Holding Still

colorful skies

Today when I got home from work I set the hound free ASAP, (Al's in NY, Chauncey was alone and shut inside all day). I realized it was TOTALLY freezing outside and that the two or so days of 40 degree weather were a fluke, so we ran into the warm and welcoming house of Chauncey's gal pal, Sammy. We visited with Sammy's owner, one of my favorite older gentlemen who, coincidentally, wrote one of our recommendation letters for the adoption. We had some tea and cookies, then headed home. Light on the answering machine. Three messages. Telemarketer, our Social Worker, and Alex. Social Worker? Says she has "good news." I know what this means. Or do I? Maybe she got the paperwork from the CIS before we did (that's what happened the first time). But she added -- "I don't think you'll want to wait the weekend to hear the news, so here's my cell phone number." By now I am all fluttery inside, and cursing the fact that Alex is NOT HOME. I write her cell phone number down twice, once on a small and flimsy receipt. I realize that I would need to write many things down so I found a bigger piece of paper for the event. This was going to be an event. I probably wouldn't reach her -- Mercury is retrograde, after all. Despite the threat of Mercury, I call after I sit myself down with a pen and paper. She answers on the second ring with a knowing, "Hellooo?!" "It's Erin, what's the news?" "You have a referral for two brothers. The oldest is 3 years and 3 months, the younger is 2 years and 4 months." TWO BOYS!!! I needed to call Alex before anyone else, of course. I called the cell. One ring, then nothing. I did this about 10 times, no exaggeration. "Here is where Mercury will have its way with me," I thought. I'm not going to stop until I get a ring and an answer of some sort. Finally, I get one ring, long silence, then the message telling me to leave a message. "Papa C, call me as soon as you get this." Meanwhile I try to eat supper and play with the dog without jumping out of my skin. Chauncey realizes something is up and takes every toy out of his toy bowl, realizing I finally have as much energy as he has. Phone rings, it's Alex. "What's up?" He obviously didn't notice the "Papa C" prelude to my message, so I have to think fast. "You're a Daddy!" Strange, primeval sounds are emitted -- half-way between a shout and a shriek. Alex is not much of a shrieker, so I am little alarmed. But I soldier on and tell him all about the boys, as much as I know. Meanwhile, he tries to cross the street without getting hit by a bus, the method by which he is sure he will meet his end, as he has told me on numerous occasions. We say how much we love one another, how we can't wait until tomorrow when we can see one another. He says how relieved he is that the boys have one another. Finally, I cry. Mom and Dad, of couse, are not home, nor are they answering their cell phone. Eventually I reach one of my friends, and I can further exhale the breath that is expanding within me. More friends are called, I reach Mom and Dad, and I am totally exhausted. That is where you find me now. I find the whole thing too large to fully comprehend, not to mention to describe. Below are some pictures I took at sunset before I had tea with my neighbor, before I got the news. When I was driving home, the tips of all of the bare trees were tinged with the most ethereal pink I had ever seen. I grabbed the camera for my "walk" with Chauncey and snapped a bunch of pictures from my neighbor's field. They will never capture the aching beauty I saw -- pictures of skies seldom do. The painful beauty I saw seems to match the way I feel inside about the boys. The colors of that late February sunset describe better than I can the simultaneous joy and sadness of this whole experience.

via holdingstill.typepad.com

6 years ago today we discovered we would be parents to Habtamu and Lire. Thank you, boys, for some of the hardest, and most lovely experiences of our lives. You rock.

Non-Cooking is.

I have a wonderful friend who is a wonderful writer.  And she has had a tumultuous relationship with cooking (let me know if that is not totally accurate, E), for many years.  She has a very funny blog called Picky Grouchy Non-Cook.  In addition to a description of what a Non-Cook is (someone who doesn't consider him/herself a cook), she has an ongoing manifesto, resources, history of her non-cook forays, non-cook categories, and a featured Non-Cook of the month.

October's  featured Non-Cook is ME.  And I am no longer ashamed.  Here is the link.  I had a blast doing it, I must say.  I hope you enjoy it.  And in honor of my coming out of the kitchen closet as a PBN-C (Pro Bake Non-Cook), yesterday and today I baked numerous apple pies.  So there.

Below are photo hints from my interview... Read Picky Grouchy Non-Cook and find out why...

 



Enjoy!

I'm ba-ack...

