tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79119958348317778982024-03-18T22:44:32.128-06:00The Writer's Corner (and Also What I Ate Today)One Writer's Blog About WritingAnnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.comBlogger2071125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-86384621494352896772020-10-12T14:11:00.001-06:002020-10-12T14:11:16.626-06:00Trying to Get Back in the Old Saddle<p> Oh, it's been such a long time . . . </p><p>Since I've blogged, since I've written anything at all, actually. There are all kinds of reasons for this--some of them health-related--but let's just say I've experienced a massive loss of confidence and probably skill, even. So I'm going to challenge myself to blog a little every day, just to get back into the swing of things. I'm not expecting much of myself except to just do it. We'll see how it goes.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-27909075704969096682020-06-22T10:21:00.000-06:002020-06-22T14:47:23.075-06:00MasksI know there are areas in this state where people aren't wearing masks now, but in my neighborhood--the ultra-progressive Avenues of Salt Lake City--people still do. I also wear one when I go into stores (which isn't that often) but I will say I haven't gotten used to the sight of them. The whole scenario of people pushing carts around while wearing masks seems so surreal to me, so Twilight Zone-ish. And then there are the other mask-wearers' reactions. I tend to smile at strangers, who usually smile back. So there I am, still smiling and not eliciting a smile in return and then I go, "Oh yeah. We can't see each others' faces."<br />
<br />
Such weird times.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-38468617027830972882020-06-19T09:08:00.004-06:002020-06-19T09:08:50.822-06:00GhostingI have a friend who's angry with me right now because I haven't responded to her very kind, concerned texts. She accused me of "ghosting" her. Which, okay, I did. But not for the reasons she thinks. The truth is that when you're this kind of depressed, all social interactions--even with the people you love, especially with the people you love, in fact--are difficult. You don't have a lot of psychic energy for one thing. All your energy literally goes to putting one foot in front of the other. Also, you worry that you'll disappoint people because you're not the person they've come to know and love. So there's that.<br />
<br />
This is my way of saying I'm sorry I'm not truly there for you right now. Give me a little time, and I promise I will be. I so value the people in my life.Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-75878192614507940672020-06-17T11:00:00.003-06:002020-06-17T11:00:47.279-06:00So Many ShoesThis morning when I was out for one of my walks, I passed a home where clearly many children reside because there was a haystack of shoes on the front porch. The sight of said shoe haystack made me smile (look! I smiled!) because it reminded me of those days when we had five boys living in this house, who piled shoes in our entryway. Friends' shoes made their way into the pile, too. And here's the deal. When those shoes turned into teenager shoes, they were S,M.E.L.L.Y! Let's just say I invested in a lot of scented candles during those years.<br />
<br />
Anyway. As I looked at all those shoes, I wondered if there was a poem hidden somewhere in the middle of them. I'll give it a think.<br />
<br />
<br />Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-70132894382860724572020-06-16T17:17:00.002-06:002020-06-16T17:17:34.961-06:00Tiny, Tiny, Tiny Poem<i>I miss you, </i>my son texted last night--<br />
Words coming to me through the air<br />
From halfway across the country--<br />
And I wanted to text him back<br />
<i>I miss you and</i><br />
<i>I miss me, too.</i><br />
<br />
This is what I want:<br />
To taste the salt of my own tears again.Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-22722409004271376352020-06-13T11:38:00.001-06:002020-06-13T11:50:52.893-06:00Dreaming a DreamWhen I'm this kind of depressed, I stop dreaming. Or maybe I don't stop dreaming but I can't remember my dreams when I wakeup, which makes me sad because I have always relied on my dreams to instruct me--if not exactly entertain me-- at some level.<br />
<br />
But last night I dreamed I was my regular self. My regular, anxious, laughing self. And when I woke up this morning--still with the heavy dark blanket of depression swaddling me--I felt hopeful. So I'm just going to say thanks to the universe for that and let it be what it is.<br />
<br />
Thanks, Universe.Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-3237632329203142032020-06-07T13:51:00.002-06:002020-06-07T13:57:30.115-06:00Rain, RainI've thought about taking down my last few posts. As I mentioned before, with everything that's going on in the world right now, writing about the personal experience I'm having just seems so utterly (I said this before) self-indulgent. And I may still delete them.<br />
<br />
But before (and if!) I do, I'd like to write about this weekend's rainstorms because weather drama! Typically, rain is my least favorite weather condition. Dude. I am all about the sun. But right now as I hear it pattering against my bedroom window, and as I stood on my front porch last night just so I could smell it as it rolled in from the west desert, I was filled with surprising gratitude for it and the beauty of the natural world.<br />
