Golden light
Golden leaves
Golden air
Golden earth.
No fairy tale Rumpelstiltskin
Spins gold from straw at this address.
No yellow brick road
Dances toward the Emerald City.
No celluloid print
No well-worn book
Shapeshifts into this golden autumn day.
This precious gold
Has no proprietor.
No author, no director.
No princess. No dwarf.
No whirlwind trip from Kansas
Nor thrice-clicked heels
to get from here—where’s here?—to there.
It surges out of earth
each spring. A stream
of life-filled sap
to dimple buds,
glow into emerald leaves,
Harbor nests of songbirds,
Release oxygen to an azure sky.
And, yes, as
Darkness overtakes day
And temperatures plummet,
Golden shines from sky
Falls to earth
Composts to richness
Readies itself.
Though it feels like forever
Soon enough it will rise
through roots, trunk,
branches, leaves
Pressing skyward
Then floating ...
gently, down....
Each fall a fantasy unfurls
Calling trees to harmonious collusion:
It’s a seasonal dispute. As glossy summer green
Shrinks, shivering, from winter’s wiles
Fall brackets herself between them
Saluting both
With golden flames of brilliance.
Here, Under the Forest Canopy, we’re plunged into a blaze of gold. The forest, characteristically dark and quiet, demands: “See me. Adore my beauty. Breathe it in deeply.”
Fall’s grand display nears its final curtain call. Leaves drift toward Earth more quickly. Their light-infused hue darkens as they fade from brilliant yellow to rose, rust, then trembling brown.... Soon enough they’ll blacken ‘neath a thick down of white.
But next year we re-member this story....
The cast of characters remains the same with some old wood logged off and new, hardy saplings standing straight and true. The costumes, of course, are fully recycled. They’ll look like new—made fresh this season—since no one player dares wear the same dress twice. The colors are astonishing. You’ll swear that you’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful ...
‘til next year.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Living with Diabetes ... in Print and Otherwise
“Reflections on a Life with Diabetes: A Memoir in Many Voices” arrived in the mail last week. I devoured it whole.
The book—which contained one of my contributions—was published in 2004. I missed news of its publication because, in the interim between writing and submitting my piece and its’ eventual printing, I moved to Bayfield, WI. Once I wandered into the woods I became a creature of the forest and, literally, lost track of my previous life—and pursuits—in the city. (See September 21, 2009 post: “Reflections on a Life with Google.”)
Sure enough, reading this book was an affirming, alarming, fear-inducing, reassuring, and ... a power-full and power-filled experience. Of course, I write this sentence immediately after testing my blood sugars for the fourth time today and discovering—after a day of higher-than-normal sugars—that I’m now too low. Don’t worry. I’m chomping on an apple as I write.
The stories contained in this book are reminiscent of stories told in the diabetes support group I formed and co-facilitated in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. Members of my support group—and this book group—share our fears, challenges, hopes, and failures openly with each other because we trust that those of us with this disease understand. We’ve lived life, day-after-day and year-after-year, knowing how unruly and unmanageable, how frustrating and flagrant, how debilitating and rehabilitating diabetes' effects are on our lives and relationships. And—most significantly—on our bodies and souls.
I formed my support group several years after my diagnosis when a relaxing soak in the tub segued into a four-hour plunge into unconsciousness. After several years of living with insulin-dependent diabetes I quickly learned the dangers and disasters of insulin treatment for the disease. But I also discovered from other women in our group that there were untold complications that haunted and plagued us as well.
The most frightening story came from a group member who suffered from autonomic neuropathy. Over a 14 year period her internal organs slowed ... and then shut down one by one. Diagnosed at 21 she too-soon experienced stomach, kidney, and intestinal problems that led to a pancreas transplant. When the transplant failed, her complications continued to mount. She died at age 35.
THIS BOOK is a support group too. It goes beyond the firsthand experiences of people with diabetes to include family and friends. And this collection of stories and poems is filled with emotion: longing, regret, strength, resilience, anger, fear, and reconciliation.
It’s liberating to delve into the subterranean expanse of diabetes, a place that’s typically occupied only by those of us who live with diabetes and those family members and friends who live closely with us. The reader quickly confronts his or her misperceptions about diabetes. Clearly, low-sugar diets and regular exercise are minor players in a complex regimen of self-care.
I’m proud and honored to be included in this collection of stories and poems about life with diabetes. It proves undeniably that anyone who lives with this illness cannot be labeled or categorized by the one-word descriptor: diabetic. We—and those who love us—have learned to incorporate diabetes into our lives but not to become it.
One thing is clear from reading this book: There are still too many misperceptions about this disease ... so much unnecessary shame. Too many fearful and challenging moments when we discover diabetes’ debilitating effects on body and mind, energy, relationships, and so much more.
But this book also proves something I’ve known for many years: We are survivors. As we balance on the tightrope of diabetes self-management we discover that, despite the highs and lows (blood sugar and otherwise), we will continue on ...
