The richest kid on the block

 This past week we residents in the retirement community gathered in the auditorium to hear the annual financial report. It felt good to know our living situation is on solid ground. But the report also included the yearly increase in our monthly resident fees. With the rising cost of living, it is right that the fees increase, but we’re always nervous about the amount.

 It wasn’t as high as it could have been but, even so, we’re going to have to be more careful about our spending. It’s expensive to live in a continuing care retirement community, but we’re aware that the money goes into long-term insurance and that when we run out of enough money to cover the full cost, we won’t be asked to leave. So, it’s worth it. Even so, we don’t want to run out of money. And, I confess, we do worry.

But we know we’re not poor. We live in a beautiful place with good friends and family near-by. We’re still learning and growing. In fact, I think we’re rich. 

And that reminds me of a story.

I was ten years old the first time I realized I was rich. That was the year I broke my piggy bank.

My parents viewed my intentions with some hesitancy. My father was a high school football coach, and years earlier he had invited several of his football players to my first birthday party. The team bought me the pig, each member making his own contribution to my future wealth. My dad set it on a shelf in my room, and down through the years I faithfully plunked in my pennies and nickels.

By my tenth year the pig was heavy. I was not nearly as sentimental as my parents. I wanted my money. So I smashed its head with a hammer.

Yes, I was rich. Twelve dollars and thirty-eight cents! And it was all mine. No other kid I knew was so wealthy.

I wanted to spend it, and I knew just the place, the local five-and-ten-cent store. Only this time I wasn’t going to just walk up and down the aisles, looking and dreaming. I was going to really buy stuff. I had no shopping lists, priorities, or needs in mind. My goal was to spend my money. All of it.

And I did. What a morning! I put all my coins in the bottom of a green plastic purse. My mom drove me to the store—and I got started. (I wonder now what my mother was thinking. I admire her for permitting me this fling, for not making me save my money or buy socks or give it to the missionaries. I do have a vague memory of her and the clerk in a powwow just before she left me to my glory. They both looked at me and giggled. I ignored them, having better things to do.)

I took my time, first doing a general survey of the store, walking up and down all the aisles, looking at puzzles, pencils, coloring books, barrettes, vases, hair curlers, ribbons, and, of course, boxes of candy and gum.

Then I started, picking up one single item at a time, bringing it to the counter, counting out the nickels and pennies, sealing the bargain, and stashing the loot. I then methodically repeated the procedure for my next purchase. So I advanced, item by item, all morning long, stopping when the only thing my last few pennies could buy was gum balls. I chose the red ones.

When my mom came to get me, I had the stuff in several big bags. I was anxious to get home and show off my treasures.

I bought stuff for myself, of course—comic books, candy bars, and one large bottle of Ben Hur cologne. I had also purchased presents for everyone, and I was so excited to have them get their gifts. For my little brother and sister there were soap bubbles, marbles, and crayons.

I saved the best for last. I had found the perfect gift for my parents. I proudly presented them with a set of tiny glasses, beautifully etched on the outside with golden grapes. I still remember their smiles of delight. In fact, they were so happy they laughed. 

Only years later did I learn I had given them whiskey glasses. 

Several years have passed since then. My husband and I have given most of our adult lives to cross-cultural missions. And while we wouldn’t have wanted to do anything else, it didn’t exactly put us in demand for interviews on “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”

But, by God’s grace, something of the magic of that day in my tenth summer still clings, wafting through my senses like Ben Hur cologne. We have a wealth of memories, kids grown up and living good lives, grandkids, and, now two great-grandbabies. And we live in this marvelous place. I feel full of the wealth of it all. 

And even though I occasionally worry about current finances, I know that my Father is generous with his gifts. I am secure in his goodness. This world is bigger than any five-and-ten-cent store, and better stocked. I’m a spendthrift at heart, and, yes, I’m still the richest kid on the block.

On being old and poor in spirit

 Our church is doing a sermon series on the Beatitudes. Several Sunday ago, the sermon on the first Beatitude impacted me. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 5:3). The preacher, a university religion professor, described the person who is poor in spirit as a humble person, often desperate, who recognizes her need, who knows she is absolutely dependent on God to help her. It’s a person who understands his own smallness as compared to God’s grandeur. I think of people in situations of poverty and homelessness, of refugees and victims of war. I also think of persons suffering depression or mental illness. Maybe at times we all go through experiences that make us poor in spirit.

