My new poem--Friday afternoon

Friday afternoon

Friday afternoon

Sitting on a park bench
On a hill overlooking the river
Watching the autumn sky
The shifting colors of the clouds
From gray to blue to white and back to gray
The world looks inviting on a Friday afternoon
People hustling and bustling here and there
Voices of schoolchildren in the background
Playing happily
Crows and magpies hopping about on the wet leaves
Looking for an insect or two 
In the mild autumn weather

I think, isn’t life a beautiful gift
To hold in one’s hands
A fragile one to be sure but beautiful just the same
Being this age, knowing that most of life is behind one
Not a care in the world, really
I can sit on a park bench 
On a Friday afternoon
After a long walk
Free these past three years
From the stresses of a worklife
That I do not miss
That I grieved the loss of years ago
The loss of something that made it work 
Until it no longer did

I think, this is the way to live life
To be able to be outdoors, to walk
To appreciate the ability to be able to
To have gratitude
Is it such that we must age
In order to be grateful
Or can we learn gratitude 
At any age
It would behoove the world
To learn gratitude
To get on its collective knees
And thank the divine for all that it’s been given

The world is not very good at that 

Copyright 2024 Paula Mary De Angelis 

All rights reserved 

Miss Read's World

I'm reading A Peaceful Retirement, the last book of the Fairacre series of books, written by Miss Read. I've read the first two books in the series--Village School and Village Diary, and now the last two--Farewell to Fairacre and A Peaceful Retirement. Miss Read is the pen name for the author Dora Jessie Saint, who lived from 1913 to 2012, and who, like her character Miss Read, was a schoolteacher and headmistress for Fairacre School. The interesting thing is that the name Miss Read serves as both Saint's pen name and as the author's main character. Miss Read the author was married and had a child; Miss Read the schoolteacher is unmarried and firmly decided to remain that way, despite being pursued by two suitors. Since Saint was a schoolteacher herself, one can imagine that she drew on her school experiences when she wrote her books. Fairacre, a fictional village, depicts village life in all its glory and problems; gossip is what connects the townspeople and it spreads like wildfire despite the best efforts to contain it. If you are looking for anonymity, you won't find it in a small village, where everyone knows about the doings of everyone else. The books are dated; the first two are from 1955 and 1957, respectively, and the last two from 1993 and 1996, respectively). They depict an era when social media, smart phones, computers and the like did not exist. And when you read the books, you don't miss their absence. People managed their lives quite well (or not so well) for hundreds of years without being glued to their phones 24/7. 

I love Miss Read's world, like my mother before me. I especially like the last two books in the Fairacre series, and I probably should read the intervening books. Perhaps I will if I get the chance. But I've gotten a real chance to immerse myself in the Fairacre goings-on, and I've enjoyed them immensely. Miss Read the schoolteacher is a shrewd observer of human behavior and the books are peppered with her short reflections about life, love, marriage, spinsterhood (as the state of being unmarried was referred to back then), school, children, their parents, getting older, getting sick, and death. The nice thing is that she doesn't dwell morosely on any of the sadder events in life; she comments on them and moves on. The townspeople are closely connected to the land and to the seasons, and she comments on both as well. 

A Peaceful Retirement especially is filled with laugh-out-loud humorous situations and comments. Miss Read retires from school life after almost forty years of service, and many of the villagers have (well-meaning) advice on how she should use her free time. Her retirement starts off well but she has to learn to fight to preserve her free time. You can't get perturbed when reading about some of the village types; they exist everywhere and have done so at all times in history--the well-meaning busybodies, the complainers, the nitpickers and naggers, the doomsdayers, the drunkards, but also the truly caring people, the optimists, the ambitious people, the hard workers, the kind people, the churchgoers. I don't know if the books have ever been filmed, but they should have been. They would have been wonderfully entertaining. 

I'm very glad I stumbled upon these books after all these years. As I wrote about in a previous post from March of this year (A New Yorker in Oslo: Odds and ends and updates (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com), my mother used to read these books when we were children in the 1960s and 70s. She seemed to truly enjoy them. So thanks are in order to Early Bird Books who send out daily emails with great deals on Kindle books; the Miss Read books have been among them. I have purchased a number of books in this way; some of the books are available for less than two dollars. You can't beat that price. 

Interesting viewpoint from Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski wrote this poem about rising early versus sleeping late.....

