Body Time, by Nancy Osborn

If I had to focus on one part of my body as the representative part, the epitome of who I am, it would be my legs, along with their feet, knees and hips.

Legs: strong, sturdy, ready to walk anywhere, up to the challenge of hills, loving the splash of rain water puddles, but not too happy about ice.

And willing to carry more than just myself. They've carried a sister riding piggy-back, a baby (first inside me then on my back), knapsacks of school books, library books, groceries, laundry, a yoga mat and meditation bench, backpacks of clothes for travel in Greece and Italy.

Feet: overlooked at times but having the uncanny ability to draw my attention when they are hot, when they are cold, when my socks have rumpled themselves down under my soles, when my toes cramp during meditation, when my shoes are too tight.

Legs and feet can create the most elegant and beautiful movements in dance. And I love my legs and feet for having been willing to school themselves in these motions. Now more often I school my legs and feet to fold and relax into meditative silence, allowing the rest of my body to slow and quiet itself.

Knees: I could just consider them a part of my legs, but as I age these joints have begun to demand more attention and care. Now I can no longer expect my knees to gracefully lower me to a squat. Now I must sometimes pamper these joints and use a helping hand when rising from meditation or sitting.

Hips: another often unappreciated part of my leg, just there, helping me walk or fold into a forward bend, swing my legs or land a jump gracefully, until they don't help. I knew long ago that I should never take my hip joints for granted, learning this lesson the hard way during a dance concert. Another woman and I were expected to gracefully extend first our left leg into a slow développé and back, and then when that movement was completed, to do the same with the right leg. But I could never do it quite so smoothly on the right, despite hours of practice. There was some sort of quirk in my right hip joint that made the movement less than smooth. I always hoped all eyes were on my partner at this point. The same quirk shows itself in yoga poses these days, reminding me that we aren't just mechanical creatures, though some anatomy illustrations might give that impression in their diagrams of bones and muscles. We are creatures with living parts, less than perfect parts, parts that age and change.

When I was younger I'm sure I took my body and all its parts for granted. At the slightest impulse it would do what I wished: stand up, sit down, bend, turn, twist, jump, glide. There was no need to think about how the parts of my body accomplished these movements, they just did. And maybe that's the way of life: when young you just get on with things, make your way in the world, using your body almost unconsciously to move forward, both literally and figuratively.

But as I move into the last phase of my life I find that I can no longer remain so unaware of my body. I've come to realize that if an accident or fatal disease doesn't bring my life to an end, that my body itself will find a way to remind me that a life doesn't hurtle forward non-stop forever. And that it has, in fact, been reminding me of this for awhile.

My body calls out to me to notice it, to care for it more attentively, to coddle it even. It makes it quite clear that it is slowing down and with that slowing, that my life is also moving toward the stillness of death.

There comes a time when it is important to take account of the slowness of age, to reflect on all that the body has experienced and known, to honor the way it has supported my being through all my years. That is the body time I am in now.

Two Collective Lists

On Thursday afternoon, April 28, 2016, a group of people met at the Tompkins County Public Library to participate in a workshop called "Poetry for the People." We wrote collective list poems and poem/prose inspired by other poets' work. We ended by reading some haiku out loud to each other. We had a very good time! Below you will find two collective lists created by group members. Contributors' names appear at the end.

Poem of Ourselves

I ride my bike as often as I can
I look forward to outdoor summer concerts
I like blue and green and sometimes yellow
I try to find the path that's clear
I might fall short and lose my way
I can't know all the ins and outs
I get  my inspiration from spending time in nature
I am working on a third book of poetry
I have a cat named Mia and a granddaughter named Mia
I am an only child
I am creative and resourceful
I am a grandmother, whose role mode is my grandmother
I am me
I was like that, once
I am yours, forever
I crave silence but often forget to allow it
I sometimes long for a place I couldn't wait to leave
I am a professional secret keeper
I wish I had a magic wand so I could cure the ills of the world
I love to watch out my window and look at nothing, or perhaps the wind blowing the leaves
I am always ready to accept a lunch invitation on the spur of the moment
I hold joy and sadness together inside
I am pushing myself into new and scary places
I play piano, timidly or confidently, depending on the day
I celebrate sin
I celebrate reaching up and reaching under
I celebrate sitting on the ground
I was married once but I'm better now
I was worried once but now I can't seem to remember why
I was lonely once but then I became my own best friend
I try to remain in the present instead of sinking into the past or drifting into the future
I have waited many years for my hair to grow long enough to braid
I may not remember your name right away but I will remember the book I recommended to you more than 20 years ago