But it was after the sermon, in our time of silence and open worship, that the impact came home. My friend Jo stood and talked about those of us who are growing older as frequently being poor in spirit, especially as we deal with the fear of loosing competency. This fear is based on one of the realities of the aging process, and the fact that it may be normal doesn’t make it easier for the person experiencing it.

A friend who has been a successful life-long pastor recently shared that preaching and teaching are getting difficult and are now something he doesn’t enjoy so much. It takes much longer to prepare a message and he is now unsure of himself in his delivery. Another friend who was for years the superintendent of his denomination talked about how scattered, forgetful, and unorganized he now feels. Getting stuff done is a challenge he doesn’t feel up to anymore. In both cases, facing the loss of professional (and personal) competency has been hard.

During one period in my life, I worked as faculty secretary in a large seminary. Assigned to four professors, I prepared syllabi, obtained copyright permissions, typed letters, prepared visual aids, ran errands, helped students with their dissertations, and wrote the school newsletter, all at the same time I was beginning my own doctoral degree program. I feel exhausted just remembering, but at the time I thrived. I discovered I was good at multitasking and at getting things done efficiently. I excelled at time management, and managed to contain my job to the eight hours a day I was paid for. (The doctoral work happened in the early mornings and evenings.)

Not anymore. If I try to do two or three things at once, I get confused and end up doing nothing well. I can walk from one room to another and forget on the way what I was intending to do in the next room. I’m learning that it’s OK to focus on one thing at a time. For all the rest, I depend on the lists I make when I’m in my right mind. One big problem is that I often forget to read my list. At the end of the day, I can complain, “Oh no! I missed that meeting!” and then see that it was on the list all along. It seems I’ve lost administrative competency.

Even in prayer. I’ve felt for years that God called me as an intercessor and I used to spend a good amount of time in this endeavor. But any more when I sit down to pray, a half-an-hour later I wake up. There are times when I am energized to listen well and pray. But the other times are happening more frequently, the times when it’s almost too much effort. Is there such a thing as competency in prayer? (That sounds very unspiritual.) If there is, I think I’m losing it.

I used to spend hours, even whole days, investigating and writing, being creative. Now if I can get in two hours of creative writing a day, I thank God. But I wonder if and when that will disappear. 

We all face different areas in which the fear of losing competency makes us poor in spirit. So how does this transform into a blessing? How does it somehow put us in greater possession of the kingdom of heaven?

The preacher encouraged us to meditate on the Scriptures, seeing both the truth of our smallness and dependency, as well as of the grandeur of God. I would add that we could soak in the truths about who God says we are, no matter our age (for example, dearly beloved by our Father, friends of Jesus, chosen to bear fruit, etc. etc.)

We struggle to let go and accept age as a new phase of life, not a diminishment. Maybe not so much being less competent as being otherly-competent. (Pardon my freedom with the English language.) I have days when I accept this and feel contentment. But I’m not totally there yet. Times of discouragement still come when I compare what I used to do to what I can (or cannot) do now. When some well-meaning person asks me what I’ve accomplished today, I often can’t think of a good answer. I have to do battle with my feelings and remind myself of who God tells me I am and what I am worth to him.

Somehow the struggle itself is part of the blessing. As we admit our feelings and work through them in the light of God’s truth about us, we actually move towards a blessed dependency. That’s a kingdom task where eventually we find our place in God’s scheme of things.

 Actually, I’m working through this as I write, trying to figure it out. If multi-tasking is not in my future, I’m OK with that. I may be coming into a new way of praying. Maybe the two hours I write in the mornings will result in something beautiful and useful to others, more so than if I labored all day. I remember John Milton’s poem that ends with the line, “They also serve who only stand and wait.” (For me, it would be sit and wait.)

In any case, in God’s up-side-down kingdom, we who are aging, and who are often poor in spirit, are blessed.

I can live with that, even if I don’t understand it.

Election prayer

 I’m posting this blog a day early because tomorrow, Tuesday, national elections will absorb many of us. Who will have time to read a semi-silly blog on growing older? (Or to write it?) Besides there are things I want to say that work better before than after.

At the retirement community we don’t talk about it in public. It’s like that elephant in the room everyone smells but pretends they don’t. It’s policy. We’re instructed not to talk politics in community spaces, like the halls, the dining room, or the auditorium. We’re not to post partisan messages on our apartment doors or the public bulletin boards. Hush hush. But among our own tribe (we know who we are) and behind closed doors, it brings a certain relief to share our angers, fears, and hopes.