<br />
Thank you, rain.<br />
<br />
<br />Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-2565975113261387372020-06-04T09:42:00.001-06:002020-06-04T09:42:12.085-06:00What to read . . . I've been making my way (slowly) through the new Erik Larson book, <i>The Splendid and the Vile </i>because who doesn't want to read about WWII when you're depressed?<br />
<br />
Actually, I started reading LOTR when the pandemic started. What could be better than reading about an epic journey through uncertain times (gah! how many times have we heard that phrase! in car commercials, even!) during our own uncertain journey? Besides, I have loved, loved, love those books, ever since I found a paperback version of <i>The Fellowship of the Ring </i>in a drugstore in a mostly deserted Pomona mall at age 16 when I was on a recruiting trip with my dad. I have since re-read those books a number of times, and they have always provided me with a certain amount of comfort.<br />
<br />
But. This time--for the first time--I became impatient with little hairy-toed men spouting poetry at me. Poetry in novel cuts into the narrative flow, don't you think?<br />
<br />
Besides--and here's the real point of this post--I have an easier time reading non-fiction when I'm depressed. Even if the events are hard and tragic (hello, WWII), there's a certain distance between the reader and the subject. In some ways, the reader is asked to respond intellectually when reading non-fiction rather than emotionally, unlike fiction which aims to "draw you in." And when you're emotionally exhausted, which is the hallmark of this kind of extreme depression, being drawn in just makes things harder.<br />
<br />
<br />Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-48302339592611320872020-06-03T10:10:00.001-06:002020-06-03T10:10:33.388-06:00 Because of recent events . . . it has felt self-indulgent and tone deaf to write about my trip on the Depression Struggle Bus. I do realize how (to use a word that's being used a lot right now) privileged I am in all kinds of ways. And while my journey right now is hard--so hard and exhausting--I never lose sight of the fact that I am lucky.<br />
<br />
<br />Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-31114779179869096362020-05-29T17:00:00.001-06:002020-05-30T12:12:20.760-06:00Wherein I Launch a New Writing Project with the Approval of My Friend Lisa B.So I nearly took myself off of FaceBook this week.<br />
<br />
Why, you ask? Because after reading through people's posts, I felt like literally EVERYONE is handling the pandemic better than I've been. I understand intellectually that things on social media are curated--sometimes heavily so--but still. Why is everyone making quilts and baking and biking and taking classes online and what have you while I'm mostly just painfully pacing around my house, waiting for evening to come and hoping that when it does, I can sleep?<br />
<br />
Oh. Wait a minute. I know why. I've been depressed. <i>Severely </i>depressed.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. Clinical depression isn't the same thing as feeling sad or blue or down in the dumps. Actually, those things start to look good to you when you're clinically depressed because then you would at least feel normal. No. All you feel is this painful, painful hollowness--like the person you were has shriveled up and mostly disappeared and whatever scraps are left of you could fit into your big toe. With room to spare. You can't laugh. You can't cry. Depression just has its talons in you. It also messes with your ability to concentrate, to focus, so reading and writing become tremendously difficult.<br />
<br />
And speaking of writing. I'm afraid to. I feel like I'm starting all over, which is why I'm cranking up the blog again to make me do it. No one really reads blogs anymore--so SAFETY-- but yet I still like to write for an audience other than just for myself. I thought I'd use this platform to talk honestly about my experiences, while also commenting here and there about--oh you know--THIS DAMN PANDEMIC THANG WE GOT GOING ON. But I'll talk about other things, as well. I thought I'd mix up the posts with observations about things that give (or gave) me delight. This idea was suggested to me by Lisa B when she told me about a a collection of short essays by the poet Ross Gay called <i>Book of Delights and Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude. </i>(I'm acting here like I knew who Ross Gay is before Lisa B mentioned him, which I didn't.)<br />
<br />
OK. This post is verging on or has possibly surpassed the TLDR category. Most of the posts will be much, much shorter. I promise. And thank you for reading.Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-61399000298011648622020-04-25T20:32:00.000-06:002020-04-25T20:51:17.272-06:00Pandemic in Brooklyn: for QuintonMy son who lives in Brooklyn<br />
tells me that each night at 7:00<br />
he and his neighbors open their windows<br />
to clap and hoot and bang on pots and pans<br />
to celebrate the day's first responders,<br />
gifting them with an alchemy of homemade<br />
noises given to spin exhaustion and sorrow<br />
