves. I don't know. There is so much I don't know. But I do know that I have been changed somehow by those moments, that connection. No one can steal that, twist or diminish it, as hard as one may try. The ways in which we have bettered each other, strengthened each other, reflected each other's greatness, are ours to keep and use as we need, going forward. Ever forward.
He was a fellow traveler on this journey. Only his baggage grew too heavy and he fell behind, or made a pitstop, or perhaps a detour. I'm not quite sure how or why it happened. My initial reaction was that of one punched hard in the stomach: the breathlessness, the valiant attempt to take in oxygen, the failure, the panic. Once I recovered my breath, the words of Robert Frost drifted to mind: "nothing gold can stay." I felt sorry for myself, and cried and mourned and railed against this life, asking why it is that the beautiful moments must be so fleeting, and why in their leaving there must be so much pain. Then there was the awful realization: There is no way I can go forward alone. I don't have it in me, it was in him all along, or in us together.
Then: I don't want to go on without him.
I was overcome with the desire to lay my body down, nestle my head in the leaves, and give up. Not write this, or anything. I was flooded with the desire to trudge home to my comfortable little brokenness and shut the door, lock it behind me, and stay. But then, like a flash of daylight through the aspen, I remembered that the journey began long before this one leg, and I began this journey alone after all, as did he, always knowing that we would probably end it alone as well. The words of a wise and passionate poet rang in my ears: "freedom is won alone, or not at all." Perhaps no truer words were ever written.
It occurs to me that in the scheme of things, this friendship has been a bit like a soft bed, a warm fire, a nourishing meal in the course of these travels. Our time together adds up to a handful of truly great thoughts, amazing connections, moments of stark clarity, of pure beauty, of much needed hope. It occurs to me that perhaps we were not meant to share the journey but to spur each other on in our separate paths. Or perhaps we were just a checkpoint, a respite, on this long, difficult venture toward becoming our truest, best selves. I don't know. There is so much I don't know. But I do know that I have been changed somehow by those moments, that connection. No one can steal that, twist or diminish it, as hard as one may try. The ways in which we have bettered each other, strengthened each other, reflected each other's greatness, are ours to keep and use as we need, going forward. Ever forward.
Today's Wisdom
“Live with intention. Walk to the edge. Listen hard. Practice wellness. Play with abandon. Laugh. Choose with no regret. Continue to learn. Appreciate your friends. Do what you love. Live as if this is all there is.” —Mary Anne Radmacher
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
The Alleged
We were to each other
no more or less
than any two should be.
-- (c) J.E.S. 2007. All rights reserved, in all media, both domestically and internationally.
no more or less
than any two should be.
-- (c) J.E.S. 2007. All rights reserved, in all media, both domestically and internationally.
Words of wisdom, not my own
“I beg you … to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.” —Rainer Maria Rilke
This quote speaks to my current restlessness. So much unresolved. The message: wait for it....
This quote speaks to my current restlessness. So much unresolved. The message: wait for it....
Welcome to my Room
Greetings fellow lovers of language, and welcome to my space. It may be meager now, and sparsely furnished, but I hope to adorn it with some interesting thoughts, and perhaps expand its boundaries with a bit of creativity. Please, visit often and enjoy. The fair trade coffee's brewing, the wine is chilled, and there is a big leather chair sitting in the corner, waiting for the heft of company. The pleasure is mine, and hopefully yours as well.
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