“i just feel so sorry for her.” those words just chap my butt – they really do – and i just now figured out why: feeling sorry for or pitying somebody holds them back. “i just feel so sorry for her” = “bless her heart. she just can’t do any better.”

now bring on empathy, and we’ve got ourselves a different ball of wax. empathy is a way of saying “i feel your pain” or “i know, sugar, i’ve been right there myself.” empathy supports. empathy props somebody up till they can push themselves off the couch and get on with it. pity stops em cold and mashes them down.

okay, now that we’ve got that cleared up, let’s move on to giving and receiving . . .

if you’re like me, you’d rather have a root canal without anesthesia than ask for help. but you know, i’ve been rubik-cubing this around, and i’m sensing that while helping others can sure enough be a gift, asking for and accepting help can be a sure-enough gift, too. sometimes, it seems, the gift is in the taking, in the allowing others to experience the satisfaction and all the other fringe benefits of helping someone else.

short, sweet, and sassy, succulent and succinct are my little lightbulbs – my s’es – du jour.

No related posts.

with each passing day, i become more concerned.

i struggle to keep concern from turning into full-blown worry.

i battle worry for fear the object of my worry will materialize.

see, the thing is:

i don’t care any more.

it’s alarming how i don’t care any more.

am i losing my ability to empathize if

i’m not brought to my knees with shared, imagined pain?

have i lost all self-respect if

i don’t flare into full-blown despair in response to criticism?

has my dignity completely disappeared if

i don’t get angry?

what’s wrong with me?

have i succumbed to acedia?

are my hormones drying up?

is it time to set aside concern and move into out-and-out worry?

wait.

wait just a minute . . .

what if it’s something as simple as,

i mean,

could it be that i’m just developing

patience?

No related posts.

yesterday
lindsey took herself to a cemetery
and pondered life in its beginnings and endings,
and
that got me
thinking and remembering.
cemeteries,
you see,
are my all-time favorite place to go.

whenever i get lost,
foggy,
or otherwise
kerflunky,
i take myself to a cemetery
and not once,
not a single time,
have i failed to find remedy.

in cemeteries,
i can pull off
my masks and armor,
and lay them down
alongside all the selves
i am not.
there is such relief in
just being me.
nobody to impress,
cajole,
entertain,
feed,
persuade.
in cemeteries,
i can ask questions
and surprise myself
by coming up with
the answers.

cemeteries
were affordable places to take young chiclets
to learn about multiple-digit math functions,
spelling,
history,
art, and
various and sundry other important things.
with no more research
than the information readily available on tombstones,
we’d generously, willingly resurrect
and grant second lives on the spot
through character sketches and
other products of our
imagination.

a few weeks ago,
i attended a grave marker dedication
conducted in a cemetery i played in as a child.
it was an impressive ceremony
to mark the grave of
an american revolutionary patriot.
men dressed in revolutionary garb,
women wore hats and gloves,
and we all showed respect
with our words,
our salutes and curtsies,
our presence.

one woman completely
forgot her upbringing
and stepped right on a grave.
when it surprised us all by caving in,
she found herself acting out the phrase
“one foot in the grave”.

years ago when my great aunt rene died,
my husband and i
found ourselves in the cemetery
at midnight
in the rain
pulling weeds
in the family plot
to prevent public humiliation
at the upcoming graveside ceremony.

carefully avoiding the
waiting hole in the ground,
we set to work on aunt lucy’s grave,
(she was aunt rene’s sister.)
(aunt rene got all the fun and nice.)
anyway,
bless goodness
if the lucy didn’t
behave in death
just as she did in life:
she held on to her weeds
with,
well,
a death grip.

~

because it was
tombstone-deep in snow
the january i graduated
from graduate school
in vermont,
i took my mother,
daughter,
and teenage nephew
back one summer
to visit
hope cemetery.

