A BIRTHDAY SUMMONS
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright March 2009
birthplaces strange things.
i wonder what four walls
if walls they were
if wood they were
or stucco or shack
or hut or hovel
or fine shiny negro hospital
circumlocuted your first screams
this incarnation
this journey from the great beyond.
you sliding from Grandmom Charlotte
already stoic, already silent
already steeled for the hell
at her hand
the slap that would tear asunder
the words that would make you
run silent, run deep.
what hell from which you emerged
that fateful day
to meet the promise of Joseph’s father.
the light you thought
might reside in his playful eye
the salvation you prayed
lay in his arms, his chest,
his soul
the sanctuary of his embrace.
he proved less than what you imagined.
a hurt sprung so deep
so profound
it grew two legs
one eye
frog lips
and sits across from you
pain-filled and angry
this day, your day, knowing
answers will never come his way.
the sperm donor he will never know.
but he deserves to.
he deserves to learn what man
what nature of man
could breed a hate so resilient.
poetry, yes
shelter, yes
food and clothing, yes
college and the faith to try for college,
yes, yes
but no embraces
no warm kisses
no hugs tender and long
to soothe childhood’s broken hearts.
he deserves to know
he grew into the hurt you despised
by despising him.
your year of 98 he says, “i love you, mother”
you sit stoic, silent,
mute.
he deserves to know.
who made you hate the cells
nurtured and grown
nine months into understanding
the sperm donor would not
would never
rescue.
i intercede and ask
because i chose my birthday
my parents
my abuse
a long tale of lovers destined
reuniting
theatre and subtle truths
a roundabout way to my intuitive insights
bolder truths
sources buried
siphoned off
dead at the root.
hurt, hatred
grew legs and walked the earth
after he left you destitute
you in turn
bereft his sire
bereft his son.
answer the summons
of one who hopes to be mother
or deliver last stab of the knife:
tell hurt why no delusion
tell pain he was right on target
you loved in error
lost last gasp of faith
created a pain
to outlive
to provide its own succor.
###
As always, readers of this blog are invited to respond to the literary posts. I would love to know your thoughts on this piece for my beloved's mother on her 99th birthday.
Love and blessings,
Dr. Ni
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
LOSING WEIGHT: Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles
LOSING WEIGHT: A Submission for "Readers Write"
I have given up my battle to lose weight. My maternal grandfather was a huge man, and my father is the apt replication of botley. My mother's and her mother's small frame strains but does not get through.
I gave up my battle in stages, once I declared it a war I would never win. A chubby child, I'd been given the one-half of a grapefruit, one boiled egg, one slice of toast diet in grade school. Weighed in and weighed out of Weight Watchers. Eleven years (and counting) in that mysterious fellowship of anonymity.
What I have come to is acceptance of myself, and a pursuit of and belief in, health. What I love most, the most satisfying reward, has been physical presence in my body. I know at all times how my body feels. I know when I am comfortable in it, and I know when I am carrying too much. I know the pleasant exhaustion after a brisk half-hour walk. I know the curling of my G-spot upon extended thought of my lover. Presence in my body is a gift I will relinquish to no one.
My disease was being other-centered.
It was not quite that horrid word "people-pleasing,” though I have developed a healthy disregard for others and their problems. I no longer give my all for causes that do not feed my soul. Only children, for limited amounts of time, deserve such sacrifice.
No, my "people-pleasing" was a self-preservation tactic learned in the battle to keep myself alive. I grew up in a home where attack--physical, sexual or emotional--was always possible. Reading all human situations in which I found myself was necessary as breathing.
With the acquisition of that skill I lost the value of me. I lost—sealed off actually—talents, abilities, enjoyments, diversions. I have never had a lover I wanted. I want the one I am considering now, and he chose me. Miraculous.
Once I decided I was tired of not liking me, I grew tired of not liking my body. I said to myself: this is probably how you're going to look for the rest of your life, love it. I listened when even Dr. Elizabeth Corday (ER) had to do affirmations. I looked at myself in the mirror and said: "I'm gorgeous." I took hard, long, appraising looks at my face and body and began to see the good.
Even now, at my top weight, I have not lost appreciation of my soft café latte skin or the seductive shape of my figure. It currently needs thinning out. Not because anyone else has told me so. Because I can feel it. I am in touch to the degree that I know my weight, my health, by how my body feels; by how laborious, or non-laborious, movement is.
I still look in the mirror and see the good. That is how I know I've trimmed the fat from where it really counts: between my ears, and in that vast empty space that childhood pain once occupied.
I have given up my battle to lose weight. My maternal grandfather was a huge man, and my father is the apt replication of botley. My mother's and her mother's small frame strains but does not get through.
I gave up my battle in stages, once I declared it a war I would never win. A chubby child, I'd been given the one-half of a grapefruit, one boiled egg, one slice of toast diet in grade school. Weighed in and weighed out of Weight Watchers. Eleven years (and counting) in that mysterious fellowship of anonymity.
