Telling the Truth

connecting the dots of my life

Category: Haiku/Poetry

setting sun

setting sun
kisses cold western sky
clouds blush

The magic lasted only seconds, and this photo captures but a reminder of what my eyes saw. And still I’m drawn to it. A magnificent flame-out at the end of the day.

I wonder, are we not meant to flame out in the last years or moments of our lives? I picture the human spirit about to set off into another world. Sometimes in dire circumstances, yet always still a living human being. Never without beauty even though our eyes may not know how to see it.

Do I know how to see beauty when the photo or the reflection isn’t beautiful by my standards? We seem to have become a race obsessed with beauty. Searching for it, measuring it, trashing it and moving on quickly if we don’t find it in the moment.

I’ve often felt disappointed about what I see in the mirror of my life. Not all of it, but significant chunks of it. These  days I’m beginning to see it differently. I see the reflection of a woman making her way slowly, yet surely, from one revelation about herself to another. The kind that often come at the end of the day. Beautiful to behold.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 22 January 2018
Photo taken by me with my IPad, 21 January 2018

being at home

being at home
in her spacious small body
the caged bird sings

My life has felt unusually restricted this winter. It seems outrageous. Here I am, an adult woman with my working years behind me, and ‘nothing’ to do but record thoughts going through my mind.

I’ve almost finished my slow reading of Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. I’ve been on the lookout for times when the caged bird sings. Times when it seems there’s no way out. No way to reverse what’s happening. Until someone begins singing or writing or speaking, creating a different reality. Intangible yet real.

In addition, this morning I read the following lines from a favorite book on writing.

We can travel a long way and do many different things, but our deepest Happiness is not born from accumulating new experiences. It is born from letting go of whatever is unnecessary, and knowing ourselves to be always at home.

Sharon Salzburg, quoted in Gail Sher’s book, One Continuous Mistake: Four Noble Truths for Writers, p. 36, Penguin Group 1999

As Gail Sher puts it, “Home is where writing happens. The writer’s desk is a miniature world. Self-contained. Hopefully quiet. Anywhere else is somewhere else.”

It’s easy to write about somewhere else, or wish I were somewhere else. In someone else’s body or circumstances. I’m as prone to wandering as anyone. Besides, I think I’ve already had more than enough to say about myself.

Yet here I am today, feeling a tug to say more. In particular, more about my relationships with men. And saying it in a way that sets me free. The way Maya Angelou’s words about her life set her free.

Though my life might seem tame when compared with others, I used to think I would rather die than talk about my history with men. This past week I pulled out notes I made years ago that will help me do this. It’s important, because I believe my history with men was driven by things I was looking for. Not by something inherently wrong with me.

In the end, I want what sometimes has felt like a cage to be part of my home. The platform from which I sing.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 20 January 2018
Image found at asfmtech.org

chilled to the bone

chilled to the bone
night’s deep silence descends
winter drifts through cracks

***

Disconnected from feelings
Numb and disbelieving
I want to write
So many unknowns
So much at stake
So little time left
Will I or Won’t I?
Sooner or Later?
Is Never still an option?

This week brought unwelcome news in a couple of areas. No catastrophic accidents. Just the knowledge of things I didn’t want to hear. About a friend and about my health.

Yesterday we drove through Valley Forge National Historic Park. Outdoor temperatures were subfreezing. Snow was on the ground, covering a thin layer of frozen sleet. We saw one brave soul walking his beautiful dog along one of the paths that circle and cut through Valley Forge. Everyone else was in heated four-wheel vehicles driving through the Park.

I didn’t write the haiku above after that drive. But it captures some of the angst and foreboding perhaps encoded in the few remaining buildings and cabins still standing here and there throughout the Park. Remnants of a winter nightmare followed by springtime diseases that took more lives than winter took.

They thought they would be going home to their families and friends.

foot paths meander
through fields of wartime sorrow —
home to the fallen

I want to find my way home. Don’t you? Life is filled with breathtaking beauty. The kind that makes leaving it breathtakingly painful. Right now I’m being invited to play life in a different key. And my cold fingers are stumbling around a bit, learning to be at home in what doesn’t always feel like home.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 19 January 2018
Photo of cabins at Valley Forge found at history.org

frozen branches

frozen branches
bent beneath iced snow –
blue-green brilliance

I can’t help thinking about the frozen beauty that resides in each of us. Waiting for a thaw. Hoping to make it through the harsh winter. Perhaps relieved when snow and ice transform our everyday into something magical. And grateful for the sun that eventually melts and softens us, one small drop at a time.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 17 January 2018
Photo taken by DAFraser, December 2013 

A Georgia Song, by Maya Angelou

In tribute to Maya Angelou, Martin Luther King, Jr., and all African-American poets and dreamers who see into us and into our history with razor-sharp eyes, ears and tongues.