.

i discovered it one semester
when caryn mirriam-goldberg,
my faculty advisor-turned-friend,
(also the current poet laureate of kansas,
i’ll have you know)
took a small group of us there
to write.

~

shoot, i don’t find cemeteries
sad,
morose
places
at all.

quite the contrary.

yes, i highly recommend cemeteries
when you want
or when you need to
reflect
or write
or ruminate
or remember
or even howl.

with laughter, silly:

Second helpin's:

1. but you can call me “Her Highest Petticoat Potentate”
2. diving in: 2
3. communication gone to the dogs

or (and you might want to take a deep breath first) “ArchSupremest Of The Very Supreme And Sovereign pFemale Pharaoh Till The Cows Fly Home” for short.* the “Arch” is a nod to religion. the “Supremest” and “Supreme” – well, what’s a good title without accessories? and “Pharaoh” because everybody knows that’s a ruler with a bite. (among other things.)

i might make it “ArchSupremest Of The Supreme And Sovereign pFemale Pharaoh, TTCFH”. i haven’t decided yet. i mean, it’d make sense from a power position because it looks like a degree that was painful and took forever to obtain.**

this started out to be a post on something really important, but damned if i can remember what it was now. whatever it was, though, it was important, i know that much. something i felt i felt so strongly about i knew i needed a little title to give me credibility and power and to get some seriously serious attention. so i started poking around google, and, well, here we are.

i asked for suggestions on facebook***, and i got “queen” and “beloved leader”, and while i know you’re not supposed to torpedo ideas right out of the gate* ^x4, honestly, i don’t think i could make the “beloved” part stick after people heard what i was planning on proposing. (and still will once i remember it) (i’ll probably remember once i get this little title thing worked out).

“queen” comes with way too much baggage, and besides i checked, and out of all my pocketbooks, i don’t have a single one that looks all that queenly. no patent leathers. don’t have one without a shoulder strap, for that matter, and i ask you: how queenly would it look for a short gal like me to be dragging her pocketbook around on the ground behind her. (yes, i thought about kicking it out in front of me as i go but that’s not all that becoming to an all-powerful monarch either.) (and honestly, i haven’t been doing yoga nearly long enough to trust myself standing on one foot while the other one moves.)

pfunny that nobody suggested “president”. not that i’d even audition that one, anyway.

i played phoebe reece in the “farndale avenue housing estate’s townswomen’s guild’s dramatic society’s production of a christmas carol” not once but twice, and let me tell you, there’s a woman with p.o.w.e.r. but i plan to cower over more than the 7 people who saw me on stage, so how would everybody (besides those 7* ^{x 5}, of course) know to quake appropriately? it could be embarrassing and quite honestly, deadly.

then there’s my dog, named phoebe because the kids gave her to us as a christmas present during my first farndale gig.* ^{x 6} and while it’s true that pfour-legged phoebe has the power-like-none-other to pull me out of the coveted writing zone to go fetch her and the tagalong cats a treat, i’m still just not convinced “phoebe” would be instantly recognizable as power to the untrained eye.

not too long ago, i was called to the amphitheater stage on the night “oliver!” closed on account of the cast wanted to give me The Most Beautiful Roses Ever. and when nancy admitted she didn’t know what to call me, fagin chirped in with “goddess” which i have to admit has a pretty nice ring to it, especially over the loud speakers and in front of all those people. but it sounds like i’d have to behave and look on the beautiful side of things, so maybe not.

now “mama” is a title that can pack a punch, but football just represents one segment of my intended subjects.

i want a kickass title. something that’ll size me up at a Woman To Be Reckoned With And Listened To Right Off The Bat. a title that’ll have people standing in line hours months ahead to purchase one of the pens i’ll use to sign my orders into, well, orders.* ^{x 7} (and yes, i know the trick about using a different pen for each letter. i’m all over that cause “ka ching, ka ching” is sure to be one of my silent mottos.)