into something gleaming and gold.Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-50612165170731715452020-04-08T16:35:00.003-06:002020-04-08T20:06:44.394-06:00The Call<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Sometimes when I first wake up,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Tangled in my drift of sheets,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
I tell myself to go back to sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
What difference will a few minutes make?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
But then I hear the morning call<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
And when I go outside I find<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
The apricot tree has blossomed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
And the thick scent brings me into the <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Moment of a new day’s birth.<o:p></o:p></div>
Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-45688092600843400982020-04-07T15:57:00.000-06:002020-04-07T15:57:15.659-06:00A Prayer for the Super MoonPlease<br />
Search out each small thing<br />
as you rise above it all tonight--<br />
the sleeping bees<br />
the lilac buds<br />
the cat in a basket on our porch<br />
the pigeons tucked beneath the eaves<br />
My husband and I lying anxious on our bed--<br />
Find us all and flood us with your<br />
beautiful, beautiful light.Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-89974033257587542842020-04-06T07:11:00.001-06:002020-04-06T07:11:19.321-06:00Where?<i>Where will I find a poem today</i><br />
I ask as morning tumbles through the window.<br />
Will it be seen in the long leonine shape<br />
of my cat draped over a chair?<br />
Is it hidden beneath the mound of wild violets<br />
blooming beneath the crabapple tree?<br />
Or heard in the noise of so many birds<br />
weaving through its branches?<br />
Or felt in the softness of my big dog's<br />
coat as she leans against my knees?<br />
Or sheltered in another person's words<br />
that inspire and fire my own?<br />
It's always a mystery to be sure.<br />
But a poem a day is somewhere there,<br />
waiting for me to notice it.Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-9703802301262367912020-04-05T20:56:00.000-06:002020-04-05T20:57:25.077-06:00Nature in a Season of PandemicAnd the hyacinth still blooms<br />
And the hawthorne still fruits<br />
And the wind still whistles<br />
And the mountain still stands<br />
And the sky yawns and stretches<br />
Over it all.<br />
<br />
At times like this Nature can<br />
Seem supremely, cruelly indifferent<br />
To us mere mortals sheltering in place.<br />
But I find both calm and comfort<br />
In her unpredictable predictability.<br />
She endures--and suggests we do the same.<br />
<br />Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-91770438624206002052020-04-04T16:13:00.002-06:002020-04-04T16:13:35.417-06:00Stuff I Have Learned About Myself During the Pandemic, Part OneYesterday I chatted (while social distancing) with a neighbor whose name I don't know, although I do know his dog is named Hudson. Anyway, this neighbor said, "I'm an introvert and a misanthrope, but it turns out I miss seeing people."<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I was all dude. Truth. Turns out I miss seeing people, too. Turns out I am a lot more social than I ever thought I was.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tried to turn this surprising insight into a poem, but I've been too busy painting bathroom doors instead today, so I guess this will have to do.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-52995866669225297082020-04-03T11:27:00.000-06:002020-04-04T13:41:43.308-06:00Here's What I Won't Take for GrantedSitting beneath a moon-high summer sky,<br />
Watching a baseball game,<br />
Smelling the warm evening air,<br />
Listening to the crack of a bat<br />
And the chatter of spectators<br />
While making my way though<br />
A bag of peanuts, roasted and salted,<br />
Sharing them with Ken and Rick<br />
As they argue about all the things<br />
You're not supposed to discuss in polite company.<br />
From now on I will not take their<br />
Impolite conversations for granted.Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-10147273472648994762020-04-02T07:01:00.002-06:002020-04-02T07:01:49.423-06:00Challenge: A Poem a Day for National Poetry MonthA Poem Against the Pandemic<br />
<br />
<i>Will you write a poem a day?</i><br />
I asked my friend the poet.<br />
She shook her head.<br />
<i>What's a poem in a world like this?</i><br />
I answered her with my heart.<br />
<i>A poem is bight hope captured</i><br />
<i>for the moment with both hands.</i>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-37408316022295877142020-04-01T16:29:00.000-06:002020-04-01T16:29:08.740-06:00My Mother the Rodeo Queen and April Fools' DayThis morning a friend sent out an announcement that Governor Herbert has decreed all grades will be repeated next year. A few friends on the thread reacted in alarm but hell. I knew RIGHT AWAY that it was an April Fools' joke. Why? Because I grew up being terrorized by our mother on the first day of April. That's right. TRQ was an April Fools' Day Terrorist who switched out the sugar bowl and salt shaker, in addition to dying all our food green and putting Kibbles n' Bits in our shoes before we went to school. Dude. There were landmines everywhere in our house on April lst. I still have April Fools' PTSD.<br />
<br />