I was sitting at my computer this evening, checking FB friends' posts, etc.  Looking at my lovely African violets and the zinnia bouquet with sage,  Japanese anemones and lavendar.  Very pretty.  I thought to myself, I feel like writing on my blog.  Just like that.  Over a year since my last post.  No real reason why. 

And not too much to say.  I am having a lot of trouble breathing.  Just like last September.  I didn't write about it then, since my last post was in June.  But in late August, early September last year I had a lot of difficulty breathing.  Had to up my prednisone to 15 mg. again.  Quel drag, as Holly Golightly would say.  By March I was down to 3.75mg.  Still there.  Won't be able to taper again, if at all, for a while.  I have had a couple of moments of "oh shit! here it goes again."  Pissed at myself, my illness, what I last called my first baby.  I get really angry at her. 

So that's what's up with my health.  I still do cranial sacral therapy, acupuncture, herbs, homeopathy and of course, the prednisone.  I also have stepped up the yoga, and have started on the path of teacher training.  I have a new job, fulltime, which I absloutely love.  Which is rare, so I know, I am blessed.  My two boys are exceptionally healthy and exceptionally cute and wonderful.  Not without their challenges, of course, but they are human. 

My younger guy lost his first tooth today.  He really lost it, can't find it.  So, following the recommendation of his older, wiser cousin who also lost a tooth in a watermelon-eating episode, he wrote a letter to the tooth fairy.  This is significant.  My younger lad does not feel very comfortable writing or reading.  He has anxiety about it.  But this was important.  He sat at his desk, using a pencil, in case he made a mistake, and wrote the cutest letter of all time to the tooth fairy.  He asked him/her,  his/her name.  He told aforementioned fairy that he lost his tooth somewhere.  Lastly, he asked if he could have a picture of him/her.

His tooth fairy will save this letter forever. 

So you see, life is still miraculous, illness or no illness.

The Horse Boy

I've just been reading The Horse Boy by Rupert Isaacsson.  This isn't a review, by the way, I am just LOVING this book.  Alex and I saw part of the movie on PBS a few weeks back, so I wanted to get the book to delve more into the back story and also get more details.  It is a true story of a boy with pretty severe autism and his parents' quest to help bring him back to them as he seems to drift farther and farther away.  Between the horses they ride at home in Texas and an incredible journey to Mongolia to visit the shamans there, incredible, no miraculous strides are made.  I haven't finished it yet, and like I said, didn't see the entire film, so I can't tell you if the changes stuck for their little boy, or how far he came.  But it is a beautiful, intense story I highly recommend.  Isaacsson is a travel writer, horseman and adventurer, so he writes about Mongolia's landscapes and people intelligently and respectfully.

Check it out!  I also found this cool website that has a story about Mongolian shamans which I also recommend.

Enjoy!

Happy belated birthday

I turned 43 on Tuesday, and it was kind of, well, great.  Not in the surprise party way.  Not in the "my husband bought me a Lexus!" way, and not in the "I've got no cellulite!" way.  None of those things happened upon me.

What did happen was that I was pretty chill.  Pretty serene.  Happy and feeling like I used to feel.  Hard to pinpoint when that was -- "how I used to feel."  I have been searching for when that was.  I go back to when I was in my 20's and lived in Baltimore.  When I first moved to NYC.  When I went to Italy and fulfilled a lifelong dream.  When I was 11.  There was no sudden shift, no clear before and after of feeling good and then feeling bad.  It kind of snuck up on me.  However, my illness and subsequent "recovery" is a sort of marker.  It most certainly has something to do with that, my first "child."  

I've always considered my illness and especially my recuperation period to be like a very prolonged, difficult pregnancy.  I have never been pregnant, at least not that I know of, not in this particular lifetime.  But I remember that when I was "better" (ie, able to leave the apartment and see people), I was weak and tired easily.  Needed to sit down a lot.  Many foods disagreed with me.  I couldn't drink.  I was very emotional.  And I was self conscious about the way I looked.  In this I was the opposite of the pregnant friends I seemed to be surrounded by.  They were getting larger, whereas I had gotten much, much smaller.  Small to the point that at first, my family and some friends were convinced that I was anorexic.  Legs so thin that they didn't appear to be mine at all -- whose bones were those jutting out of the pale, thin skin?  Not mine.    

