Recognizing Women, Part II

A woman who reminds of writer and former Westmont prof Marilyn Chandler McEntyre (who deserves an entry to herself) is Kettle Falls´ own Lynn Schott. Also a poet and teacher, I got to write an article about this lady last summer when she retired from teaching high school English. That was in the town eight miles from mine, so I never got to have her, but her reputation as a teacher in a forest-industry town is highly upheld. Born and raised in San Francisco, and having spent several years of her 20s in Guatemala, Lynn´s choice to teach at a struggling high school in a poor, rural area greatly blessed hundreds of students. For me, meeting Lynn brought with it increased respect for all good teachers (especially those lovers of language and story) and a seed-idea that maybe at some point I want to try my hand at teaching high school or community college English. The woman holds to high standards, asks questions that push into the comfortable and accepted, and demonstrates kindness to even the most difficult students. She doesn´t have email or a computer, so she won´t be reading this, but if you could meet her, she´d make you coffee and you´d sit in her garden or by her fireplace and have a long, rich conversation.

Recognizing Women, part I

This little post from the lovely Ms. Lisa Borden reminded me that Today is International Women's Day.

I want to take her lead (another beloved woman worth emulating) and recognize some women this week who have been mentors and role models to me.

#1) Rosemarie Springer. Like Lisa, who got to know Rusty on Westmont College's San Francisco Urban semester in Spring '82, I found the acquaintance of the lady during my time in the city in Spring '08. Rusty, who just celebrated her 80th birthday, was 77 then, a retired Urban professor who sat on the board of Sojourn, the non-profit multi-faith chaplaincy at General Hospital, where I interned. My professor, Brad Berky (who was on Urban '82 with Lisa!) kept insisting I meet Rusty. When we finally met, it was love at first sight. She is a lover of literature, poetry, conversation, food and drink, and, of course, the city. She lives in Little Italy and still climbs four flights of stairs each day to her apartment. She's never been married (though she was once engaged), but still goes on dates. Rusty once told me that she has learned to 'Celebrate the days as they are,' and those small instructions have written themselves into me. I deeply hope to spend another day sharing coffee or tea with her when I return from Central America. Having a friend so much older feels a bit precarious, with the future of even this year unknown. But I wouldn't trade anything to know Rusty, she is one of the most beautiful women I have ever spent time with.

More coming!

´here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;
which grows higher than the soul can hope
or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that´s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart
(i carry it in my heart).´

-e.e. cummings

Confessedly, I still haven´t learned how to count on my fingers and memories all the ways in which you have been and you are and the ways I hope you´ll be good. Even with birdsong, the unwanted and diseased lurk like lions in every field.

G-d, forgive me my wariness as I praise you.

I don´t know if I´ve seen suffering and wickedness beyond my years, or rather that it has cut me like a chisel, shaping the way my lips try to exalt and my heart tries to believe.

But Ezekiel writes about a river, bringing life to every tree, and in this vision each tree bears fruit each month, and even the leaves are meant for healing. And when it´s seemingly impossible to believe in anything, this is it--this river--and I see it in the far-off distance and I trust you that it´s not a mirage.

break up your fallow ground

In the hot smell of pine and eroding cheapened soil,
I have not forgotten your scent.
Through tall red grasses, my footsteps beat the trail,
eyes on every crook and bend

I found the body of a locust there,
a cracked and black-eyed specimen
long as my hand, thicker than a finger.

Fields drank dry by these, I can hardly think:
a sky black with them.

Blossoms, red, yellow, pink, follow me everywhere
fleeting unwrinkled beauty pressed into journal pages, paper letters
preserved in mold and shades of grey.

My body, blossom-beauty, is covered in hiking bruises
bronzed by the strong sun, a large and hardened welt on my hip
left by Saturday's Honduran bee sting.
The insects here, like Congolese Driver ants, leave nothing untouched;
even the mouse in my small bedroom does its work.

Body of a horse, washed out in the rain
on the rocky road west of La Venta.
It appeared almost alive the first day,
an accidental slip into an awkward position,
the terrible stench the only actor refusing to play its part.
By the second day, returning, I found its carcass merely bone,
devoured by vultures centuries ago.

At the bottom of a muddy well, maybe twenty feet down,
all I could see was bones
teeth for the strung necklace.

Corpse of a man, left by vehicle in the street,
bag of groceries coupled at his side, blood neatly pooled under head.
His face was covered by a child's tee-shirt
shielding us from dead eyes.

No, I have not forgotten your scent,
or the firmness of your youth against the curve of my own,
and though my eyes are open,
I can't say I know the way in which to walk.

over the rhine / the laugh of recognition

There is something to be said for tenacity
I'll hold on to you
If you hold on to me.

"If you're legs are tired, lie back down,
and I will kiss you till your breath is found."

-Sufjan Stevens, All Delighted People