Throwing Away the Alarm Clock

my father always said, “early to bed and
early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy
and wise.”

it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house
and we were up at dawn to the smell of
coffee, frying bacon and scrambled
eggs.

my father followed this general routine
for a lifetime and died young, broke,
and, I think, not too
wise.

taking note, I rejected his advice and it
became, for me, late to bed and late
to rise.

now, I’m not saying that I’ve conquered
the world but I’ve avoided
numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some
common pitfalls
and have met some strange, wonderful
people

one of whom
was
myself—someone my father
never
knew.

John Steinbeck quotes

In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influence and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I just choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to our world. 

If you're in trouble, or hurt or need - go to the poor people. They're the only ones that'll help - the only ones.

You know how advice is. You only want it if it agrees with what you wanted to do anyway.

No one wants advice - only corroboration.

We spend our time searching for security and hate it when we get it.

Time is the only critic without ambition.

A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.

The writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true.

I've seen a look in dogs' eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts.

Men do change, and change comes like a little wind that ruffles the curtains at dawn, and it comes like the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass.

What Erich Fromm wrote about extremely narcissistic people

I am currently reading The Heart of Man: Its Genius for Good and Evil by the psychoanalyst and social psychologist Erich Fromm. Published in 1964, it describes his view of what he calls the syndrome of decay and its opposite, the syndrome of growth. The syndrome of decay is comprised of extreme forms of the following: necrophilia (love of and fascination with death); narcissism; and incestuous symbiosis. When these are combined to excessive degrees in a person, he defines that person as evil. Hitler is his primary example, but he also lists others--Caligula, Nero, and Stalin, among others. 

He writes:

There are other examples in history of megalomaniac leaders who 'cured' their narcissism by transforming the world to fit it; such people must also try to destroy all critics, since they cannot tolerate the threat whcih the voice of sanity constitutes for them.........we see that their need to find believers, to transform reality so that it fits their narcissism, and to destroy all critics, is so intense and so desperate precisely because it is an attempt to prevent the outbreak of insanity. Paradoxically, the element of insanity in such leaders makes them also successful. It gives them that certainty and freedom from doubt which is so impressive to the average person. Needless to say, this need to change the world and to win others to share in one's ideas and delusions requires also talents and gifts which the average person, psychotic or non-psychotic, lacks. 

In other words, political leaders who behave like this have a desperate need for their followers to share in their beliefs and delusions. They are never cured of their narcissism, and it's doubtful that they understand that they are narcissists. They simply mold the world around them to fit their brand of it. Their followers reward these types of leaders for their lack of self-doubt (total self-assurance, arrogance), their solipsism (self-centeredness--they are the centers of the universe), and their xenophobia (in this context, fear of anyone who doesn't share the leaders' beliefs, also parochialism, insularity, intolerance). 

Sound familiar? Look at some of our current world leaders and would-be leaders. Again I ask, how did we get to this point? Perhaps the better question is why. Why did we get to this point? Why do so many people want to abdicate personal responsibility in order to follow these types of leaders, to become little more than toadies? I can only conclude that following such leaders is preferable to thinking for oneself and to taking charge of one's own life. It's easier to place one's decision-making in the hands of someone who promises you complete and utter security and certainty (a fantasy), who promises you the past (also a fantasy), and who promises you that nothing has to change--lack of change and growth. Lack of change and growth is important to those who do not want to focus on personal development or bettering themselves, which involves change and growth. 

Fromm's book is worth reading. He's a good writer who can take complex ideas and clarify them for his reading public. When we were young adults, his book The Art of Loving, was very popular. I remember reading it then, but I never ventured further with his other books until now. Reading The Heart of Man is helping me to understand the current political situation. It may not provide solutions, but it's good to know what we're dealing with and what's at stake. 

A world of possibilities

At 93, Teaching Me About Possibility - The New York Times (nytimes.com)

Richard Morgan wrote this article for the Modern Love section of The New York Times. It was published on December 22, 2023. I ran across it today and found it to be a wonderfully-written and touching article about a middle-aged man living in New York who decides to really get to know his grandmother who lives in England. It is their story and he tells it beautifully. There are so many little points that are made that will stick with you, especially the points his grandmother makes. The importance of kindness is one. The importance of trying is another. Looking at the world as full of possibilities is yet another. A wise woman, his grandmother. You'll enjoy reading about them both. 