A memory that stands out for me is from a party I attended with at least two pregnant friends.  They and I all felt a bit nauseous and very tired and ready to call it a night.  One friend was describing her symptoms, and I commiserated -- they were not much different from mine.  The difference was that she was carrying new life within her, life that admittedly made her feel pretty awful.  I wasn't carrying anything special like that.  Instead I was host to some overactive white blood cells and some weird granulomae that apparently caused quite a ruckus to my immune system.  I sighed.  My baby was my illness.  I had to tend to it, hate it as I might.  Because I did despise this unwelcome visitor who I determined had destroyed my life.  Had dissipated my body out of all recognition.  The baby who wouldn't let me have another, less destructive baby.  

 For about 8 years now, I've been waiting to feel like I used to.  I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up coughing or with a raging headache or ear infection.  Wake up refreshed and not trembling, heart racing.  Wanted to laugh -- laugh readily and often, like I used to.  Not snap at loved ones because I didn't get enough sleep.  I have known for a while that I have been protecting myself in a little cocoon from hurting more.  I didn't care, I was sick, wasn't I?  Too bad for you, you just have to deal with my illness peculiarities.  It is only recently that I have been able to step back and watch myself fend off life.  I have been afraid of this baby.  She turned my life upside-down.  Slowly, not without resistance, I have forced myself to accept her.  "She might not ever leave, you know," I told myself.  There is also a good chance I might not ever get off of prednisone.  Prednisone is the pacifier that keeps her from throwing my body back into the sickness spiral.  

I have learned a few tricks.  If I do yoga regularly, she doesn't feel as achy and she sleeps better.  As woo-woo as it sounds, cranio-sacral therapy works.  So do chanting Buddhist monks and nuns.  Having two boys, as challenging as it is, is good exercise and makes her sleep well, too.  

With this acceptance, the fear has lessened.  I'm not throwing raspberries her way or dissing her or anything, of course.  I must respect her.  The illness, my first child, has allowed  me to lessen the prednisone pacifier.  She has allowed me to go from the five milligrams I've been on for so long, gradually, painstakingly down to 2.5 milligrams.  To those of you who've tapered prednisone, you know of what I speak.  It is extremely difficult to taper once you get down to the lower numbers.  Some say it is impossible once you've been on them so long, your adrenal glands become addicted to it and can't work on their own.  I tapered by 1.25 milligrams in March, and it has taken me until now to not feel completely exhausted.  I'm still not sure it'll stick, but I feel pretty good lately.  I weigh the same as I did before the illness.  Even a couple pounds more.  

And for a week or so now, I've been pretty ok.  Pretty chill.  More mindful.  More like I used to feel.  And for as long as it lasts, I am grateful.  Thank you for this birthday gift, you illness you.  My first baby.   

The one who made it possible for me to have my second two babies -- my boys.
 

You're Not the Boss of Me

Ahh, another book review opportunity!  I recently received a copy of You’re Not the Boss of Me by Betsy Brown Braun from Mom Central.  They're participating in a blog tour campaign on behalf of HarperCollins, and thus I'm writing this review.  They were kind enough to give me a copy of the book to facilitate my review. Mom Central also sent me a gift certificate to thank me for taking the time to participate.  It is a win-win situation.

It's particularly a winning situation for me when the book is a useful and good one.  I'm no expert on parenting books, because, frankly, I'm no expert on parenting, but I can recognize when a book has something to offer me in terms of practical advice or a fresh perspective -- something else I find I need when I'm get tired of the hackneyed phrases I tend to use.  Like, "Eat your meat, or you can't have any pudding -- how can you have any pudding when you don't eat your meat!" or "Put down the finely-sharpened stick before somebody loses an eye!"

Braun's book is written in an accessible and easy-to-read way and fits the bill as far as being useful and having a fresh perspective.  Each chapter has a theme, for example, Independence and Empathy were two of my favorites.  After a brief intro on the theme with discussions of normal childhood development and temperament, for example, she will provide "tips and scripts."  These follow each discussion and give the reader examples of what to say and/or do in a variety of situations.  She references scientific research a little more than I find necessary, but I do understand that that is important to some people.  I do tend to gloss over those parts after a while.  I prefer the anecdotal, real-life situations a bit more.  Something I really liked was her discussion of "brat-proofing" one's child.  When one of my kids is really behaving like a, well, like a brat, I'm always kind of taken aback.   Because they are definitely not brats, far from it.  They can behave in a brat-like manner, of course, which I think all kids (and some adults!) can do.  So I like the fact that she's not afraid to use the word "brat" and to realize that we can do something about helping our kids to become independent, respectful, empathetic kids.  And to realize that it takes time.  It takes learning.  And patience.  Patience from us as their parents and patience from them when we forget that they're still developing and expect too much.

