“What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? / The world would split open.”
Poet Muriel Rukeyser

Saturday, August 11, 2007

Jumping to Conclusions

A few nights ago my daughter decided to make brownies. My daughter is almost 19, and making treats late at night is common for her. She often makes them, not for her family, but for her friends at the barn. The barn where she rides horses and trains and works. She is known for her fabulous brownies and chocolate chip cookies. But, we, her family, usually get nothing.

Well, except the dishes. It is quite common for her to leave the pans in the sink for me to clean up in the morning. It seems that it is enough for her that she has cleaned up the bowl and spoons, so the pan is just too much.

On this particular night I happened to have a headache so I got up late to take a Tylenol PM. And, of course, there in the sink was the pan, and the spatula. She was in the shower. So I left a note on her bed asking her to please clean up and leave the sink as clean as I had it, before she made brownies...

The next morning I awoke to find a note waiting for me...one the told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was "jumping to conclusions" to assume that she was going to leave the dishes in the sink....

Of course. I must have been jumping to conclusions. Founded on nothing. I mean the FACT that every morning she goes to work leaving her cereal bowl in the sink, not the dishwasher, is just irrelevant...I obviously have no facts to back me up, I just jump to conclusions.

Now. I write this, not to pick on my daughter, nor to work out our mother-daughter stuff.

I write this because, well, others may wonder if I am prone to jumping to conclusions. Perhaps....

But I still think there is evidence to support the conclusions I jump too.

:-)

Even if those same conclusions are eventually not correct.

Woohoo!

Gone Silent

Recently one of my blogger friends went silent. I hope to find voice in a new way; although it makes me sad that I cannot hear it. Sad because the silence, it seems, was induced by hurtfulness. Or a need to ponder life from another medium. Or something I know not. Whatever the cause, silence is the result, public silence, anyway.

So. I offer this poem. A tribute to a friend whose voice I hear only in my memories. I hope my friend is finding life full and rich and very much alive in other ways.

The Honey Tree (Mary Oliver)

And so at last I climbed
the honey tree, ate
chunks of pure light, ate
the bodies of bees that could not
get out of my way, ate
the dark hair of the leaves,
the rippling bark,
the heartwood. Such
frenzy! But joy does that,
I'm told, in the beginning.
Later, maybe,
I'll come here only
sometimes and with a
middling hunger. But now
I climb like a snake,
I clamber like a bear to
the nuzzling place, to the light
salvaged by the thighs
of bees and racked up
in the body of the tree.
Oh, anyone can see
how I love myself at last!
how I love the world! climbing
by day or night
in the wind, in the leaves, kneeling
at the secret rip, the cords
of my body stretching
and singing in the
heaven of appetite.