His grandmother tells him one thing during one of his visits:

“Age,” she told me once, “is just another bother attempting to convince you of the impossible in a world absolutely blooming with possibilities.” 

I absolutely love this. No matter how you interpret the definition of 'possibilities', and I know it's individual for each person, it is such a freeing statement, as statements coming from a place of love and kindness always are. Lovely, reminding me of a flourishing garden. It says that despite getting older, there are always possibilities for so many things--new travel adventures, new hobbies to pick up, new books to read (or write), new music to listen to, new people to meet. And so on. We don't stop living when we get older or old. Yes, there are more physical limitations, but one can still enjoy life to the fullest. It's about getting up every day and being grateful for another day of life. A day full of possibilities.  

A good poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

PITY THE NATION

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti (After Khalil Gibran) 2007

Pity the nation whose people are sheep
And whose shepherds mislead them

Pity the nation whose leaders are liars
Whose sages are silenced
And whose bigots haunt the airwaves

Pity the nation that raises not its voice
Except to praise conquerors
And acclaim the bully as hero
And aims to rule the world
By force and by torture

Pity the nation that knows
No other language but its own
And no other culture but its own

Pity the nation whose breath is money
And sleeps the sleep of the too well fed

Pity the nation oh pity the people
who allow their rights to erode
and their freedoms to be washed away

My country, tears of thee
Sweet land of liberty!

copyright Lawrence Ferlingetti

Books that influenced and changed my ways of thinking

I've been thinking about some of the books I've read that have had a profound and permanent influence on me, in the sense that they changed my way of thinking and looking at things. Perhaps I was psychologically ready for those changes at the time I read them. Nevertheless, these books provided a spur that was necessary at the time. Some of the changes set me on brighter, happier paths, while others ushered in an acknowledgment that the world could be a melancholy and evil place. Some helped me deal with issues that I was going through at the time I read them. There are twenty books on my list; I will write about five each over the next four posts. 

A Candle in Her Room by Ruth M. Arthur. A book from my pre-teen years that is impossible to forget. Written in 1966, it is the story of four generations of women who come into contact with an evil doll that has the capability of altering personalities and behavior. The evil behavior encompasses deceit, betrayal, manipulation, and lust for power. Looking back, I don't think this is a book for children, more for teenagers. But when I remember back to my pre-teen years, I think the book was an eye-opener. It was an introduction to the existence of evil in the world and it showed me that even those my age could have questionable motives and evil intentions. 

The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury. A sci-fi novel, one of the first I ever read, that chronicles mankind's exploration and colonization of Mars. The sense of foreboding in some of the chapters, especially when humans first settle on Mars and meet the Martians, who seem at first to be welcoming, is palpable. One of the scenes I will always remember--the Martians had lured the humans into a false sense of security by being hospitable and recreating scenes of earthly life, but their actual plans for the humans were nefarious. An unsettling book that describes deceit and evil behavior, and a sense of foreboding--as in, what bad thing will happen now? 

 
A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. I've read the book and seen several movie versions of it. It is impossible not to be affected by the redemption of Ebenezer Scrooge from a heartless miser to a warm-hearted and generous old man after being visited by the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future, respectively. It is a classic in the truest sense of the word, a book that leaves one with the knowledge that forgiveness and personal redemption are possible and that there is always hope that good will prevail. 

Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy. The ending of this novel was like a punch in the stomach. I remember telling my father that Jude's life was the definition of injustice. How much despair and tragedy could one life contain? In Hardy's view, there were apparently no limits to the misery one life could contain. My friend Brendan read the book and wrote to me 'obscure, indeed'. Hardy uses the word 'obscure' to describe Jude; Jude was an unknown and relatively unimportant player in the society around him, to the women in his life, and to the universe at large. Unable to be with the woman he loved (Sue) and trapped into marriage by a woman who pretended to be pregnant and who did not love him (Arabella), Jude's fate was sealed. Arabella had no scruples (commits bigamy), Sue had too many (felt guilty for all her choices for happiness). Although Jude and Sue had some years of happiness living together, they paid for that happiness in tragic ways. Hardy's book is a rather despairing commentary on love, the institution of marriage, societal norms, and church laws, all of which could be and were twisted in this novel to bring about oppressive unhappiness. It's almost as though if you tried to choose happiness, you were doomed to fail, doomed to regret, doomed to feeling guilty about wanting to be happy in love and life. The novel also questions whether personal happiness and personal choice were really possible and whether personal fate is determined or undetermined. The novel's viewpoints challenged my ideas at the time about love, marriage and happy ever after. 

