Celebration, FL 34747
"All Politics is Personal" said House Speaker Tip O'Neill, and never more so than in our house on Election Night. Art and I wept imagining the world our new grandchild, "Baby" Emery will enter in May 2009 and the joy Grampy Earls must be feeling on the other side. "Baby's are God's promise that the world will continue," he would often say which may be why I'm one of eight children as he also recognized complex challenges facing the world long before others did, and needed a lot of hope.
When the President Elect called on us to "… summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other," it was as if he was channeling my father. A mailman during WWII, Dad read letters from men on the front to their immigrant moms and dads who could barely speak English. His commitment to others was a source of pride and frustration to my mom as he'd often give extra change to someone who was hungry while she faced the challenge of feeding a family of ten.
Bit by bit, block by block… We are the change. I volunteer to listen to ninth graders read one hour a week and in a very short time have realized how hard it is for people to learn for a myriad of reasons. Given that reading is what I do to put off other things, I make sure I exercise, practice Spanish and write a few hundred words a week and trust that the energy I use will be transformed into compassion for and commitment to "my kids."
Altruism is also a defense mechanism. I've always found it easier to do for others than to pay attention to myself, so Art does the latter for me. "Go to the Writer's Conference," he said last spring. "Don't split the cost of the room, you need your space." "Send your poetry into the contest."
So, I did, AND won honorable mention and second place in the unpublished Poetry category of the Royal Palm Award Ceremony of the Florida Writers Conference. (Poems are below.)
I came home excited, intimidated and overwhelmed, but we're going camping this weekend and my head will be clear by the time we return. And Art, who grounds me as Michelle does Barack, will have figured out how I'll keep writing AND do all the other things on our "To-Do" list as we enter into the Holiday season: Thanksgiving with 70 other RVers, Birding with Roadtrekers, Holiday celebrations with book clubs and neighbors, Christmas camping and dinner in St. Petersburg with Jen and Chad, a close to New Year's visit from Bill and Glo (CT family) and a much anticipated visit from Merri and Geoff the first of February. (She's asked Art to plan a walking/sitting tour of all the WDW parks as she won't be able to do many rides. I asked Geoff to send me monthly pictures so I won't burst into tears as she gets off the plane, not having seen her since her wedding day… and now…)
Thanksgiving is NOT my favorite holiday, but Gratitude is the foundation of our lives. Thanks to all of you for being… thanks to those who trust us with their sorrow, to those who grace us with their wisdom, and to everyone who shares their joy! (GO RAYS!)
Peace and good_________,
Beth
Thunder in Pennsylvania
After each day’s storm,
I marvel at the killdeer on her eggs
Unprotected, unafraid
In the field behind my tent.
We leave her and here
To stand on Cemetery Ridge
Where tears flow as blood did.
54,000 casualties
Times multiple loved ones
Unknown, unheralded.
The one civilian casualty an accident
For war had rules then:
Only soldiers died
(And the spirits of those who loved them.)
Why do we come to this place?
Where the voices of the dead
Speak of home family fear sacrifice,
The Gettysburg Address an apology for carnage.
The prophet’s later wish,
“With malice toward none, charity for all.”
Was taken by a vengeful bullet
In the last theater of that war.
Today,
Wars no longer have theaters,
Civilians die on purpose.
And the thunder in Pennsylvania
Will not upset the killdeer.
The Crayon Box
I couldn’t find the black to show my soul
So I pulled out the blues.
They felt warm
And I felt odd because
Blue is cool, according to the rules.
The rhythm of the sort captured me.
I was amazed at the range
Between peach and magenta,
And that blood red landed with
Sepia and asparagus rooted in the corner,
Right.
The neons, yellows mostly,
Are left back,
So I won’t be startled by their brightness.
Thistle and timber wolf surround the blues,
Now center front.
I know the black is
In there, somewhere,
But that’s unimportant now.
It is, after all, only one of
Ninety-six colors in the crayon box.
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