Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

it's one of those weeks. Nothing works. I sit around and struggle inside instead of doing Anything. I'll take Lamott's advice and take the voices in my head and drop them into jars like mice, close the tops of those jars. Here's the first mouse/voice:

Perfect to Semi-Perfect Housekeeper
Is she that? No, she’s far more malicious then that. She’s the woman who does everything, keeps everything clean and orderly, everywhere and makes everything and never loses energy. She sleeps only at night and only for six hours and then leaps up again for the next day. She knits, embroiders, quilts, sews clothes, sews curtains, shopping never fatigues her, she plans out three square meals a day and always knows how to have a good time. She does regular deep room cleaning and never thinks she won’t. She gardens, visits the Arboretum weekly and keeps up on the latest tv shows. She reads male and female authors, takes notes on everything she’s read and answers emails promptly. She never forgets what she’s said or what she’s promised. She’s frugal, shops sales, buys all her furniture on sale. She knows when to get rid of clothes and when to keep them. She works out every other day. She has no problem with space and always knows how to relax. She’s cheerful, thinks out deep questions without terrible inward strife and goes to the midwife without hatred in her heart for the medical profession’s treatment of women. She is diplomatic, can handle anyone and never gets tired from droners, bores or selfish people. She is immune to fatigue and depression and has never thought of ridding the world of her person. She has a church, a community and researches the Bible on her own, each day.
She also writes at least one poem each day and works on her novel and at least an essay for part of the day. She bakes cookies and visits her neighbors, crooning over their small children. She always gets a good haircut and takes regular walks by the river, being sure sometimes, to bring the camera along.
She visits Chicago from time to time and keeps up on museum exhibits, symphony schedules and other interesting art-community events. She knows enough people to keep her friends meeting other friends of hers and she’s a great matchmaker and everyone loves that. She’s eaten at all the good restaurants around and can afford to do that because she’s frugal in other areas. She goes on vacation at least once a year and once again, she does this because she knows when and how to save. She watches her investments, she has investments, she earns money off of money.
She knows exactly where her dream home will be and saves towards that too. She knows what German appliances that are safe for the enviroment she needs for her home to be and when the time comes, will get them on sale or on deep discount. She knows how to take care of all sorts of animals and she knows how to harvest and dry vegetables and herbs. She also knows how to can. She also knows the best places for fresh produce and fresh meat. Her pantry is incredible in its organization and common sense. She could live in the wild if forced to. She knows natural resources and what can be eaten and what can’t. She recognizes trees, wild flowers, bushes, birds, she knows always which way is north, south, east and west.

And so, I now know that I like Virginia Woolf, have an Angel in the House. How I hate her. How she hates me. I can never be that woman, try as I might. Because I have tried and am trying. Oh, how we hate one another. We’re locked in this endless battle, one trying to strangle the other…or brain sabotage the other. Tricks, sneering, slapping, mind games, manipulation, and just plain stomping on the other. Nothing works.

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I Have Wine and Moon and Flowers: Reading Su Tung-P’o During a Pandemic

As we watch spring growth overtake last year’s dead bracken and grasses, there is both consolation and brutality. This year’s greenery melds with disease: the emergence of flowers entangles with the blossoming of a pandemic.

While the novel coronavirus rages through communities, our lives have shrunk down to fit the small rooms and little neighborhoods that we must now be still in. What do we do in this diminished space? What do we see?

 

6th Moon, 27th Sun: Sipping Wine at Lake-View Tower

 

1

 

Black clouds, soaring ink, nearly blot out these mountains.

White raindrops, skipping pearls, skitter wildly into the boat,

 

Then wind comes across furling earth, scatters them away,

And below Lake-View Tower, lakewater suddenly turns to sky.

 

2

 

Setting animals loose—fish and turtles—I’m an exile out here,

but no one owns waterlilies everywhere blooming, blooming.

 

This lake pillow mountains, starts them glancing up and down,

And my breezy boat wander free, drifts with an aimless moon.

 

Su Tung-P’o (trans. David Hinton)

 

As the great poet Su Tung-P’o knew so well, we see our own natures in everything. The outside world becomes a reflection of our own states; though if we can still ourselves enough as we gaze out, a depth opens and time becomes immaterial.

A master of reflection and stillness, Su Tung-P’o 苏童 lived nearly one thousand years ago and is considered one of great poets of the Song Dynasty. He led a brilliant and varied career as poet, politician, writer, calligrapher, painter and aesthetic theorist. Due to his outspoken and opposing views on the government, he was jailed and sent into exile on three separate occasions.

After his experience in jail and subsequent exile, his poetry evolved and deepen and his surviving work reflect his delicate, painful relationship with loneliness and desolation.