The Road Less Traveled by M.Scott Peck. The discovery of this book was life-changing for me. I've recommended it to so many people over the years. The wisdom contained within its pages is priceless. Peck was a psychiatrist and had seen and listened to a lot of patients; he subsequently wrote another book called People of the Lie, which fascinated and scared me since it dealt with people who live in the dark and shy away from the light--evil people, psychopaths, narcissists--the list is long. The Road Less Traveled is more for ordinary folk dealing with the problems and difficulties of life. As Peck clearly states 'Life is difficult'. I read it at a time of great upheaval in my own life, and it really did help to set me on a better path, because I realized that I could change, that change was possible if I took responsibility for my own life. It sounds cliched, but it's not. Peck's view is that real spiritual and intellectual growth take time, but you have to desire them. You have to choose to desire them and do the hard work required in order to achieve them. 

Letting go of who people used to be--wise words from Heidi Priebe

I saw this online today and it resonated with me, despite the sadness contained therein. Whether it's growing old(er), becoming ill, becoming tired, wanting to give up--it is a blessing if those roads that people end up going down are shared with those they love, if those who love them want to join them on their journeys. That is not always the case for all. And it might be good to remember that we ourselves can let go of the people we used to be. Sometimes we hang onto them for dear life, thinking that we have to remain a certain way, when in truth we do not. Sometimes the people we were no longer serve us. We do not have to be accountable to the people we were in our twenties, thirties, forties, and so on. We can let go of them and be who we are in the present. Best to come to terms with who we were in order to embrace who we are now. Because now is all we have. 

To love someone long-term is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be. The people they're too exhausted to be any longer. The people they grew out of, the people they never ended up growing into. We so badly want the people we love to get their spark back when it burns out, to become speedily found when they are lost.

But it is not our job to hold anyone accountable to the people they used to be. It is our job to travel with them between each version and to honor what emerges along the way. Sometimes it will be an even more luminescent flame. Sometimes it will be a flicker that temporarily floods the room with a perfect and necessary darkness. 

~Heidi Priebe (from her book: This Is Me Letting You Go)

Update on my book: A Town and A Valley--Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley

My book, A Town and A Valley--Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley, was purchased by the Warner Library in Tarrytown and can be found in the Local History section. I visited the library recently and was pleased to find out that my book had been loaned out, according to the desk librarian who told me where it was to be found. It has also been purchased by the Historical Society in Tarrytown, which makes me quite happy. I know that my parents and my brother are rooting for its success, as are a number of people from my past who have contacted me to tell me that they love the book. 

For those readers who would like to know more about the area of New York State where I was born and where I grew up, the book might be of interest to you. It can be purchased on Amazon: 

A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9798842022946: Amazon.com: Books

and also on Barnes & Noble: 

A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley by Paula Mary De Angelis, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Be the change you want in your life

I saw this quote on social media today and thought it was worth posting. It was written by Victoria Erickson. 

"If you inherently long for something, become it first. If you want gardens, become the gardener. If you want love, embody love. If you want mental stimulation, change the conversation. If you want peace, exude calmness. If you want to fill your world with artists, begin to paint. If you want to be valued, respect your own time. If you want to live ecstatically, find the ecstasy within yourself. This is how to draw it in, day by day, inch by inch."

The year of pandemic living

I just finished Elizabeth Strout's new book, Lucy by the Sea, and found it to be a good read. The main character, Lucy Barton (a writer whose second husband recently died), finds herself riding out the pandemic in a rented house in Maine together with her ex-husband William, who has orchestrated the entire arrangement. He and she have remained friends after their divorce; he contacts her right before the pandemic hits bigtime to tell her that they need to leave Manhattan immediately. She acquiesces rather quickly, knowing that he is a scientist (parasitologist) and that he probably knows something she doesn't. The novel details their year together in a house by the sea, and how their relationship is rekindled after many years of living apart. William is now in his seventies and has major health problems, whereas Lucy appears to be in her late sixties and still relatively healthy, although she suffers from anxiety and the occasional panic attack. They are older and (presumably) wiser, dealing with regret and with the knowledge of their mortality. He is sorry for how he treated her (had affairs); she seems to be struggling with being alternatively judgmental and forgiving. In that sense, she is like all of us who have been hurt by someone--we want to forgive, we do forgive, but we wonder if we are being weak by doing so. We wonder if we should be hard and unforgiving. The novel deals frankly with the pandemic and the political events of the past several years. 

