Welcome to the Garden of Words, container garden version. I transplanted the Prosies in May 2004 and began using it to add new free verse circa 2006-2007. In general, the most up-to-date content is now on this domain, but the original Garden, planted in my own land is venerable, mature, and full of perennials that do not fade. It gets lonely, so do go visit.

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...but the car kept coming up,
      the car in motion
music filling it, and sometimes one other person

who understood the bright altar of the dashboard

- From "The Sacred" by Stephen Dunn, as heard on The Writer's Almanac

I joined the FRC mailing list about six years ago because I thought it might be a good idea to know what the other side was up to. You know: a little friendly political espionage. I forgot that hateful political discourse gives me wicked agita.

After at least three requests to be removed from their mailing list, I'm still on it. I know spamming is illegal -- the startup I worked for back in 1998 had to hire someone just to straighten out their newsletter management system and keep from getting sued -- but for the life of me I'm not sure which authority to complain to. The FCC? Any clues?

For those of you living in blessed ignorance, the Family Research Council is a very vocal, very conservative, very antifeminist, very homophobic, very bigoted organization that appears to speak for some Americans.

Most of its email alerts about efforts to thwart the homosexual agenda and keep women from killing babies (because we all know that homosexuals and women like nothing better than to work every day to tear down the very fabric of society as we know it).

This last unwanted missive from them, however, is all about the worst threat of all. What's that, you ask? Nuclear annihilation? Global warming? Poverty and disenfranchisement that leads to terrorism? Why NO! It's our very own elected officials eveeel attempt to stage a government takeover of health care!

The subject line of the email pretty much sums up FRC's fearmongering rhetoric: "Frances, Your Liberty is at Stake." Silly me. I thought that health care reform would actually help more Americans become free of preventable illnesses, economic anxiety, and an arbitrary system that grants some people access to awesome services with few out of pocket costs while forcing others to wait in long lines and navigate endless bureaucracies for crappy care. I see I was wrong. The government isn't trying to help more people get access to some of the best doctors in the country. They're trying to take our liberty! Clearly, this is just part of Obama's plan to eventually hand over our country to the terrorists and force all men to grow long beards and pray to Allah five times a day. I support Tony Perkins wouldn't mind it if women weren't allowed to own property, work, or walk outside without a burqa, though.

If you, like me, would like your liberty taken away by a government takeover of the healthcare system and the inevitable rise of fascism that will follow, I encourage you to take a moment to contact your representatives in Congress to ask them pass this clearly horrific bill. Here's one website that might help:

http://www.barackobama.com/issues/healthcare/index.php

From the poem on today's Writer's Almanac:

3. For there in Colorado we were captive at a high altitude, required
to write without breath; and if we could not write, our consciences
required us to read, and improve our minds.
4. How shall we write our poems in this strange land?

"Psalm for a Lost Summer" by Maura Stanton, from Immortal Sofa. © University of Illinois Press, 2008. Reprinted with permission.

From the Daily Dharma:

October 23, 2009
Tricycle's Daily Dharma

Being a Buddhist Police Officer

For thirteen years I was a law enforcement officer. In the dark humor of that environment, we called ourselves “paid killers for the country.” No one else wanted to be in out boots. I did not identify myself as a Buddhist; I was not aware that the way I behaved and experienced the world fit squarely with the Buddha's teachings. It is clear to me now that we could have been, and were, instruments of karma. But skillful action, discriminating awareness, karma, the law of causality were not terms in law enforcement basic training.

For a Buddhist in police work, the most important thing is to be constantly aware of ego. It is not your anger, not your revenge, not your judgment, no matter how personal the event. I was paid and trained to take spirit-bruising abuse. I endured things of which the majority of women in America will never even dream. For me it was not judgment, in the Western sense, but discernment. This kept me, and others, alive and healthy. This discernment allowed me to act skillfully in crisis. The law of causality allowed me to know that if I could not stop the perpetrator of violence or pain or loss, that some other vehicle would reach that person—karma.

