Classic Order

That photo of me,
shuffling toward you
for the very first time,
says it all:
small being,
newly bipedal,
approaching tall man
emerging from fuzzy background
— and that is how I remember it;
“There he is; go on,” she said,
but my baby eyes
could not see that far ahead.

Sometime later,
you and I stood on the corner
of a very wide avenue,
and little me could only cringe
at the speed of everything flowing by
— fast, so fast, too fast for me —
but when the light changed,
you took me by the hand
and we raced across,
returning to the car lot
before it closed,
because the steed we’d driven off
had failed only blocks away.

It was revived, however,
to become the beloved chariot in which
we rolled over every stretch
of road we could wind along,
from coast to Sierra foothills,
staying at creaking cottage courts
or car camping roadside,
like that time a small dog
tried to catch a mighty river by the tail,
while her human sisters panned for gold
— the golden treasure garnered,
the laughter this triggered in us all.

These are glimpses
of how this child gained vision:
Plans meticulously made
so often veered out of control,
and the lesson always seemed to be
Just Roll With It;
though not always what we expect
(Results May Vary),
rewards can still be reaped,
such as a cozy at-home indoor picnic,
because an unexpected storm
rained out an intended excursion.

Adventures in education,
ever a tilting against windmills
of cultural experimentation;
how could “new math”
compete with “old math”?
Surely there is only onemath;
but while numbers were fated
to be my Achilles heel,
for you they were stock and trade.

Building and design,
weights and measures,
these are living lessons in conformity
and resistance — even revolution;
any angle can be joined,
but will it stand and withstand
the forces of gravity and
unintended use?

Perspective is itself an art,
and everyday proposes a new lesson;
perspective does not always form in
nor heed to the painful symmetries
we are taught to expect,
asked to cultivate.

Any rejected stone
has keystone potential,
viewed with the right eyes
and placed by the right hands,
as masons from Greece,
Europe and Yavapai attest
by way of the monuments
they left behind.

And this is how you taught me,
whether you know it or not,
that symmetry is illusory,
even unnatural;
the human struggle has
always been a vertical challenge
to the gently curving horizon
of a continually growing and quaking earth,
a battle against the natural order;

Similarly, modern science is baffled
in the attempt to unmask
nature as a formulaic perfection,
perhaps because there is
no perfect, simplistic formula,
more an ever growing
agreeable synergy
of complexities.

How many places, things,
people and relationships
have we witnessed that work
in defiance of a stated perfection,
while the captains of industry
fail to produce a toaster that can toast?

Perhaps more to the mark,
nature trains us to cooperate,
revealing the truth that beauty
is uniquely, even willfully, nonconformist,
as can be seen in any garden;
you can nurture and train,
but a garden will go its own way,
and even lowly weeds can flower
with unexpected beauty,
given their moment in the sun.

You’ve lived at the apex
of this age-old human battle
to best nature, and you’ve
tested your fulcrum against
the weight of normative fashion.

I’ve observed that
your preference has been
to lay paths that gently conform
to the soft contour of the natural setting;
there you’ve planted the aloe and reed,
and together we’ve released
butterflies into the wild
— letting go is the magic blessing
that allows beauty to bloom
as it will do.

This lesson in artful living
has not been lost on me,
and these feet of mine
find those paths,
from time to time.

It is in such times and places
where I find a classic order
that allows me to
feel my feet firmly planted
and to see just a little
of what lies ahead.

for Father’s Day

© 2019 BY Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Borrowing

Spring cleaning:
an exercise in wiping away
the dust and tears,
the petty futilities
of talk that says nothing
and acts that do nothing;
so many things
you pay someone to do
you end up doing yourself--
so why pay?

Borrowing time,
always borrowing,
to think, to dream, to write, to sing,
to watch the children grow
(they won't be small for long);
I don't want to miss
my second childhood,
to feel again the growing pains
and all the other hurts
of being in a new world.

Borrowing youth--
time away from
dishes and dusting,
cooking and cleaning,
sweeping and sifting,
folding and scolding;
the sun and breeze
feel different now
than the first time
I sneezed my way through.

All borrowed,
all of this life,
this incomparable,
incomprehensible life,
this experiential being,
hopefully not interest-free;
we can only hope
to reduce our debt
by loving each day,
at peril of dust and tears.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Discussions About Life

It had been such a beautiful day! Warm, Spring-like, gorgeous!

It was late in the afternoon. My daughter suddenly wanted to go to the beach, even for just a short time. My son did not want to go to the beach.

At their age, it is either all or none. I decided that we should go; the sun would soon be setting, we wouldn't be gone long.

So, off we went.

We are extremely fortunate to live within a mile of a lovely beach and bird sanctuary. Because of the fantastic weather, the beach was crowded with people of all ages, and birds, of many different feathers, were floating, flying and walking around the area. Couldn't have asked for a more perfect setting.

My son, however, was moping. At first, he didn't want to play with his sister, and then he did want to play with her, but she wouldn't play the way he wanted to... (sigh) One of those moments every parent has to deal with. I usually try to deal with it by casting my mind back to my own childhood, sifting through the memory banks for similar experiences.

He finally came over and sat by me, arms crossed, with a cloudy look on his face.

"What's wrong?" I asked (already knowing).

"She won't let me play with her," he said.

"Really?"

"Well, she will, but only if we play the way she wants to," came his answer.

"Hmmm..." Meanwhile, the memory banks were flicking images through my brain, and I was winding up to formulate some sort of response to his difficulty, hopefully a response that might be useful.

"You know, when I was a child, I was serious, just like you are. The difference between you and me is that you talk more about what is going on with you. I didn't talk, thinking I had to handle everything on my own," I paused, to see if he was listening.