What struck me about the novel was the description of the loneliness that many Americans felt during the pandemic, as well as the panic and anxiety that many of them lived with each day. It was different here in Oslo; we underwent a similar type of lockdown, but I don't remember feeling that loneliness, the way Strout described it. It felt so empty, so desperate, so sad. And yet, I can only speak for myself. I know that the pandemic affected many people here in similar ways, especially those who lived alone. Perhaps that is what made the difference--having someone with whom to share lockdown. Because social life as we knew it ceased to exist. There were no get-togethers, parties, weddings and reunions were cancelled, bars and restaurants were closed, and people worked from home. I didn't find the latter bothering at all, in fact, I preferred it because I never felt lonely at home as I did at work. But again, everyone is different, and I can only speak for myself. 

Strout's book has gotten good reviews, but as always, I'm interested in the negative reviews as well. Those who are negative about the book are so because they did not want to read a pandemic book that reminded them of a horrible time. Additionally, they felt that very little happened to the main characters and that there really wasn't all that much to write about. While the former is true, I disagree that there wasn't really much to write about. The exploration of one's emotional life is not nothing. Lucy finally has the time to figure out how she feels about many things, and what she finds out is that life in general and her life in particular are complex, and that most of us live in the gray area between the black and white. In other words, while we would like life to be black and white, it is not. We are always struggling with our thoughts and emotions. But in the end, we are who we are and as we approach the last chapter of our lives, it is unlikely that there will be major personality changes. If you are the forgiving gentle type, you will most likely remain that way. If you are the aggressive unforgiving type or the philandering type, ditto. So that begs the question of whether she can trust William when he tells her at the end of the novel that he loves her. He seems to, and perhaps he always did, throughout his affairs and their divorce. The question, as her daughters remind her of, is whether she can trust William. The novel provides no answers to that question, and as Lucy herself points out, “It is a gift in this life that we do not know what awaits us.” How true. 

Souls that are lit (I love this imagery)

Those of you who read my blog know that I am a poetry lover. I appreciate poetry in all formats--rhymed, unrhymed, haiku, song lyrics, experimental--the list is endless. As long as the emotions expressed are pure, that's all that matters to me. And there is something about poetry that brings out pure, raw emotion, in a way that no other form of writing quite manages to do, in my humble opinion. 

This poem by Clarissa Pinkola Estés provides food for thought in an increasingly crazy world. I love the imagery--souls that are lit can light other souls that are struggling. Beautiful and kind thoughts......

You Were Made For This

Ours is not the task of fixing the 
entire world all at once, but of 
stretching out to mend the part 
of the world that is within our 
reach.

 
Any small, calm thing that one 
soul can do to help another soul, 
to assist some portion of this 
poor suffering world, will help 
immensely. 

It is not given to us to know 
which acts or by whom, will cause 
the critical mass to tip toward an 
enduring good. 

What is needed for dramatic 
change is an accumulation of 
acts, adding, adding to, adding 
more, continuing. 

We know that it does not take 
everyone on Earth to bring 
justice and peace, but only a 
small, determined group who will 
not give up during the first, 
second, or hundredth gale.

One of the most calming and 
powerful actions you can do to 
intervene in a stormy world is 
to stand up and show your soul. 
Soul on deck shines like gold in 
dark times. The light of the soul 
throws sparks, can send up 
flares, builds signal fires, causes 
proper matters to catch fire. 

To display the lantern of soul in 
shadowy times like these, to be 
fierce and to show mercy toward 
others; both are acts of immense 
bravery and greatest necessity.
Struggling souls catch light from 
other souls who are fully lit and 
willing to show it. If you would 
help to calm the tumult, this is 
one of the strongest things you 
can do.

There will always be times when 
you feel discouraged. I too have 
felt despair many times in my life, 
but I do not keep a chair for it. 
I will not entertain it. It is not 
allowed to eat from my plate.
In that spirit, I hope you will 
write this on your wall: 
"When a great ship is in 
harbor and moored, 
it is safe, 
there can be no doubt. 
But that is not what 
great ships are built for."

🌊 Clarissa Pinkola Estés

And a poem, Out There Alone, from my upcoming collection

Out there alone

 

There you were, little baby gull
Early evening, in the middle of the busy street
Lit by street lamps
Standing alone
Watching the cars pass you by
Buses too
We stopped to watch you
Hoping that no car would hit you.
 
