The Goddess, a poem by Mary McAvoy
eastern tiger swallowtail -female
Photo by Mary McAvoy
The Goddess
by Mary McAvoy
Her lilt doesn’t float on summer breezes,
it plows through them
demanding of the blades of grass and the flower’s petals
and the rays of the sun,
“Hear me! See me! Make way for me!”
Ants stop their work, alert to the reverberations of the tromping of her pudgy feet.
Birds call to one another, “Who is she, that her song is so sweet?”
She doesn’t form full sentences,
yet, through the hours of the sunny morning, with no rest,
her broken babble of words and sound
commands the universe to hear her, to do her will.
“You are all here for me! Air, caress my skin!
Sun, warm me and make my curls dazzling in your light!
Move, brother, the sandbox is mine!”
(He doesn’t flinch in his play.
He knows that, without a care, she’ll be off, like a butterfly,
to alight briefly elsewhere.)
Her song turns to shriek and neighbors pause, “Is she hurt?”
But her cascade of continuance into a made-up melody proclaims that she is well
and inside they smile.
From the microcosm to the macrocosm,
all give homage, for she is Cleopatra,
all love her, for she is Aphrodite,
all watch her in awe, for she is Helen.
Brittany Howard and Ruby Amanfu – photo credit Third Man Records at Rolling Stone Music
It’s been a while since I’ve posted a Saturday’s Song. But with hope that I’ll get back into the swing of sharing a weekly tune, here’s one – a cover of Sixto Rodriguez’s “I Wonder” by Brittany Howard and Ruby Amanfu – that’s just come across my radar via my son and Rolling Stone Music.
“I Wonder” is from Rodriguez’s Cold Fact album, which became the soundtrack of my ten-month stay in Lowell, Mass. and is forever sealed to that time and place in my life.
These ladies have produced what this song grew to be in my head as I listened, dozens of times, to Rodriguez‘s original version, singing along with it – adding my own spin and echo, while my headphones drowned out the noise of the sirens of the firetrucks coming down Market Street, as I power-walked in time to the up-beat groove of this song several times a week through last winter in downtown Lowell.
It always struck me that the third verse of “I Wonder” – which is a song that was released in 1970 – mirrored the social/political/economic climate of today.
And I think this song, even this high-powered, good-vibe cover, is perhaps more political than a casual listen might lead a person to believe. I have the sense that through the lyrics, Rodriguez, who would have been in his mid-twenties when he wrote it (probably in the late ’60s), was talking to the establishment, and perhaps specifically to the masters of war, as Dylan did in his song of that title. (Dylan and Rodriguez are contemporaries, Dylan having been born a little over a year before Rodriguez. Many of Rodriguez’s songs are social/political, especially reflecting the plight in the inner-city.)
Still, I think that if you get up and dance to it, things will get better – no more tears in children’s eyes and no more soldiers will die.
Brilliant, that the cover kept the same bass “ba-da-da-da-da-da-da-da” that is the anchor of this song.
Thank you Sixto, and thank you Brittany and Ruby, for this Saturday’s Song.
Please Stop Smoking, for Dog’s Sake
My cockapoo, Sprite.
This is my dog, Sprite, who is 14 years old, though he looks like a puppy still. I can hear all you dog lovers saying, “Ohhhh, he’s so cute!” because that’s what so many of you have said about Sprite when I’m out walking him and you meet him. And I appreciate so much that you respond to him in this way!
(A side-note to the point of this post: I’m not the biggest fan of dogs. We added Sprite to the family when my children were young. Now they’re off living their lives, and by default, Sprite’s with me. But I do love Sprite. All the other dogs in the world I tolerate, kind of in the way that Lucy in the Charlie Brown comic strip tolerates Snoopy.)
I take pretty good care of Sprite, I feed and water him, I walk him, I pet him…mostly when he’s just been groomed and is nice and clean. I put Frontline on him, I give him his monthly heart worm pill, I keep his shots up to date. I try to take him out four times a day for what has become a stroll as he gets older. In fact, lately, walking Sprite is like walking a donkey. There’s a lot of tugging and coaxing and general frustration in making him remember why we’re out – to walk. I’m digressing again.
Sprite LOVES to eat cigarette butts. I’m not digressing here – this is the point of the post. He eats butts the way a child eats candy. He can’t get enough.
For nine of the past twelve months, I lived in the city of Lowell, Mass., which has a lot of great things about it. But, apparently, lots of people smoke in Lowell. And, also apparently, many of them leave plenty of their cigarette butts on the sidewalks and streets of Lowell. Sprite thought he’d died and gone to dog heaven when we moved there. The streets were littered with his favorite treat.
Immediately, I had to resort to walking Sprite with a muzzle on him (see photo below) to keep him from eating too many cigarette butts. I say “too many” because he would manage to get a few a week despite the muzzle. Without the muzzle he’d snatch up to five butts in one 15-minute walk. It was a serious problem as he became kind of shaky about an hour after we’d come in and he’d whine obsessively at the door to go out, obviously because he wanted (read “needed”) more nicotine.