the blogess has already taken “czar” (i’d give her credit, but i don’t know how to reference a tweet* ^{x 8 & 9}) (even a funny one). and speaking of the bloggess, do y’all think she’d mind very much if i just copied her post and pasted it in over here at my place? i think i can photoshop out her face from under that cat (which i’m thinking would make a flattering informal crown when i’m out working in the royal yard or bagging up the royal trash or walking to the royal mailbox) and insert mine easy enough. i’ll keep her shoulders and the towel, of course. only seems fair.

plus i’d like to prove that i can be benevolent.

on occasion.

well, loyal subjects-in-the-making, since i’m not yet fully staffed, i am not only writing this little ole’ post all by my little ole’ self (Sovereign though i may be), i must go tend to some Very Important And Sometimes Onerous Things That Petticoat Potentates Must Do Whether They Want To Or Not.

so carry on.

and write if you get work.

* you know i’m such a sucker (a sovereign one, it goes without saying) for alliteration, i almost put a “p” in front of every word, but then i figured all those people who got hooked on phonics would sue me in hopes of paying for their rehab.

** the way i figure it, once i’m launched, at least one institute of higher learning (probably more) is gonna’ bestow some honorary letters after my name free of charge. might even throw me a little party with free food and open bar afterwards, too.

*** for now, i’m “injeanneious” there. or “jeanne hewell-chambers”. just in case you’re interested.

* ^{x 4} even though i can, you know.

* ^{x 5} okay, make that 6 because i forgot to mention the stay awake requirement when i paid my mother to come.

* ^{x 6} don’t get used to so much personal information cause i’m gonna’ have to start keeping the monarchey lid on things for the protection of my peeps. not that my edicts and decrees will be unpopular, mind you, it’s just that i’ll be so wildly, fantastically popular, everybody will want a piece of me.

* ^{x 7} for those of you who like to plan ahead, kissing up is not only allowed, it’s downright encouraged.

* ^{x 8 & 9} which reminds me: one of the first things i’ll have to do it give myself more twitterwidth because my title alone eats up more than 140 characters and what with retweets and all. note to Sovereign Supremest Of The Supreme Self: slap a crown on that fail whale (but first: it’s not a killer whale, is it?). and the little birdies, too, while you’re at it. and for all you inquiring minds out there, @whollyjeanne is my twitter name. for now, anyway.

p.s. and for the record, no, i have not had a royaltini.

yet.

Second helpin's:

1. untitled because i have no idea what to call this
2. rightful sound
3. not a good girl . . . yet

she’s 50+ in calendar years, yet she goes through life with the perennial wonder of a young child. she’s my sister-in-law, nancy, who is – what’s the label-du-jour – developmentally delayed? i don’t know the label currently in vogue. i simply see nancy as nancy, one who travels this life in her own unique way. she’s different. not lesser than, just different. she’ll never stand before a group of people and assume the role of teacher, and yet there is so much we can learn from her.

what she lacks in, say, self-care abilities (the only way to get her to shower is to shower yourself with her, for example, and to get her to brush her teeth requires repeatedly reminding her to go up and down with the brush instead of just chewing on it), she makes up for in so many other ways. she doesn’t miss a thing, this one, not a single thing. and she goes through the world with a level of attention and a groundedness in the present that others spend much time and money and struggle to achieve.

her highest compliment is to call someone a “good girl” or “good boy”, and if she feels that way about you, she’s not afraid to risk rejection by telling you to your face. if she tells you that something is “pretty good”, you can be sure that to nancy, it just doesn’t get any better because let’s face it: there’s always room for improvement.

immediately after saying something important, she looks you straight in the eye and commands you to “say it”, and if you don’t repeat it back promptly and correctly, she holds her ground and repeats her statement and her demand as many times as needed until she’s satisfied that she was heard.

not much of one for public displays of affection, she gives a hug by leaning the upper half of her body in your direction. want a 2-armed hug? you gotta’ ask for it.

or earn it.