I found the chapter on empathy (Why is that Girl Crying?) particularly interesting, because it's something that concerns me a great deal with my boys.  It's something I value and hope to engender in them, too.  I was happy that she actually recommended showing one's kids how to be empathetic in words and in deeds.  For example, she proposes volunteering if one has the time so your kids can see that caring for others is important to you.  

There is a lot to read, and I did find myself glossing over some of the tips and scripts when I felt that they went on too long.  But I do think it's the kind of book that one can pick up and put down as needed.  You can focus on a chapter that suddenly becomes pertinent (e.g. No, You Go to Your Room!" Creating a  Respectful Child), read the tips and scripts, and then work on putting it into practice.  Some things are common sense, but I think it's good to be reminded of particular parenting tools no matter how long we've been parents, since I'm sure a lot of us get mired in repetitive reactions to our children's less attractive behaviors.

All in all, I enjoyed reading You're Not the Boss of Me while I sat a McDonald's waiting for all four tires of our car to be replaced.  Yes, all four.  It was entertaining and gave me a lot to think about regarding my own parental habits.  Anything that makes a parent more mindful is a good thing.

don't worry!

I think I'd better write an upbeat post and tout suite!  I most certainly have been in a contemplative mood of late.  The third anniversary of the boys coming into our family has recently passed, and then I read about the dissolved Russian adoption case and some people's reactions to it.  The whole thing was so very sad, and I found myself feeling sorry for everyone involved, imagining going through with such a thing, how confused the boy must have been, how dissociated the adults must have been.  

We are actually quite, quite good here, with the usual and more than occasional challenge popping up.  In the Franken-mom post I was primarily talking about our first year together, and we are miles from that now, in a lot of ways.  Some of the same bad habits (for all of us) still exist from that time, but awareness of them make them less harmful to our family unit.

Awareness is what I was discussing towards the end of that last post.  My own awareness of my reactions, my thought processes, and real awareness of the other members of the family has caused a shift to occur in me.  Part of that awareness has come naturally, and part of it has come through work I've done with meditation and study of Buddhism.  I am slogging through, for sure, but I'm happier for it.  Recognition of my perceived failings as a parent are something I need to look at, learn from, and then move on.  I'm trying not to beat myself up, but at the same time look at things as objectively as I can.  I tend to write when I'm most inward, and when I have time.  So please don't worry!  I haven't considered jumping into the ocean in at least 6 months!

Here are the photos I promised two posts ago.  Mercury is still retrograde, but hopefully they'll load up.

It feels good to write again!  I'll try and keep up.
Lire and wee Nolan's tootsies.

new sandals on a 70 degree morning.

I tried to upload more, but my computer has had enough.  It's complaining rather loudly, alas.

  

Franken-mom

I've been cogitating a great deal on mom-dom of late.  I've mentioned on more than one occasion that I am honestly disappointed with my mothering skills.  Not always, but enough to make me constantly re-hone my approaches to the boys.  Which, I think, makes me a better mother than I may be giving myself credit for.  

I've also been thinking about "bad" moms, the ones who make us gasp when we read about their awful deeds.  When I was a first year teacher, back in Baltimore in the Head Start Program, I witnessed a mom who violently shook her baby.  A grandmother who spent her grandchild's Social Security Check on a new fur coat for herself and gambling, while the three year old granddaughter came to school in midwinter wearing torn ladies' panty hose for socks.  I remember telling someone that I could not have compassion for these mothers.  I felt too strongly about the wrongs that were being visited on their children.  

I couldn't wait to become a mom.  I imagined all the possibilities of children I might have -- a girl, a boy, one of each, someone who had Alex's eyes and lovely voice or who liked to explore the woods like I did.  We talked about adoption even before my illness made it clear that having kids the "natural" way was not in  the cards.  When I was stronger and on the road to being as normal as I could hope to be, we began exploring adoption for real.  And then we actually did.  We adopted two brothers, H and L.  They were, and still are, breathtakingly beautiful.  We would have a family after all.  

I've already written a lot about the challenges of that first year as a family.  I still think about it with sadness.  I wish I didn't.  I wish I could look back and say it was perfect, everything I expected, I rose to the challenge, etc.  But it wasn't, and I didn't.  I was just barely keeping it together, and I was severely depressed.  I sought help for myself, which was a major financial drain, but it was either that or I would indulge my fantasies of diving into the ocean one night and not coming back.  I contacted our agency more than once, desperate for help with behaviors I found alarming.  I was told that this was what happened sometimes, and that in a few months things would be better.  I was told to look online for resources to help me.  Another mom in the same boat as me was told by her agency to go and buy her child an ice cream cone when this daughter screamed for three hours straight.  I think the same social worker told her to go and take a yoga class herself.