As a transplanted (from California) citizen of Savannah, Georgia, I grew up surrounded by two stories–the white story splashed boldly across the city of Savannah and its outlying communities, and the black story inextricably woven into the warp and woof of everyday life. Visible yet invisible. Maya Angelou’s poem is haunting for its accuracy, its longing for something better, and its painful memories. I’ve included a few explanatory notes at the end.

A Georgia Song

We swallow the odors of Southern cities,
Fat back boiled to submission,
Tender evening poignancies of
Magnolia and the great green
Smell of fresh sweat.
In Southern fields,
The sound of distant
Feet running, or dancing,
And the liquid notes of
Sorrow songs,
Waltzes, screams and
French quadrilles float over
The loam of Georgia.

Sing me to sleep, Savannah.

Clocks run down in Tara’s halls and dusty
Flags droop their unbearable
Sadness.

Remember our days, Susannah.

Oh, the blood-red clay,
Wet still with ancient
Wrongs, and Abenaa
Singing her Creole airs to Macon.
We long, dazed, for winter evenings
And a whitened moon,
And the snap of controllable fires.

Cry for our souls, Augusta.

We need a wind to strike
Sharply, as the thought of love
Betrayed can stop the heart
An absence of tactile
Romance, no lips offering
Succulence, nor eyes
Rolling disconnected from
A Sambo face.

Dare us new dreams, Columbus.

A cool new moon, a
Winter’s night, calm blood,
Sluggish, moving only
Out of habit, we need
Peace.

Oh Atlanta, oh deep, and
Once lost city,

Chant for us a new song. A song
Of Southern peace.

Poem found in Maya Angelou: Poetry for Young People, Sterling Children’s Books, New York, published 2013

Cities in Georgia named in this poem: Savannah, Macon, Augusta, Columbus and Atlanta

Fatback is a Southern delicacy – fat from a side of pork, often fried like chips; here, the reference is to harsh treatment of slaves.

“Tara’s halls” refers to the home of Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind.

Abenaa – a girl born on Tuesday (in the Fanti language)

Creole – of mixed African and European ancestry

Sambo – stereotypic nickname for an African American boy

The painting at the top depicts the beginning of Sherman’s March through Georgia in the 1850s — from Atlanta to Savannah, with the goal of total submission of the South, along with the so-called end of slavery. The uncounted tragedies of this war include the attempt of our country to root out anyone standing in the way of our ‘pre-ordained greatness.’ Hence, on the other side of this Uncivil War, lurked attempts of some to drive out or destroy American Indians who stood in the way of railroads and the gold rush.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Maya Angelou and other poets challenge us to rise above our past. To become truly great as human beings, unafraid to look up, greet each other, and join the human race.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 15 January 2018
Artwork found at allpurposegurulcom; painter and title not identified

blustery wind blows cold

blustery wind
blows cold against my face –
shadows lengthen

I’m just back from a brisk walk outdoors with D. In freezing temperatures, with the bright sun in my eyes and an unpredictable icy wind gusting at will. Imagine the sound of waves against the shore on a stormy night. That’s the sound of tall evergreen trees being tossed around by winter winds.

Almost the moment I finished writing the haiku above I thought about the current sound and fury of winds of change if not warfare.

Our airwaves are full of blustery wind these days. The kind that gives me a chill. I don’t laugh easily or often at political ineptitude. From my perspective, it feels like I’m shrugging it off, defanging it, or even giving up and not facing it for what it is. Which right now includes facing the reality that Mr. Trump’s presidency isn’t going away anytime soon. Nor will we ever return to the way things were.

This isn’t necessarily bad, except for this. The damage done by Mr. Trump’s bold ‘initiatives’ is going to trickle faster than predicted. Not up to the good of those who most need help, but down (yes, down) to the ‘good’ of the most wealthy corporations, men, women and families in the USA.

Shadows lengthen. All the laughter and bluster in the world won’t cover up growing disgust, betrayal, and in-your-face nastiness being dished out to immigrants and to citizens of this nation, many of whom voted for Mr. Trump. The fact that I didn’t vote for him doesn’t make me righteous. We’re in this together, and are already paying the price. One way or another.

Even so, nothing will take away the grandeur of a walk outdoors with D in brisk cold weather, the sun in my face and the wind whipping around me. It’s a tangible reminder that Mr. Trump does not own or control the sun, the wind or the temperature. He is not now, nor will he ever be the Creator of this universe. Much less its Savior.

Praying you have a wonderful Sabbath rest, if not a lovely walk outdoors in the freezing cold!

Elouise

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 13 January 2018
Photo found at staticflickr.com

two downhill haikus

I.

dawn sky glows blue
peach clouds drift above trees
tail-lights rush downhill

II.

warm rain
melts icy snow —
races downhill

We’re blessed with a snow-emergency highway in front of our house. It’s a state highway, two lanes not four, with a steady downhill slant beginning just before our driveway. During the week, rush hour is well underway by 7am, with cars headed for the freeway, multiple yellow busses headed for schools, an occasional city bus, and trucks of all sizes and shapes on the way to deliver something somewhere.

