When Motherhood was in Black and White - and thankfully it changed

Back in the day, there was no discussion, no space to disagree,

Risking the vacuum of being unseen.

Everything was black and white, yes or (no), 

The Matriarchs decided what to wear, when to eat,

The Patriarch mandated silence at the dinner table

(Regardless if you were choking on tough chunks of meat),

We all obeyed because they ruled in black and white.

Memories of Grandma's face enveloped in the grey cloud

Of cigarette smoke, and the grey landscape of life at home

With Mother, perhaps black and white would at least have offered

Contrast, and maybe a rainbow could have occasionally 

Burst through the seams of darkness.

They are smiling in this black and white photo but

I know that their entwined lives were mostly black,

Dreary in misunderstandings and steeped only in responsibility.

Today, there is color in mothering, reds and yellows, greens

And pinks, the drama of disagreement, the warmth of love

And connection, I see it everywhere even in the black and

White moments of difficulty, a rainbow will emerge,

A pot of gold at the base.

Such is love.

 

Karen and Felix 

Tori and Warren

So colorful!

There's a rainbow in my breakfast bowl

There's a rainbow in my breakfast bowl,

And I know not from where it came.

There is no prism hanging in my window, 

Only a squirrel staring at me from the bird feeder,

Only new buds on the Serviceberry bush,

There is no optical grating, not a single thing

That explains this rainbow.

I place the rainbow on my hand to raise it,

Seeking its source only to find that my rainbow

Has disappeared, as has the squirrel.

Conclusion:  the squirrel must have delivered

The rainbow to my bleary eyes this 

Lovely morning.  

 

The $150 haircut...never again

Why is it that on the third cut, the price goes up,

the quality drops, and we women are left clutching our emptied wallets

somewhat grief-stricken at the misspent funds at the hairdresser.

I have noticed this, that the first cut is attentive and less expensive,

the second, perhaps the same price, and not quite so great and the

third is accomplished by the same hairdresser who is clearly a thousand

miles away, finishing a cut that she knows well enough to do on 

auto-pilot.

But, oh!  the casual passing of her bill to me, and on seeing the

price having increased 33%, and add the tip, I am momentarily 

speechless, but having spoken of travels to Japan and such, aware

that she knows I must have the money in my pocket somewhere

and I do.

But, it's not worth it to me, this $150 haircut, with tip, I wish her

well, she has her bills, but surely, we women must rise up against 

the industry of the overpriced hairdresser.

Vanity is only worth so much.

 

Re-reading a lovely book that I did not remember at all

I know that I read this before so 

I picked it up and turned to the last story in the book

In fact, I often start at the last paragraph if I'm feeling tentative. 

The Most Beautiful Book is made of cigarette papers glued together,

A collection of recipes shared by Soviet prison camp women with their children

Who anxiously await the return of their mothers, never knowing if they

Will be reunited, and I wondered how I would want to be remembered,

Whether it would be the crepes, the ones my own mother made for me,

The ones that were cut into strips for inclusion in the next days soup.

Or the brownies that my mother and I had made, the ones that

My daughter and I made, each generation having learned to

Cut many tiny slices which added up to them being

Consumed at a breathtaking pace.

I don't know why I picked up this book, having no recollection,

One of those brilliant moments that come upon us,

Like the sun rising over the horizon. 

 

Jet lag: the biggest price of travel to Japan

 The body has no idea what time it is,

Wondering why I am in bed when it's mid day in Tokyo!

And why am I am in bed when I'm hungry?

Ah, the price of travel, not the money,

The reality that even the big brained people

Who view their bodies as mere vehicles for 

Transporting the mind are brought to earth

As the body decides how to navigate the 

Fifteen hour, yes, fifteen hour, time change.

The body does not like such things,

Oh no, oh no, 

The body says, I do not like this travel thing,

Oh no, oh no.  

Before I forget - reflections on Japan

Before I forget the feeling of Japan, before I 

Forget the ease of being in their culture, how their manners

Allow a fluidity in daily movement, in spite of not knowing 

More than three expressions in Japanese.  

There is no waste here, the sperm sac of the cod is a 

Delicacy I spite of my recoil, as is every part of the 

Multitude of sea life pulled from the ocean.  

There is a moderation in manner and consumption-

Only on entering the United lounge at Narita airport am

I reminded that most Americans consume way more than 

Is needed, shirts stretched tight over sagging bellies.  

The Japanese smiled at us, visitors to their country,

In spite of who we are, too often loud and messy.  

On the street, they are neatly dressed, the groups of

Salarymen are laughing and chatting together even though

It’s well past the end of the American work day.  

There are no overflowing trash bins, everyone carries

Their trash home to be properly sorted, and restrooms are immaculate, bidets in all public toilets.  There is no toilet paper strewn on the floor like you see in America. 

The workmen directing traffic are polite and neatly dressed.  The gardener meticulously clearing small weeds from the pathway is focused on his work. 

Yet young couples are enjoying life everywhere, holding hands, parents are strolling their babies.

What lessons do I wish to take from the Japanese? 

Be attentive to others needs. 

Speak softly and remember to smile.

Small tasks deserve focus and presence (gardening!)

Clean up after yourself and put things away. 

Don’t over consume.  

Enjoy life and show respect in your actions.  

 

Yep, I’ll just follow him: Japan

 I’ll admit it.

I have no sense of direction so, if forced to travel solo,

Which I am not, in this foreign country with three alphabets, densely populated, with train stations that could 

Contain small cities, this country of Japan,

I would have resorted to lengthy study of physical maps, the ones you can’t even buy anymore,  to imprint the concept of the place into my mind. 

I would have marked every landmark in yellow, and 

Traced my routes in red.  In this day of Google Maps 

And YouTube,  I instead studied videos of people buying 

Tickets to get from Narita Airport to Tokyo Station,  to get an idea of the terrain, and quickly recognized that I would

Have to trust in my abilities once on the ground. 

Yet, once here, I relinquished my agency to my companion, he being so more confident, even in his mistakes, that I often followed him like child, feeling rather pathetic, 

 But also liberated from the task of navigation. 

Instead I could take in the view, the chaotic blur of 

Constant movement, or the peaceful Zen of the gardens.