Hello Again, Creative Rascal Friends … Old, New & those I’ve yet to meet. This week I’m bringing you a different kind of message; a heads-up as it were, about one of our often neglected topics … CHANGE!
Let’s begin with a poem. This one accompanies the Autumn section of my book, All in the Soup Together … Four Seasons of Recipes & Reflections.
And Now the Time Between
So it has arrived at last.
You knew it would.
Summer can’t last forever.
Nothing does.
Some lessons we have to learn
the hard way …. some of us.
Things happen. We close
our eyes for a minute
and something that was there
is gone.
Not everything planted gets to bloom.
Sometimes we blame the soil,
sometimes the circumstances …
not enough light, too much rain. But
the light and the weather change and
the season of harvest knocks gently
at the screened door.
First of all, to my dear Subscribers, please accept my gratitude for your willingness to hang in there with me and take a look (weekly or occasionally) at the world through my favorite lenses of poetry, activism, and the arts. And for those who don’t subscribe but do check out the website from time to time, Thank You too!
You’ve read my books, tried my recipes, shared my posts, and given me feedback on the ways you’ve been affected by my words. Some of you tell me that my being mySelf has helped you become more yourSelf. That makes me happy & I Thank You. May we continue to draw the circle wider.
With over a year’s worth of “Words” under our collective belt, the time has come for me to take a closer look at where, at exactly 84 and a half years, (remember how important that ‘half’ used to be when we were kids?) I am and where it is I still want to go.
There are two, possibly three, books I hope yet to write. One is a novel in short stories (ala Olive Kitteridge), the second, an assortment of essays gathered from this year’s Words, and the third, a collection of poems written about, in tribute to, or consisting completely of lines from, already existing poems or songs. This little book is titled Tributaries, and I’m working on it now.
But … I need more time, and I wish I had more energy and more stamina. One of the ways I know to get the time I need is to cut back on some of what I do. Bearing in mind that I ONLY DO things that I love, this makes for hard choices. Soooooo, here’s my plan.
Starting in September (now) I will be sending twice-monthly, rather than weekly, posts. The website will get a bit of a makeover (thank you, Steph!) featuring easier navigation, new colors, a new photo, and a new name for our subscribers’ preview. Instead of “words” you will receive “Light Waves”. (See what we did there with layered meaning?) Occasionally, there will be ‘special editions’ and there will still be “Conversations With Friends”.
I expect that these next few months will be our Time Between, as I settle in to my new rhythm. There continues to be a lot going on in our shared world and I don’t mean to turn away from it. Let’s all be sure, though, to make time for reflection and wonder and inspiration as the season changes. And do, please, check in with Joyce Vance and Heather Cox Richardson to keep current with the political picture. Don a sturdy mask and go see Barbie & Oppenheimer, preferably at a local theater with good popcorn.
And if you want a sample of what to expect from Tributaries, I invite you to start with this one.
…. the delicate hold and tender arrangement of what is missing
words found, re-purposed, and assembled by Sulima Malzin
In my little town we grew up believing that God keeps his eye on us all … and if you touch your “down there” anytime other than when using the toilet, your hand will turn green and fall off. Where I come from we didn’t say pasta, we didn’t say fireflies. We said spaghetti, macaroni, noodles, and lightning bugs. By the time I was six months old (my mother) knew something was wrong with me. I got looks on my face she had not seen on any child.
My parents loved each other like a secret. (I like to imagine them) out in the orchard grass feeling the crunch of windfall apples under their frantic bodies. The first time I found love in our house it was disguised as loyalty. (Eventually I learned) the truth about fences is that they only hold those who are willing to be held. Eventually the future shows up everywhere. The clear water we drank as thirsty children still runs through our veins … a lung filled with shadow and song. The only questions that could be transmitted were those between the generations that had never been asked before.
After awhile you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and sharing a life … that love doesn’t mean possession and company doesn’t mean security. You learn to build your hope on today as the future has a way of falling apart in mid-flight. (After awhile I learned) that when I said poem you heard April is the cruelest month as I marked the page declaring hope is the thing with feathers. (I learned) that life is real, and if you can survive it, well, survive it well with love and art and meaning given where meaning is scarce.
Life is short and I’ve shortened mine in a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways that I’ll keep from my children. (After all) I’m trying to sell them the world and any decent realtor, walking you through a shithole, chirps on about good bones. (Maybe there comes) an apology after a harsh comment. A word that opens an unfinished poem like a key in a lock. You learn and grow with every goodbye. Every day there’s something old to feel sorry about – what I should have done and didn’t, or what I did, and kept on doing.
In Lilburn, Georgia early spring of 2014, wearing my dead son’s robe, I sit in his chair on his front porch (for the last time) … waiting (for the sun to rise and the birds to come). We used to cook together and sometimes we sang. Come on, take me to the Mardi Gras … where the dancin’ is elite and there’s music in the street both night and day. And I will lay my burden down, rest my head upon that shore, and when I wear that starry crown I won’t be wantin’ anymore.
This place could be beautiful, right? You could make this place beautiful.
Except for those in (parentheses) every word of this re-purposed poem comes from other artists, whose work I deeply appreciate and to whom I am deeply grateful. Their words and music have strongly influenced my life and my writing and I hope they receive my re-purposing as the tribute I intend. I also hope that you who read this “tributary”, will choose to check out the poems from whence it came.
Thank You Carl Adamshick (The Solitude of an Apricot) Paul Simon (My Little Town & Take Me to the Mardi Gras), Elizabeth Thomas (Lies My Mother Told Me), Sally Fisher (Where I Come From), Sharon Olds (Diagnosis), Quoteuf Elobaid (Love Sits By My Father), James Crews (Mom and Dad), Sonja Johanson (The Truth About Fences), Dorianne Laux (Dark Charms), Frances Payne Adler (Telephone to the Dead), Joy Whitman (Comes the Dawn), Sulima Malzin (Some Reasons We’re Not Together), Padraig O’Tauma (The Facts of Life), Maggie Smith (Good Bones) Luci Shaw (Signs), Lawrence Raab (Regrets), Sulima Malzin (Lilburn, Early Spring 2014),
Until next time, I wish you as much Joy, Peace, and Inspiration as you can accept. Sing & Dance a little, tell a few jokes, Smile Often, Love More & Do Talk to Strangers … might just be your next friend waiting to happen. And … oh yes, Be Kind!
Love, Sulima
As those who know have said,”,,,,fasten your seatbelts, it’s gonna be a delightful ride.”
I found your words to be very insightful and timely. I love the idea that words that are meaningful to us can re re-purposed, and reassembled to provide even more meaning and perhaps even comfort. Thank you for sharing and igniting a spark of creativity in me.
Thank you, Molly! I love being the igniter of sparks. There will be more! As RM says, “Watch this space.”