Blooma Blog

This will be a really quick post because 1) there are signs of movement on the baby monitor and 2) I'm in the midst of washing a bunch of new cloth diapers. But I just wanted to bop in and share a link to my story published over on the Blooma Blog. Most of you have already seen it, linked up from my Facebook page last week, but in case you haven't read it yet - go check it out! My yoga studio, which specializes in prenatal and baby-yoga classes (among other things), sent out an e-newsletter about new year's resolutions and choosing one word as a mantra for the year. Well, considering I essentially did just that last year, I sent them an email back sharing my story about my Year of Being Fearless (I already wrote about it on my blog here, but now I tightened it up a bit and finished the story). Turns out they thought other new mamas or soon-to-be mamas would also like to hear my story, so they asked if they could share it on their blog!

As a side note, let me just add that Blooma is always featuring birth stories and other mama tales, so if you have something to share, send it their way!

Notes for Someday

Here's a little something you didn't know about me:

I am a spy.

Well ok, not really. But I do carry a little notebook around with me so I can jot down quotes and ideas whenever I hear them. I once had a professor who recommended doing this because you never know what "golden nuggets" you'll want to remember for later -- and besides, it makes people wonder what you're up to ; )

I am a self-appointed observer of the world and I keep all my findings in my little notebook ... which has now extended onto random post-it notes and scraps of paper I corral in a plastic bag.




I learned the hard way to protect my thoughts in a plastic bag because you never know when a faulty water bottle top might leak, or when you'll get caught in the rain. Once I lost an entire notebook and felt lost for weeks until I managed to transfer those precious notes from memory into a new notebook.

Actually, I have a whole slew of notebooks. My collection began as a kid. I remember worrying about what to write in each of them because every one needed to have a purpose. I'd set them all up on the table, stare at them for probably half an hour, and then run my plan by my mom (who told me not to worry so much and just write!). I think I ended up with a dream journal, an everyday journal (where I literally wrote something down every single day ... talk about a yawn-er), a travel journal, and I'm sure I came up with some other purposes. I took my journaling seriously. After all, it wasn't only for me, I wrote for the whole world. Seriously, I imagined that someday the world would be destroyed and a few lone survivors would come across my journal, and that is all they would have as a clue to our former world. Yes, I really did imagine this. That's why I'd write down the entire date in the corner of the page and as many details as I could. I wanted to help those future earthlings out! They might be confused what 9/24/1993 meant, but they'd figure it out, thanks to my impeccable recording. And then my journals would be famous, wuahaha.

Here's my collection today:

My greatest inspirations usually come when I'm driving to work in the morning. I've read somewhere that morning is a natural creative time, and I definitely find this to be true. I'll be driving along listening to some music when all of a sudden an idea pops in my head -- and I have to wait until I arrive at work before I can quickly scribble it down in my notes (or sometimes I may use my hand as a notepad while sitting at a light!).

I never fully know what the future holds for these "golden nuggets". Sometimes it's just a scene or image I'd like to remember and maybe incorporate into a children's book someday, like a smokestack puffing pink cotton-candy into the setting sky, or a whole army of UPS trucks heading down the road in perfect unison that somehow remind me of an animated kid's movie. Other times I jot down more philosophical thoughts that usually revolve around the seasons or nature. And there's definitely a whole slew of blog-post ideas, poems, and childhood memories. I'll get back to them ...

 ....Someday....

I work almost full time at a publishing house, work as a freelance writer  for a local lifestyle magazine, I try squeeze in a run (or a Body Pump class!) almost every day, and have many other hobbies and house projects that keep me going. So if a few weeks go by without a peep from me on this ol' blog it isn't because I have nothing to say.

My thoughts are just germinating -- waiting for their turn in the ziplock bag.

Caribbean Cadence - a travel essay

After a brief discussion with my grandpa this past weekend about the crazy driving cultures of other countries, I thought I'd post this creative non-fiction travel essay I wrote senior year at St. Olaf College. It is based on my experience studying abroad in the Caribbean during interim (January) of my junior year. We visited Barbados, Trinidad, Tobago, and St. Lucia; this piece incorporates aspects of each island, but the overall story-line takes place in Trinidad where the Pan Yards abound.

