Here's some writing I did for my poetry class a few weeks ago in response to the poem excerpted and linked below.
Ode to… something?
We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world.
I think that’s my favorite line from the poem.
The assignment is to write about my joy scenarios, about
trying to live out my joy scenarios.
I’ll admit it, I didn’t practice it during the two weeks we were
off. In fact, let’s review my week.
The day after class, I decided to rearrange the furniture,
despite the little voice in my head reminding me that every time I try to
rearrange the furniture alone, it ends in near-disaster. I was trying to make a nice writing space and
I have lingering childhood fears of lower levels.
I’ll cut to the chase.
A heavy mahogany table slipped out of my hands on the
basement steps and with a rattling boom broke a hole in the drywall. After asking me if I took a video of it, or
at least a sound recorded of what I said right after it happened, my husband
said simply, “Good luck fixing that.”
So if we had to write about ruefulness, I could do that.
On the upside, I bought myself a lightweight desk from
Target. And I put it together myself,
thankyouverymuch.
So if we had to write about pride in accomplishment, I could
do that.
Then the weekend. Not
bad, spent time with my family of origin celebrating a birthday. Monday morning, my daughter woke with the
stomach flu. Then I had to worry that
she had infected my family, especially my 81 year old mother.
Yep, I could write about fear.
Tuesday I sent her back to school too soon. Wednesday, home sick again and at the
doctor’s office. Nothing serious. I probably didn’t need to take her to the
doctor and she probably could have gone to school at least for a half day.
If we had to write about uncertainty, I could certainly do
that.
Swirling around me are news stories that make me want to
vomit. The way people dismiss the sexual
harassment charges against Herman Cain.
The way they immediately choose to discredit the women, devalue their
victimization, retreat to viciously divisive claims about liberals, the media
and race. Then the Penn State mess. I read the grand jury report. All 23 disgusting pages of it. I have
a nine-year old son and could only imagine the absolute horror, the pieces left
for a child and his parents to pick up.
I could write about anger.
I know anger, what it feels like, what it tastes like, what it makes me
want to do.
I am a self-proclaimed anger
expert.
A friend reminded me we need to be fair, no witch hunt. She was right.
I could tell you all about anger that has nowhere to
go.
But joy. What the
hell does it mean? Happy, I get. I’m usually happy, I think. Or content.
I laugh a lot. But sometimes I’m
laughing at myself, or even at the outrageous ridiculousness of our world. Maybe that’s not happy. Maybe that’s sardonic. Maybe sardonic makes me happy.
I remember going to a
WW retreat once and having writing
prompts about joy. I had the same
problem then, settling on defining joy as a dishwashing liquid. And that was before cancer.
Shoot, nothing can suck the joy out of a room, whatever that
means, like a cancer diagnosis.
Or can it?
I keep going back to what
Mary said about joy having a tinge
of sadness. What Gilbert does by
juxtaposing horror and laughter. Does
one need the other?
At the bus stop on Friday I was dropping hints to the kids
about a school-wide party they are having this week to celebrate their Blue
Ribbon award. My son wanted to know if
they were giving away Xboxes to all of the kids. My daughter was disappointed to know that
there will be some instruction time. Geez people, I said, your school doesn’t have to do anything for
you. They could say great job and
get back to work. But nooooo. They are doing something special to let you
know how important you are to the school.
Why not try to have a little gratitude??
And there it was. I
coupled gratitude and shame. Just like
my parents did for me and generations of parents have done to generations of
kids.
I’ve had this conversation before with other parents, about
our own children’s seeming lack of appreciate for “how good they have it.” I came back to Mary’s statement about joy
being tinged with sadness. Maybe to know
gratitude, you have to know something of its opposite – the lack of something,
the fear, the scarcity. Maybe as parents
we should congratulate ourselves or thank whomever we thank for our children
growing up without knowing basic wants, or the fear that with one wrong step it
will all come crashing down. They will
know it eventually. We can’t shield them
forever. But maybe for now, it’s
ok.
I also resist the duality that seems to underpin this
idea. That for one thing, you need its
opposite. That in order to experience
any one feeling, you need to be acquainted with its polar opposite. I’m tired of polar opposites, choosing this
side or that side. I live in a world of
gray. Most of my day isn’t spent in the
throes of intense emotion either. And
the opposite of that is so close that it’s more like hand holding than north
and south.
The Test
You’ll Never Take
-Katie Ford Hall
If north is the opposite of south
and no is the opposite of yes and
if winter is the opposite of summer
and red is the opposite of green,
but knowing that
hate isn’t the opposite
of love
and war isn’t even
the opposite of peace,
forgetting everything you
thought you knew about truth
and lies
but keeping in mind
that while speed and
time aren’t
opposites
they are
inversely proportional,
complete the following sentence.
blank is
the opposite of joy.