Songs of Experience

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Wild Geese
by, Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

My teenage daughter just gave met this essay by feminist, Marilyn Frye, that her awesome (male) English teacher assigned.
We had a fantastic discussion about it this morning and I am wondering what you all think?

In case anyone wanders over to this site, I just wanted to let you know we had a failed experiment … or, rather, an experiment that gave us some really good data. Group Blogs don’t work. This is actually a heartening discovery because, to me, it proves people would rather communicate face-to-face.
Stride-for-stride. The Janes have plenty of discourse (believe me – you can hear us a mile away chattering on the trail!); we just don’t have the desire or time to spend visiting in the blogosphere. Seejanerun is alive and kicking. But we sure ain’t bloggin.

until next time,
joan

Dave dropped this in my lap this morning: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB121695015234783463.html?mod=2_1578_topbox
knowing it would get my blood boiling.

To me, the kernel of truth is this quote: “I do it to detach.”

hmmmmm?

Yesterday, I was recalling a friend of mine (who ended up dying of a brain tumor in his 30’s) that a few years before he died he fell in love with a little three-year old boy named Til. My friend was a gay man who never planned to have children, but his best (girl) friend had a little boy he adored. Well, this friend, Andreas, took to collecting little treats (toys and penny candy and such) to carry around in his pockets, so when he saw Til he’d have a treasure to pull out of his pocket – presto! Now, I tell you this story because I am thinking of “Iron Mom” … whose pockets were stuffed with notes from her mother … yet, YET, she didn’t even think of what her own daughter needed/wanted/deserved from her. IRON mom, indeed. I do it to detach.

thoughts?

I’m not sure if I’m even allowed to post on this blog since I’m not in See Jane Run (and I don’t even have female genitalia), but I really felt the need to post this. I just wanted to let the world know that I beat Joan in Upwords (our favorite word game) last night fair and square. This is definitely newsworthy so I thought I’d share.

That is all.

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Hooray! Songs of Experience is making a comeback … with a little help from my friends.

Beginning soon, SoE will be a group blog for my seejanerun running group of moms.
Each Jane will have a username, password, and editing privileges so the running/mothering conversation will go out in 25 different directions like spokes on a wheel.
I can’t wait to see what comes of opening this blog up to a collective.

Mama Birdsongs of Experience, here we come!

Good night,” said the younger waiter.
“Good night,” the other said. Turning off the electric light he continued the conversation with himself. It is the light of course but it is necessary that the place be clean and light. You do not want music. Certainly you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it was already nada y pues nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada

LOG OFF

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A Measuring Worm
by, Richard Wilbur (from The New Yorker magazine – February 11, 2008)

This yellow striped green
Caterpillar, climbing up
The steep window screen,

Constantly (for lack
Of a full set of legs) keeps
Humping up his back.

It’s as if he sent
By a sort of semaphore
Dark omegas meant

To warn of Last Things.
Although he doesn’t know it,
He will soon have wings,

And I, too, don’t know
Toward what undreamt condition
Inch by inch I go.

I should be making dinner for my kids right now – they’re really hungry – but I can’t take care of anything until I get this off my chest. A few hours ago, as I was heading into my favorite trail with my two younger daughters (because it is late February and this is when the daffodils bloom along Banshee), I encountered a woman and her teenage daughter coming out of this very trail with two huge bunches of freshly-picked daffodils. I was truly shocked and it felt like someone just kicked me in the stomach. I couldn’t help blurting, “Did you just pick those?!” “Oh, yes,” said the greedy little pig, “There are tons.” Tons? Really? NOT ANYMORE, I wanted to scream. (There were, in fact, only about 7 daffodils left on the trail after she harvested several dozen for her private dinner table). I told her, “That is terrible; those flowers should be for everyone to enjoy.” She defensively muttered something about “did you donate this land?” but I was too upset to even SEE those cut flowers (not one but TWO huge bunches of flowers in that piggy girl’s fist). As I marched away, I told my own daughters to never never never never pick flowers on public property. “We know,” they said. Then my 6 year-old added, “If they wanted flowers why didn’t they plant some in their OWN yard?” Indeed.

Those February Daffodils along Banshee could have been the glory of hundreds of runners and walkers for weeks, but instead only two people enjoyed them.
“And then they die,” said my other daughter.

Is there a law on the books for public green space: “Please don’t pick the flowers”?
I guess I’ll go cook dinner now … but I’ve lost my appetite.

It is Lent once again, and rather than participate in what I call the sorority Lenten diet (giving up dessert for 40 days before spring break, so they can fit into their bikinis), I am going to try – TRY being the operative word here, considering the flop of my last attempt at a streak – to do 10 minutes of “mindful/prayerful” yoga every evening. One of my favorite conversations to have with my daughters is the “What are you going to do for Lent?” on Ash Wednesday. Here’s what my kids have come up with:

Lizzie, age 6 – clear the dinner dishes every night
Rosie, age 10 – kiss everyone goodnight (which is “blecch!” for her)
Sarah Jane, age 14, – try (again TRY) not to look at her reflection – in mirrors or store-front windows, turned-off televisions, or metal doorknobs. This, for a teenage girl is, OMG!, way difficult. But I know she’s capable of rising to the challenge. She’s allowed to get ready for school using her bathroom mirror, but after that, no face or hair or outfit checks.
Could you do it?