The Happiness Poem (inspired by the 19th century Japanese poet, Tachibana Akemi)

Happiness is when you find a tiny flower in bloom under the old dead leaves. Happiness is  when the exact item you want, in just the right color, is on sale and you get the very last one. Happiness is finding the stars under the clouds as they blow away out to sea. Happiness is fresh baked bread, right out of the oven. Happiness is feeling completely at ease. Happiness is receiving that long awaited reply. Happiness is  a T-shirt that fits just right. Happiness is a salad stuffed with greens, cucumbers, onions, olives, and no dressing needed. Happiness is seeing without the aid of glasses. Happiness is the memory of a kiss that sealed a deep and abiding friendship.

Happiness is when you spy your daughters walking around the backyard, and though you notice with a pang that the little one is now the taller of the two, instead you choose to focus on the fact that they are holding hands. Happiness is is hearing your son and daughter deep in conversation, talking and laughing, and ending by saying "I love you," and not because they have to. Happiness is a long soak in a hot bath, a stack of books waiting to be read, receiving real mail addressed in a familiar hand. Happiness is is standing at the edge of Lake Superior while the waves wash up against your legs and you throw your hands up in the September air and you laugh and laugh. Happiness is seeing the face of your baby sister for the first time. Happiness is sitting, staring out the window, notebook and pen close at hand, and having inspiration come along and smack you upside the head with a baseball bat. Happiness is when you finally, finally, do a beautiful assisted arabesque in a dance class and your dance teacher looks over at you and says "Good." Happiness is walking into a bookstore and breathing in the smell of printer-ink, words, and blank notebook pages.

Happiness is playing a piano duet with your teacher and finishing at the same time. Happiness is a fragrant bouquet of peonies from your garden. Happiness is eating a chocolate ice cream sundae at Purity. Happiness is is getting a phone call from your best friend. Happiness is seeing your book in print. Happiness is finding a love note in your lunch bag. Happiness is your knock on the door, asking for cookies and milk. Happiness is seeing your eyes light up and your beautiful smile as you climb up Tuthill Ridge holding a newborn deer in your arms. Happiness is the sun setting in the west, leaving a trail of apricot. Happiness is the smell of coffee perking in the morning and sharing a quiet moment with you.

Happiness is when your old dog follows you with his eyes, whatever you do, and you exchange meaningful looks. Happiness is waking up in your own bed in your own house. Happiness is the white trillium coming back again each spring, in the same spot next to the old shed. Happiness is having jars of food you grew yourself. Happiness is having a full larder. Happiness is looking out a sparkling clean window and seeing the full moon. Happiness is dancing for a long time without stopping. Happiness is teaching children to sing "Zip-a-Dee-Do-Dah." Happiness is a coconut cream pie.  Happiness is a birthday visit from every single family member.

Happiness is when someone other than me washes the dinner dishes. Happiness is practicing the piano and my fingers remember what to do. Happiness is candles lit, tulips in vases, and the family sitting around the table. Happiness is no new drama. Happiness is finding a kindred spirit in an unexpected place. Happiness is when I have enough bold colors to start a quilt. Happiness is when I am the center of someone's universe. Happiness is when I'm in my tent and I can smell the campfire and hear the owls bid me "good night." Happiness is when I'm laughing with my safest friends. Happiness is when I'm in love . . . for now or/and forever. Happiness is sitting in my favorite chair by the window, reading a book I am enjoying, then falling asleep — was it 2 seconds or 20 minutes? — and waking up and continuing with my reading exactly where I left off.

Happiness is when a group of strangers come together to write and after two hours they know each other better, through the stories they have shared.

