a little poetry

Some moments beg to be distilled down into a poem.

Five Years Old

And then suddenly one day, your baby girl is running upstairs
to fetch your slippers
or your book
or her daddy.

She is helping her little sister get a drink of water
and pulling plates and cups out of cupboards to lay the table for dinner.
She is running and swinging and flipping and scooting —
long arms and legs flexing strong, beautiful lean muscles.

Before your eyes, you see her mind
turning the garbles of letters on paper
into words and thoughts and sentences.
“Hey, that says ‘love’!” and “Why does it say ‘you’ right there?”
And she is correcting her sister’s grammar.
And your grammar.

She is lying beside you on the bed, chin propped on hands,
wide eyes and expressive face,
asking questions and telling stories
and waxing philosophical and silly by turns.

Suddenly she has become a helper and a thinker and a most 
engaging companion.

And you don’t remember exactly when it happened,
but you know it’s just the beginning.

And that is both exciting and heartbreaking. 

Running

The sun is shining but there is still

Snow on the mountains

And in the shady places along the path

And there are little old ladies in baseball caps

With a spring in their step

And a cheerful "Good morning"

And teenage boys too cool to admit 

The euphoria they feel as their long legs

Cover the miles quickly

And bearded men with dogs who give

A quiet smile just in case you smile back but

Small enough they won't feel rejected if you don't

And mothers with babies in carriers and strollers

Crunching along the gravel with determination

And cowboys on bicycles who give a polite nod

So you can almost hear their unsaid "Howdy, ma'am"

And a favorite song in your ears with quiet notes

And nuances you only hear when you listen this way

And suddenly something catches your eye

And you turn to see a bird flying over the creek below

So you are almost at eye level 

And for just a moment 

You forget your heavy legs and sore muscles

As you soar together side by side

And then he is on his way again

And you return to earth

 

"that's when you sing out loud..."

I’m in the kitchen trying to figure out what my girls and I will eat for lunch when a text comes in from a close friend. “Are you home right now?” I usually am not on a Wednesday morning, but due to schedule changes I am indeed home with my younger daughter. When I tell her yes, she responds, “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Shortly, she arrives with a beautiful bouquet of daffodils and tulips, along with a bottle of wine and some dark chocolate. She knows me well. She is there long enough for hugs and a few minutes of conversation and then she is on her way again.

It is that time of year in Colorado when we are longing for spring. We have gorgeous days of sunshine and warm temperatures interspersed with days of biting winter cold. And even as the snow melts from our last storm, we know that we likely have a few more snowstorms to get through before spring will really arrive. We are at once delighted and worried when tulip or crocus leaves start to poke through the soil. Will they bloom or will they shrivel up in a hard freeze before the flowers can appear?

So every time I walk past these gorgeous spring flowers from my friend, they give me just a little spark of hope.

*********************

Last week was not good. Early in the week something happened that was like a fast and hard punch in the gut that has left me breathless and hurting. The word that has kept coming to my mind to describe the event is betrayal. I know that the other entities involved would balk at that word and explain why that response is a melodramatic overreaction, why it shows a complete lack of perspective on my part.
 

 *********************

Joe and I are picking the music for our wedding. We have settled on a somewhat somber but gorgeous instrumental Ray LaMontagne song, “Truly, Madly, Deeply,” for the processional. It seems like just the thing to bring a touch of beautiful gravity to this moment that will be set against the backdrop of the stunning Teton Mountains. Now we are trying to decide about the recessional.

We have a song that we keep coming back to. A song called “Dream Big,” by Ryan Shupe and the Rubberband. We both love this song, and think the chorus is perfect as we get married and prepare to head back to Rwanda together:

When you dream, dream big
As big as the ocean blue
'Cause when you dream it might come true
So when you dream, dream big

But we are discussing how people might respond to it because of the lyrics of the first verse.

When you cry, be sure to dry your eyes
'Cause better days are sure to come.
And when you smile, be sure to smile wide
And don't let them know that they have won
And when you walk, walk with pride
Don't show the hurt inside
Because the pain will soon be gone

We wonder, will people think it is funny for us to be talking about tears and pain and hard days seconds after we’ve said I do? Remembering that our vows do talk about better or worse, sickness and health, we decide to go for it. 