Sprite with muzzle
People would stop us as we’d walk and they’d say such things as, “Aw, he doesn’t look like he’d bite anybody! Look as his tail wagging!”
I’d reply, “The muzzle is to keep him from eating cigarette butts.”
The reaction to that statement would range from utter disbelief to expressions of such sorrow that I’d see tears in the person’s eyes. Really. And I could relate.
One man who said he trained police dogs told me that in all his time working with dogs, he’d never heard of such a thing.
Here’s proof of Sprite’s attraction to cigarette butts:
Sprite moving in on a butt.
Many people joked that I should get him “the patch”, which seemed funny at first, but then didn’t — that people’s unhealthy habits were so impacting my 15 pound dog’s health.
Anyway, when we moved from Lowell to a more rural setting two months ago, my greatest relief was that I thought I could now walk Sprite in peace from the temptation of his penchant for cigarette butts. But as it turns out, the country folk are smoking, too, and tossing their butts on the streets, also — not in the same quantities, but enough so that I walk Sprite on the lawn around the house as much as possible so that I don’t have to put the muzzle on him again.
I find all of this to be so discouraging. So this post is a plea of sorts. I’m asking all you smokers to please stop smoking, if not for your sake, for Sprite’s sake. As a former smoker myself (for ten years in my youth), I know how hard it is to quit. But if I can, you can. Believe me. And in the meantime, please keep your butts on your person till you can dispose of them properly.
Sprite and I thank you! ♥ (This is a thank you dog kiss from Sprite!)
Springtime Birds and Blossoms in New England
dog’s-tooth violet
Through the four seasons of 2007 – 2012, I kept a photo blog, SilverLining-MaryMcAvoy, of the various life forms around a pond in New England. I moved away from the pond a year ago and I still miss it, especially using my camera to pay close attention to the world of nature.
For the past couple of days, I’ve walked around the yard here and reaped a pretty impressive display from Mother Nature.
I’ll let the photos do the talking! Enjoy!
The blossoms:
a pair of yellow daffodils
hyacinth
red and yellow tulips
violet
I don’t know what this tree is but the blossoms are glorious!
forsythia, up close
don’t know this one either, but I love these delicate cascading bell-shaped blossoms
The birds:
male cardinal
chickadee
American robin
I think this is a purple or a house finch
bluejay
black crow…who rules the sky in these parts! Yesterday, I watched two chase a red-tail hawk out of their turf.
A bouquet of daffodils to say happy springtime!
cluster of yellow daffodils
First-time Runners of the Boston Marathon
Custom House Tower in Boston, Mass.
When I was in Boston on Wednesday, I met a middle-aged man who ran his first marathon, ever, this year in Boston. Because of the violence that stopped the event prematurely, he, like more than 5000 other runners, didn’t cross the finish line. A new-comer to running, he doesn’t want to lose his conditioning without completing a marathon. So, he’s keeping to his pre-marathon work-out schedule and will run another marathon within the month.
And on Wednesday, he finally claimed his marathon-day backpack*, which he’d not been able to retrieve in the commotion of the days after the marathon. (Marathon runners leave, at the starting area, personal items that are transported to the finish line in plastic marathon “backpacks” while they run. They claim their bag after they run the marathon. Hundreds of bags were not able to be claimed at the end of the race this year.)
His story is far from the death and the physical and psychological harm that occurred in the immediate perimeter of the explosions. But I found myself, as I listened to this first-time-marathon-runner, trying to imagine the myriad stories of the runners of this year’s Boston Marathon. This subcategory of first-time runners who did not finish the Boston Marathon could be a study unto itself. I feel certain that despite the profound shake-up to the human spirit that day, they’ll each complete a marathon or be back in Boston next April.
* Will the word “backpack” ever sound the same to us?
A Beautiful Day In Boston, Mass.
Looking through the Rowes Wharf Arch.
I was in Boston yesterday through the late afternoon and evening. It was a spring-perfect day as these photos show. Of course the events of the week of the Boston Marathon were fresh in my mind, but the psyche of the city itself seemed to be working toward recovery.
It helped that the sun was bright and warm, the sky and water brilliant shades of blue.
I love the mix of history shown in the architecture of a city – here the curves of the corners in the old and new structures catch my eye.
Jetliner approaching Logan Airport as sailboats are moored in harbor waters in Boston, Mass.
The streets of the financial district in Boston are labyrinthine. They are narrow, there’s lots of “one way”s, and tall, close buildings obscure any sense of forward direction beyond 500-1000 feet. The spill of the sun’s light doesn’t reach the pavement. Somehow, when I drive through this area, I have a sense of thrill, in the same way the twist and turns of a carnival fun-house might give me.
the cavernous feel within the streets of the financial district in Boston
Boston has a rich history on the U.S. timeline and a walk up State Street brings it all home as plaques identify points of interest about the start of the Revolutionary War.