- Laurel Graham, from “Vajra Gun,” Tricycle, Winter 1998

I think a lot about right livelihood. For me, it means not only not causing harm, but also finding purpose and meaning in my work. Like most challenges of this magnitude, I rarely fulfill them perfectly. But I do strive toward them.

Being in relationship with a veteran has given me a new perspective on the life of a soldier -- a warrior. I've always had a sort of fascination with this archetype. I view the realities of being a warrior with a mixture of horror and respect. It's a way of life, a mindset, that in some ways I wish I were more able to stomach. What I've realized, though, is that being a warrior -- a soldier/a police officer/a litigator/a fighter -- doesn't always mean fighting.

People who have been trained in competitive conflict and who have seen "action" have about them a quiet assurance in their own abilities, as well as a healthy respect for the consequences of violence. It's one of the things that I find so attractive and admirable in M, and it's one of the things I wish I had more of in my own self.

Norse God of single combat: heroic, courageous, and honest. In the eyes of a Wall Street city slicker, slightly stupid, since he's suppressed his basic survival instinct in the name of honor. No doubt it gets him more chicks, though. Probably a good god for Marines and Infantrymen to invoke. I think Buffy would have also benefited from his patronage.

From Wikipedia, the story of Tyr's sacrifice, which saved the world from Fenrir's depredations:

According to the Poetic Edda and Prose Edda, at one stage the gods decided to shackle the wolf Fenrisulfr (Fenrir), but the beast broke every chain they put upon him. Eventually they had the dwarves make them a magical ribbon called Gleipnir. It appeared to be only a silken ribbon but was made of six wondrous ingredients: the sound of a cat's footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, bear's sinews (meaning nerves, sensibility), fish's breath and bird's spittle. The creation of Gleipnir is said to be the reason why none of the above exist.[5] Fenrir sensed the gods' deceit and refused to be bound with it unless one of them put his hand in the wolf's mouth.

Tyr, known for his great honesty and courage, agreed, and the other gods bound the wolf. After Fenrir had been bound by the gods, he struggled to try and break the rope. When the gods saw that Fenrir was bound they all laughed, except Tyr, who had his right hand bitten off by the wolf. Fenrir will remain bound until the day of Ragnarök. As a result of this deed, Tyr is called the "Leavings of the Wolf".

My mantra for the next six months is "stop pushing."

Funny how the Universe affirms one's intentions -- or, as a scientist might say, funny how our perceptions change once we become aware of something new.

From the Daily Dharma today:

October 19, 2009
Tricycle's Daily Dharma

Kindess to Oneself

One way to develop metta within us is through the following meditation practice, which we start by extending loving feelings toward ourselves.

It's very simple: At first, sit in some comfortable position, and keeping an image or felt sense of yourself in mind, slowly repeat phrases of lovingkindness for yourself: May I be happy, may I be peaceful, may I be free of suffering. Say these or like phrases over and over again. We do this not as an affirmation, but as an expression of a caring intention. As you repeat the words, focus the mind on this intention of kindness; it slowly grows into a powerful force in our lives.

Although the practice is straightforward, it can be extremely difficult. As you turn your attention inward and send loving wishes toward yourself, you may see a considerable amount of self-judgment or feelings of unworthiness. At these times, proceed gently, as if you were holding a young child. A line from an old Japanese samurai poem expresses well this part of the practice: “I make my mind my friend.”

–Joseph Goldstein, from “Triumph of the Heart,” Tricycle, Spring 2008

http://www.tricycle.com/dharma-talk/triumph-heart?offer=dharma

A circle sister led us in a very similar meditation a couple of years ago, one I still remember and repeat to myself:

May you be happy
May you be healthy
May you live in safety
May you live with ease.

A couple of years ago, she gave me a canvas bag printed with a beautiful image of Green Tara, "because you need to have more compassion for yourself." I think I'm finally ready to stop working on that and just accept the intention of kindness into my life.

Thanks, Jsmooth.



The downward spiral of the little hater

What does your little hater sound like? What do you do to make it stop?