Right now, it’s the not-knowing that wracks our nerves. As aging people facing so many “normal” changes, another important Thing that we don’t know can be worrisome, to say the least. So we wait and try to figure out how to pray.

Tuesday evening down in our lobby, we’ll have a pre-election sing-a-long—hymns and folksongs. That might help and I intend to participate. A church I attend digitally in Minnesota is having an election night worship service which I also plan to attend. Other than that, I will avoid the television. I’m nervous enough anyway. I’ll probably isolate myself somewhere and work on puzzles.

It's been hard to know how to pray. I know what I believe, but I hesitate to tell God, “Knock so-n-so out of the race,” or “Let the other so-n-so win.” Can I presume to know the will of Sovereign God? Or can I even presume to concede that whoever wins is obviously God’s chosen? No. All of that is heresy. Lots of things happen that are not the will of a God who gives us free will and therein messes up world history (with a promise to fix it all in the end). 

I’ve looked through the prayer books I have—The Book of Common Prayer, The Oxford Book of Prayer, The Celtic Daily Prayer Book, and a few others. Nowhere can I find a prayer to pray before an election.

And then I remembered the Lord’s Prayer. Aha! I’ve learned to use this prayer for many specific occasions. It covers the ground and shows a way. It was, after all, the instructions Jesus gave when his disciples asked him to teach them to pray. It continues to teach us. So I used this prayer to craft a pre-election prayer for God’s people. It can also serve as a post-election prayer, something our nation will need a lot of. Here goes:

Our Father, who lives in heaven,

Hallowed be your name. However this election turns out, may your name be praised, honored, and lifted up throughout our land. No matter if we’re overjoyed or dismayed by the results, help us see that you are greater than our government, greater than our nation, the Lord of the whole world and all the starry universe. Hallowed be your name!

Your Kingdom come. You are the King. You are sovereign over all nations. Your authority is greater than that of presidents, senators, governors, the media, and even “we, the people.” You bring rain to dry fields, comfort to the mourning, homes to the refugees, wisdom to rulers. You cause miracles to happen and wars to cease. Your Kingdom come.

Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. We don’t presume to know your will in this election. But whatever the result, we do know that you will for reason, hope, and peace to prevail. We know that your will is for justice to come to the oppressed and downtrodden. We pray that you will raise up leaders, women and men who hunger and thirst after righteousness and justice. We pray for a place for the pure in heart and a welcome to the stranger. Your will be done.

Give us this day our daily bread. You know what we really need. Give food, clean water, and a place to live to the people of North Carolina. Grant peace and security to people seeking safety from hopeless and violent situations. Give honesty and clarity to our election process, both before and after. Give the wisdom and faith we so desperately need to move forward in these frightening times.

Forgive us our sins and as we forgive the sins of others. Spirit of reconciliation, raise up women and men with a heart for reconciliation. Give us confident humility so that we can build bridges to those other than us. Grant us the ability to say “I’m wrong” and “I’m sorry.” Give us the generosity of heart to say, “I forgive you.” Let the Spirit do this work in each one of us and throughout our nation.

Lead us not into trials too hard for us to bear.  After the election, raise up peacemakers whose words and actions can bring calm to ragged emotions and disappointed hopes. Quench the fires of hate and mistrust with the waters of your Spirit. Spare us the violence that would rip our nation apart. 

Deliver us from the Evil One. Thwart the strategies of satan. We come against the spirits of hatred, division, and violence. Free us from those who would sow deception and chaos. Deliver us from the evil that resides in our own hearts. Come, Spirit of God, deliver us.

To you alone belong the Kingdom, the power, and the glory. Forever. 

Amen.

On being married to an 80-year-old

 This past weekend, Hal turned 80. It was a milestone. The last milestone was the 50^th birthday, a sense that we were now in a new phase of life. Fifty was awesome. Eighty, breathtaking. This is higher ground indeed.

We’ve heard it said that growing older is gradual, passing through three stages: young old age (roughly from retirement to 80), middle old age (80-90), and really old old age (90 to whenever). The numbers vary with different experts on the subject. I’m not sure how helpful these categories are, other than to say we both felt rather smug about being in the young/old category.

Hal and I used to ask ourselves, “Are we old yet?” We asked it upon retirement, and then again on entering the retirement community. Now, as far as Hal goes, we don’t have to ask it anymore. He’s old. Clear and simple. (Actually, none of this is clear or simple.)