A predicament
I wonder what you thought
Out there alone
Without your mother.
Did you lose her
Or she you?
You were stunned, disoriented
Had you already been grazed
By a car or scooter?
You bent down to peck at something on the pavement
And let it drop. Were you hungry?
 
I couldn’t let you
Stand alone, unsure
Of where to go, where to step
Every move fraught with peril
You would have been crushed
By a car, by a bus
Even though they tried
To steer clear of you.
It was dark.
 
I ask, what we are doing to nature,
To the wildlife that more and more
Seeks refuge in towns and cities
Gulls fly into the city now
Circling overhead, I watch you all
From my kitchen window
You learn our ways
But they are not your ways
 
You eat our food
But it is not your food.
Your food belongs to the sea and its bounty
You belong there too
Had it not been for your being a wild bird
I would have scooped you up in my arms
And taken you home and cared for you
In case you were sick
 
As it was, I could not leave you
To fend for yourself
Watching you commit a form of suicide.
Would you choose that, would you even know
That you were doing so?
 
I walked into the lamp-lit street
To meet you, no oncoming cars to stop me
I thought I might have to gather you in my arms
But no, it was enough that I talked to you
And told you to leave the street
You walked in front of me to the curb
And then hopped up onto the sidewalk
And walked away up along the hilly side street.
 
But you did not fly away
You were not afraid of cars, nor of me
As I clapped my hands and talked to you
So that you would choose life
And not death
On a dark city street.
You should have been afraid.
I would not have hurt you for the world
But cars and buses behave otherwise
You trust, but trust will be your downfall.

Copyright 2022 Paula Mary De Angelis 

All rights reserved 

One of Many--my poem from Parables & Voices

Apropos my last post about doubt--I wrote this poem many years ago. The italicized paragraph describes a woman who has 'chosen' not to pursue her dreams because the man she is with cannot keep pace with her and is angry about that. My guess is that there are many women who do this to keep the men in their lives placated.  

One of Many (Portrait of a Lady) (apologies to Henry James)

 

In some future time she knew
In that way that only women can know
That regret would exact its pound of flesh
For all the choices cast aside, for all the roads not taken.
 
For there were so many roads down which
If she had gone, that life may have been brighter.
Not tinged by so many shadows, not clouded
By the sufferings of others that she took upon herself.
 
In some future time she knew
That she would look back at life
As an old woman and wonder why it was
She chose a man ahead of most everything else.
 
Was it love or perhaps hate that tightened the bond?
Was it fear that made it impossible to live a life unfettered?
Fear of loss, fear of the other, fear of aloneness.
But what is fear if not lack of trust (in oneself and in others).
 
The fierce desire to prove independence from others,
Has led to only this, that she cannot any longer
Act without him, cannot think, cannot be who it is she once was,
For better or for worse, without him looming there before her.
 
A kind of prison, forged by fear and lack of trust,
By uncertainty and a self-image which is negligible at best,
His and in the end it will be hers, chosen by her because it seemed
That if he could not advance then it was her duty to demote herself.
 
Once was pretty, once was lively, once was open.
Once was…..a long long time ago.
Now is diminished, now is careful, now is remote,
So as not to awaken the sleeping beast inside him.
 
For he smiles on the outside, but the inside
Is filled with hate for others and a desire
To be above them since he cannot control them.
He cannot be them, and she cannot be them, by extension.

(From Parables & Voices, copyright 2011, by Paula Mary De Angelis)

Four beautiful poems by Mary Oliver

How did I not discover Mary Oliver sooner? Well, no matter. I have discovered her now and am immersing myself in the beauty of her poetry. Most of what she writes about resonates with me. The last poem I've included here, Hum, is about bees, and for those of you who follow my blog postings about my garden, you know that I too have written about the bees, those marvelous little creatures that keep it all going. 

Why I Wake Early

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who made the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and the crotchety –
best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light –
good morning, good morning, good morning.
Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.

------------------------------------------------

Song for Autumn

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

--------------------------------------------------

Lead

Here is a story

to break your heart.

Are you willing?

This winter

the loons came to our harbor

and died, one by one,

of nothing we could see.

A friend told me

of one on the shore

that lifted its head and opened

the elegant beak and cried out

in the long, sweet savoring of its life

which, if you have heard it,

you know is a sacred thing.,

and for which, if you have not heard it,

you had better hurry to where

they still sing.