I did get her back once, though. I called her and told her I'd just heard on the radio that a couple of Dad's players had been picked up for shoplifting. Hearing her very audible gasp was rewarding.<br />
<br />
That's how you do it, folks. Get 'em where they're vulnerable.<br />
<br />
I learned everything I know from a pro!Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-24579760180562996692020-03-26T08:49:00.003-06:002020-03-26T08:49:42.423-06:00A Wish During a Season of Pandemic. . . <i>please send me home now,</i><br />
<i>to my beloved country. My heart yearns</i><br />
<i>to go back home.</i><br />
<i> --from Emily Wilson's translation of The Odyssey</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Yes.<br />
Please send me home<br />
to the Before where my friends and I<br />
met every other Wednesday<br />
to eat bacon and eggs sunny side-up<br />
while discussing books and films<br />
and our mothers and that man in the White House<br />
and knitting and bridge and travel plans<br />
and partners and the pain<br />
aging bodies inflict on young souls<br />
and the joys and sadness that adult children<br />
bring in their wake.<br />
Please send me home to that again.<br />
Yes.<br />
<i><br /></i>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-49928624795036564632020-03-12T07:52:00.000-06:002020-03-12T07:52:13.449-06:00Dawn Will Come<i>Telemachus, this is impossible,</i><br />
<i>for us to drive when it is pitch-black night,</i><br />
<i>however eager we may be to travel.</i><br />
<i>Dawn will come soon.</i><br />
<i> --from Emily Wilson's translation of The Odyssey</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I stand in my garden<br />
assessing the growth,<br />
surveying the half-hidden<br />
heads of hyacinth emerging<br />
from the hard ground--<br />
the slow unfurling of the<br />
black-petaled lenten rose--<br />
the green shoots of daffodils,<br />
their tips bulging with<br />
unseen yellow blossoming--<br />
I smell rain somewhere<br />
in distant air, its scent<br />
both sweet and sharp,<br />
promising a new season for me<br />
and for my tiny piece of earth.Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-90727882380710533202020-03-04T07:08:00.001-07:002020-03-04T07:08:14.519-07:00Depression.3<i>Some god who guards</i><br />
<i>and watches over you will send fair wind</i><br />
<i>behind your sails.</i><br />
<i> from Emily Wilson's translation of The Odyssey</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
O, God, who watches over me<br />
please send soon a fair wind<br />
to blow away the silt and salt<br />
that cloud my vision,<br />
making me unable to see those<br />
tender shoots of green in my garden<br />
or hear the conversations of<br />
early morning birds who roost<br />
beneath my spring window.<br />
I have resided too long in this port.<br />
<i><br /></i>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-41021477210231837382020-02-21T21:03:00.001-07:002020-02-21T21:03:22.066-07:00Choosing JoyA robin flew into my yard today and<br />
perched himself on the bird bath<br />
while I puttered,<br />
waiting for spring to come.<br />
He looked straight at me,<br />
an invitation to approach,<br />
which I ignored because<br />
if I took a step (I knew!)<br />
He would only fly away.<br />
So there we were, the robin and I,<br />
until I thought what the hell<br />
and stepped toward the bird<br />
who did not fly away but<br />
welcomed instead my tentative steps.<br />
<br />Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-15643036318272225332020-02-20T07:06:00.003-07:002020-02-20T09:49:13.139-07:00Home<br />
<i>And when night fell they came to Ithaca's bright fields . . . </i><br />
<i> from Emily Wilson's translation of The Odyssey</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
That year we lived away<br />
our old stone house<br />
stood in a thick thicket of green<br />
like a fairy tale cottage<br />
at the forest's end.<br />
<br />
Who could argue with the beauty<br />
of that place, full of tall trees,<br />
talking to each other in the wind?<br />
<br />
But not until we returned<br />
to the west where<br />
moon-bright fields of sage<br />
spread wide as oceans before us<br />
could I say this is home.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7911995834831777898.post-67568325584541956332020-02-19T06:57:00.002-07:002020-02-19T15:51:32.150-07:00Moon Time<i>Odysseus will come</i><br />
<i>within this very cycle of the moon:</i><br />
<i>between the waning and the waxing time . . . </i><br />
<i> from Emily Wilson's translation of The Odyssey</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
How often have I wondered what might come<br />
between the waning and the waxing time--<br />
Will my son get a job?<br />
Will my mother's health hold?<br />
Will my submission be accepted?<br />
Will the pansies planted in the fall<br />
survive the tail end of this ragged winter?<br />
Will my cat, missing for two days now,<br />
reappear (again) like Lazarus?<br />
Will the car start this morning<br />
or will the battery roll over and play dead?<br />
Will that check finally arrive?<br />
Will class be canceled?<br />
How rarely have I wondered what might come<br />
if I took a vow and a breath to reside<br />
between the waning and waxing of this moment only.Annhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03435959688644291813noreply@blogger.com1