On the other hand, I’m still young, in my 70s. But I have entered a new category—that of being married to an 80-year-old. Will I have to make some changes? Do I treat him differently? Are we now an unbalanced couple? Will we topple if I don’t hold up my end?

(Let me interject here the fact that many of you have already passed the 80 milestone and are probably thinking, “Why is she making such a big deal of this? It’s nothing. No major change at all.” If you’re thinking that, I respect your perspective, but, please, just humor me. I’ll get there, too, in time.)

We celebrated, thanks largely to the efforts of our son. All of it surprised Hal. That always makes it fun. On Friday, David took us to the local small airport, where a friend was waiting to take us up for a ride in his little prop plane. For about 40 minutes we looked down on our town, the surrounding fields, the mountains, and the big river before descending back to the airport. Mid-trip, Jon, the pilot, turned the controls over to Hal who wasn’t quite sure he wanted them. I, in the back seat, was sure I didn’t want him to have them. But he eased into the task and had fun learning about the different gages to pay attention to as he turned the plan in different directions, lost and gained altitude, and really did fly the plane. It was a great birthday surprise! Something one doesn’t imagine an old man doing.

Saturday morning, we opened the door to our apartment to see it decorated with an elaborate birthday poster complete with Hal’s baby photos. Later our neighbors on the floor gathered to sing Happy Birthday and clap, hoot, and holler.

On Saturday noon we arrived at David’s home, expecting the usual family lunch and small celebration. But it turned out to be regular birthday party, with friends, family, balloons, songs, and a feast worthy of 80 years! We practiced all the time-honored rituals: a birthday apple pie (our tradition) with eight candles that Hal blew out. The Happy Birthday song, of course, and lots of photos. Now that I look back, we forgot to ask Hal to make a wish. We’ll have to do that part tonight. Different people shared memories of Hal, most of them funny. Then Hal told stories of his time in Guatemala; the night he was attacked by vampire bats was a favorite.

Saturday night Hal told me how affirmed he felt and how downright happy. A good celebration, worthy of a milestone.

Now it’s Monday morning and back to normal life. I find myself married to an 80-year-old man. But, of course, it doesn’t feel any different than the mornings that went before. He doesn’t seem radically changed. We’re still both growing older, slowly and not by leaps and milestones. I’m glad for gradual. We’re still enjoying this phase of life which has its joys as well as its challenges.

We’ve stopped asking, “Are we old yet,” because it seems like an irrelevant question. We’re alive and well. God is good. We’ll take one day at a time for as long as we have.

(But hurrah for celebrations!)

On googling my name: my secret identities

 The search for one’s identity is developmentally a task for young adults. It includes such vital concerns as profession, marriage and family, and, basically, what a person will dedicate his/her life to. Time, relationships, successes and failures, and maturity are supposed to lead one to a solid sense of self. By the time old age sets in the person knows clearly who they are and what their place is in the general scheme of things.

Sound good? Well….

We all know it isn’t true. An older person is often as confused about it all as a youngster (meaning a 40-year-old). When we retire from our profession, it can feel like we’ve lost our basic identity. Purpose can fly out the window. Changes in family dynamics can leave us wondering who we are in relation to others. And downsizing can mean getting rid of precious stuff that helps define us. Too many changes!

Is this an exaggeration? Perhaps for some more settled folks, it is, but for many it’s a phase of growing older that’s painfully real. It’s that search for identity that goes deeper than what we do (or have done) or what we own (or used to own before we gave it away).

Now I’m going to switch from serious to silly (which is part of who I am). Several years ago I decided to see what the Internet had to say about me. I googled my name. The search reminded me of how common my name is. I discovered way too many sites to read them all, and most of them were not about me. It was hard to find me in all the Nancy Thomases scattered throughout the universe.

I did another search this week, just to see if things had changed. Some of the old Nancy Thomases were still around, with many new entries. I actually found myself, my real self, here and there, mostly with reference to a poetry book. But, for the most part, I am well hidden in the World Wide Web.

My search revealed that Nancy Thomas is a prodigious author. Along with the poetry, other books by Nancy Thomas include The Great American Afghan; The Great Tiki Drink Book; When Love Is Not Enough: A Guide to Parenting Children with Reactive Attachment Disorder; Infectious Diseases of Wild Birds; and Dandelions on My Pillow, Butcher Knife Beneath: The true story of an amazing family that lived with and loved kids that killed. I had no idea I was that versatile.