*****

The sultry Caribbean breeze kissed my moist cheek and lifted the hem of my skirt off my thighs; it beckoned to us: a small group of St. Olaf students looking for adventure in the wild nights of the Eastern Caribbean.  After an hour of waiting for a taxi that was scheduled to come in twenty minutes, a mini-bus rounded the bend, tilting and screaming, and shuddered to a stop alongside our curb of eager high heels.  Saying goodbye to the sweet night air, we climbed inside the square frame and pushed towards the back.  Rows of seats, packed together, greeted us like a crowded smile: some were sunken, others slanted, unfolded to fill the aisle.  We settled in the hull just as the driver jerked us forward – one steel force flying beside the dancing waves.

I was captured in a bubble of darkness.  With my face hard against the window and legs anchored to the floor, I grasped for some control in this barbaric, bucking van.  Straining my neck to look down the alleyway of bouncing heads and swaying necks, I managed to catch a glimpse of the world through the front window.

Still on the outskirts of the city the pavement was dark, except for the occasional wave of yellow from another speeding van.  As we passed a lone lamppost buzzing at the stars, I noticed a soggy KFC bag disintegrating at its feet.  Shadows grazed my peripheral vision, and glowing eyes haunted from an abandoned resort where a sign still read “Happy Hour at 5 p.m.”

For the first few days of the trip I found myself avoiding contact with many of the locals.  It was not that I didn’t appreciate their culture – after all, I was seeking a cultural immersion – but rumors and stories left me unsure as to how I could trust the culture.  One friend had warned me to avoid wearing tank tops as a defense mechanism against prostitute-seeking males.  Although this advice may have been extreme and unnecessary, it settled in my stomach so that whenever a dark staggering figure gazed up the beach with hungering eyes, my insides recoiled.

One of the professors on the trip pointed out the dichotomy between the Caribbean population: extremely helpful and embracing of foreigners, but shady and potentially dangerous.  After attempting public transportation one day alone with a girlfriend, we opted for walking; everyone on the bus, including the driver, possessed unusually dilated eyes and glazed smiles.  Whether or not they were under some form of influence, or just filled with the vigor of life, was a question we did not stick around to resolve.  My professor had not disclosed navigational tips on surviving the obscure personality of the Caribbean’s “split personality.”  However, I would not have understood the answer even if she attempted an explanation; I had to learn through experience how the Caribbean culture breathes as a whole.

A dash of movement entered our path: a swerving bicycle or a wandering dog.  With a sudden tilt and bending frame, the mini-bus proved its agility and regained its balance on the left side of the road.  This potentially devastating incident was surprisingly not accompanied by a burst of outrage from our driver, who simply beeped his horn twice before regaining top speed.  One fellow student with a little more confidence than the rest, ventured to ask the question burning inside all of us: “Excuse me sir, are we safe?”

Through the cracked rear-view mirror I watched a slight smile warm our driver’s face.  Then, to no one in particular, he said, “ov course thees is safe.  You are with Gillen and I drive every night.  No accident yet.”  Then, as if he sensed our yearning for more assurance, he added, “and besides, you are on de Super-Bus!”  I twisted my neck and strained my eyes into the interior, searching for signs of super-hero powers that might save us if the van flipped or collided.

As the street lights drifted across the walls in slow patches, I discovered that we were actually riding in a heavily cushioned van: every wall, including the ceiling, was layered with a puffy burgundy pillow that resembled a billiard room, squat, grandpa chair.  No wonder Gillen could drive recklessly and have “no worries”: his super-bus was fully equipped to roll over and adjust to the traffic flow; man and bus were the perfect Caribbean tandem: shifting and swaying to the impulsive cadence of the road.

Searching for the outside world again through the crowded front glass, I discovered a denser traffic laden road: red blurs mixed with bright swimming lights as we carved a “round-a-bout” heading downtown.  Opening onto a straightaway clear from oncoming traffic, our driver and the rest of the left side spread fully into the right lane.  For ten agonizing seconds I sat numbly, anticipating a head-on collision and praying to the ceiling cushions to welcome me in a soft hug.  But miraculously, the first sign of an oncoming car sent our side of traffic back in place in one quick shift, just in time to speed through a red light.  Honks grazed us on every side and the world became a whirl of unpredictable motion, but we remained untouched in our flying cocoon.

Gradually the outskirts of the city melded into the heart of downtown, and as the streets became littered with people, the super-bus slowed to a steady andante.  Buildings framed the colorful nightlife, each unique with its distinctive purpose: Par-may-la’s Inn cuddled its customers within balconied rooms, the Bank of the Caribbean towered from on high behind a locked gate, and stark homes trailed stubbly walkways spotted with leering children.  The array of structures and styles packed together on one bent street twisted into a long, cracked smile, as if it held the very secret to the Caribbean within it’s grasp.