And, believe me, tell no one

just where that is.

The next morning

this loon, speckled

and iridescent and with a plan

to fly home

to some hidden lake,

was dead on the shore.

I tell you this

to break your heart,

by which I mean only

that it break open and never close again

to the rest of the world.

-------------------------------------------------

Hum

What is this dark hum among the roses?

The bees have gone simple, sipping,

that’s all. What did you expect? Sophistication?

They’re small creatures and they are

filling their bodies with sweetness, how could they not

moan in happiness? The little

worker bee lives, I have read, about three weeks.

Is that long? Long enough, I suppose, to understand

that life is a blessing. I have found them-haven’t you?—

stopped in the very cups of the flowers, their wings

a little tattered-so much flying about, to the hive,

then out into the world, then back, and perhaps dancing,

should the task be to be a scout-sweet, dancing bee.

I think there isn’t anything in this world I don’t

admire. If there is, I don’t know what it is. I

haven’t met it yet. Nor expect to. The bee is small,

and since I wear glasses, so I can see the traffic and

read books, I have to

take them off and bend close to study and

understand what is happening. It’s not hard, it’s in fact

as instructive as anything I have ever studied. Plus, too,

it’s love almost too fierce to endure, the bee

nuzzling like that into the blouse

of the rose. And the fragrance, and the honey, and of course

the sun, the purely pure sun, shining, all the while, over

all of us.

Update from the home front February 2022

It's been six months since I stopped working. Six peaceful months of not having to answer to someone else. Six months of reorganizing the way I look at my life and what I want to do with my free time. I don't think there was ever any doubt in my mind that I wanted to focus full-time on writing. So far that seems to be working out well. I just submitted a poetry collection (in Norwegian) to a publisher here in Oslo and am hoping for a positive response. If they don't want to publish it, I'll self-publish it as a Norwegian e-book and then I'll self-publish the English translation on Amazon. I've already translated all the poems into English so it's ready to go at any point. This poetry collection is entitled Movements Through the Landscape (Bevegelser gjennom landskapet in Norwegian). 

I've also finished writing my garden book as well as my book about growing up in Tarrytown NY. I started the latter well over ten years ago, but what with working full-time, personal challenges and other obligations, it's taken a while to finish it. Now I need to find a publisher for this book as well. I'm thinking about self-publishing my garden book. I tried to get a literary agent interested in it last summer but no go. The publishing world can be as elitist in many ways as the world of academia that I happily left behind. Once you get your foot in the door as a published author, your books continue to get published even though they may not be anywhere near as good as your last one. But that's life. As my friend's father used to say, don't let the turkeys get you down. Good advice. Another piece of good advice for building self-esteem and believing in yourself is to stay off social media. It's just a time-waster and a negative spiral that will drag you down. I'd cancel my social media accounts without any problem except that I have enjoyable contact with a number of American friends and family and I'd miss that. We'll see what time brings.

Here's to a productive 2022 for every creative soul I know. Creativity is hard work but it's incredibly rewarding, no matter what type of creativity it is. 

Wendell Berry's The Peace of Wild Things

I found this the other day online and it resonated with me. Wendell Berry is a well-known American poet who is a firm believer in the importance of man's connection to the land via small-scale farming, and who lives that belief. You can read more about him online here: Wendell Berry - Wikipedia

I loved this poem and wanted to share it with you. 

The mind and imagination of Philip K Dick

Philip K Dick was an American science fiction writer whose life, despite being a short one (he was born in 1928 and died in 1982) was a prolific one in terms of his literary production--44 novels and about 121 short stories according to Wikipedia. A number of popular movies are based on his books/stories: Blade Runner (based on Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep), Minority Report, A Scanner Darkly, and Total Recall (based on We Can Remember It For You Wholesale). What struck me when I read about his life was how little money he earned as a sci-fi writer, since that type of literature was not considered mainstream. It was so unfair that he should have struggled in his lifetime to make money when after his death his stories were made into profitable films. He lived long enough to see only one of his books, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, approach the movie screen as Blade Runner; Dick backed Ridley Scott's vision for the film but died shortly before its release in 1982 (source Wikipedia).  But that is the inherent nature of an indifferent universe, which does not care a whit whether a writer (or anyone for that matter) succeeds or not.

