Growing Up

I am sitting at my kitchen breakfast nook, packets of seeds littering the table, pen in hand, planning our garden for spring.

We put in a small (2x6) test garden last summer, with four tomato plants, two watermelon plants, four zucchini plants, eight pepper variety plants, and four herb types. The purpose of this "test" garden was to see if we could, indeed, coax anything from the earth.

We framed out the size of our garden, tilled up the earth, mixed in organic gardening soil, and stirred in a witch's brew of bone and blood meals to nourish our new plot. We said magical incantations ("Please, please, work!") and held our breath. We kept our fingers crossed.

We cheated.
We transplanted small plants, purchased from a local market. We were actually just trying to get the gist of gardening, and see if we could keep our produce alive in the ground. We held our collective breath.

It was a success.

We actually had tomatoes, a wealth of zucchini, and a few small, (think wad of notebook paper sized) watermelons. Our peppers were plentiful and our herbs proliferated.

We were highly pleased with ourselves.

So now, at the veritable close of the gardening year, our thoughts turn to next year. The things that we didn't do, and the things we're going to do next time. The things we planted and didn't plant. It's very exciting, leafing through the Farmer's Almanac, planning our "for real this time" from seed garden. It's going to be bigger, and we're planning more vegetables.

It occurs to me, having spent the last two hours planning and dreaming of this future garden, that this growing of one's own produce, could become quite easily addictive.

When Maesie is happy, the sun shines and the birds sing.

Liminality

i am here
and i am away

i have already come
and gone

i have arrived
yet i am on the way

i am at the threshold
and i have crossed over

i am black
and white

i am neither all of this
nor all of that

i am grey.

i am in between. suspended.

i am partly cloudy.

i am neither here
nor there

i am sad
and happy
and everything in between

i am good enough
yet i fall short

i am lover
and destroyer

i am the peacock
and i am mouse

i am the owl
and i am the hare

i am static
and i am dynamic

i am unsure
but i am certain

i am not at all myself
but i am not you

Coupling (for Noah)

you broke his heart
you broke mine

you left him
you left me

we were discarded
we two

left in your wake

deprived of the sunlight
of your smile

denied the bliss
of your favor

we sought comfort
in one another

we found only melancholy

we began to choke on the rising tide
of our collective bitterness

we let go of you, for
you could not save us
anyway

we swam in opposite directions

and now i see him sometimes
walking barefoot along the shore

we walk quietly together
looking out over the grey sea

we do not ever mention
the time we almost drowned

and saved ourselves
by letting go

Singing Up the Moon

See here.
It is very lonely in this
little Sputnik all alone.

I'm on a journey to a star.
But it is very cold here.
Go with me?
We'll both be glad of the company.

You can move into my skin,
I'll gladly make room.
But I warn you
It is cold.

When your fingers turn to ice,
Your heart starts to slow
and as your eyes begin to close
Please recall, that
I did warn you.

Time-less

this drop-makes-ripple intangible,
i'm fresh out.
i haven't any to spare.
could i borrow some of yours?
when will i have more?
more to keep? or more to give away?
there aren't enough hours in a day.
hours and ours.
ours indeed. but all of ours we've wasted.
on your disease.

what you don't claim will be taken from you,
because you are too much timid.
and brave at all the wrong times.

E pluribus unum, but the cheese still stands alone.

Allez Avec Moi?

I consider my path through this dark and overgrown,
and you are welcome
to meander with me -
but the longer you dawdle,
the more impatient I grow.
Lace up your own boots,
(I am mother to no one but me)
and let's go.

Otherwise, I am content to
walk by myself.
I make excellent company
for me.

"Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin."

No Lady's Mouth

How dare you!
I should be insulted:
"What are you" is what you imply.
What are you?
Invader!

But I cut you pieces
with my scissor-mouth dripping honey.
I broke your heart
with my flashing dark eyes.

The iron wheels of my stomach
grind up bitter metals
and heave them backward - upward -
into the light
I spit: one single, shining, glimmering blade.

You are halved.

I turn on my heel,
and leave you,
bleeding.

Precious Metals

What have you made,
in this blending and mixing?

Alchemist you are far from,
yet a gold is made.

To create and release is all
you are given -
yet you cannot open your fist.

Let me help you.
We'll peel back your fingers,
one by one,
until your palm is open - what's there?

Empty? Gone already.
Or perhaps never there to begin.

The Mixed Hair Phenomenon

In the morning, when I wake up, the first thing I do is feel my hair.

With that motion, I know what the weather is like outside. If it's hot, humid, cold, raining - my hair is way more reliable than any meteorologist.

The next thing I do, as concerning my hair, is to ask it how it's feeling. That determines what products will go into my hair, and how it will respond to those products.

Having mixed hair is not so much a physical trait as it is having a declaration of follicular independence on top of your head.