Workshop participants:

Barbara Kane Lewis
Bill Murphy 
Caroline Gates-Lupton
Julia Ganson
Kathy May
Kim Zimmerman
Laura Gates-Lupton
Patty Little
Paula Twomey
Ruth O'Lill
Zee Zahava

The Leo Sayer Poem, by Stacey Murphy

Their songs spill over the fence
Along with the scent of warm charcoal.
The neighbors from Burma preparing for a feast,
Serenading me
And my rake
And my garden
On a fine April afternoon
Now hip-hop, now rock ballad
My ears yearning to learn the words that are in their own language
And then — a song in English.
Leo Sayer from the early '80s
And we are all singing —
Voices from their yard,
A really strong tenor from across the street,
My own among my weeds,
Even the birds harmonizing —
We raise our collective “Whoa whoa  yay yay”
To the blue sky,
Our hearts soaked in music
Giddy with the promise of warm days to come
So we sing to them —
To our lives,
Our people,
Our universes —
Our hearts so full,
We love them more than we can say.

I am the woman who . . . . (a collective list, part 2)

On Tuesday, March 8, 2016 (International Women's Day) a group of women met at the Tompkins County Public Library, to write in celebration of some of the important women in our lives. At the end of the writing circle there were still 10 minutes left, so we created this collective list in celebration of ourselves:


I am the woman who lives on Second Street where small flowers are already in bloom

I am the woman who loves being "retired" and now gets to do what I always meant to do — edit

I am the woman who always has a smile on my face

I am the woman who who loves her cat

I am the woman who doesn't give up

I am the woman who survived cancer

I am the woman who can't wait to start planning my garden

I am the woman who is so grateful for so many blessings in my life, including my nightly lavender-scented bath

I am the woman who would rather dance than eat

I am the woman who must stop watching those shows on TV that advertise houses for sale in Cancun, Nassau, the Cayman Islands, Aruba, the Virgin Islands, etc.

I am the woman who needs nothing but always wants more

I am the woman who embraces her nickname of Warrior Princess

I am the woman who loves to make people laugh

I am the woman who broke out of my well-worn shell this year and is saying yes to myself

I am the woman who has spiritual roots and is growing wings

I am the woman who seeks to connect all the pieces and make a whole life

I am the woman who can stand on her own two feet

I am the woman who is not afraid to use correct grammar

I am the woman who cries at parades and choral concerts

I am the woman who hears you cry, holds your hand, makes you laugh, built a house, wrote a book

I am the woman who lives my own life and carries my own pain

I am the woman who wakes up every morning and laces up her walking shoes, ready to step out into a new day






With gratitude to all the contributors:

Barb Rainboth
Dianne Ferris
Joan Lorson
Kim Zimmerman
Louise Vignaux
Patty Little
Ruth O'Lill
Sandy Ferreira
Tina Champion
Zee Zahava

I am the woman who . . . . (a collective list)

On Tuesday, March 8, 2016 (International Women's Day) the women in the Tuesday Morning Writing Circle created this collective list:


I am the woman who loves when softball season is fast approaching so I'm forced to get down on the floor to do my stretches

I am the woman who can take 10 minutes to decide which pen to carry in my pocket on any given day

I am the woman who could have been a Kansas farmer except for the fact that wheat and dust and ragweed and hay all make me sneeze up a storm

I am the woman who always has a crossword puzzle tucked away in my back pocket so I'm never bored

I am the woman who, more often than not, doesn't care what other people will think

I am the woman who got arrested for speaking out

I am the woman who wants to have children

I am the woman who chose today as just exactly where to be, not yesterday, not tomorrow

I am the woman who needs to be me

I am the woman who went away to another country to find a new life, and discovered that my life right here is the best there is for me right now

I am the woman who has learned to cherish the present because it is just that — a present

I am the woman who appreciates the friends I have now, since I kept friends at a distance until very recently

I am the woman who has been trying to lose the same  20 pounds for the last 20 years

I am the woman who wants to hold on tightly to my adult children as though they were still small

I am the woman who talks too much

I am the woman who has been told all my life that I am "too sensitive"

I am the woman who has mixed feelings about "growing up"

I am the woman who tries every day to have at least one spiritual moment

I am the woman who doesn't really like food

I am the woman who is only really myself when I'm near the grey waters of Lake Ontario

I am the woman who rode her bicycle across the United States

I am the woman who handles the money and is adaptable and flexible beyond measure

I am the woman who looks for the silver lining

I am the woman who has wandered the U. S., living in a motor home

I am the woman who collects rolling pins, but rarely makes pies these days

I am the woman who sits in a sunny spot on the porch and dreams the day away

I am the woman who thinks she got lucky and got the best girl in the world

I am the woman who loves glue guns and baubles

I am the woman who longs for stability while pushing against it

I am the woman who wishes I could have been a journalist for Rolling Stone magazine back in the '70s