I am currently reading Dick's novels and have finished Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, Flow My Tears,The Policeman Said, and Ubik. I've purchased two more--A Scanner Darkly and The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, as well as a collection of his short stories. Stanislaw Lem, who wrote Solaris (one of my favorite sci-fi novels and movies) was a big fan of Ubik. I've written about Solaris in another post: A New Yorker in Oslo: The Martian Chronicles and Solaris (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com). While I was reading Ubik and Flow My Tears,The Policeman Said, I had the same sorts of feelings as I had while reading Solaris. The first feeling is that I was in the presence of genius, but an otherworldly genius. His imagination knows no (human) bounds. The second was that I had truly been transported to another world, that I was living in that world. It's almost as though both Dick and Lem really lived the experiences and worlds they wrote about. Perhaps they did, even if just in their own minds. I'm not sure how Lem lived his life, but it is well-documented as to how Dick lived his. He was a drug user for most of his life; his choice of drug was amphetamines and he wrote while under the influence of speed, but he also tried psychedelics. He apparently made several suicide attempts and was preoccupied with the topic of mental illness. His stories make you understand the profound possibilities for mind expansion, fragmentation of the mind and thereby fragmentation of one's reality. I can understand that this might hold appeal for certain writers interested in exploring alternate realities, the workings of the mind, and the nature of the world around us and of the universe. Dick wrote at a time (1960s and 70s) when America was undergoing an upheaval of all the norms of society up to that time. The Vietnam War had completely unsettled American society. Psychologists such as Timothy Leary (born around the same time as Dick) were proponents of the use of LSD to treat different mental illnesses as well as to foster mind expansion in the search for personal truth. Leary received a copy of Dick's The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch. Dick was also a fan of H.P. Lovecraft (another favorite author of mine) because Lovecraft managed to convey in his sci-fi horror stories the sense that his stories were real. I read a collection of Lovecraft's stories over a year ago, and they still haunt me to this day. His writing grabs a hold of you and won't let go. It gets under your skin. I feel the same way about Dick's writing. I can recommend this link if you'd like to read more about Dick's interest in Christianity after he had a terrifying vision of what he was told was the devil: When Philip K. Dick turned to Christianity | Salon.com. 

Although the Old Testament is not considered to be literally true, it nonetheless presents some interesting divine pronouncements, one of which is “And the Lord God commanded the man, 'You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat of it you will surely die". Adam and Eve were warned against doing this. The implication is that they did not really know evil up to that point; the Garden of Eden was heaven. But they were curious as to what might happen if they did eat the fruit from this tree, egged on by the devil in the shape of a snake. I have always interpreted this passage to mean that humans would face the divine and the anti-divine head-on with no filters and that would mean that they were dead. To do so while living would split their minds apart and probably kill them. Are psychedelic drugs the fruit that could be consumed in order to reach that knowledge? If humans reach it, do they face good or evil or both? What if they cannot handle it? What if it renders them insane? I think there is something to this, but I wouldn't go down that road myself to find the answers. The reason is that I've read and seen too many sci-fi/horror novels and films that deal with such themes. Best to leave them to the realm of fiction. Even though many of these books and films are unsettling and haunting, they provide themes for reflection, which is always a good thing. I'm looking forward to reading more of Dick's works. 

Winter solstice

This is a poem I wrote in 2013 that later became a part of a poetry collection--Remnants of the Spirit World--that I published in 2014. The collection is available for purchase here: Remnants of the Spirit World: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781495376450: Amazon.com: Books

Solstice

Mid-winter night of nights

The shortest day of days

Walk into darkness’ might

And leave behind the light

Darkness falls upon the land

A weary world adrift in dream

Awaits return of sunshine’s hand

That stays its course upon the stream

What shadows lie in wait

For simple souls who traipse

Into their world of hate

Locked beyond the gate

Gather round the blazing fire

Hands clasped against the gloom

Fear of what events transpire

Chanting as dark shadows loom

And so the shadows lie

Cast doubt upon fair souls

Where shadows do not tread

Just souls have found their stead

Gather round the blazing fire

That warms dark frozen souls

Gather round the cleansing pyre

That burns to make them whole

The longest night of nights

Turns slowly toward the sun

Moving on to longer days

In the end the battle won

O’er darkness and the shadow life

Creatures retreat behind the gate

The cracks filled in with blessed light

Sealed against the wall of hate

Copyright 2013 Paula Mary De Angelis