You Can Always Go - Downtown!

Denver is a hip town that has hip events for hipsters.  And old hippies like me.  I have a mixed love affair of venturing downtown.  The ride isn't long, but it can be grueling.  Traffic, construction and lack of adequate highways make the trek a tricky proposition.  Lucky for me I know Denver pretty well.  I live here in the late seventies and early eighties and though the density has changed, the street rotations have not.  Once one understands the numbering system, that downtown was inserted catawampus into the grid, then you'll get around just fine.

This week I forayed into the big city. Twice.  And I'm doing it again tomorrow.  Monday night was the Opening Block Party for Denver Startup Week.  Through my association with the Poetry Society of Colorado, I learned about this event and threw my hat into the ring to participate in the festivities.  As a poet.  

Vintage typewriters were set up and four wordsmiths each manned a station.  The premise was simple; attendees would mosey over to one of us and tell their story.  We in turn were charged with translating their words into a poetic form.  The gates of the event opened and we got busy listening, typing and presenting a quasi-finished poem to the brave story teller.

I had a blast.  I used to be an event planner and know the importance of turning "ON" when an event is underway.  The smile.  The barking out to passers-by.  "Hey!  Would you like to tell me a little about yourself and I'll make it into a poem?".  My reticence of crowds instantly dissipates in these situations and I become engaging and witty.  A perfect combo for me.  Using my event experience and showcasing my ability to produce rhyming couplets and quatrains on the spot.

Why didn't I think of this before?  Combining my two talents really sparked me.  My business brain already has a plan in place to duplicate this experience at all the coolest events in town.  I just need to buy a typewriter or two, procure ribbons, contact my old event buddies, get business cards and a website...  Whoa!  Do I really want to do that?  It is times like this when I wonder if I stopped working too early, too young.  Should I jump back into a routine?  A business?   A commitment?

I might.  I never know where my heart and my brain may take me.  But for now, I will just revel in the escapade.  I drove downtown.  I found a good on-street spot thus avoiding paying a garage.  I got a check for my services.  And a souvenir T-Shirt.  That's enough for today.

The next day, I went to the Denver Art Museum for the Lighthouse Writer's Drop-In workshop.  This month we focused on the newly opened Rembrandt exhibit.  Again, I scored great parking.  Again, I managed to arrive without going on I25.  If you live here, you know how great that is!  I even went up to Boulder County afterwards, and still never went on the highway.  I am feeling cosmopolitan and smug!

The Drop in Writing at the Museum is a monthly event.  Free to members and anyone else for the price of admission.  I listened to the instructions and prompts set forth by the Executive Director of Lighthouse, Michael Henry.  There were probably around 18 of us.

I adore ekphrastic exercises.  But on this day my brain wasn't having it.  The images were small, the exhibit was crowded.  Instead of focusing on the etchings and engravings and drawings, I focused on the labels.  The handy explanations by curators and MBA's of art to help us lay people.  The blurbs neatly written on the sides of the artworks, and even directly onto the museum walls.  This is where a camera phone really comes in handy.  I snapped a dozen pics of words and sat in a comfy chair with a back in the lobby.

Here is an excerpt:

The first thing I have to do is forgive myself.  Because I came here to look at Rembrandt's work, either with my naked eye or through a slightly warping magnifying sheet.  But I was more drawn to the process of his work; not the product.  The how he did this, rather than look at what he did.  So I forgive myself for not doing what I am supposed to.  What the prompts suggested I do.  I will return another day for a generous gander, but today is more reflective.  Introspective.

And I will share a few of the points I pondered:

"Sketchbook sheets of interesting characters because it enabled him to capture details of anatomy, a universe of emotions."   As a writer of poetry and memoir, an essayist, an observer, it is incumbent upon me to analyze the inner architecture of my subject matter, not just the outward appearance.  Universe of emotions??  That says it all, no?

"Enhance the drama of those scenes through effect of light and shadow"  Ah...  the crux of my writing.  Do I expose my shadow self?  Be vulnerable, approachable?  Or do I illuminate my being - perhaps falsely - showing an unnatural, forced side to my reader?