There is no way we can know that there will be a time in the not-too-distant future when we will desperately need these words on an almost daily basis. As we walk through my father’s death, and all the hurdles and hiccups of a transcontinental move, and Joe trying to finish his master’s degree in the midst of it all, and navigating a new job for me just weeks after having a baby, and a seemingly endless job search for Joe once his degree is completed — this song becomes a sort of mantra for me.

Again last week, I needed this song, and other songs. I think music, like poetry and written prayers, provides us with the words we can’t quite find during big or hard or beautiful moments. Another song I had on repeat this past week was “Shine Like Lightning” by Drew Holcomb.

Even when the rain pours down
Even when the light seems like it's fading
Even when your heart aches, feels like it's gonna break
That's when you sing out loud

I mentioned recently how often I have felt like I was completely without perspective in the last four years. That big terrible things and small annoyances can often elicit the same response from me. I have felt like this lack of perspective was a weakness, a problem that I needed to fix. I think I even thought I needed songs like these because they were about having perspective. “Hey, your problems are momentary. It’s not always going to be like this. It will get better.” And maybe that is part of it.

But this past week, I heard something different. Somehow last week those songs felt like the very opposite of having perspective. We often want — need — to dream and sing out loud not because we’ve got everything in perspective but in spite of our perspective or lack thereof. And maybe especially because of our lack thereof.

So I’m going to allow myself to stop worrying about regaining perspective for the moment. I’m going to allow myself to use words like betrayal.

But. And?

I’m also going to keep dreaming. I’m going to sing out loud.

*********************

One night last week, I lay reading in bed until I could barely keep my eyes open, hoping to keep my brain distracted right up until the point I drifted off to sleep. I turned off my lamp and closed my eyes. But then in spite of myself I started replaying the past few days and I felt my heart rate quickening and my blood pressure rising and the hope of sleep slipping away.

And then suddenly it is the next morning. Evidently sleep did eventually come. It is time to get up but I am so tired. At lunchtime, I decide to go for a long run. As I run, my mind turns again to the events of the week. And then suddenly I hear the lyrics of yet another song playing in my earphones. It is Mumford and Sons’ “Winter Winds.”

But if your strife strikes at your sleep
Remember spring swaps snow for leaves
You'll be happy and wholesome again
When the city clears and sun ascends

And I think of the sleep that wouldn’t come last night. But as I run past patches of snow that are stubbornly lingering even in the warmer temperatures, I also remember the beautiful spring flowers from my friend. 

"so how did the two of you meet?"

Groggy from the overnight flight, I climb off the plane and enter the Brussels airport. I’m four months into a new job and two months from relocating to Kigali, Rwanda. I’ve spent the last several days looking for housing, attending meetings and getting to know my new team a little more. I will become very familiar with this route, this airport, over the next three years, but this is my first experience with it. 

As I wander the no-man’s-land of the nondescript transit hallways, I feel perplexed. There are stairs and escalators and doors at various intervals, but nothing seems to be labeled. Finally I just choose one at random and am relieved to find myself in a terminal with actual signs and flight monitors. I locate the gate number I’m looking for and head that direction. 

Along the way, I find a restroom where I brush my teeth, wash my face and try to make my hair look halfway presentable. And I put on a dash of mascara. Because I’m not just headed to my next flight. First I am headed to a gate where I will meet up with the man I love. Joe and I are just a few weeks from celebrating one year of dating, and this is the fifth country where we have met up.

I order a coffee and find a seat with a good view of his gate. Sleeplessness, caffeine and excitement all do their part to make my heart race. 

Young and in love!

******************

So many hours of my adult life have been spent in airports. Working an international job for the eight years before I got married, I seemed to always be headed to or from an airport.  When I got married and then we had children the internationality of our life did not stop, and so airports became a family affair. I have often said that my older daughter is more at home in airports than almost anywhere else. In the chaos of a busy airport she relaxes. My younger daughter too has an affinity for airports. “I love you to the airport and back,” she sometimes says as she is going to bed.

“How did the two of you meet?” It is a question that comes up almost anytime Joe and I meet someone new. What they are often really asking is, “How did this American woman and British man end up together?” So this is part of that story, and it is a fun story to tell. But of course this story, like all our stories, was not a stand-alone incident. It happened right in the middle of everything else.

