Sourcery

 

In the seed is the daisy or the mighty green saguaro.

In the rain is the river that will feed the sea tomorrow.

In the match is the fire that becomes a conflagration.

In the step is the journey that becomes the destination.

 

In the hearts of the children

In the words of the leaders

In the deeds of the people

            Is the future

            Is the future

 

In the asking “How can I?” there begins a new invention.

In one voice is the founding of a movement of dissension.

In the kiss of the lovers is another generation.

In a song are ideas that could rouse a sleeping nation.

 

In the hearts of the children

In the words of the leaders

In the deeds of the people

            Is the future

            Is the future

Chauvin, Part II

I wonder what prison is like for Derek Chauvin.  He's in maximum security in Minnesota, and since Minnesota is where he was a cop, it's possible some of his fellow inmates were sent there because of his arrests.  I wonder how the black prisoners, especially, regard him.  Do the guards think of him as having been on their team because he also wore a uniform?  Or do they enjoy being in a position of power over a cop?

Does he feel any regret for killing George Floyd?  Does he feel he was justified and so unjustifiably found guilty?  Is he bitter and angry that he was sent to prison?  If so, angry at whom?  The bystanders who took the videos which were part of the evidence against him?  At Floyd for dying?  At the whole world?  Something turned him into a person capable of the ghastly, torturous killing of Floyd.  Did being a cop and dealing with lawbreakers and troublemakers all day turn him bitter, or did he bring that bitterness to the job?  According to Wikipedia, Chauvin's wife had filed for divorce the day before the murder of  Floyd, and after only a year of marriage.  I have to think that that must have contributed to whatever force of emotion Chauvin brought to the moment of Floyd's arrest.

I am intensely curious about this, and about people's behavior in general.  I suppose that's why I'm a writer.  I want to know people's stories, and since in most cases that's not possible, I make up stories for them, try to imagine what their lives are like, how they became who they are.  I just can't help myself.  Derek Chauvin is a person, after all.  Nazis were people.  Trump is a person.  Jeffrey Dahmer was a person.  Were they all born clean and whole and the circumstances of their lives turned them into the beasts they became, or were their souls twisted at birth and before?  What I'm most curious about is: What do (did) they think of themselves?

Love to Mom

The mother of a friend of mine died recently.  I asked my friend if there was anything she wished she could say to her mother now, and she said "I wish I'd told her I love her more often."  I immediately teared up because I have the same wish.  I don't have many regrets in my life, but one of them is that for too long, I took Mom for granted, and when I was a teenager, I was downright awful to her, neglectful, cranky, utterly unhelpful with chores even though she was working full time as a nurse.  She lived  long enough that I had the chance to mature enough to try to make up for those early years of self-absorption, but still, I have always wished that I'd been as loving toward her as she was toward me and everyone else who came within her orbit.  Now she's dead and every unspoken "I love you" clogs my throat.

After our parents died, my sister inherited the job of going through all the many boxes of memorabilia and photos which had rested, unopened, in their garage.  When I visited last weekend, sister gave me a packet of early writings, cards and letters she had discovered in that box, things I had sent to Mom and Dad which Mom had saved.  I was so indescribably happy to find more than a dozen Mother's Day and birthday cards I had sent to Mom over the years in which I wrote of my love, admiration, and appreciation of her and my deep gratitude for her kindness and wisdom.  These cards showed me that I had not been as neglectful as I'd feared, that I had told Mom many times how much I loved and cherished her.  It soothed my soul and untied a little knot of regret I'd been carrying in my heart.

I rediscovered this poem I had written to Mom, probably in the mid-90's, titled "Silver Memories": 

My lullabying Mama, rocking little Babs to sleep.

Yes, that's a silver memory I know I'll always keep.

My kitchen witchin' Mama making magic into dinner,

Making every crumb delicious.  Any wonder I'm not thinner?

My uniformed Nurse Mama, Florence Lindsay-Nightingale.

Still even now those healing hands can soothe me when I ail.

Teaching us good manners just in case we meet the Queen,

And singing silly songs while making dirty dishes clean.

Putting love and band-aids on our ouchies and our bruises.

No one yet has patented that special touch she uses.

My Mommy being joyous while dispensing hugs and kisses.

No, there's never been another like my lucky Daddy's missus.

A different kind of person (or How I am like my mother)

Dad's job as a geologist kept the family moving frequently during my childhood, about every year and a half or so.  Because of this, Mom (and all of us) had the chance to start freshly in introducing ourselves to new neighbors, playmates, etc.  I remember Mom saying, more than once, "I wish people would see me as an exotic, mysterious woman."  I, and probably my siblings, would laugh outright at this, because Mom was the most open, warm, welcoming, friendly, least exotic person who has ever lived.  I thought, and perhaps said, "If you want people to think you're mysterious, you have to act mysterious.  Hahahahaha, Mom, you're so silly."

So naturally I find I have exactly those same thoughts about myself.  I tend to be very animated when I converse, very lively, always trying to come up with bon mots and witticisms, taking spotlight, making faces, waving my hands about.  And what I wish I could be is serene, calm, relaxed, appear wise and mature and, yes, ever so slightly mysterious.  Hahahahahah, Granny Owl, you're so silly.

I wonder if everyone has the same fantasy of a different self, a better self.  And maybe the different sort of life which that self might live.  Maybe calm, serene people wish they could be more animated when they talk.  Maybe mysterious people wish they could be more open.  I guess this is sort of like the hair phenomenon: people with curly hair wishing it were straight, people with straight hair wishing it were curly.

I suppose I could take my own snarky advice and try acting more serene and wise and quiet.  I have my moments.  But that's not me.  I'm an emotional, expressive, funny, forceful person.  Ah me.  One lifetime is not enough.