A found poem is nothing more than existing text found in random places, strung together as if they belonged in one poem. Found poems can be hilarious, serious, weird, or like this one, pretty enigmatic.
So here I am at the end of the day, my birthday. The big Five-Oh.
Tee-hee!
I’ve settled into an “I Love Lucy” marathon, taken a bunch of wonderful calls, and made a cup of tea.
I feel like I should be ruminating on some profound lessons learned, or impart some wisdom about midlife, bla bla bla.
Not feeling it.
This is how I feel:
It’s actually pretty good. A Good time. A wonderful blessing to be loved by so many people, and spoiled by those dear to me. I’ll take it.
I’m going to resolve to do three very important things today:
1. Pray – really pray, not some half-assed recitation of words while I’m distracted by traffic, or ticking off a list between appointments. It’s going to require that I intentionally set aside some time, ideally in about 5 minutes, and concentrate. Quietly. Reverently. With feeling, as they say.
2. Write – I’ve long abandoned any discipline in this area. Perhaps it’s time I stop making excuses and get on with it
3. Work – I have thee little assignments that aren’t terribly important, so I keep putting them aside. Time to get it done.
Of course, then I have to finish everything else in the universe, but it’s good to have a plan.
This morning at Mass I saw the most precious thing…and it has served me as a sweet reminder that ” it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs” (Mark 10:14).
During the collection, small children are called to take their offering up to a special basket in front of the altar. I expect there are all kinds of sweet things dropped into that basket — from toys, to slips of paper with handwritten good deeds, to some actual tithing of gifts and allowances.
I remember when my own children would use their special envelopes when they were very little (and later, the fruit of this lesson when I would quietly notice that they gave from their babysitting money or odd jobs).
I was distractedly making a mess of the offertory hymn when I noticed two little sisters coming back from their mission to the altar. They were clearly very pleased with whatever they’d dropped in the children’s offering, when suddenly the big sister turned to the little sister and gave her a happy bear hug before returning to their seats. She was so full of love in that moment that it had to spill out!
I should give that joyfully.
It’s chilly and wet — typical for ATL. I’m enjoying a cup of hot tea, Earl Grey. The description on the tea bag says “Black tea kissed with bergamot’s lavender essence.” Or if you prefer the French, “Thé noir délicieusement parfumé d’essence de lavande de bergamot.”
I’ll let you believe I’m sitting in front of a fire as I sit by the big picture window looking out into the backyard. A small blanket tucked neatly under my feet, my journal momentarily abandoned in my lap. The dog, sleeping soundly near me.
It’s showing signs of spring, and my gaze rests on the tiny buds forming on the rose bushes just outside the window. Cardinals dance around in the air. The gloomy clouds break suddenly, and a single beam of light breaks through, offering a small ray of hope in an otherwise gray landscape.
I sigh, contentedly.
Or I could tell you the truth. I had to chase the dog out of a puddle because he didn’t want to come inside and I got a chill. Earl Grey was the first bag I grabbed, and I’m slurping it down hurriedly because I’m in the middle of folding clothes, putting away dishes, and answering a string of emails that seems to be reproducing. The living room is a mess thanks to a rogue paper towel that turned into a toy for the pooch, and the rain has outstayed its welcome.
And still, I sigh contentedly.
So I wrote the speech. Yeah. Done.
I’d say I’m done in by it, but really, not the case. Wrote it. Shared it with a few trusted peeps who’d tell me I’m full of it if I am.
Hmmm. Actually, they didn’t tell me I’m full of it. I would have told me I’m full of it.
So now I’m walking around the house cleaning and delivering the speech. I gotta practice, you know. It’s all about the delivery. So far the dog is unimpressed.
This has been a good lesson for me. It put me outside my comfort zone. That’s important because I teach composition to people who are outside their comfort zones. It was refreshing for me to feel a little bit of empathy. I’m going to say this has changed the way I’m teaching….It’s true. I used this in my classes this week. It made a little bit of a difference in my students. It didn’t change what they had to do, of course, but it changed my delivery.
Always learning, I am.
How’d you like that little reference?
Anyway, that’s mostly what I do. Help people find their voices. Help people tell their stories and share their ideas. If you do that, too, you might enjoy this TED Talk. I should have watched it before I wrote my speech for next Wednesday’s event. Lucky for me, I have to write another one for Tuesday, and that one might just be a little more important for me.
I have to write a speech. It has me in knots, not because I’m afraid of speeches, but because every time I sit in front of the computer or journal or notebook or pile of scrap paper, or, for heaven’s sake, a napkin, I get a brain cloud.
It’s pretty annoying, as folks are starting to ask what I’m going to say. I don’t think it’ll fly if I respond with, “Oh, I’ll let the Spirit move me when I get up to the podium.”
Ha. I could do it, too. Get up there and just talk, I mean. That doesn’t scare me nearly as much as having to prepare a speech. I don’t even get a teleprompter. It seems to work for some people. But then again, I’m not running for public office.
What I most want to do is avoid the helpful people…people I’d no more allow to put words in my mouth than cut my bangs. They are everywhere. And they scare me. Ha!
Not really. I’m mostly amused, by them, my predicament, the fact that ordinarily I never shut up and now I need to dig for words.
I think it’s a good thing. I feel like I’ve forgotten how to write. I’ve been dwelling in the underbelly of the writer’s world these past many months — writing very dry, very boring, very technical reports. Stephen King would have a thing or three to say about my overuse of adverbs. I’ve replaced poetry with formula –replaced the beauty of a well-turned phrase with passive voice so as not to offend.
I need to find my writer’s heart, and I better find it quick. The clock is ticking.
another cup of coffee 