As we turned the corner we collided with a sudden force of sound: jubilation in ringing pitches mixed with an eager beat.  A group of swaying color was gathered in a cemented courtyard, and as our driver paused I could see the heart of the Caribbean:  in the center of the crowd stood two dozen musicians, from the vivacious young to the weathered old, all playing their PAN drums[1] with dancing sticks.

The brilliant cadence beckoned us off the bus and into the pan yard with mouths ajar and eyes peeled wide.  Staggering men offered us chairs, and cloudy smirks turned into boisterous greetings flavored with excessive “no problems.”  Our group of ten Nordic college students was instantly enveloped in a shroud of throbbing dark skin and swaying, braided pendulums of hair.  Although I still retreated from the memories of the abandoned resort where hollow stares threatened, I welcomed the pan yard and its undulating embrace; I finally understood the fine balance between safety and danger that carries throughout Caribbean culture.

At the front of the crowd the pan drummers stood in two lines with their upper bodies strong and straight, while their wrists and hands brought each drum alive with its unique voice; together the streets of the Caribbean raised up in one symphony.

The music continued throughout the night, but we had plans at a downtown reggae club, so with backward glances and nostalgic eyes we clamored a board the super-bus.  Even as we pulled away from the yard and resumed our course on the highway, the sound of PAN remained in my mind.  Now when a van jumped lanes or a jaywalker threatened our course and the Super-Bus swerved without complaint, I understood.  The give and take of the Caribbean soul could not rely on petty rules, but rather on the flow of the music rising from the pan yards and surrounding every member of the society.  The shadowy corners that previously filled me with trepidation now became a beautiful part of the whole: a land of inclusion that continually shifts to accommodate every part of its pulsating body.  As our driver flew through the alleyways, breaking dozens of rules upheld in America, the continual honks and sliding tires that before pressed in on our cramped square van, shifted to song like a great steel drum, and sent our van free through the dancing Caribbean.

---

[1] Steel drums in a general concave shape, although each drum has slightly different dents creating an array of ringing pitches when played with the appropriate sticks.

The real-life Gillen, our mini-bus driver, pausing at the side of the road to handle a snake!

Marit and I enjoying a night in the Caribbean (not at the Pan drums - unfortunately I don't have photos of that night).

Prose Poem: Hope and Alligator Lessons

Hope and Alligator Lessons

When the man tells the story about withstanding the hurricane, he speaks of alligators living in his garage. The woman speaks in muted gestures and points to the walls where the water line etches the ceiling. "We were lucky it only came up this far," she says pointing to her knees, ignoring the evidence above.

Possessions dot the lawn down to the water in garbage-bag bundles like a checkers game too askew to finish, or a gum-ball machine gone haywire, spewing little cannons that pin the ground. Unfolded in the mud lie magazine pages, the stories of A Baby's First Year, and National Geographic discoveries can again be found. Stories in ink survive the storm, nestled in the safe and solid ground.

Finally, after months of pacing and painting their story in the air with their washed-up words, a small corner of the porch is cleared. The buckled floorboards are ready to begin again. And the man cannot stop telling his story of the alligators eating birthday cake from the refrigerator in his garage.

*****

Artist Statement

I used Matthew Dickman's poem "Apology and Winter Things" for a general model while writing this poem: I created a similar balanced title structure and made sure to repeat my opening thought again at the end, with a slight alteration.

This poem is inspired by my trip to Mississippi a couple summers ago when I helped with relief work after Hurricane Katrina. I wanted to portray how stories and the act of telling their stories is really what helped these families recover, or what helps anyone recover from a disaster or tragedy. Our group did a lot of physical labor to get their town back on their feet (roofing houses, cleaning up debris, etc.), but what we provided that they needed the most, was just our ears to hear their stories.

I was struck by the items we found in the mud that had survived the storm: magazine articles were completely in tact! I even found myself reading some right there in the middle of the swamp as if they were sacred pieces of evidence carrying heavy secrets. It was eerie thinking the people who owned these things may not have survived, but their stuff did -- completely unharmed. I used the survival of these print items and stories as a metaphor in my poem, showing how the stories the survivors have to share are also like artifacts and documents that survived the storm -- and are central to the recovery process.

I structured the poem in 3 separate stanzas to illustrate the stages of recovery. At first there is disbelief and denial (the woman we helped was insistent that her house only had a few feet of water), then they begin telling you their stories (I really did hear about alligators raiding a house), and finally there is a sense of hope.

CP