My social worker contacted me once to ask how things were after one of my more desperate emails.  She told me about a place about 2 hours from us who dealt with behavior problems with kids.  I called them.  They used a behavior chart system not unlike the one we already used.  The woman there laughed and said to give it time.  They didn't know what attachment was, or that a child might not attach.  They supposedly specialized with adopted kids.

I felt alone and unsupported, though I wasn't actually alone, I had Alex and my family.  Going to therapy cost a lot at a time when I wasn't working, but we could scrape it together.  And our moms both came to help out with the boys.  And still it was overwhelming to me.  So now I look at the two moms I mentioned from my Baltimore days, and all the moms who've made us gasp in horror over the years, including most recently the mom from Tennessee who sent her newly adopted son back to Russia alone on an airplane.  I know a bit about the Baltimore moms from having worked with the social workers on the case.  They were victims of abuse, themselves.  They were very poor, disenfranchised people put into circumstances for which they were totally unequipped.  I don't know anything about the Tennessee mom, except that she was a single mother.  And she probably had hopes of being a happy family.  I don't know.  I know that I had more support than they, but still I felt totally at sea.

None of these cogitations about myself or these moms is meant to take away from the fear, trauma and pain of the kids involved.  I have witnessed it first hand as a teacher and as my sons' mother.  That is one of the reasons why my memories of the first year are so sad.  There was undeniable pain underneath the smiles and playfulness in our photographs.  I feel regret and shame about the way I performed as "mother" in those early days.  I am pretty sure that those other mothers did, and do, too.  Part of a meditation method I am currently learning advises you to "taste" your extreme feelings.  Think back about a particularly painful episode in your life and feel the emotions and physical sensations that accompany it.  Don't name them, don't repress them, don't judge them,  just feel them.  And then acknowledge that countless other people have experienced the same feelings and sensations as you.  This is the beginning of compassion.  

The refrain, "It's not that far..." from Walking Down Madison by Kirsty MacColl keeps chiming into my head:  

It's a shame to be human it's a human shame
It seems we've forgotten we're one and the same
One and the same
One and the same
No it's not too far
No it's not too far
We're one and the same

Parenting is a humbling experience.  I'd like to think that in similar circumstances I wouldn't make the same choices as these moms.  Their actions were exceedingly hurtful and cannot be undone nor excused.  They will leave indelible scars.  But if we are to move on and heal these terrible hurts, I think we must start with feeling compassion for them as well as for their children.  And for ourselves.  Compassion is the beginning of healing.  Then we can all move on and be the mothers we've always meant to be.

hola!

I'm going to sort of cop out and post some photos.  Sorry!  Not that I'm not thinking about various things, because of course, I am.  I'm just out of the writing habit.  So much to do, and when I'm not doing, I try to chill and get off the computer.  Because I spend way too much time on it.  What do I do on the computer, you ask?

Astrology.  Yup.  I'm one of those people.  The type who wants to know when your birthday is.  The one who tries to guess what your rising sign is.  I try not to be annoying, but a girl's got to know!  It's a lot of fun, and I've been studying horary astrology, an old, old branch of astrology that helps one to ask questions of the cosmos.  Not unlike an oracle such as the I Ching, which I also really like.

Besides astrology, I've been working and really enjoying it.  I work at a bunch of different places, doing education stuff -- math, art, pre-k-ish stuff.  Also, it looks like our younger son Lire will be going to the school where I work part-time, about which I'm really pleased.  I think it'll be good for him, and good for H (older brother) to have their own friends, classrooms, etc.  H goes to a one-room schoolhouse, which sounds quaint in theory, but in practice it has its challenges.  One of which is that it really is one room, so the boys would be together 24/7.  Everyone needs a break from his/her sibling.

Here are some photos from this past Easter.  The boys are growing apace -- H's feet are basically my size, and Lire is catching up!  They are usually very happy and enthusiastic about life, and seem to learn more every day.  I'm really proud of them.  They are great guys.