What I have come to is acceptance of myself, and a pursuit of and belief in, health. What I love most, the most satisfying reward, has been physical presence in my body. I know at all times how my body feels. I know when I am comfortable in it, and I know when I am carrying too much. I know the pleasant exhaustion after a brisk half-hour walk. I know the curling of my G-spot upon extended thought of my lover. Presence in my body is a gift I will relinquish to no one.
My disease was being other-centered.
It was not quite that horrid word "people-pleasing,” though I have developed a healthy disregard for others and their problems. I no longer give my all for causes that do not feed my soul. Only children, for limited amounts of time, deserve such sacrifice.
No, my "people-pleasing" was a self-preservation tactic learned in the battle to keep myself alive. I grew up in a home where attack--physical, sexual or emotional--was always possible. Reading all human situations in which I found myself was necessary as breathing.
With the acquisition of that skill I lost the value of me. I lost—sealed off actually—talents, abilities, enjoyments, diversions. I have never had a lover I wanted. I want the one I am considering now, and he chose me. Miraculous.
Once I decided I was tired of not liking me, I grew tired of not liking my body. I said to myself: this is probably how you're going to look for the rest of your life, love it. I listened when even Dr. Elizabeth Corday (ER) had to do affirmations. I looked at myself in the mirror and said: "I'm gorgeous." I took hard, long, appraising looks at my face and body and began to see the good.
Even now, at my top weight, I have not lost appreciation of my soft café latte skin or the seductive shape of my figure. It currently needs thinning out. Not because anyone else has told me so. Because I can feel it. I am in touch to the degree that I know my weight, my health, by how my body feels; by how laborious, or non-laborious, movement is.
I still look in the mirror and see the good. That is how I know I've trimmed the fat from where it really counts: between my ears, and in that vast empty space that childhood pain once occupied.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
DR.NI'S NOTES & NIBBLES--21
THE TOUCH OF FLESH
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright January 2009
1,024 words
for papa, for whom I have no daughterlike feelings
The touch of flesh heals in ways the psyche cannot fathom, in ways the psychologist only dreams of orchestrating, in ways that only God can reveal to the willing mind, the mind ready to accept all of His gifts without question, doubt, or false lack of pride.
I love my Joseph, but I did not know that the mere action of sleeping with him, and I do mean sleeping, as in we lay there, arms around each other, him snoring in my ear and my snoring in his, would heal nighttime incontinence. Ob/gyns, pay attention.
I had accepted my aunt’s warning that my forties would begin the nights of never sleeping without disturbance, without the soon to be habitual, several times a night, getting up to go pee. I thought her surely wrong at first, but by 45, I knew she spoke Gospel truth. I was a Shepherd woman, and like my mother, was doomed to coming years of treks down the hall to the bathroom in the dark.
I never expected to fall in love at 46, for the first time in my sexually sheltered life. Raped at three by an older brother, the abuse continuing for how many years my psyche still has buried, I turned the sexual logistics off as an adolescent and, safely, only had crushes on teachers (never the lecherous ones) and boys who held me in great disdain. There would be no crossing of my boundaries again. Gaining an extra 250 pounds sealed the deal.
Clearly, then, there was to be no romantic anything in my future. I would have male friends; I would heal their psychological wounds, love them from a distance, and send them on their merry way. I learned this about myself as I reread a memoir filled with men to my beloved and realized that instead of boyfriends, I’d had a lifetime of healing psychological wounds for men who would never consider a therapist.
I didn’t know yet though that I was in love, nor that I was loved back. That would come with the shock of my beloved’s first major illness since we had begun to live together, his having taken me in as a Christian charity when I lost my apartment. We were doing just fine as father and daughter until I realized after Labor Day, with a thunk, that the cold I suspected could kill him had been in fact influenza B, and that I had been absolutely prescient to insist that he go to the hospital and demand more than mere cough medicine and a breathing treatment.
I’d almost lost him and I knew, in that instant, that my feelings were paternal no longer.
It had been a long road of many honest conversations and steady building of trust on both our parts that created an environment in which I put him on punishment for leaving me alone all day and evening one Sunday, his punishment that he had to spend one entire night with me in bed. I was stunned when he asked the next night if he could pay his fine again. A week or more has passed now, I’ve lost count, and he has yet to return to his own bed. When he moved his bedside lamp in I knew it was serious.
The real revelation, however, has been the response of my cells. The way in which I breathe differently when sleeping with him. The fact that I do not get up to go pee the three and four times in a night unless I’ve had major doses of sugar that day; I go once or not at all. I sleep soundly and through the night when in his arms, and we do fall asleep with our arms around each other, face to face. He tells me that even when he knows I am deeply asleep, if he reaches for my hand I mumble something loving and grasp his hand in return. I know that I wake from nights with him never remembering having fallen asleep and far more rested in fewer hours than normal.
Still a child who grew up in a challenging home, I wait for the night we have a big blow up and he returns to his own bed, but I have a sneaking suspicion that we will abide by the never going to bed angry rule and resolve the issue before retiring for the night. I know this because there is a power to our love I had not anticipated, never having been loved back: it is the acceptance with which he decorates my heart.