her glasses are perpetually grimy, due in no small part to the fact that she pushes her glasses up on her nose by placing her fingers directly on both sides of the lens. and always right after you’ve cleaned them.

she’s had a crush on “mr. jim” for years now because he meets her criteria: he’s a good dancer and he “doesn’t bite or hit nobody”. she’s made her short list of important traits she’s looking for in a mate, and she stands by them without compromise.

she has an affinity for watches, and she lives by the credo that a girl simply cannot have too much jewelry. she takes care of a bed full of dolls, and she’s quite particular about who can lay a hand on them.

though she has no prestigious career or children as a reason to keep a journal, she nevertheless chronicles her days. once, when i was helping her straighten out the drawers in her nightstand and make room for new things, i flipped through her tablets to see which ones were used and could be tossed to make room for the new, blank tablets. she didn’t want me to get rid of any of the tablets she’d written in, so i paid closer attention as i flipped through them, and that’s when i noticed that she has her very own system for keeping a record of each day. she notes the day of the week, what she had for breakfast (that’s how she knows what day of the week it is). she logs in who’s having a birthday that day, the weather conditions, who she loves, and a few other things before signing out by signing her name.

nancy’s a simple woman with simple needs, and she doesn’t waste time wanting something she doesn’t have. though she’s not without the occasional bad mood, on the whole nancy enjoys every day for what it is without bemoaning what it isn’t. wherever she is, whatever she has is enough.

when the two of us jaunt out into the world, i see the change she enkindles in others: they become more patient, more attentive. they smile more and aren’t afraid to make eye contact and attempt conversation with nancy. they seem to relax, and i harbor the notion that they will go away from the encounter being changed in some small way, changed for the better.

there are, of course, others who are obviously uncomfortable around nancy – perhaps because they don’t know how to relate to her or engage with her. i expect she touches something deep inside them – something they don’t even realize is there. my hope is that nancy holds a mirror for them, and that they amend what they see there until they can own it.

i think it’s obvious why i fell smackdab in love with this poem by Alden Nowlan when i first read it, and why i am sharing it with you now. before you start, though, a suggestion: read it through twice. first, read it just as it’s written – and read it aloud, if possible. then go back and reread it (aloud, again), and this time, every time you encounter the word “retarded”, change the “t” to a “g” . . .

HE SITS DOWN ON THE FLOOR OF A SCHOOL FOR THE RETARDED

I sit down on the floor of a school for the retarded,
a writer of magazine articles accompanying a band
that was met at the door by a child in a man’s body
who asked them, “Are you the surprise they promised us?”

It’s Ryan’s Fancy, Dermot on guitar,
Fergus on banjo, Denis on penny-whistle.
In the eyes of this audience, they’re everybody
who has ever appeared on TV. I’ve been telling lies
to a boy who cried because his favorite detective
hadn’t come with us; I said he had sent his love
and, no, I didn’t think he’d mind if I signed his name
to a scrap of paper: when the boy took it, he said,
“Nobody will ever get this away from me,”
in the voice, more hopeless than defiant,
of one accustomed to finding that his hiding places
have been discovered, used to having objects snatched
out of his hands. Weeks from now I’ll send him
another autograph, this one genuine
in the sense of having been signed by somebody
on the same payroll as the star.
Then I’ll feel less ashamed. Now everyone is singing,
“Old McDonald had a farm,” and I don’t know what to do
about the young woman (I call her a woman
because she’s twenty-five at least, but think of her
as a little girl, she plays that part so well,
having known no other), about the young woman who
sits down beside me and, as if it were the most natural
thing in the world, rests her head on my shoulder.

It’s nine o’clock in the morning, not an hour for music.
And, at the best of times, I’m uncomfortable
in situations where I’m ignorant
of the accepted etiquette: it’s one thing
to jump a fence, quite another thing to blunder
into one in the dark. I look around me
for a teacher to whom to smile out my distress.
They’re all busy elsewhere, “Hold me,” she whispers, “Hold me.”