Someone on my friends list posted a link to a Vanity Fair article that took a red pen to a transcript of Sarah Palin's resignation speech. The speech itself -- and the woman delivering it -- is definitely not going to go down in history as a marvel of oratory. Posting the copy-edited version of it seems a cheap shot, though. The ex-copy-editor in me can't help but get a kick out of the fact that people are still using the shorthand I learned years ago, and which used to be my bread and butter. The left-leaning Democrat in me loves the schadenfreude that comes with seeing Palin made a fool of. But haven't we made enough of a fool of her?

And in a way, it seems to me that mocking her lack of verbal skills is just feeding into the class and cultural divides that gave us Red States and Blue States. Dubya was notorious for his lack of oratory, and New Englanders loved to make fun of him for it. But it didn't stop him from keeping the highest office in the land for not one but two terms.

We can't assume that people make rational decisions when it comes to politics. It's much easier to look at things in terms of Red States and Blue States than it is to look at individuals and their motivations. But which is really the more conscious way of viewing an issue?

In the end, I think we can all agree that Palin has about as much a chance of becoming the next POTUS as Dan Quayle does. But we also can't dismiss her because her speeches don't stand up to Obama's. Actions matter -- but so does marketing.

Starting in college, my naturally golden locks started to darken. When I overheard someone describing me as having brown hair (it's dirty blonde, thank you very much), I finally took the plunge and dyed it red. I look great as a redhead, and at one point had shoulder-length red hair. Unfortunately, chemical dyes are murder on anyone's hair. Since I'm spoiled with naturally thick and mostly healthy hair, I really noticed the difference when it started to frizz out. Eventually I allowed my natural color to grow back in. Last summer, though, grey hairs started making serious inroads into the faded blonde. When I cut it short, I decided to take the plunge and go red again. Chemical dyes worked okay for a few months, but once again my hair started to frizz, break, and whimper. I wanted to grow my hair long again, but knew that if I kept dying it I'd end up with a full, thick head of damaged, faded red hair and obvious roots.

I'd heard about henna, but had been warned about the difficulty of finding a quality supply. The henna they sell in supermarkets and beauty supply shops isn't pure henna, and it's often mixed with unnamed chemicals that can do all sorts of damage to your hair, especially if you've already dyed it with something else. Then I discovered that a friend of mine with gorgeous, long, glossy curls uses henna, and I asked her where she gets it.

"I use henna from Yemen," she said, and sent me a link to Catherine Cartwright-Jones's online henna empire. I didn't realize it at the time, but my curly-haired friend sent me to one of the only reliable sources of 100% pure all-natural henna. The website isn't the easiest thing to navigate, but that's for the best of reasons: It's host to a wealth of information about the history and uses of henna. And it's a home-grown business without the budget to hire an information architect and UX designer.

After a fair amount of perusing, I ordered a 200-gram packet of henna from Pakistan. I opted for the Pakistan henna because it was described as having a lower dye content than the Yemen variety, and I was hoping for a more coppery red.

When I got the package, I was really excited to try it, but also wanted to make sure I paid attention to what I was doing. It's not difficult to prepare Mehandi henna paste in advance, but it does require some planning. You have to mix the henna powder with a mildly acidic liquid (lemon juice, for instance) and let it sit for at least 12 hours in order for the dye to be fully released. You also have to leave it in for at least twice as long as a standard chemical dye.

My first attempt was less than perfect: I only used about half of a 200-gram packet, mixed with orange juice, and didn't have quite enough paste to coat my hair in the recommended "mud-mask" fashion. In spite of the shortage, the results were quite impressive.

Here's my hair before using the henna:


And here it is after my first henna attempt, about six weeks ago:


This time, inspired by the individual mixes posted by various women, I decided to get more creative. In particular, I wanted something to mellow the smell of uncut henna, which I find vaguely reminiscent of dried blood.

This is what I put in my second batch:
300 grams henna (Lawsonia inermis) (half from the last packet, plus one full packet)
about 20 grams senna (Cassia obovata)
Enough orange juice to give the mix the consistency of stirred-up yogurt
~1/2 C ground cloves
a righteous sprinkle of ground ginger root
cinnamon
frankincense (I've always wanted an excuse to put frankincense in my hair!)