I suppose then, it was appropriate that my visit to Boston ended simultaneously, by chance, with a capitalism funeral procession that passed me by at about 9:00 p.m. as I made my way to my car. This raucous and disorienting event provided clues toward its meaning but overall it was a visual puzzle! Today, I’ve researched what it’s about and have shared a link to The Phoenix article (about last year’s procession) for the reader’s benefit! Here’s how it looked last night!
Yes, Boston is carrying on!
(pun intended!)
I Eat Over Canada and Alaska
kitchen table with a world map under a sheet of glass
Growing up in this house, maps were ever present. Through all of my childhood there was a map table (and that’s just what we called it, “the map table”) in the kitchen. It was the size of a card table. The top was a white square block of plastic. Atop it, well protected by a film of clear plastic was a colorful world atlas.
In the living room was a globe. To us children, the globe was fascinating as a ball that could spin in various directions but that was trapped in the framework of two arms and a base that prevented it from rolling. I was a toddler when I first played with the globe.
As we got older, my mother would tack maps on the walls of the kitchen if one of us were traveling or if a political event (including war and coups d’etat) were occurring anywhere in the world. She’d mark points of interest with plastic tipped colored pins. Letters from a sibling traveler would be nearby so that we could read about the region of the world that they were passing through.
Now, as I sit for each meal at the table that was my mother’s up until 17 months ago, my eyes scan a current day world atlas that she put under the glass that protects the finish on the kitchen table. Despite all this exposure to maps in my childhood, my adult geography knowledge needs much brushing up. So I’ve been studying closely the region surrounding my placemat. Alaska is huge. The Aleutian Islands are like a spine reaching out to Russia. I now know precisely where the Yukon is. And the Rocky Mountains spread high into Canada, to a point where I wonder why the Mackenzie Mountains have a different name, as they look to be part of the Rockies. Canada is enormous and seems to be about 50% water.
I’ve wandered to other parts of the atlas world, too. I’m working on memorizing that “Guyana” is part of South America while the similar sounding “Ghana” is in Africa. It’s all well and good to see the spelling and note the distinction. But I once met a fellow writer from “geehahna” and I’m afraid that her saying twice more didn’t make clear to me if she were from Africa or South America and I was too shy with my self imposed embarrassment to ask. I’ll next be working on the locations of: Guinea, Guinea Bissau, Equatorial Guinea, and New Guinea.
My mother, who was not college educated, as I am, knew all these things, cold.
Health and Carlson Cod Liver and Fish Oil
Mum’s winter remedy for good health!
Today, I took a tablespoon of Carlson fish oil. As I raised the spoon to my mouth, I realize I was standing in the exact spot in the kitchen of my new/old home where my mother stood and went through the identical ritual every winter morning of my elementary and high school years (1960s to mid 70s).
My mother poured her Carlson Cod Liver Oil (which, in those days, was not lemon flavored as my Carlson’s Fish Oil is today!) from the brown slouch-shouldered bottle into a tablespoon, and without hesitating to think of the overpowering fish flavor, she quickly swallowed it. Immediately, she’d chase it with a small glass of juice.
She’d line up on the counter small yellow cod liver oil tablets for us to chew after we’d finished our breakfast and as we hurried out the door to catch the bus. This, and opening the windows for 10 – 20 minutes every morning, is how she kept us healthy in our childhood.
Bottoms up, Mum, and thanks!
Going Home
Returning Home
Last month, I awakened on my 58th birthday after having spent my first night back home, the home of my childhood. I am now continuing my life journey from a place that was the source of the beginning of all memory for me. I came to this home just before I turned two and I left it just after I turned 18.
My parents are gone from here – this home, this piece of land, this planet, this life. Each of them died in this home, just as they wished to do.
And though the sun light and the birds’ songs and the flora and fauna awaken something in my instinct that says all is familiar, it’s new again as my being absorbs these things into my grown-self sensibilities.
McMansions surround this modest house now, and the trees give more shade to the yard than when I was young. The house itself is tired and worn, like me at the moment.
I joked with friends, saying, “I feel as if I got the “Return to Start” card in a board game.” But once I arrived here, I realized it’s not a start from scratch situation at all. My 30-year history with a family of my own is part of me and is evident in the photos scattered throughout this house – my wedding, my infant children, their milestone pictures, our presence at family gatherings that my mother hosted.
A little bit, it’s as if I’ve walked into a museum of my life. And the core of my being is reinforced in the presence of the place where it formed.
The Phoenix Rising
image by Mary McAvoy
The Phoenix Rising
by Mary McAvoy
Slush under my feet, sleet upon my head,
Market Street suspended in a golden snow bed.
I trudge along in the cold,
disconnected from the fold.
The past severed by a burned bridge,
the future beyond a wavering ridge.
Is what I feel inside me fear?
Or freedom, unrecognized though it’s clear?
Parochial Wizard tried to hold tight the rein,
while in the end, Free Spirit took the gain.
From your way you could not have turned,
my Gram would say, in the blood it’s burned.
It’s good to know where I stand,
I am, simply, at my own command.
sublime days 