Through almost twenty three years of various and sundry testing and trialing (and erring) I have found a combination of hair products that, for the time present, seem to work for my hair. And it always makes me feel as though I am doing my civic duty when some poor frazzled mum with a mixed-race child stops me in the grocery store, "Please. I'm sorry to bug you, but what do you use in your hair? It looks so controlled." I smile. I pat my hair, sending it, if not loving energy, then at least an energy of tolerance. My hair and I both know that the word "control" is merely a lie among friends. We know who has control of whom.

I pat those frazzled mums on the hand, scrounge in my bag for pen and paper, and write down a detailed list. Those same women clutch the scraps of paper to their chests, and beam at me as if I've given them the Holy Grail. And in a superficial way...well...

My sister and I of course, have adopted two very different methods for cohabiting with our "crowning glories". She will steam, press, and flat iron the very suggestion of a curl out of hers. She has also resorted to chemical assistance. I, on the other hand have come to recognize the futility of the struggle. I embrace it. If my hair wants to frizz, poof, or run away from my head, I let it, for the most part. I've found that, generally, whatever my hair feels like doing that day, is usually better looking than anything I can coerce it into doing.

It's all about having the versatility and the spontaneity that crazy curly hair implies its wearer must have.

Your Ass Is Showing

Last week, I was involved in the funniest situation.

I was at school, in the hallway, waiting for some political science type-class to finish, so I could go in for the next class, Western Lit.

The professor of the political science-type class is a fifty-ish, pompous, middle-eastern man. I say pompous because I have heard his interactions with his students, and I have observed his demeanor - trust me when I say he is very sure of himself, and of everyone else. But I could tell, in the way that he would always catch my eye, and smile, possibly say "hello" that I was a confusion to him. Like many people who operate on a compartmentalizing mode of thought (categorizing people), he could not quite figure out how to label me. When you are bi-racial, you learn to recognize this trait in people, this need to define and label. I don't mind it, it's just that the older I get, the more it cracks me up. He would say "hello" to me in the hopes of catching some accent, or inflection that could provide him with clues to my ethnic/racial identity.
So it was with great delight that as he exited the room, he caught my eye and I knew our time to tango had come.
His curiosity would wait no longer.
He drew up close to me, and in lowered tones said, "Where are you from?" I smiled my most pleasant smile. "Georgia," I said simply. He chuckled, recognizing the game, "The Southern Georgia, or the Georgia in the Middle East?" I smiled again, acknowledging the invitation to dance. "My mother is French and English...and my father...(he cocked his head, one ear toward me, the better to hear) is Nigerian." He nodded appreciatively, "Ahhhh. That is what I wished to hear. That is what I could not quite place." I smiled again, a smaller smile. "So then you are close to Obama," he said, very satisfied. "Not hardly!" I quipped, moving away from him, and raising my voice over the students that had begun to stream past us. His smile faltered, began to slip. "What do you mean? Not close to Obama? Not personally, or politically? "Either!" I countered happily. Now his smile was completely gone.
I had reached the door of the class room and was holding it open, my fellow classmates behind me. They were also listening, enjoying the repartee between distinguished teacher and cheeky student.
"Who did you vote for? Surely Obama," he tried, one last time.
"Absolutely not! I wrote in Ron Paul!" I said, with a wink to the girl behind me. She grinned.
"Ohhhh no!" he cried, as he was swept down the hall in the surge of students.

Crash Course In Dogwalking

Literally.
There's something about a 40+ pound puppy hauling arse for a family of squirrels while you're trailing behind, clinging to the leash for dear life, your new Cole Hahn heels being worn to nubs that will make even the most loving dog owner beet red with anger.

My puppy gains strength by the hour, while I grow increasingly more terrified of walking her.

All is fine, well, and good until she spots something interesting at a distance...then we become the neighborhood spectacle.

I hate the idea of corporeal punishment (for dogs), but I - and my shoes - are at wits end.

The shock collar and it's equally mean cronies (the choke collar, the bark collar, etc.) have grown attractive.

The inciting event occurred earlier, when we were outside, playing in the autumn leaves. A squirrel darted across our path and the chase was on! Puppy barreled down the slippery drive, I strengthened my grip on the leash, trying to dig my heels into the ground to stop us. I yelled her name, first demanding, then begging her to stop. She apparently no longer understood English.

She continued racing toward a steep rocky drop-off at the back of our drive. I saw my life flash before me, and it was all too brief.

In a tremendous show of strength, I mustered what I could and yanked with all my might backwards on the leash. Puppy came to a screeching halt, and shamefacedly returned to me, her downcast eyes begging forgiveness as she licked my hand by way of apology.

I surveyed my now scuffed and mangled heels, caked with mud.

"That's it!" I yelled. "You just bought yourself a shock collar, dammit!"