I have a dozen more of these ruminations.  How I can convert art practices into writing practices when I have never been a visual artist.  I would have written even more, but an intern from the DAM interrupted me and asked if I would mind filling out a sheet on a future Monet exhibit.  This was a cluster exercise and I obliged.  We had a nice chat and just like so many of the young people I poeticized the night before, she is a newcomer to the Mile High City.

Friday I am back to central and downtown Denver.  My Friday memoir class meets at a cute little library in Platt Park.  We are an unofficial spin-off of the now defunct Write Age.  There is something about old(er) writers and former hippies, and ex-educators, and retired people.  We are pretty unstoppable when it comes to getting it down on paper!

I have a short break between that ending and The Friday 500 at Lighthouse on Colfax and Race.  This is a free-write followed by a craft talk.  I am excited because this week is poetry, by a man who has Parkinson's.  I have Rheumatoid Arthritis and I am interested to hear how his challenges present in his work.

After that I am back to the Denver Art Museum for Untitled Friday festivities.  The art is floral in nature and there will be a build-your-own corsage station.  What more could an ex, or is that future, event professional ask for?

Time to Write,

Jane

 

Let Go

Let Go

Why do you hang on

So stubbornly

The nights are cooling

Who are you fooling

Let Go

The host tree is almost bare

Save for you

The winds are blowing

You act all knowing

Let Go

The golden leaves have fallen

You’re still there
Hanging on so very tight
Staying vigilant all night

Let Go

The cold north wind arrived
You’re brown and shriveled
Solitary soldier of the tree
You’d be happier if free

Let Go

Spring arrives with bluster

A spider’s web sustains you
New growth is on the way
Why is it that you stay

Let Go

I Want My Blankie!

You may remember my story from a few weeks ago about being bombarded with yoga blocks.  Or you may have a life of your own and not remember a word I said, and that is OK too.  A strange thing happened after that class.  My yoga mat went missing, but I didn't realize that until five or so days later when I looked for it in the trunk of my car.

It is always there. In the backseat or trunk. Purple and trusty.  Wrapped up with a very special blanket inside.  I love having my own lightweight, non-itchy blanket to kneel upon, envelop myself in if the room is chilly during savasana.  My daughter Andrea bought me this treasure on one of her trips to Phoenix. We texted back and forth to find the perfect one with colors that resonated with me.  I actually care more about the blanket than the mat.  This could be a throwback to my childhood affection for a pink blanket that I took everywhere with me.  My mother claimed I sat in front of the washer and dryer on those rare occasions when she wrenched it from my muddy palms to launder it.  One day while visiting my Nana on Corsa Avenue in The Bronx, I bravely opened the scary incinerator chute - the same chute my brother always threatened to drop me into, surely leading to a fiery death -  and cured myself of that affliction.  So yeah, I like blankets.

I used to panic when I lost things.  But getting older and working the 12 steps of Al-Anon have taught me to trust.  Trust the program.  Trust the process.  Trust that if something is meant to happen, it will.  If a lost object is meant to be found, it will eventually reappear.  The taking of deep breaths, and removing the anxiety around possessions has served me well.  So I didn't run around like a maniac, looking in improbable places in search of my mat.  I reasoned it will either turn up.  Or not.

This doesn't mean I didn't take some logical, proactive steps to recover my blankie and mat.  I knew in my heart the last time I had used it was at the Rec Center in Centennial.  I figured the next time I made way there I would look in their lost and found.  And I did on one of my return trips from NoCo.*  I just informed the guy behind the desk I was there on a mission and I had a good look in the lost and found cabinet beneath the check-in counter.  I even inquired if a mat might be elsewhere and he looked in the back, but reemerged empty handed.

No big deal - I also own a hot-green mat that my sister gifted to one of my girls  at some point in time.  So this mat became my go-to for yoga and Pilates classes and it worked just fine.  But no blanket.  Each time I returned to Goodson (Rec Ctr) I would peek in the cabinet to no avail.  I became relatively convinced that there would be no magical moment.  No reunion of my mat and my beloved serape and me.

Around this same time, I started to believe that something nefarious was going on.  Did Kenny of Blockhead fame take my mat?  Did he extend his juvenile hijinks off the mat and take mine?  I thought about my routine after yoga.  A steam and shower.  I'm quick and many times when I exit the locker room Kenny is still hanging around the lobby.  The last thing I do is hit the hallway loo before going to my car.  There are a few round tables and I usually leave my mat, gym bag and water bottle on one while taking care of business.  Did Kenny take my mat at the opportune moment?  Was I so verklempt from his antics in yoga that I didn't notice my mat had gone AWOL?