I let the mix sit for almost 24 hours, and while the smell of the henna was definitely still there, the other spices masked it well. More than 24 hours after rinsing out the dye, my hair still smells richly of cloves and the other spices I used. It's a deeper, richer red than the last application. The texture is glossy and smooth, rather than the frizzy, damaged mess that chemical dyes produce.

For my next batch, I'm thinking about reversing the proportion of senna and henna for a more subtle color. I'll probably use less cloves (they darken the dye) and more cinnamon and ginger root. I may use some cardamom as well, and more frankincense if I have time to replenish my stash (I've had a bottle of frankincense on my altar for about 10 years. I don't think my ancestors mind.)

If you're interested in learning more about henna, its history and uses, there's a free e-book on the Henna for Hair website.

I found the historical information fascinating and feel like I'm connecting with an ancient tradition that goes back thousands of years, even while I wrap my head in plastic wrap and watch Netflix videos while the henna sets.

The pond at dusk
Voices carry over the water
Stillness

Human and goose words
Dramatic sky reaching
colors of my mother's scarf

This morning I was indulging in a bit of self-flagellation about my writing, or lack thereof, and I remembered something cheqyr said to me some months back.

It was something along the lines of "it doesn't really matter how you write, it's the act of writing that's important."

So who cares if I'm not writing my three pages a day every morning? Oh, right, my inner perfectionist, sitting in her walnut-paneled library with her hair up in a bun and her steel-rimmed glasses.

I saw Shortbus last night. Polymorphous perversion, I think that was the term some L7 headshrinker came up with in the 60s to describe anyone who isn't a candidate for membership with the Family Research Council. Polymorphous couplings, real people having unsimulated sex, the importance of female orgasm, John Cameron Mitchell (of Hedwig and the Angry Inch fame), a script that was developed by the actors themselves and not approved by a ginormous movie studion -- what's not to love?

Watching it made me feel a bit nostalgic, somewhat regretful. Shortbus takes place in New York City, and in typical New Yorker fashion, the characters and indeed the film itself exudes that confident, annoying assurance that New York is indeed the center of the universe. In my 20s, long before 9-11, I had aspirations to move to NYC. The more I got to know the city, though, the more it overwhelmed me. I grew up in a bedroom community about 45 minutes away by Metro North express train, but very rarely took advantage of my proximity. Later, when I was living at the end of the Hudson line, I fell in love with the place. Later, my love for the place evaporated in the cold, hard light of things like the cost of living, especially compared to my earning potential at the time.

I settled on Boston because it had some of New York's cosmopolitan feel but wasn't as intense and sprawling a place to live. Every city has its sprawl -- its purgatorial rings surrounding its juicy center. Boston may not be as big a Tootsie Pop as New York, but you won't break your teeth trying to get to the chewy center.

Sometimes it seems that people's favorite pastime is to dump on this city, though. While I was waiting for the cross-town shuttle in Harvard Square, two folks started in on the old litany of complaints about My Fair City: it's too segregated, the streets don't make sense, it's not as cosmopolitan as New York, bla bla bla bla bla.

Maybe it was the annoying timbre of the woman's voice, maybe it was that I was going to be late for my meeting, maybe I hadn't had enough leafy greens. Maybe it was because I, a white woman who actually enjoys talking to people of different nationalities, had engaged both of these brown-skinned people in conversation only to watch the conversation devolve into a diatribe about how generally inferior my chosen home town is -- and how racist and segregated to boot. Whatever the reason, I got fed up. And I didn't want to keep silent.

"They want it that way," said the pleasant young man (possibly Latino or Pacific Islander) on his way to work in Central Square to the Indian woman on her way to Beth Israel for a cardiac stress test.

"Who is this mysterious they?" I countered. "Did to think that maybe the white people in this city don't want it to be segregated either?"

They looked at me in shock.

"People love to complain about Boston. It really irritates me. I chose to live in this city, not New York. And you did too, apparently. If you hate the place so much, why don't you leave?"