Searching the Internet is an interesting path to discovering identity. If someone met me, remembered my name, and then tried to find out more about me on the Internet, here’s what he might learn:

--that I am one of the leading authorities on parenting emotionally disturbed children.

--that I am a nationally-known contemporary folk-artist who paints, does ceramic figurines, sculpts, does hooked rugs and pins and stained glass. My birds are especially appreciated. My work can be viewed in the Nancy Thomas Gallery in Norfolk, Virginia. (You ought to come. I’m really good.)

--that I am a taxi driver in Milton, Vermont.

--that for many years I was the editorial voice of the most widely circulated knitting magazines, including Vogue Knitting and Family Circle Easy Knitting. (You ought to see my collection of silly Christmas socks.)

--that although I hold a degree in electronics and engineering, I am a story-teller at heart and believe that “writing is a door into a world of possibilities.”

--that I have been a non-dieting fat woman since 1976 and am one of the founders of the FAT LIP Readers Theater.

--that I own and run the Duncanville Feed Store in Texas.

--that I am a violinist with the National Symphony Orchestra; a gynecologist in Louisiana; a dermatologist in North Carolina; a licensed professor of jiu-jitsu; and an actress who most recently starred in the movie, “Assisted Loving,” about romance in a retirement home.

You would also discover that a wild iris is named after me. The “Nancy Thomas” is a bearded iris that is golden apricot in color, with a tangerine beard, and a slight fragrance.

There’s a lot more than what I’ve recorded above, but as they say (whoever “they” are), “enough is enough.”

Did you ever dream I was so versatile and accomplished? I’m certainly a multi-tasker.

Does all this help me come closer to solidifying my sense of identity? No, of course not. It does confirm my suspicion that I’m a somewhat silly person.

Actually, I’m now far enough down the road of retirement that I don’t struggle with identity issues. I try not to focus so much on who I am, but rather on who my neighbors are.

Both of my names, Nancy and Jane, are common. They both mean “grace.” I don’t think my parents knew that when they named me; Nancy and Jane were favorite aunts and cousins on both sides of the family. But they did indeed name me “Grace Grace,” God’s double-whammy grace child. That’s who I am. My unique name/person is etched on the palm of God’s hand, and God needs no search engine to find me.

God doesn’t need one to find you either.

The old woman and the mouse

 An old widow named Helen lives in a small cottage in a small village in England. This is her hometown and she has moved back after 60 years living in Australia. She lives alone with her memories. She knows no one in the village and no one knows her.

She walks down the hill and into town once a week to buy a few vegetables, a meat pie, yogurt, and a pastry for a treat, all she can carry back home. Sometimes she stands in her living room and looks out the curtains, watching her neighbors. She has developed a strange habit of poking about in people’s discarded garbage, to see if there is anything interesting she can bring home. Just a strange old woman.

Helen is the protagonist of Sipsworth, a novel by Simon Van Booy (2024), a story of an old woman and a mouse. It has insights about aging that are worth reflecting on.

As the story opens, Helen has pretty much given up on life and is waiting for death.

“Returning after sixty years, Helen had felt her particular circumstances special: just as she had once been singled out for happiness, she was now an object of despair. But then after so many consecutive months alone, she came to the realization that such feelings were simply the conditions of old age and largely the same for everybody. Truly, there was no escape. Those who in life had held back in matters of love would end up in bitterness. While the people like her, who had filled the corners of each day, found themselves marooned on a scatter of memories….”

“She isn’t taking any medicine, nor does she need and creams, powders, tonics, or lozenges. The only real proof of her advanced age are a chronic, persistent feeling of defeat, aching limbs, and the power of invisibility to anyone between the ages of ten and fifty.”

One night things change for Helen. She watches from her window as a neighbor hauls some boxes out to the curb to be carted away as garbage in the morning. She waits until he leaves and all is quiet in the neighborhood, then she sneaks across the street for a peek. Among the assembled items she finds an old fish tank filled with plastic water toys and a few boxes. One of the toys reminds her of something her son once owned. So, with a great deal of effort, she lifts and carries the tank back to her house and deposits it on her living room floor. She then goes upstairs to take a bath, worn out by the activity.