I don't know what bothered me most.  The mistrust of another human being?  That I was so out-of-sorts I left the gym without a relatively big belonging?  Having dark, suspicious thoughts does not serve me.  I didn't care for the feelings that came with it.  A bit of paranoia.  Perhaps it is early onset Alzheimer's and I needed to get used to being spacey and forgetful.  Side note - in this same time period I managed to lock my keys in the trunk of my car while dining in Cap Hill.  That is a story for another blog.  I just wanted you to know my concern for my mental well being wasn't completely unfounded.

Time passed and I forgot (hah) about my mat.  I felt badly that a thoughtful gift was forever lost.  I resigned myself to a Patzuk** green exercise mat.  Goodson had their annual weeklong closure for cleaning and improvements and I did my best to put it out of my mind.  When they reopened after Labor Day I moseyed in for a Zumba class - no mat needed - and thought I'd take just one more peek. I opened the now almost empty lost and found and there it was.  As my dad used to say "Son-of-a-gun".  I blinked, rubbed my eyes, blinked again.  Yes - that was my mat.  Still rolled tightly with a little piece of hot pink blanket making its way out of the edge.  Hallelujah!

I'm a talker, imagine that, so I had to gush to the lady working the counter how I thought this mat was lost forever, and I checked lost and found on numerous occasions, and where has it been hiding, and boy am I HAPPY!!  Without skipping a beat, she told me two things that rocked me.

1)  I am super lucky it was not thrown away during the annual clean-up.  EVERYTHING gets tossed.  She has no idea why my mat was spared.

2)  It sat for weeks on the back counter waiting for me, the owner, to claim it.  Right here she said, pointing to a perfectly feasible horizontal surface.

I walked away SMH***.  No way.  I was in there no less than one half a dozen times.  Never saw it.  I asked my buddy with the glasses to check in the back at least twice.  No dice.  Now more than ever I am convinced there is some sort of shenanigans. But the part of me that wants to be rational and nice and Zen puts all negative thoughts onto the back burner of my mind.  I decide to practice gratitude.  I AM grateful.  I love this purple knobby mat and brightly colored blanket duo.  They've come back to me.

Update:  I haven't been back to that Monday morning yoga class for more than five weeks.  These thoughts are fresh in my mind, because I am considering that for my practice tomorrow.  Will Kenny be there?  If he smiles at me sideways will my suspicions return?  Can I be in a good head space for yoga knowing I was that rattled?  Time will tell.

More important update:  YES!!  The mat and blanket got a thorough washing before I used them.  Even though I was pretty sure they were rolled up exactly how I left them.  I may try being chill, but I am also a germaphobe!

Time to Write,

Jane

* NoCo - Northern Colorado
** Patzuk green - an odd shade of lime green that graced our neighbor's house and car
***SMH - shaking my head

Finestra

I've had some reflective time this week to think about my writing and aspirations as such.  I was a bit disappointed not to have been selected for the The Lighthouse Writers Poetry Collective which is now underway.  Back when I applied I thought for sure I'd be accepted and that I was ready for the time and work commitment it entails.  When my fellow writer and friend Heloise was in town a few weeks back we visited Lighthouse.  On that day I spied a large dry-erase board listing the day's events for the Poetry Collective participants.  It was a little sting to my crestfallen spirit.  It was also an eye-opener.

At the end of last week I found myself at the Friday Five Hundred hosted by Lighthouse.  It is a free -write hour filled with collective energy and comfy chairs followed by a craft seminar in the Grotto on hard back seats. The Lighthouse graciously provides snacks and beverages for this informal gathering of wordsmiths and while I was in the kitchen refilling my water bottle I saw that white board again.  Different assignment, different day, but still a voluminous list of to-do's for the lucky poets who made it in.

I've had a busy summer and September hasn't cooled off or slowed down for me.  My daughter had a baby in late July.  I was with her for a few weeks and had a front row seat for the birth.  I lived on baby time for the next couple of weeks and found myself falling in love with my granddaughter while simultaneously suffering from an extreme lack of sleep and energy.  I'm more sane now, but I am still traveling to help Mom and baby out as much as possible between my own life and obligations.