The book—which contained one of my contributions—was published in 2004. I missed news of its publication because, in the interim between writing and submitting my piece and its’ eventual printing, I moved to Bayfield, WI. Once I wandered into the woods I became a creature of the forest and, literally, lost track of my previous life—and pursuits—in the city. (See September 21, 2009 post: “Reflections on a Life with Google.”)
Sure enough, reading this book was an affirming, alarming, fear-inducing, reassuring, and ... a power-full and power-filled experience. Of course, I write this sentence immediately after testing my blood sugars for the fourth time today and discovering—after a day of higher-than-normal sugars—that I’m now too low. Don’t worry. I’m chomping on an apple as I write.
The stories contained in this book are reminiscent of stories told in the diabetes support group I formed and co-facilitated in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. Members of my support group—and this book group—share our fears, challenges, hopes, and failures openly with each other because we trust that those of us with this disease understand. We’ve lived life, day-after-day and year-after-year, knowing how unruly and unmanageable, how frustrating and flagrant, how debilitating and rehabilitating diabetes' effects are on our lives and relationships. And—most significantly—on our bodies and souls.
I formed my support group several years after my diagnosis when a relaxing soak in the tub segued into a four-hour plunge into unconsciousness. After several years of living with insulin-dependent diabetes I quickly learned the dangers and disasters of insulin treatment for the disease. But I also discovered from other women in our group that there were untold complications that haunted and plagued us as well.
The most frightening story came from a group member who suffered from autonomic neuropathy. Over a 14 year period her internal organs slowed ... and then shut down one by one. Diagnosed at 21 she too-soon experienced stomach, kidney, and intestinal problems that led to a pancreas transplant. When the transplant failed, her complications continued to mount. She died at age 35.
THIS BOOK is a support group too. It goes beyond the firsthand experiences of people with diabetes to include family and friends. And this collection of stories and poems is filled with emotion: longing, regret, strength, resilience, anger, fear, and reconciliation.
It’s liberating to delve into the subterranean expanse of diabetes, a place that’s typically occupied only by those of us who live with diabetes and those family members and friends who live closely with us. The reader quickly confronts his or her misperceptions about diabetes. Clearly, low-sugar diets and regular exercise are minor players in a complex regimen of self-care.
I’m proud and honored to be included in this collection of stories and poems about life with diabetes. It proves undeniably that anyone who lives with this illness cannot be labeled or categorized by the one-word descriptor: diabetic. We—and those who love us—have learned to incorporate diabetes into our lives but not to become it.
One thing is clear from reading this book: There are still too many misperceptions about this disease ... so much unnecessary shame. Too many fearful and challenging moments when we discover diabetes’ debilitating effects on body and mind, energy, relationships, and so much more.
But this book also proves something I’ve known for many years: We are survivors. As we balance on the tightrope of diabetes self-management we discover that, despite the highs and lows (blood sugar and otherwise), we will continue on ...
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Apple Cider and ... Cheese & Beer & Snow
Yesterday I woke to a winter wonderland—hey, wait a minute, fall’s barely begun—trees, leaves, cars, and earth covered with two inches of heavy, wet, frozen ... snow? I know. Just a few days ago I wrote about leaves gradually transforming from green to scarlet and gold. It WAS shocking. And, no, I wasn’t ready!
The snow motivated me to pick the last two tiny zucchinis off the vine. Later in the afternoon we drove to a friend’s home to press apples for cider. Our host told us that rain would postpone the event but ... snow did not.
A group of 15-20 picked and chopped apples then pressed and strained them through a large wooden cider press. Our reward was a gallon jug each of fresh sweetness. The afternoon brimmed with conversation, laughter, shared labor, and a well-deserved mug of hot cider to warm frosty hands.
On Friday night Frances and I attended Lou and Peter Berryman’s concert. This folk singing duo composes songs that tumble out of their mouths, flip through the air, and somersault into audience member’s heads. What a thrill to discover performers who LOVE words. The intricate word-webs that Lou and Peter create with their accordion, guitar, professional artistry, and wicked wordiness are delicious.
Humor hurtles through the Berrymans’ performance. Many songs are fabricated conversations highlighting the foibles and frailties of the human species. Their facility with language—and Lou’s ability to articulate complex and tangled phrases—is astounding.
Songs spring from common, day-to-day experience and indelicately critique the off-kilter lives we lead. One song about Wisconsin covered the three main themes of life in our Midwestern state: “Cheese & Beer & Snow.” Another asked the listener “Why am I Painting the Living Room?” as the singer/songwriter listed a host of other more enlightened political causes s/he could pursue.
Lou admitted to an inability to yodel. She and Peter then proceeded to impress us with their “Double Yodel” in which Peter sang the lower part and Lou joined in at the top range. Their double yodel was, indeed, a masterful maneuvering of intricate timing.
“Does Your Dog Agonize?” reminded me of our dog, Namasté. “Artiste Interrupted,” a fanciful venture into creativity, revealed how impossible it is to choose one art form when the artiste has limited talent in all potentialities. Again, Lou’s ability to interrupt herself while singing highlighted the inability of artistic types to settle on one—just one—art form.