Once recovered from her adventure, she discovers a mouse in a box in the bottom of the tank. It shocks her; she has no desire to share her home with a rodent. But over the next two weeks, the woman and the mouse make a mutual connection. She names him Sipsworth. Her new responsibility to care for the critter forces her into the village to meet people—the clerk at Ace Hardware, the librarian (for a book on caring for mice), a vet, and, eventually, medical personnel in the local hospital as Sipsworth has an emergency that needs surgery. The book highlights the need all mammals (including humans) have for relationship and the possibility for change at any age.

But something else in the story spoke to me. In the beginning we have the picture of a solitary old lady, set in her ways, living in her memories, and developing some strange habits. It’s a stereotype of a typical old person and, although I felt sympathy, I perceived her as pathetic. But as the story nears its climax, the nurse in the hospital recognizes her name, Helen Cartwright, and realizes that she was once the Head of Pediatric Cardiology of the Sydney General Hospital and inventor of the Cartwright Aortic Stem Valve, used to save the lives of hundreds of people. She was famous in her day.

This, of course, changes the way people now see this strange old woman. And it certainly changed the way I had been reading the story. I was surprised, but I noticed there were hints all through the story that things were not as they seemed.

I’ve experienced being treated as an “old person” in the doctor’s office and the grocery line. I’ve experienced being invisible in other social settings. I’ve wanted to say, “There’s more to me than my wrinkles and walking stick!” But, of course, I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.

And I take joy in the fact that where I’m living now, I’m surrounded by friends and people who take the trouble to know one another. Age doesn’t matter, since we’re all old!

But more than wanting people to see me as a person rather than as a stage in life, I’m asking myself how I see other people, especially other older people I don’t know. I’m realizing that I often look at them with the same stereotypical perspective, especially if they “look” old and grumpy and mussed up. I don’t feel compelled to get to know them. They aren’t attractive.

(How I perceive young women with purple hair and noses rings is much the same problem.)

I feel a sense of conviction. Helen looked old and grumpy and mussed up. And I think I do too at times. Learning how to see people as God sees them isn’t automatic. It’s hard. It’s something to be aware of and to work at.

A person’s age and how they look don’t define them. People are full of surprises. Especially old people. I don’t want to miss out on any of it.

A baby, a book, and playing with words

 I know I’m a bit old for this, but I gave birth last week. So far the baby is not doing much more than sleeping, but she’s about to wake up.

Her name is The Language of Light: poems of wit, whimsy, and (maybe) wisdom.

That’s right. The baby is a book. A new poetry book and I’m pretty excited about it.

Having a book published is very much like having a baby. First comes conception when a seed is planted and gets fertilized. And then come the work and the long wait. This period of labor took about two years and involved a certain amount of pain. But now it’s over. And she’s lovely. I can’t wait for you to meet her. (I’d even say I’ll sell her to you, but that’s taking a metaphor too far.)

This book is a little different than my previous collections of poetry. It’s not mystical, heavy, or complex. (Actually, neither were the others.) It’s light in the sense of laughter. It’s a recognition that humor produces a certain lightness of spirit. It lifts us up and gives a more gracious perspective of reality. Humor can also turn stuff on its head, helping us see people/problems/culture (especially our own culture) from a different viewpoint.

But it’s not just laughs I hope to achieve. I also use the word light in the sense of illumination. Often laughter precedes insight. I hope some of the poems in the book do that.

You can decide for yourself. I’m having a book launch this coming Friday at 3:00 in the auditorium of the Retirement Community. I’ll be reading poems from the book. These events always give me the jitters beforehand. I ask myself silly questions: Will anyone come? Will they like the poems? Or will they throw lettuce? (You would never do that, would you?)

More than anything, I think the book is playful. I love language. I especially love the English language. And I love playing with words. So I hope the event will let us all participate in some lightness and play.

Rather than share some of my poems in this blog, I’m going to post a poem my granddaughter Gwen wrote a year ago.

Grandma’s Poems

A small collection of Grandma’s poems
lay scattered over my bed.
As I soaked in the rich creativity
I happened upon a small poem.
It was a silly play on words
and I could hear her laughter as I read it.
At the bottom in her
curvy haphazard handwriting
were the words,

“Play. Just play.”

Advice from her I will
hold with all seriousness.
Play is no joke
for genius is born from it.
I have the proof right here,
scattered over my bed.

 

[Note: speaking of Gwen and babies, my granddaughter recently gave birth to a real baby and is now learning the joys of motherhood. She’s finding that playing with little Ariah is even more fun than playing with words.]