As I type I'm halfway through a short house sitting stint for my son.  He and his wife depend on me twice per year to take care of the watering, the garden and OG.  That's Original Granddog.  Missy was my first, followed by my son's now almost three year old and this summer's precious pink addition.  All told three mammals that I love and enjoy spending time with.

Reflection...  I think my Higher Power knew I wasn't ready. The instructors had their own reasons for the rejection letter - lack of classes and workshops at Lighthouse being mentioned - but my HP did for me what I couldn't do for myself.  Not commit to a BIG responsibility and financial investment when so much is going on in my life right now.  Plus I am taking the comments about workshops and education seriously and have signed up with one of the Poetry Collective instructors for an eight week course.  This way she can put my name to my face. I'll be able to ascertain if I like her teaching style.

For a while I also bemoaned that I wasn't winning contests with the Poetry Society of Colorado.  That changed this past weekend with a second place ribbon on the theme of Religion.  I wrote from my heart, and even though my poem had a Jewish core, it did win the #2 position in a sea of Christian based entries.  And a $15.00 stipend to boot!  Sweet.

This confirmed I have work to do, and the work I've done is being noticed.  I need to stay focused.  I can write.  I can string together enough couplets to have a contest submission.  I also read two of my pieces aloud at the Member Open Mic.  One was about free love and promiscuity; the other about thugs deserving to die.  Tough subject matter.   No mic for me - I am learning to project my voice.  Not just opine on the page, but perform on a stage.

Which leads me to this.  I am one of three poets selected to participate in Denver Startup Week.  We will be on stage (I said I am ready) with old school typewriters.  The idea is to listen to a pitch and translate it into a takeaway poem for the attendee.  I am psyched!  We can also mosey up to the mic on stage in the middle of Downtown Denver and perform our original works!  Sweet.  Did I mention I am psyched?  And terrified!!

When I was a kid people used to say when a door closes, a window opens.  To me a window represents clarity.  Opportunity.  Flinging one wide open and flying high.  That's how I feel right now.  A magical moment for me to be quick on my feet, interact with grown-ups.  Spread my poetic wings and try something new.  Put myself out there.  Be vulnerable.  Be myself.

Time to Write,

Jane

My Second Place Finisher:

Kiddush

My Mother forgot to teach me Kiddush

Chicken soup eaten, unblessed in her house

She did remember to impart the magic of matzo balls

Her secret to the lightest, fluffiest dumplings

My parents neglected religion

No Bat Mitzvah for the girls

Too American, somehow

I never had an Oneg Shabbat in my honor

My Father helped build the temple

Though not with a hammer or sweat

His tools were moxie and determination

He put ham in our scrambled eggs

My only memory of him standing at the stove

Feeding his children

My own children only know Judaism

Through food and Hanukkah candles

Hamentashen means Purim

Passover; Matzo Brei

My mother’s soup trick works today

At altitude, in thin air

Far from the streets of her childhood

Once paved with gold, now littered with human ash

I forgot to teach my children about G-d

How their bellies will only truly be filled

When spirituality is their daily diet

Friday!

Here's a poem to brighten up your Friday!

Each morning when I arise

Sunlight greets my sleeping eyes

Extending me an invitation

Marveling in God’s creation

Time to Write,

Jane

Good Things Come in Threes

For the past few years, around this time, I feel compelled to explore my heritage.  And by this time, I don't mean the week after Labor Day, or the impending demise of summer.  Though the date may be different in the civil calendar, it is always the same in the Jewish Calendar.  The first of Tishri.  The equivalent of January 1st; the New Year.  

There are no balloon drops or champagne.  Instead this season of awe is both joyful and somber.  Forgiving and reflective.  For the second year now, I celebrated with my daughter, Andrea, under a huge tent at the Denver Botanic Gardens.  The details are immaculately executed by Judaism Your Way.  There is something magical about religious services being held in the spaciousness of nature.  I feel close to my Higher Power in the sunshine and fresh air.  My scant memories of temple in my youth are stifling and constrictive.   Not here.  There is an ethereal quality of open air and open mindedness blending in this setting.  All are welcome here.  That message was subtly and overtly repeated throughout the morning.  This is my place to practice my faith in my way.