"I don't think that's very fair," countered the woman. "You can't just follow it up with a prescription like that. It's free speech, you know. You don't have to talk to me."

"You're right, I don't. But it is free speech, and I'm free to tell you how annoying it is when people come along and complain about my town. It's not New York City, it's Boston."

"Oh, I love Boston-" said the nice young man, the same nice young man who'd been complaining about the pattern of the streets and the nasty Powers that Be intent on preserving their lily-white neighborhoods. But his attempt at peacemaking got lost in the shuffle. The woman didn't hear me.

"I wish you luck with your appointment," I said, firm, final, trying -- for my own sake, not hers -- to return to some level of cordiality. And stormed off until I was out of earshot.

What does this all have to do with the movie Shortbus? At one point, one of the characters, suffering under the weight of a profession she's grown to hate, agonizes over her predicament.

-What if I don't have enough money to live in the city? Where would I go? Fresno?

I have no strong desire to live in Fresno. But I'm sure that there are people there who make art. There are people all over the world, and there are other cities too. New York is awesome. I know that. It's got things you won't find anywhere else on the East Coast. But it's not the only game in town. Even in Fresno, I'm sure you can find artists and kinksters and perverts. Thanks to the power of the Intartubes, you can probably find them that much faster.

The reason why this issue affects me so much, of course -- the reason why I raised my voice to some poor woman at a bus stop -- is because my relationship with New York is deep, complicated. Long-standing. In another life I may have ended up in Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn. Riverside. In another life I would be able to take mass transit 24 hours a day. Would smell that particular salty-muddy smell of Long Island Sound, the confluence of fresh water and salt, that smell I remember from my childhood. Smell it and live in it, along with the smell of hot dogs and car exhaust and hope and desperation. Would live and work and walk and fight and elbow my way through crowds of people, a different mix of people, brown and blue-black and lily-white and all the lovely tones in between, live in a place where the Boston Irish don't predominate. Live on a grid.

But I don't. I live here, a gentle little city built on cowpaths, a conglomeration of villages still with their separate boundaries, a mass transit system color-coded and sprawling like a web built by a drunk spider. A place where you can drive 20 minutes up the road and go cross-country skiing for $30, or live your whole life jammed up against your neighbors and car-free. A place where gay couples can legally marry, where indy bands and artists thrive and work and play, a place where health care is a right and not a privilege.

But I grew up in the shadow of New York City. It's my white whale. It's a dream I used to have, a fantasy that needed to stay a fantasy. It's someplace I like to visit once or twice a year. It's not my home.

My home is here, with all the web of community and love and memories I've built here for the past decade. My home is here, with Army Guy.

Which is the other reason Shortbus makes me nostalgic. Nostalgia isn't the same thing as memory. Nostalgia filters memories through a pink filter. It erases all the angst and loneliness, all the alienation and uncertainty, and leaves just the glamour, the excitement. The fantasy of youth.

Youth isn't wasted on the young. Only the young have the resilience and the stamina to put up with it. As much as I like to look back fondly on my 20s, I wouldn't relive them.

And I wouldn't re-make the choices I've made. Well, maybe the ones around unsecured debt. But not the lovers, the relationships, the moves, the experiences. I don't regret my wild and crazy past, and I don't regret my commitment to Army Guy.

"I'm afraid you're going to build up a head of steam over all these parts of yourself I'm asking you to give up," he said.

The fact that he even cares about that makes me love him more. He'd never steal the skin of a Selkie. He'd sit on the shore and talk with her until she folded it up of her own free will and tucked it into the thatch of their house.

Five things:

1. Springtime in Boston is like springtime on Long Island Sound, but more dramatic. More like La Boheme and less like... um... a Synge play?
2. I slathered on the sunscreen and brought my sunhat.
3. I've made the decision to lose weight. I've already begun the process. It's scaring the crap out of me, but the prospect of ending up with Type 2 diabetes and/or not being able to reach my arm across extraneous body parts is even less appealing than misguided compliments and unwanted male attention.
4. In an effort to make good on my New Year's resolution to increase my creative expression, I'm doing a monthly poetry salon. The date keeps changing. Right now, I'm looking at Sunday the 24th. There will be whole-leaf tea and cucumber sandwiches. Bring some poetry you like or some of your own. Woman-friendly space.
5. It's not Sunday the 17th because I've decided to go to Kripalu that weekend.
6. I don't like budgets. Not for money and not for things. Coloring outside the lines, including the lines of my five-things list.