This excerpt from WB Yeats’ poem, A Prayer for My Daughter, helps illuminate why one might want to avoid looking-glasses.

“May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger’s eye distraught,
Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,
Consider beauty a sufficient end,
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.”

*
Well, that’s it. My St. John’s wort experiment is over. How’s this for a newspaper headline?:

Tummy Trouble Trumps Trial

Maybe I’ll try one of those sunlamps next, or go au natural. This ridiculously warm February weather in North Carolina has been amazing to run in and ripping through the woods, truly dappled with sunlight, has created ample endorphins to cure the blues.

How about:

Ample Endorphins Enhance Ectoplasm

what is ectoplasm anyway? Dr. Oz? err, I mean, Eric?

Let’s have a googlook …

Ectoplasm generally refers to the outer part of a cell’s cytoplasm.

* Ectoplasm (paranormal), a physical substance that manifests as a result of “spiritual energy” or “psychic phenomenon”
* Ectoplasm (radio show), a BBC Radio 4 comedy series
* the outer bodily regions of the jelly fish
* a cocktail with vodka

Ahhh, definition number 4 looks interesting.
Let’s google-image that one:

I am certain that will help with mild depression … however, it may also result in tummy trouble.
What’s a sad girl to do?

da do run run run
da do run run

Robust Running Revives Retina

I really do feel so much better when I run in the sun.

*

tummy trouble and
stinky poo. No, that’s not a
haiiku. Day sixteen.

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I wrote the following talk for the opening of Through Women’s Eyes, by Women’s Hands, a juried art show featuring North Carolina Women artists. I was humbled and overwhelmed by the task of speaking to and for artists … because, as I say, I’m not an artist. Or am I?

In Their Eyes Are Watching God, Harlem Renaissance writer, Zora Neale Hurston achingly observed, “Black women are the mules of the earth.” If I may, I’d like to amend Hurston’s observation to include all women; “All women are the mules of the earth.”

We carry the burden of taking care. We take care of our men, our children, our aging mothers, our dying fathers, our sisters and brothers, the dogs, the cats, the house, the lawn, the children down the street, our next door neighbor’s houseplants … we take care.

When Ashley Wilson invited me to speak to you today, my first thought was, “Why, I’m not an artist. What can I contribute to this celebration?”
But I am a woman and I do know what it means to carve out space in one’s life for creating; I can see through woman’s eyes and I know what women’s hands are capable of.
Read the rest of this entry »

Today is Day 13 on St. John’s Wort and, guess what?, I forgot to take it yesterday. Does that mean I should take two today? Hmmm …. maybe Dr. Eric could consult here. I remember a while ago when Eric was skeptical about “syndromes” (when I blogged about DHEA), so I imagine an herbal remedy won’t gibe with his western medicine sensibilities (though Seattle is geographically closer to Eastern medicine than we are here in Chapel Hill).
Anyway, I think I’ll just get back on schedule with one 300mg capsule at lunch. When friends have asked me how my experiment is going, I can only note feeling much better on all my runs. I haven’t felt that sluggish, slammed feeling in … let’s see now … about 13 days. Perhaps St. John’s Wort is restorative for muscles as well as the brain.
A quick google search revealed this for “st. john’s wort/restorative muscles:”

St. John’s Wort is also useful for other conditions. Many times with great success I have recommended St. John’s Wort oil or tincture for bed wetting, stiff arthritic joints, Bell’s palsy, and shingles and as a restorative for exhausted nervous systems. One man with painful muscles and joints applies the oil topically along his spine. Shortly thereafter, the pain is relieved and he is able to sleep. Another person has difficulty sleeping through the night. She takes St. John’s Wort tincture internally in conjunction with some other herbs. She now sleeps more soundly. Another elderly woman came to see me with such stiff hands that she could no longer play the piano. She massaged St. John’s Wort oil into her hands three times a day as well as taking another herb internally and within a short time she was playing the piano again.

I have been playing the piano again; a coincidence or side effect?

While reading The New Yorker this morning, I laughed out loud at a Paul Noth cartoon. Surely this is a sign of renewed mental health.

Yesterday, Day 6, was symptom-free except for a slight difference in my temporal lobes. It was as if more light was in my brain, coming from the sides of my head – through the lobes. One of the known side effects of St. John’s Wort is photosensitivity, so maybe the brain/eye actually does let in more light. Or maybe there was a placebo effect; I read “photosensitivity”and believed I was more sensitive to light. My reading suggested my reaction. If one feels depressed in the winter months due to sunlight deprivation, it would make sense that a drug (or herb) that could actually stimulate light receptors would be effective. A sunlamp would also work, though I haven’t tried that. My brother used to tan himself under a sunlamp. Are those the same sunlamps? I remember people used sunlamps to zap zits; is that still a remedy for acne?