Whenever I attend a religious service, I feel a connectedness to a power greater than myself.  This is a very adult concept for me.  I did not have a Bat Mitzvah.  I did not attend Hebrew School.  I could resent my parents for this shortsightedness, but as a grown-up the responsibility of my education and exploration is in my hands.  Why my parents neglected to teach me about G-d and Judaism is one of the mysteries of my childhood that I can either dwell upon, or accept.  My parents are both gone twenty+ years.  They are not here to ask.  It is too much energy to make-up stories in my head about it.  Instead, I will continue practicing acceptance of their faults and of their merits.

When my children were born, my husbands' religion seemed very important to him.  It seemed to me, at that time, that he was a faithful practitioner of his childhood faith.  I acquiesced and agreed that we would be church-goers.  We would celebrate Christian holidays through church and dogma; Jewish holidays through food and rituals.  I have regrets about that decision.  I became the primary parental unit that got the kids to religious instruction.  I dressed them on Sunday mornings and shooed everyone out the door.  In church the kids were bored and disconnected; my ex enjoyed his Sabbath nap.  One day I was done and any remnant of a religious upbringing for my three kids faded like a prayer flag in the elements.  

I knew I was a fake - but I wasn't ready to turn into my own faith yet.  We often hear the word journey bandied about in regards to spiritual work.  For me it has been a trek. Yoga played a part.  Teachers reading Pema Chodron or Tich Nach Hahn at the end of class inspired me to explore Buddism.  I read many books, learned to meditate.  For the year I lived in Fort Collins I was part of a sangha that met for group meditation and mindful eating.  Have you ever taken twenty minutes to eat one almond?  The gentleness of this practice and the soft quality of the words and the ways spoke to me.  I was able to continue without a formal community in my own time; my own way.

But this Judaism thing...  It is religion, tradition, formality and freedom.  There are many sects and degrees of deepness.  I feel like I have choices.  With Judaism Your Way, I feel I have a voice.  As I enter the fourth quarter of my life, is this where my religiosity can grow?  Is Judaism the pillow for my heart?  The stimulation for my intellect?

I mentioned earlier not being taught about G-d.  As a young adult I eschewed the concept.  Wasn't G-d for Christians only?  (now I know how narrow-minded that thinking was).  Wasn't G-d only for those who couldn't figure life out for themselves?  (now I know what a relief it is to turn it over to a power greater than myself).   When my son was born I felt a niggling.  A tug.  For the miracle of birth to occur there had to be something more to life than eggs and sperm.  But three kids in less than five years, and work, and marriage left me little time to explore.  What was out there?  How does this miracle of life and love and learning occur on this aqueous orb?

About ten years ago, I started attending Al-Anon.  It was there I found a way of life that brings joy and relief.  It was there I found a Higher Power - of my understanding - to look to and lean on.  Al-Anon is not a religion.  It is not therapy.  For me it is a spiritual program.  In retrospect, I can see that spirituality was a missing piece in the puzzle of my life.  I am grateful for my journey.  Summed up in simple steps - nothing to something  - to more - to yearning - to learning - and back again.

Now.  Now, I want to learn more about my religion of origin.  Have I always been Jewish in my heart and my head just needed to catch up?  Maybe.  In Denver there is much opportunity to be Jewish.  It is my responsibility to find the options and make choices that resonate with me.  The trifecta for me may be the trisection of Buddhism, Judaism and Al-Anon.

   “the rule of three” (Latin-"omne trium perfectum") principle suggests things that come in threes are inherently more humorous, satisfying and effective than any other number of things.

And in my own words:

I Choose

I roused in Al-Anon

Those rooms were where

A sense of Source, a Higher Power

Pulsated my piety

I obediently sat upright in shul

I never stood on the bema

Denied a debut Aliyah

My tongue knows no Hebrew

Getting the spirituality right

Righted my head, my emotions

Al-Anon taught me about

Letting go and letting God

The synagogue of my youth is hollow

Hallowed halls echo a nothingness my

Ears never strained to hear

Siddurs written in a language I do not understand

Al-Anon loves me how I am

Meetings are my church

Compassionate members my fellowship

My Higher Power is my Higher Power

The experience of formality

Stifled me – God as a Holy Man’s formula

Childlike images of an old bearded man

On a throne, reigning in the heavens

Once I heard religion is for those who fear hell

Spirituality is for those of us who have already been there

I don’t know if these are true words

But I do know this;

