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.]

 

Earth Day and new life in all its forms

 Today is Earth Day and I spent the morning on my knees. No, I wasn’t worshiping Mother Earth. I was weeding the garden.

Hal and I got our first plot in the community garden last year. We enjoyed being part of the garden family, all the residents who cultivate plots. We have good fellowship as we weed, plant, water, etc., and eventually harvest. I especially enjoyed watching the first sprouts break the surface. For some reason it surprised me. When planting the seeds, I had found it hard to believe anything would come of it. That reflects my lack of experience as a gardener.

In spite of our enjoyment, we had our doubts as to whether we could keep it up another year. Hal’s back gives him fits and he tends to overdo any task he commits to. So last year involved a lot of back pain. And I’m perpetually dizzy, although I find that being surrounded by dirt and green stuff actually calms my head. We had half decided to give up our plot this year when a friend talked us into dividing it and taking responsibility for only half. That didn’t sound so overwhelming so we agreed. Our revised space is eight by 16 feet, give or take a little. That’s enough for a rim of flowers with some veggies in the middle.

Right now we’re weeding, hoeing, and turning the soil, getting ready for the planting phase. We’ll know when that is by watching our neighbors and doing likewise. Of course, we can always ask questions.

Earth Day became an official holiday in March 1970 when U Thant, UN Secretary General, signed a proclamation to launch a day to honor the earth and commit to caring for it. Some say this was the beginning of the present environmental movement that advocates the conservation and restoration of the earth’s resources. On this day people around the globe participate in projects like cleaning up rubbish, planting trees, and educating children about the wonders of nature. It’s good.

Currently I’m reading a book called The Book of Nature: The Astonishing Beauty of God’s First Sacred Text by Barbara Mahany (2023). Mahany claims that God communicates with us in two basic ways: through creation (the first sacred text) and through his written word (for Christians, the Bible). Her book focuses on how creation speaks, with reflections on different aspects of nature (woods, water’s edge, birds, first snow, dawn, and so on). It’s well written and very inspiring.

This morning, appropriately, I read the chapter entitled “Garden.” She avoids getting too mushy and mystical about it all, which I found to be a relief. Gardening is a hard, sweaty business and Mahany addresses that aspect. Even so, God speaks through a garden:

It’s mighty hard not to believe, when tucking in a seed, sprinkling it day after day with your watering can, and catching sight, glorious sight, of that first hint of newborn green pushing through the earth. To plant a seed, to bury a bulb, is to practice resurrection gardening. And to watch in real time how faith works. Some of us need to rub it between our fingertips, to get its dirt struck under our nails.

“Resurrection gardening.” I like the sound of that. I’ll have to repeat that phrase tomorrow morning when I again fall to my knees in the dirt.

And speaking of something marvelous and newborn pushing through barriers to reach the air, since writing my last blog, something happened that is better than crocuses, daffodils, and cucumbers! FINN ALEXANDER BECKER was born! I became a first-time GREAT GRANDMOTHER! My granddaughter Bree and her husband Jade did a great job getting him born. Or so they tell me. I have not yet met this little person, but I’ve seen photos and, believe me, he is better looking than a cucumber! Or a daffodil. I’m finding this miracle is worth getting mushy and mystical over.

A new human being. Born into a family that will love, protect, and nurture him. Like a gardener tending her garden. Like God watching over his creation, including all the people made in his image, set on the earth to love, protect, and nurture it. And we do it for all the Finn Alexanders who one day will also cherish the earth.

Hurrah for Earth Day!

Hurrah for gardens!

Hurrah for Finn Alexander and all miracle babies!

It makes all the weeding seem worth it.

Babies and other cute beasts

 A friend and I took a brief retreat on the Oregon coast last week. One morning we were just sitting and looking out the window at the ocean and the people walking the path just a few yards away.

Then Francie exclaimed, “Oh! How cute!”

I responded with, “Yes! A fluffy puppy going poop in the grass!”

She came back with, “What?!” (She didn’t actually say, “You’re crazy!” but she communicated it with the look on her face.)

It turns out that we were looking at the same scenario but seeing different things. She was looking at the bundled-up baby in the man’s arms, and I saw the dog who was, indeed, doing its business on the edge of the path. Two different perspectives. Both kind’a cute.

I have a life-time of memories of cute dogs, most of them named Mokey. When I was two-years-old, Mokey was a small cocker spaniel my parents considered an appropriate pet for a little girl. What I remember about Mokey comes mainly from black and white photos. My parents told me that one day I did something terrible-two-ish to the dog. He bit me, and they took him to the pound that very day.

Mokey #2 was a black and white springer spaniel with long ears and a playful sweet disposition. We all loved him. In my teenage years Mokey was a golden collie and my special friend during the times I needed one.

During the Bolivian years we lived in the city of La Paz with little yard space, so we decided not to have a dog, until the day our daughter brought home a fetching terrier puppy (saying the neighbors gave him to her, which wasn’t exactly true), and we couldn’t resist. We named him Mokey.  After Mokey’s untimely death (ant poison) we adopted a Pekinese and named her Cindy-Lou-Who (who was not more than two); we couldn’t name her Mokey so soon after the death of her beloved predecessor.

We loved all these dogs. Dogs can be the most affectionate and cutest critters ever.

The same for babies. I must humbly admit that both my children and all my grandchildren were over-the-top super cute babies. When pushing the baby down the street in a stroller, people passing us would stop and gasp. (My memory may be a little faulty on that point.)

But—and here I come to the main point of this blog, the cutest of all cuties is yet to come. Our granddaughter and her husband have just informed us that we are going to be GREAT GRANDPARENTS! For the first time ever! Wow!

Good writers don’t use many exclamation points. And they are parsimonious with adjectives, but that announcement has just got to be the most Phenomenal! Splendiferous! Fantastic! Amazing! Incredible! Exhilerating! and Exponentially Outlandish! news of all time!

Can you tell this is my first grandchild? Can you tell I’m excited?

Get ready! Cuteness is coming.

(Maybe they’ll name him/her Mokey.)

The soon-to-be-parents, Bree and Jade

                        cute baby tree surrounded by parents, grands, and greats