The juxtaposition of a stunning dawn sky and tail-lights rushing downhill struck me as noteworthy. If no one saw the sky, it was because he or she was watching the tail-lights of the car just ahead, with one foot ready to hit the brakes as needed. As a retiree, I love taking time each morning to inspect the sky and clouds and whatever else is stirring when I get up.

Today a warm front is coming through from the south. Ironically, it’s driving temperatures up into the low 60s F. Steady rain has almost washed away the last remnants of snow and gritty ice, mixed with brine. All of it is racing downhill with cars, trucks and busses. The runoff heads straight for creeks and drains that empty into the Schuylkill, a major river running by and through Philadelphia.

So, my friends, here’s to a happy Friday, a lovely weekend, and time to watch the dawn/evening sky without needing to be anywhere or anybody at a certain time.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 12 January 2018
Photo taken by me with my iPad, 9 January 2018, 7:05 am EST

Counting the hours

A small
Limited world
Greets me
With a question –
And what of today…?

Indeed –
What of it?
With or without me
It will cycle by
Rehearsing its hours
Yet again in a chain
Of semi-predictability
Without need
For me to sit
At this window
Watching the day slip
Before my eyes
Through fingers chilled
By winter’s dull sky
And frozen vegetation
Waiting for spring
And release

Life is in a different key these days
I’m still not sure what it is
Or how to play it

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 11 January 2018
Image found at ytimg.com

Scars upon scars

Scars upon scars
cover futile attempts
to distance pain
of yet another blow
to my body, soul, dreams
or soothing denial

It’s nothing
I can take this
I don’t need to talk about it
I dealt with that long ago
Didn’t I?

And how can I help you today?
I have plenty of time.
I can proofread that if you’d like.
It’s nothing. Really. Nothing at all.
No problem. It won’t take long.
No need to apologize
for anything, really.
We all make mistakes.

Time passes
skin thickens
spine goes rigid
demeanor tentative
neutral eyes scan
from the periphery
avoid other eyes
awkward at best
antennae soar heavenward
nothing and nobody is
safe but this last remnant of
body-soul on alert
not to be lulled into
carelessness

It wasn’t being born female that scarred me. It was overtime, double duty hyper-vigilance plastered layer upon layer with each attempt to control, use or fix me.

Over time petrified limbs of my body and soul cowered whether I wanted them to or not. I fell into protective behaviors that stifled every hint of unhappiness or, God forbid, revulsion. I was physically and emotionally exhausted.

Each woman is different. Internal scars from child abuse, and sexual harassment or unjust workplace practices that disadvantage women are not the same as external scars or physical challenges. Sometimes the best way to begin healing is to find a trusted friend or referral service to suggest next steps that might work for you.

I was initially helped by a twelve-step group of over 20 women meeting weekly in a church basement. It didn’t cost me anything but my pride plus $1 a week (optional) in the basket. For 5 years I showed up 2 or 3 times each week for this and other twelve-step meetings. All while I was teaching full-time at a seminary. It took me that long to realize I needed professional help. By then I was in my late 40s.

I began blogging four years ago to break silence about my childhood and teenage years. Today it’s about more than that—though dealing with my past helped free me to write as I do today.

When we women invest wisely in our emotional, spiritual and physical health, we do the most important work of our lives. We don’t deserve to carry heavy layers of scars. Some can be laid aside. Others we get to keep. They connect us to sisters and brothers, and can, from time to time, add to our beauty and wisdom.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 10 January 2018
Photo taken by my father, 1954/55, my youngest sister and I, Savannah, Georgia

hovering

hovering
betwixt and between
slow drip to nowhere

This morning small icicles were dripping outside my bathroom window. Destined to be gone by the end of this sunny day.

I wrote the haiku thinking about icicles. Yet the truth goes deeper. It reflects how I feel about our national preoccupation with the Washington DC ‘Reality Show.’ Guaranteed to make multiple appearances on popular late-night commentary shows dedicated not to commentary or thoughtful analysis, but to making one side or the other a laughing matter.

On top of which we now have a newly released tell-all book, guaranteed to bring gasps of horror and indignation, not thoughtful analysis.

And what of our future, our cohesion as a nation? Are we caught up in a slow drip to nowhere? Mesmerized by the theatrics of reality-show performances supported by friend and foe alike? Laughing our way to nowhere?

It’s good to ask questions. But not if the answer that most pleases us is a lame joke that takes the edge off our responsibility to be actively informed citizens. The future of our nation and our planet deserve out best efforts. Especially when it feels like the tide is against us.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 9 January 2018
Photo found at beachfrontbroll.com