The confines of religion confine me

The breadth of spirituality allows me to breathe

Time to Write,

Jane

Say Goodbye to Summer

I do not want to say Goodbye - to summer.  How is it possible that it is almost the second weekend of September?  Where did my lazy days of summer sizzle away to?  This season has been a hot one in South Suburban Denver.  Seems to me it started in May with daytime temps in the 90's.  June persisted  with the mercury hovering near 100.  July continued the trend, August endured. It was relentless.  Now it is September and our days are cooler and a bit cloudier.  

One of my favorite perks of apartment living is having a nice pool at my doorstep; without any of the work, no degree in chemistry needed to maintain water clarity, no skimming, no unwanted dead critters in the basket... In winter the best benefit is no shoveling!  I've jointly owned two houses in my lifetime.  One in Nanuet, New York and one in Colorado Springs, Colorado.  Personally I think home ownership is overrated.  Who needs a hobby when you have a house?  There is always something to do when a homeowner.  Lawn mowing, edging, weeding.  Painting inside or out.  Cleaning gutters, raking leaves.  Snow removal, blowing out sprinklers.  The list is infinite and I am so happy to be free from every single one of those burdens.

Back to the pool.  I did manage to sneak in two days of sunshine and soaking over Labor Day Weekend.  I had been invited to a friend's cabin in the high country, but circumstances on her end coupled with my reticence to travel on any roads that began with the letter "I" over a holiday weekend changed my mind.  So I stayed home and danced Nia and Zumba instead.   I even went to a delightful early morning yoga on Sunday.  I hit an Al-Anon meeting and celebrated my friend's 60th birthday with her in the afternoon.  The surprise may not have manifested, but it was a good party and a relaxing weekend.

On Monday I broke my vow of no-driving on the Interstate and went to see my daughter.  She and my new grandbaby are the main reasons I missed out on about a month of pool time.  I spent about 30 days with my kid before, during and after the birth.  And while being a birth coach, helping with housework and shopping can be rewarding experiences and helpful to the new mom - they did nothing to maintain my tan.  Now I am sliding back into my own groove and the pool is chilly from the low night temps and any day I expect the dreaded grey cover to appear.

I'm in love with this pool.  It is deep enough to dive into, long enough to almost swim a good lap.  In the first days of summer it is crowded with screaming kids and admonishing grandparents.  As summer continues the novelty wears off and just a few die-hards such as myself are there in the blazing heat.  I prefer to stay under the shade of the few leafy trees, but this time of year, I can be out in the sunshine.  I wear sunscreen and a hat.  I am a responsible sun-goddess.

The pattern of afternoon thunderstorms has made a reappearance, so if I am to brave frigid waters I will have to do it early tomorrow morning.  That cuts into my writing and exercise time, so as a grown-up I will be forced to make responsible decisions.  Making decisions is right up there with owning a house.  Can't I just do what I want, when I want?

I like when the universe decides for me.  Or the HOA or even the pool guy.  If I go out in the morning, and it is sunny and warm enough, I will take that dip.  If the pool is covered, or the gate is locked, I will know my dog days of summer are gone.  I can hold onto my bikini lines and memories of a really good summer.  Full of bathing beauties and babies.  Full of sunscreen and diaper crème.  Replete with lounge chairs and laundry.laundry.

I will give my suits a good end of summer wash, pack them away for a tropical vacation or the next season of summertime.  I'll keep my hats at hand, because I wear them year-round during outdoor activities.  I'll resort to indoor laps at the YMCA or Rec Center.  I'll warm up in the steam bath after a good workout.  This is one thing I give up when it is hot, so I relish the reemerging of sweat.

I'll switch my closet over, put the snow brush back into the trunk.  Sweaters may come out, but I am not drinking pumpkin lattes.  That is never going to happen.  Neither are boots. Towels with golden leaves won't be hung in my kitchen.  I'll sneak a peak at my tush in the mirror after a shower.  It won't be a cellulite inspection.  Rather I will bask in that line between tanned and pallid until that last vestige of summer fades.  

Time to Write,

Jane