"You do have to handle your experience on your own; I cannot change your experience for you, to make things happen the way that you think you want them to happen." I swept my arm around at the fabulous view and the people enjoying it. "Here we are in this beautiful place, in this beautiful moment, and you are choosing to be miserable."

"I know that it is disappointing when things don't go your way. Most days in life are like that, honestly. I can think of few days in my life when things have gone perfectly or the way that I wanted." He cut a glance at me, considering this with some skepticism.

"I think the secret to getting along through life must lie in letting go of the need to control circumstances that, let's face it, really can't be controlled, and by taking time to look at what is actually happening around us. If we can do that, it may be possible to find the beauty that just is, not a moment that we manufacture or manipulate, but one that is just there and includes us. Do you see?"

He was thinking about what I said.

"I think that if you spend more time finding and being within the beauty of things the way they are, you will feel less need to control them. There are so many people in the world who spend all their waking moments trying to make things happen and in continual frustration over not being able to control everything and every person around them. Ultimately, I think this is a waste of good living time, when you could be appreciating that you are part of this beautiful and remarkable place and moment. This beautiful moment is yours, if you can see it, hear it, taste it, touch it. bathe in it."

He looked out over the water. The sun was making a glorious red slide down behind the San Francisco skyline.

"There, see? We can go home now--this was only a quick outing anyway. Let's go home and make dinner."

He was watching the colors change along the horizon. He seemed more relaxed. But, I wondered, had he been able to digest what I had said? I don't know. But it seemed to me like he was thinking about it.

"Why don't you go get your sister, and then we'll go."

"Okay, mom." He ran over to where his sister was drawing pictures in the sand and splashing around.

Looking after him, watching them both, and remembering my own years of frustration and seriousness (then and now), I wondered if what had I said would help, or not.

If there is one thing I know, it is this: as a parent, I cannot mitigate my children's experiences--they must experience what they will experience.

Experience is the great teacher, but only if we are willing to be pliant and infinitely flexible students. Experience is the reason for life, though perhaps life's meaning is beyond experience, as meaning implies a synthesis that can only be derived from a culmination of all experiences.

I thought about what I had said to him. I wondered if I were modeling, in our home life, any of what I had suggested. If so, was it enough to be a good model?

And then I wondered if I could remember what I had said long enough to write it down, to be a wisdom that I, too, could quietly consider.

Epiphany: Be The Gift You Give

/ɪˈpɪfəni/
–noun

3. a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or 
commonplace occurrence or experience.

4. a literary work or section of a work presenting, usually symbolically, 
such a moment of revelation and insight.

I have skipped the first two meanings because, though they are relevant to the word, they are not relevant to my post.

This post contains a personal short personal story:

I grew up dyslexic. It was possibly a mild condition; I don't know because where I lived, no one tested for anything like that. All I can be sure of is that I was one of millions of undiagnosed kids who struggled with reading. I was slow to learn to read. I was a terrible speller. When I wrote, I would skip or reverse words. When I read aloud, I would skip or reverse words, lines on the page would bleed together, my eye would skip suddenly to the next paragraph. I am a musician, and so my reading challenges reside in that skill set, also. My scores of complex music are often littered with pencil markings that roadmap for my eyes what I am meant to see, rather than fall into the trap that my dyslexic perception will lead to.  

This condition did not stop me, I am happy to report. My mother was personally involved in making sure that I learned to properly read. We read at home after school all through third grade, when my teacher noticed that I was behind the rest of the class. One day, the key went in and turned all the tumblers, and even though I still struggled, at times, a love of reading caught at me, like a fire. That was an epiphany time for me, if not a moment, then over the course of months. When that fire started, nothing could keep me from reading, and soon, despite my struggles, I was reading books ahead of my age group. I ended my high school years as an Advanced Placement student of English. I am a college graduate and a published author. I can swim with words; I do not drown.

I now have children of my own. When they turned three, I started to teach them how to read using the book Teach Your Child To Read In 100 Easy Lessons. They did not show symptoms of dyslexia. One was a little slow to get started and is a poor speller--this is not a huge problem. The kids love to read, and they love to express themselves in writing. I could not ask for anything more.

Being out of work at the moment, I have offered more volunteer time at my kids' school, helping in one of the third grade classes with reading skills, one-on-one with a few students who are struggling.

Then, on the school yard, one morning, a friend casually mentioned that her son is having reading trouble. I said, oh. She said, yeah, he is dyslexic. I said, oh. Well, she said, we have him working with a tutor once a week, and it is helping but... I said, you know, I am dyslexic; if you want, I would be willing to work with him. She said, wow (probably because my admission caught her off guard), hmm... well, I'll think about it. I said, I hope you consider it; tutors are great, but sometimes that isn't the same as sitting down with someone who has been there.

I did not expect to have it come up again. You know, whatever the situation, sometimes people feel funny about accepting help from people they know.

But, today, my friend came to me after school and said, I want to talk to you.

She took me up my offer. We talked about arrangements and such. She said, I really appreciate you doing this. I said, in this world of budget cuts and program elimination and such, where we can, we need to help each other. She nodded and said, if there is any way I can pay you back, let me know. I said, hey, if not for me, for someone else--when you find a place where your gift will fit, give it there. We are all supposed to do for each other where the need is.

She said, wow, I wish there were more people like you.

That was an epiphany moment for me, and also a coming full circle. There are more people like me out there. You, for example.

I invite you, on this first day of Epiphany and, indeed, for the rest of your life, to be the gift you give. Be there for someone in need. Volunteer. Share your creativity with the world. Smile. 

You are a gift and you have at least one gift to share (if not an array of talents)--and the world needs you!