***********************

Groggy from the overnight flight, I climb off the plane and enter London’s Heathrow airport. I’m three years into a job taking groups of people all over the world to see the work my organization does. For three years I have visited eight to 12 countries a year, with 20 to 40 people in tow each time. At home in Colorado, my friends start their voicemail messages to me with, “Hey Phoebe. I don’t know if you’re in the country or not right now but…”

I am tired. Not the jetlag kind of tired but the feel-it-in-my-bones-and-in-my-heart kind of tired. I am contemplating resigning from my job and am hoping this trip will help me make a decision. “Let this trip help me fall in love with my work again,” is my recurring prayer, “or make it clear that I should get out.”

After a day to wander the streets of London by myself before putting my tour leader hat back on, I board a flight to Uganda with 42 people in my group. We arrive in Kampala the next morning and make it through a day of light activity to keep ourselves awake until we can reasonably fall into our beds. I am just turning out the light when there’s a knock on my door.

A tour member has fallen and broken her arm. Badly. There is a bumpy ride to the hospital, and a night of trying to help this woman make decisions about the best course of treatment, and being her back rest and holding her still while the doctor sets her arm, and phone calls to her husband to explain the situation. Back at the hotel I get a couple hours sleep before I must jump back in to the day’s activities.

At 10PM, I am turning off my light. My phone rings. “I think I have malaria,” says the voice on the line. Of course he does not have malaria. But the next few hours consist of multiple phone calls, assurances, negotiations and finally, my being asked to come look at his vomit to help him determine whether he might have food poisoning instead of malaria.

I have barely slept in four days, we are only two days into our nine-day trip, and I am equal parts laughing and crying as I think, “Okay! I will resign!! I just need to get everyone home in one piece.” There are many confirmations of this decision over the course of the next seven days but thankfully there are no more broken bones, no more vomit.

I get home and take a day to recover before returning to work. When I return to the office I hand in my notice.

*******************

Groggy from the overnight flight, I climb off the plane and enter London’s Heathrow airport. Again. But this time I am alone. I resigned from my job five weeks ago and I’m on my way back to Uganda. I have agreed to meet up at Heathrow later today with a couple who is getting married in two months. After a few hours wandering around London, I head back to the airport and find them outside a coffee shop. I am a little acquainted with the bride through mutual friends. After some discussion, they ask if I will consider taking their wedding photos on my way back through London. I usually say no to weddings, but one month into a new freelance photography and writing business, I say yes.

Two incredible months go by in rural Uganda while I work at Aidchild, an amazing pediatric AIDS home. (Many of the stories from that time I recounted in this very space in 2006.) And then I head back to London yet again. It is a beautiful wedding. June in the English countryside. My American accent causes a little stir as I try to wrangle all the wedding guests into a group photo. “You must be very good for them to hire you all the way from America!” I just smile.

At the reception, held in a large marquis in the midst of a field of wild flowers, I have just about finished up my work. I walk toward my friend, Tim, who, with his wife, had recommended me for this job. I just have a quick question. A few meters away from where he is standing, I pause. Tim is in a conversation with a very attractive man who looks very good in his suit. Do I interrupt? Will it look like I am trying to force an introduction? As I stand there undecided, the handsome man looks up and sees me. He smiles. I am found out, so I may as well proceed.

His name is Joe. He and Tim were friends as boys. The three of us chat together for several minutes. At some point, Tim extricates himself from the conversation. As the sun sets and the air cools, we start walking to keep warm. We wind our way through the amazing field of wild flowers.

After a bit I need to actually get back to work as the Ceilidh (Scottish country) dancing begins. But when I can next take a break from my photo-taking, Joe appears again. And so there is dancing and laughter and my new shoes rub blisters on my feet. Later still, after I have captured the bride and groom’s getaway, there is an invitation to go to the beach the next morning. But I cannot go and with that we say goodbye.

Two days later, I return home. Two months later, there is an email. It is the bride. “My friend Joe asked for your email address and I gave it to him,” she writes. “I hope that’s okay.”

The next day, a note from Joe himself. “I hope this email is not too weird,” he writes. “I didn’t really know what to write or particularly why I was writing it. I guess, sometimes, there are people who appear in life who are just really natural to talk to and be around, and trying to keep in touch with those people can’t be a bad thing.”

No. Not a bad thing at all.