Darn!  Can't seem to upload any photos tonight.  I'll try again soon.  Sorry, you'll have to wait for the hunky boy photos.

late to the funeral

I read today of the passing late last year of a classmate of mine from college.  I knew her as the 19th century-looking, curly tressed, intelligent-eyed woman I found intriguing.  I knew she was a writer, but only discovered she was a poet the last time I saw her.  At college, like I said, I was intrigued and definitely covetous of her eyes and hair.  I could tell she was smart and funny, but our paths crossed rarely, and we never got to know one another.  Then I saw her when I was living in Baltimore.  She apparently was getting an MA in writing, while I was getting a degree in early childhood special education.  I remember seeing her, among other random Yalies, while living in Charles Village.  Charles Village is the Hopkins neighborhood where my apartment was robbed twice and I dated a poetic, abusive, heavy-drinking funny-man named James.  I wonder what kind of time she had in Charm City?  Did she frequent Club Charles?  PJ's?  Then I moved to New York, to be with my love -- the man I was sure I'd be with almost as soon as I met him.  Alex.  We lived in Morningside Heights, the neighborhood surrounding Columbia University.  I don't remember exactly when, or how often, but I saw her again, walking in the neighborhood.  And then again at a party, and we finally talked.  Maybe we spoke in college, we couldn't remember.  But we remembered one another, as random people who went to school together.  That's when I discovered she was a poet.  I was still taken with her eyes and her curls.  She was sitting back, sipping wine, laughing with a friend, and being open and interested.  

I obviously hardly knew this woman, but for some reason, maybe it was the repeated sightings, she always stuck in my memory.  I think it probably happens a lot.  People who should have been friends, but because of different paths, social circles, whatever, only glance at one another.  Or rather, glance off of one another through time.

She had achieved success as a poet, published three books of poetry, and was recently the poetry editor for the New Republic.  I'll post three of her poems below.  The first two are about the neighborhood she and I lived in in the city.  I hope you enjoy them enough to look up more of her poems.  I know I am going to.  I hope you find peace, Rachel.

Sakura Park

The park admits the wind,

the petals lift and scatter

like versions of myself I was on the verge

of becoming; and ten years on

and ten blocks down I still can’t tell

whether this dispersal resembles

a fist unclenching or waving goodbye.

But the petals scatter faster,

seeking the rose, the cigarette vendor,

and at least I’ve got by pumping heart

some rules of conduct: refuse to choose

between turning pages and turning heads

though the stubborn dine alone. Get over

“getting over”: dark clouds don’t fade

but drift with ever deeper colors.

Give up on rooted happiness

(the stolid trees on fire!) and sweet reprieve

(a poor park but my own) will follow.

There is still a chance the empty gazebo

will draw crowds from the greater world.

And meanwhile, meanwhile’s far from nothing:

the humming moment, the rustle of cherry trees.

Short Ode to Morningside Heights

Convergence of worlds, old stomping ground,
comfort me in my dark apartment
when my latest complaint shrinks my focus
to a point so small its hugely present
but barely there, and I fill the air
with all the spiteful words I spared the streets.

The pastry shop’s abuzz
with crazy George and filthy graffiti,
but the peacocks are strutting across the way
and the sumptuous cathedral gives
the open-air banter a reason to deepen:
build structures inside the mind, it tells
the languorous talkers, to rival the ones outside!

Things are and are not solid.
As Opera Night starts at Caffe Taci,
shapes hurry home with little red bags,
but do they watch the movies they hold
or do they forego movies for rooftops
where they catch Low’s floating dome in the act
of always being about to fly away?

Ranters, racers, help me remember
that the moon-faced fountain’s the work of many hands,
that people linger at Toast long after we’ve left.
And as two parks frame the neighborhood—
green framing gray and space calming clamor—
be for me, well-worn streets, a context
I can’t help carrying home, a night fugue
streaming over my one-note how, when, why.
Be the rain for my barren indoor cry.

--Rachel Wetzsteon

Commands for the End of Summer

i.

Deepen,
leaves, not with what
has made us sorry but
with what was profound about that
sorrow.

ii.

Make me
spontaneous,
gathering winds, but don’t
blow so giddily I teeter
too much.

iii.

Songs I
listened to all
summer long, accept my
thanks: to regress is not to move
backward.

iv.

Splash of
patchouli on
my wrist, remind me that
in this cauldron there is a world
elsewhere.

v.

Smile! Those
days of humid
agony have earned you
the right to a hundred purple
sunsets.

vi.

Come, fall,
I can feel you
stirring, I can hardly
wait for the things that will happen
come fall.

--Rachel Wetzsteon