I am the woman who has never found the perfect bra

I am the woman who could eat watermelon and peaches all day long

I am the woman who went wild in my youth and paid for it, but survived

I am the woman who left "normal" behind a long time ago, but I keep moving forward

I am the woman who looks for the good in everyone and doesn't judge others

I am the woman who understands what it means to love someone unconditionally 

I am the woman who loves my cats (one passed last August, but I still think I have 2 cats anyway) more than anyone else in the world

I am the woman who is the spinster companion to my mother but who also (finally) said "no" to her

I am the woman who didn't learn to cry until recently and now I cry all the time, about lots of things

I am the woman who hasn't ever had a long-term partner but I like to think that if Eddie, Benedict, Christian, or Mariusz came a-calling, maybe I could get me one

I am the woman who will never buy from Lands' End again — unless — until — they apologize to Gloria Steinem and every like-minded woman

I am the woman who keeps reinventing myself so that life always holds interest for me

I am the woman who calls myself a filmmaker

I am the woman who calls myself a feminist

I am the woman who loves solitude

I am the woman who used to collect china cat statues

I am the woman who starts looking at my garden in March, hoping to see signs of life

I am the woman who treasures my books, which surround me in my study, like close friends visiting every day

I am the woman who loves to wander alone in foreign cities

I am the woman who keeps all sorts of mementos of my life and wonders who will use them to assemble the puzzle of who I was

I am the woman who believes in snail mail and loves to write letters

I am the woman who has waited 5 long years to be able to wear my hair in a braid down my back

I am the woman who worries that I will run out of good ideas

I am the woman who feels ashamed every time I lose my temper

I am the woman who looks and sounds more like my mother with each passing year

I am the woman who reads the last few pages of a novel first

I am the woman who loves you


With gratitude to all the contributors:

Gabrielle Vehar
Leah Grady Sayvetz
Leslie Howe
Linda Keeler
Margaret Dennis
Marty Blue Waters
Nancy Osborn
Paula Culver
Sara Robbins
Sue Perlgut
Zee Zahava

Slowing, by Marla Coppolino

Moving distinctly and unconventionally,
  with deliberate, unhurried pace

A whispered Tai Chi dance
   in the nucleus non-worry

Now I see the spaces between the rain drops
   and the soft outer glow

Of seeds and sprouts
   and leaves and larvae

And the multi-colors of lichens
   and patterns on spiders

And cicadas whose calls that swell
   in pitch and volume

I calmly study ripples in the wake
   of the atmosphere

Of those who advance more quickly
    than I choose.

(c)2016 M. Coppolino

To the Blank Spaces, by Stacey Murphy

What happens when we, who love words,
come to find ourselves more alive
in the blank spaces 
between the words?

At first is seems like a clever trick —
a break from the flow,
something to freshen the mind,
to stop and attend
to the eyelash lull
between two words.
The pause.
The millisecond between
inhale and exhale.
A little frightening for those uneasy in silence
to have any moment
alone with oneself —
best just to run straight past it,
avert the eyes,
continue the babble.

The brook keeps running
though there are gaps
between the stones on the bottom
where things live,
very silent, very still,
holding the winning poker-hands of possibility
while the chunks of ice and twigs
race overhead,
as fast as they can,
making it happen.
Making the thaw happen.
Making sounds to ease winter-weary hikers who
stop for sigh of spring.
Keep moving, keep rushing,
all will be well.
Better is coming, perhaps downstream.
Perhaps the next meeting,
the next speech,
the next therapy session,
the next story,
the next chat,
the next poem
will advance the plot.
But look closer.
Breathe into those
little blanks of white between the lines
that let our eyes rest
even while the greedy brain
tries to stuff it all in,
believing it comprehends all meaning.
Our microbreaths add the subtext,
the backdrop,
as Paul Harvey might say, “The Rest of the Story.”
Perhaps as we learn to notice the gaps,
so soothing,
so lush and full on their own
that there may not be another word

for a few

moments.

Whole naps,
whole meditations,
whole peaceful planets
come to live in the blank spaces.
I have loved and lost and loved again in the space of a moment.
In the SPACE of a moment,
not the prattle of a moment.
In the electricity of potential
it has happened so fast I have not even realized it,
the joyful rubber-banding
of my soul
playing in those deep true

blank spaces.