Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Irritations




Last year for one of my writing classes, we were all asked to write about something that irritated us, so that we could practice describing that feeling. I found it when I was sorting through some documents today!

Just keep in mind in case you miss this: I am making fun of myself for the little things in life that get on my nerves, not criticizing my husband.

When I got married, people told me that I would find myself arguing with my husband about the pettiest things. I shook my head at them in pity. No, not me…never. That is clearly only for people who haven’t gone through premarital counseling or don’t know what their Love Language is. Yet here I am, two years later, ready for a knock-down-drag-out with my husband about dishrags. It is a blow to my pride to admit that it has come to this, but it is the truth.

We have a reasonable amount of dishrags, at least seven or eight…enough for an entire week of clean dishrags. However, my husband seriously resists putting the old dishrag into the laundry and bringing a new one out of the drawer. Furthermore, he finds it unnecessary to rinse out the dishrag after using it, or to hang it nicely along the edge of the sink so that it can dry out. It is very disconcerting to come into the kitchen to wipe the counter, only to find the rag full of food particles, coffee grounds, and crumpled beneath a pile of dirty dishes.

We had to do away with sponges altogether because I read somewhere that they are basically like breeding grounds for bacteria…little petri dishes for diseases that can be used to wipe your kitchen surfaces. However exaggerated this might be, I just can’t bring myself to use a sponge or a dishrag more than couple of times unless I soak it alternately in each liquid cleaner found in my house.

Maybe after having children, I will ease up about the germ factor in our kitchen, and embrace the dirty dishrags and sponges altogether. In the meantime though, my husband will probably have to suffer through my lectures, and indignant marches from the kitchen to the washing machine. What is the solution to our deep seeded marital problem? Probably paper towels!

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Ummm...here goes!

I'm taking a Writing Poetry class this semester which seems to be taking a great deal of courage. Listening to a lecture is one thing, actually sharing a poem with a class is something entirely different.

I really haven't written any poems for a few years...you know, since the phase in life when I was going through breakups and dramatic things like that.

Anyways, here goes my first try. This is the draft I am taking to class today for editing.

Remembering Italy From the Kitchen Window


The first time my toes touched the Mediterranean
I was worried about a lot of things.
I didn’t even see the sun make liquid
Out of my third gelato for the day
As I agonized over important decisions
And my adulthood started to rise up inside of me,
Slowly like the balmy tide
Swelling and then retreating, one wave and then another.

Now instead I worry over dishwater
And with raisin fingers, wonder about the perfect temperature for baking chicken,
Or how to pay the health insurance bill
That is threatening me from the kitchen table.
But I know that these things are worth having,
These humdrum treasures I’ve strung together to make a life.

I know this from the way the sun filters through the blinds just enough to wake me in the mornings,
Or the mama bird who lays her eggs in my petunia basket so that I can watch them grow feathers and leave.
None of it, not a single mundane miracle
Goes unnoticed by my briefcase of a soul
Which has been filled to the brim, and overflowing
One menial moment at a time.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

A Poem to Share

I know it's been a while since i've posted on here. Recently some loving words from a friend inspired me to update more regularly.
I wanted to share this poem that I read today.


Praying

by Mary Oliver

It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.