I can see more research is necessary in my experiment of one!

I don’t really know what a meme is, but I think I’m starting one today … in medius rex. I am on day 5 of taking Saint John’s Wort, an herb/drug (yep, you read that right – “drug” – come all ye with the cries of “Hypocrite!”). Saint John’s Wort is a holistic remedy (or not) for mild depression. I tend to get very blue in the winter months, so I thought I’d try an experiment on myself for 50 days … because there are exactly 50 300mg capsules in the bottle I purchased form Weaver Street Market. I didn’t chart my mood for Days 1,2,3 or 4, but I did look up the side effects on-line for livestock who eat the plant that Saint John’s Wort comes from and it said this:

“Mania and hyperactivity may also result including running in circles until exhausted.”

Well, geez, I’ve been doing that for 30 years … every Wednesday night at the track. I can handle that side effect.

On day five I have observed the following three things:

1.) Dave is calling this herb “Saint Joan’s Wort.”
2.) I don’t fall asleep as easily at night … racing thoughts and all that.
3.) I am feeling slight trepidation when I actually swallow the pill (more so than on Day 1).

Maybe St. John’s Wart is what caused my pajama day.
It looks harmless enough in the photo:

I was feeling surly today, so I decided to run in my pajamas again. Have you ever thought, “I just can’t be bothered to change into running clothes”? That’s what I was feeling today and yesterday. If I have to change clothes, I won’t run. I was warm and comfy in my week-end pink pj’s yesterday and, rather than change into running layers for the cold, I drove over to the trail-head “as is” – assuming I’d make the quick change to real clothes in the parking lot. Instead, I laced on my shoes and hit the trail in my flowing pink pajamas. Wow, was I fast! (or, at least I thought I was). That silk really cut the wind. I was completely set free from convention – and routine. Surely, that truculence was out of my system …

Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning unable to budge from my cozy bed again. Hmmmm? Perhaps that electric blanket we got for Christmas wasn’t such a great idea after all. I decided to try the power of pj’s again. Where I was alone yesterday in my freaky outfit, today I met a group of ladies for a track workout. “Are those pajamas?!” they wondered, laughing. “Why yes,” I admitted, “I’m feeling surly today.” We all jogged over to the track – me with my spikes and pj’s – and did our extremely grueling 5 sets of 5 X 100m sprints. I might have cried had it not been for those pajamas. Seriously.

I wonder if anyone else has a trick to make it out the door on those “I don’t wanna run days.”

Remember the camp song?:

“I wear my pink pajamas in the summer when it’s hot;
I wear my woolly undies in the winter when it’s not;
and sometimes in the spring
and sometimes in the fall
I jump into the sheets with nothing on at all.”

Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that!

There aren’t very many people in Chapel Hill who are actually FROM North Carolina, or the south, so you might not know about the traditional New Year’s day meal of black-eyed peas, mustard greens, and cornbread. Here’s what Dave read aloud from wikipedia before he prepared and served a delicious meal yesterday:

Black-eyed peas are traditionally eaten on New Year’s Day in the American South and in some other parts of the USA. The traditional meal also features collard or mustard greens or cabbage. This is supposed to bring good luck and financial enrichment. The peas stand for good luck, the greens symbolize paper money. Cornbread also often accompanies this meal.

These “good luck” traditions date back to the U.S. Civil War. Union troops, especially in areas targeted by General William Tecumseh Sherman, would typically strip the countryside of all stored food, crops, and livestock and destroy whatever they couldn’t carry away. At that time, Northerners considered “field peas” and corn suitable only for animal fodder, and as a result didn’t steal or destroy these humble foods. Many Southerners survived as a result of this mistake.[1]

INGREDIENTS

* 1 1/2 pounds mustard greens
* 4 strips bacon, chopped
* 1 Tbs. canola oil
* one medium onio, chopped fine
* one medium celery stal, chopped fine
* 1 1/2 cups chicken or vegetable stock
* 2 150z cans black-eyed peas, drained and rinsed
* 1-2 Tbs cider or red wine vinegar
* salt
* freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Wash the mustard greens in several changes of cold water, stripping off the leafy green portions from either side of the tough central stalk. Discard the stalks and rip the leafy portions into small pieces. Shake to remove the excess water.Cook the bacon and oil in a medium dutch oven until the bacon is crisp, about 6 minutes. Add the onion and celery and cook until softened, about 6 minutes.Add 1 cup ctock and mustard greens, stir well and cover the pan. Cook, stirring once or twice, until the greens have wilted, about 4 minutes.Stir in the black-eyed peas and remaining 1/2 cup stock and cover the pan again. Cook, stirring until peas are heated through and the greens are tender, about 5 minutes. Stir in the vinegar and salt and pepper to taste.Serve immediately with hot cornbread on the side.

Seeing this story was the best Christmas present I could receive:

http://abcnews.go.com/Video/playerIndex?id=4003490&affil=wpvi

You have to be patient through the 30 second commercial before the story; it’s well worth the wait.