I put my arm around her. “Hold me tighter.”
I do, and she snuggles closer. I half expect
someone in authority to grab her
or me; I can imagine this being remembered
forever as the time the sex-crazed writer
publicly fondled the poor retarded girl.
“Hold me,” she says again. What does it matter
what anybody thinks? I put my other arm around her and
rest my chin in her hair, thinking of children,
real children, and of how they say it, “Hold me”
and of a patient in a geriatric ward
I once heard crying out to his mother, dead
for half a century, “I’m frightened! Hold me!”
and of a boy-soldier screaming it on the beach
at Dieppe, of Nelson in Hardy’s arms,
of Frieda gripping Lawrence’s ankle
until he sailed off in his Ship of Death.

It’s what we all want, in the end,
to be held, merely to be held,
to be kissed (not necessarily with the lips
for every touching is a kind of kiss).

Yes, it’s what we all want, in the end,
not to be worshipped, not to be admired,
not to be famous, not to be feared,
not even to be loved, but simply to be held.

She hugs me now, this retarded woman, and I hug her.
We are brother and sister, father and daughter,
Mother and son, husband and wife.
We are lovers. We are two human beings
huddled together for a little while by the fire
in the Ice Age, two hundred thousand years ago.

Second helpin's:

1. when we gather around the campfire
2. contagion
3. gretel never had it so good

i’ve been offline for far too long, tending to things that simply have to be done.
well, guess what: writing has to be done, too.
writing is my life raft,
my ticket to worlds beyond where i shop for groceries,
my train to discoveries and quarries and ores.

i think better when i write.

keep my fingers away from the keyboard for too long, and my thoughts become fuzzy, uncertain, timid.
let my fingers romp regularly, and i’m confident, clear, (more) courageous.
let my fingers languish too long, and i slouch.
let my fingers dance with words daily, and i smile more – inside and out – and stand taller, too.

away = small.
write here = abundance.

away = alone.
write here = connections.

away = shallow panting.
write here = slow, deep breathing.

when i’m away from writing, my to do list that grows more than it wanes.
when i’m write here, i’m actually (and strangely) more productive.

when i don’t write, my brain chases its tail, going faster and faster and faster.
when i take the time to write, my soul has time to exhale and take a look around,
turn over rocks,
and roll down hills without worrying about grass stains.

when i don’t write, 2 + 2 = 4.
when i do write, i am quick to note that i just say 2 + 2 = 4
because that’s what most people are comfortable with,
all the while rubik-cubing ways that 2 + 2 = all sorts of different answers.

when i don’t write, the world is reduced to faded primary colors.
when i do write, there are at least 64,000 different colors – and it’s not the least bit overwhelming.

i don’t write, i get cranky.
i do write, and well, okay: i sometimes still get cranky.

i don’t write, and it becomes harder to write.

i don’t write, and it becomes harder to think of something to write about.

so why don’t i write daily?

the readily available and easy answer is: there’s not enough time.
but we both know that i have the same amount of time that everybody else has,
i just choose to spend it differently.
i mean, if i had diabetes,
i’d make time to check my blood glucose levels and take insulin, right?

perhaps the common answer is fear.
afraid that my writing sucks,
that i’ll be rejected,
that i’ll just have to go eat worms.

but truth be known,
there’s something else:
a little something we like to call guilt.
for more years than i care to think about,
my adorable husband
has trekked off to a job he never wanted
and doesn’t much like.
so why should i get to do something i enjoy?
i mean, really, what makes me so damned special?
if he’s miserable, it seems only fair that i should be miserable, too, right?
isn’t that why we learned equations in high school?

so merrily we roll along.

this time writing hasn’t solved anything, but
i’ve clarified it,
sat it on the table,
and that counts.

Second helpin's:

1. but you can call me “Her Highest Petticoat Potentate”
2. rightful sound
3. just call me flounder