Woke up only slightly reluctantly this morning, all the alarms blaring and the kitty purring. Thought about a blog entry I might write about the night before.

Army Guy calls just a little after 7:00, and I answer the phone saying, "Just ten minutes!"

"Wake up Frances!" he shouts into the phone. Our own little ritual.

I get up.

I get to get up today.

I get to drive to work -- I get to have a job to drive to!

I get to have supportive conversations with my reports.

I get to see the beautiful puffy clouds.

I get to do some real work.

I get to enjoy springtime in Boston.

I get to be alive.

One of my favorite myths. From Demeter Faces Facts (second poem down)

Without even meaning to, she’s gone underground,

the face whose curve you shaped with your own hand,
fugitive, a sullen stranger’s you’ll never touch the same way

again. Still, you keep brushing and braiding, separating
the strands and binding them together again, as if they were

a rope by which you could hold her, tethering her to your body
as she was once anchored and fed, your blood hers. Before

she got big enough to cross the street without looking back
to catch your eye. When you were still everything she needed.

-- Alison Townsend

The poems here don't always inspire me with tight, bright language, but lately I've been inspired by writers whose work is less than perfect. Some deep inner critic, some just-sprouting bulb of defiance inside me says "if they can do it, why can't I?"

Seeing a feminine moniker in the masthead at least soothes the woman-shaped ire within.

Lick

The love-struck deer is asking, with his eyes
and tongue, is asking, with black gums and quivering
limbs, to be let in–

grinding against the actual gristle and crystal of salt,
wetted and domed in the forest's center.
Someone else's pleasure is always present.

The lick's a sensate toy, a voyeur, watching him work:
shrinking her body by the second,
using lust, that dominant drug, to disguise aggression.

Apologies to the soaked ground, marked with arcs:
trampled bed, doomed intersection.


Paula Bohince

Reading tonight at Brookline Booksmith. I'm not going. I just get lots of email.

The Good
"Remember how you said that the beef stew was a little thin for your taste? Well, I added some stuff to it and cooked it down, and now it's nice and thick. Do you want me to save you some?"

"You know, sometimes I think you have the impression I don't like your cooking. I think you're a good cook."

"I know. But it's not just enough to be good. I'm a perfectionist. It can't just be good, everything has to be faaaaabulous!"

"Well, you already are fabulous."

"Awwww! I'm going to eat the last of the stew for lunch."

The Bad
Transgender Day of Remembrance. My cousin out in California and I had a falling-out because I kept trying to raise his awareness about trans issues. Regardless of what you think about trans genitalia, or whether trans sex is "real sex" (take a wild guess as to where I stand on that issue), I think we can all agree that transfolk have the right to, you know, live. Without being beaten, maimed, or murdered. I think that the ability to walk down the street undisturbed is a basic human right we can all agree on.

More information here: http://gender.org/remember/day/index.html
(and no, visiting the site will not make you queer).


The Roomba
Yet another reason for me to get a Roomba (I need to amass a good amount of them in order to overcome that "but we're in a recession" voice in the back of my head):

Link in case of embed failure

I can't imagine my timid kitty would ever actually ride the thing around the room like that. But still, soooo cuuuuuute! Robot friends!

I sent this in to the Ze Frank project but I'm posting it here too. 'Cause I can.


And because I do love you, 48. Each and every one of you. Just as you are.

In my lifetime...

...a black man became President-Elect of the United States of America.

...same-sex couples are now legally married.

That is all I have to say. I want to just revel in the success for a while.

And both of them gifts. Requiring just the most minor amount of effort on my own part.

Both of them worthy of crying tears of joy.

Neither of them did I expect to see.