 

Moon, Flowers, Man

 

I raise my cup and invite

The moon to come down from the

Sky.  I hope she will accept

Me. I raise my cup and ask

The branches, heavy with flowers,

To drink with me.  I wish them

Long life and promise never

To pick them.  In company

With the moon and the flowers,

I get drunk, and none of us

Ever worries about good

Or bad.  How many people

Can comprehend our joy? I

Have wine and moon and flowers.

Who else do I want for drinking companions?

(trans. Kenneth Rexroth)

 

To help alleviate the sufferings of a difficult life, he became the devotee of Zen Buddhism and his poetics reflects the practice of the “beginner’s mind,” the ability to meet each experience with equilibrium and a “spontaneous and crystalline responsiveness.”

 

At Seven-Mile Rapids

 

A light boat one loan leaf,

a startled swan two oars—

 

water and sky are pure clarity

reflecting deep. Waves smooth,

 

fish roil this duckweed mirror

and egrets dot misty shorelines.

 

We breeze past sandy streams,

frostfall streams cold,

moonlit streams aglow.

 

ridge above ridge like a painting,

bend beyond bend like a screen.

 

Here I think back to

Yen Tzu-ling’s empty old age,

 

lord and recluse one dream.

Renown’s empty then as now,

 

just mountains stretching away:

cloud mountains erratic,

dawn mountains green.

 

Out of his poetry emerges a beautiful balance, the ability to look at both joy and sorrow with gentle tranquility and wry amusement.

 

At Brahma-Heaven Monastery, Rhymed with a Short Poem of Crystalline Beauty by the Monk Acumen-Hoard

 

You can only hear a bell out beyond the mist:

the monastery deep in mist is lost to sight.

 

Straw sandals wet with the dew of grasses,

a recluse wanders. Never coming to rest,

 

he’s simply an echo of mountaintop moon—

light coming and going night after night.

 

(trans. David Hinton)

 

Su Tung-P’o’s poetry illuminates the beauty and loneliness running throughout ourselves and Nature. His work becomes a sort of map for this strange new world we find ourselves in: isolated yet surrounded, weary but still observing, cut off but yet deeply involved.

 

After T’ao Ch’ien’s “Drinking Wine”

 

3

 

This little boat of mine, truly a lone leaf,

and beneath it, the sound of dark swells:

 

I keep paddling in the depths of night, drunk,

pleasures of home, bed, and desk forgotten.

 

At dawn, when I ask about the road ahead,

I’ve already past a thousand ridges rising

 

beyond ridges. O where am I going here,

this Way forever leaving ever returning?

 

Never arriving, what can we understand,

and always leaving, what’s left to explain?

 

(trans. David Hinton)

 

Tides of Snow and Ice

This winter has been a continuous series of freezes and thaws: it’s the warmest winter on record, the tenth one in a row. A more usual winter starts with a deep freeze and then stays cold for months. Instead, snow falls, piles up and vanishes; rises up again and retreats, now falling as rain, swelling rivers and creeks. Rain and snow mingle together until everything runs with water; hillsides and flat-sides are coated in a deep, dark mud.

I stopped on my walk today, halted by a sudden flash of gold. The sunset rays were falling into a tiny puddle spanning the space between the root and trunk of a maple. The puddle reflected gold and silver on top and below was dark mud, black and brown, full of microorganisms and other tiny creatures unseen by the human eye. I briefly considered putting my hand to the shining surface. It beckoned, winking like a diamond, but pull of my walk was irresistible and I continued forward. 

Mud is for March and April, mud so thick and heavy that it can pull shoes off and make them disappear like a magic trick beneath the solemn and still brown. Mud in February is a strange slight, an awakening that shouldn’t be occurring yet. It’s all the more cruel because even though the temperatures rise, they inevitably dip into the single digits and everything freezes solid. Many times I’ve spotted squirrels and tiny birds on the creek’s ice, searching for openings to drink from.

During this particular thaw, the creek casts off ice, it’s center opening like a dark cut. The water sings as it cascades over the rocks, proclaiming it’s momentarily relief from the grip of winter. In Scandinavian folklore, there is a belief that given the proper offerings, a creek could teach a human how to play the most bewitching music. I crouch down near the creek, record a video of it singing on my phone and replay its music in the evening while lying on the couch. I should give something in return for the pleasure of its song and I consider. Perhaps some lavender buds I have stored away for a certain recipe, or a small pinecone I keep on a shelf to admire, or birch bark I retrieved from a favorite tree cut down years ago. 

The next day I return, and after waiting for a few dogs and their owners to pass by, I crouch next the side of the creek and sprinkle lavender buds into the small, clear stream. The buds vanish as soon as I drop them into the water– as if they never existed. I drop some more in and the same occurs; they’re gone before I can blink. The current flows by, washing over stones, fleeting by banks of mud, until it vanishes around the bend where the pine trees tower overhead.

As I gaze at the water, first downstream and then upstream, my own self quiets, stills, and momentarily dissolves into the landscape. The relief, though short, is palpable. Alone becomes together and perhaps that is what’s this practice of thanking the creek has been about all along.