I particularly loved the Berryman’s song, “Walking with Roget.” Peter blasted us with clichés then guided us through a world of synonyms for “walk” from Roget’s Thesaurus. Luckily, I strolled and slithered, slunk and traversed right alongside them as they wended their way through a hilarious evening of music and fun. My conclusion? “Winter’s not here yet!”
The snow motivated me to pick the last two tiny zucchinis off the vine. Later in the afternoon we drove to a friend’s home to press apples for cider. Our host told us that rain would postpone the event but ... snow did not.
A group of 15-20 picked and chopped apples then pressed and strained them through a large wooden cider press. Our reward was a gallon jug each of fresh sweetness. The afternoon brimmed with conversation, laughter, shared labor, and a well-deserved mug of hot cider to warm frosty hands.
On Friday night Frances and I attended Lou and Peter Berryman’s concert. This folk singing duo composes songs that tumble out of their mouths, flip through the air, and somersault into audience member’s heads. What a thrill to discover performers who LOVE words. The intricate word-webs that Lou and Peter create with their accordion, guitar, professional artistry, and wicked wordiness are delicious.
Humor hurtles through the Berrymans’ performance. Many songs are fabricated conversations highlighting the foibles and frailties of the human species. Their facility with language—and Lou’s ability to articulate complex and tangled phrases—is astounding.
Songs spring from common, day-to-day experience and indelicately critique the off-kilter lives we lead. One song about Wisconsin covered the three main themes of life in our Midwestern state: “Cheese & Beer & Snow.” Another asked the listener “Why am I Painting the Living Room?” as the singer/songwriter listed a host of other more enlightened political causes s/he could pursue.
Lou admitted to an inability to yodel. She and Peter then proceeded to impress us with their “Double Yodel” in which Peter sang the lower part and Lou joined in at the top range. Their double yodel was, indeed, a masterful maneuvering of intricate timing.
“Does Your Dog Agonize?” reminded me of our dog, Namasté. “Artiste Interrupted,” a fanciful venture into creativity, revealed how impossible it is to choose one art form when the artiste has limited talent in all potentialities. Again, Lou’s ability to interrupt herself while singing highlighted the inability of artistic types to settle on one—just one—art form.
I particularly loved the Berryman’s song, “Walking with Roget.” Peter blasted us with clichés then guided us through a world of synonyms for “walk” from Roget’s Thesaurus. Luckily, I strolled and slithered, slunk and traversed right alongside them as they wended their way through a hilarious evening of music and fun. My conclusion? “Winter’s not here yet!”
Friday, October 9, 2009
Live-giving. Breathtaking.
That’s fall in the north woods of Wisconsin.
I have two favorite times of the year ... spring and fall. Spring charms me with its unexpected sightings of green softening the dirt, the smells of earth ripening, the flurry of blossoms opening quietly. It reawakens and restores my spirit following long months of snow, cold, and darkness.
But fall is different. Something special. This morning as I walked out the door into this full-color world I wondered how similar the arrival of fall is to film’s transition from black-and-white to color.
Suddenly the world is seen through a different lens. It is brighter, more alive ... real.
This week my canopy of green erupted into a kaleidoscope of color. And when I look out my window or walk down a path, the intensity of green, gold, and scarlet flashes into my soul.
Summer’s full-bodied, voluptuous, and wild excesses now gradually die down and transition into a quieter, more subdued palette. But first, I’m swept into this drama of season’s change. And, temporary as it is, I glory in its grandeur.
I’m grateful to be witness to these cycles of life ... and death. And I’m reminded of filmmaker Ken Burns’ 12 hour documentary: “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea.” When describing what he most loved about the parks, Burns said: “The original impulse of the national parks is spiritual…. It’s saying that you could find God in nature more easily than through a dogmatic devotion that required you to find God in a cathedral built by the hands of man.” (www.newsweek.com/id/216171)
My thoughts exactly.
I have two favorite times of the year ... spring and fall. Spring charms me with its unexpected sightings of green softening the dirt, the smells of earth ripening, the flurry of blossoms opening quietly. It reawakens and restores my spirit following long months of snow, cold, and darkness.
But fall is different. Something special. This morning as I walked out the door into this full-color world I wondered how similar the arrival of fall is to film’s transition from black-and-white to color.
Suddenly the world is seen through a different lens. It is brighter, more alive ... real.
This week my canopy of green erupted into a kaleidoscope of color. And when I look out my window or walk down a path, the intensity of green, gold, and scarlet flashes into my soul.
Summer’s full-bodied, voluptuous, and wild excesses now gradually die down and transition into a quieter, more subdued palette. But first, I’m swept into this drama of season’s change. And, temporary as it is, I glory in its grandeur.
I’m grateful to be witness to these cycles of life ... and death. And I’m reminded of filmmaker Ken Burns’ 12 hour documentary: “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea.” When describing what he most loved about the parks, Burns said: “The original impulse of the national parks is spiritual…. It’s saying that you could find God in nature more easily than through a dogmatic devotion that required you to find God in a cathedral built by the hands of man.” (www.newsweek.com/id/216171)
My thoughts exactly.
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