I woke one night recently and to my horror, my gown was wet as was my side of the bed. He lay snoring contentedly on his side of the bed. Ashamed and terrified that this would be the final rejection, I quietly got up, took a long, hot rinse-off shower (we have the most amazing shower head, forceful and strong spray), rinsed off my nightgown, wrung it out, crept back to the bedroom, turned on his lamplight and sprayed Shout on my side of the bed after pulling back the covers.
He rolled over, mumbled, rolled back over. Closed his eyes.
My face, my soul, burned in shame.
I finished spraying the Shout, very carefully put down a bath sheet, and put the Shout back in its habitual space in my closet. Turned out the light, pulled back my covers.
He helped. Raised the covers, turned to face me, waiting to put his arms around me as I lay back down on my side of now our bed.
I was astounded. He had to know. How could he not know? And yet, he lay there, ready and waiting to embrace me, and did so as though nothing at all were awry.
I hugged up next to him, grateful, stunned, happy. Thanked God for this wonderful man, fell asleep and haven’t wet the bed since.
And the lamp still sits in its new place, by his side of the bed on my chest of drawers.
God be praised, thanked, loved, adored.
Trusted.
###
Okay, readers--do your stuff! Let me know what you think, feel, believe about what has been said above. It's not a dialogue if you aren't speaking!
Love and blessings,
Dr. Ni
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright January 2009
1,024 words
for papa, for whom I have no daughterlike feelings
The touch of flesh heals in ways the psyche cannot fathom, in ways the psychologist only dreams of orchestrating, in ways that only God can reveal to the willing mind, the mind ready to accept all of His gifts without question, doubt, or false lack of pride.
I love my Joseph, but I did not know that the mere action of sleeping with him, and I do mean sleeping, as in we lay there, arms around each other, him snoring in my ear and my snoring in his, would heal nighttime incontinence. Ob/gyns, pay attention.
I had accepted my aunt’s warning that my forties would begin the nights of never sleeping without disturbance, without the soon to be habitual, several times a night, getting up to go pee. I thought her surely wrong at first, but by 45, I knew she spoke Gospel truth. I was a Shepherd woman, and like my mother, was doomed to coming years of treks down the hall to the bathroom in the dark.
I never expected to fall in love at 46, for the first time in my sexually sheltered life. Raped at three by an older brother, the abuse continuing for how many years my psyche still has buried, I turned the sexual logistics off as an adolescent and, safely, only had crushes on teachers (never the lecherous ones) and boys who held me in great disdain. There would be no crossing of my boundaries again. Gaining an extra 250 pounds sealed the deal.
Clearly, then, there was to be no romantic anything in my future. I would have male friends; I would heal their psychological wounds, love them from a distance, and send them on their merry way. I learned this about myself as I reread a memoir filled with men to my beloved and realized that instead of boyfriends, I’d had a lifetime of healing psychological wounds for men who would never consider a therapist.
I didn’t know yet though that I was in love, nor that I was loved back. That would come with the shock of my beloved’s first major illness since we had begun to live together, his having taken me in as a Christian charity when I lost my apartment. We were doing just fine as father and daughter until I realized after Labor Day, with a thunk, that the cold I suspected could kill him had been in fact influenza B, and that I had been absolutely prescient to insist that he go to the hospital and demand more than mere cough medicine and a breathing treatment.
I’d almost lost him and I knew, in that instant, that my feelings were paternal no longer.
It had been a long road of many honest conversations and steady building of trust on both our parts that created an environment in which I put him on punishment for leaving me alone all day and evening one Sunday, his punishment that he had to spend one entire night with me in bed. I was stunned when he asked the next night if he could pay his fine again. A week or more has passed now, I’ve lost count, and he has yet to return to his own bed. When he moved his bedside lamp in I knew it was serious.
The real revelation, however, has been the response of my cells. The way in which I breathe differently when sleeping with him. The fact that I do not get up to go pee the three and four times in a night unless I’ve had major doses of sugar that day; I go once or not at all. I sleep soundly and through the night when in his arms, and we do fall asleep with our arms around each other, face to face. He tells me that even when he knows I am deeply asleep, if he reaches for my hand I mumble something loving and grasp his hand in return. I know that I wake from nights with him never remembering having fallen asleep and far more rested in fewer hours than normal.
Still a child who grew up in a challenging home, I wait for the night we have a big blow up and he returns to his own bed, but I have a sneaking suspicion that we will abide by the never going to bed angry rule and resolve the issue before retiring for the night. I know this because there is a power to our love I had not anticipated, never having been loved back: it is the acceptance with which he decorates my heart.
I woke one night recently and to my horror, my gown was wet as was my side of the bed. He lay snoring contentedly on his side of the bed. Ashamed and terrified that this would be the final rejection, I quietly got up, took a long, hot rinse-off shower (we have the most amazing shower head, forceful and strong spray), rinsed off my nightgown, wrung it out, crept back to the bedroom, turned on his lamplight and sprayed Shout on my side of the bed after pulling back the covers.
He rolled over, mumbled, rolled back over. Closed his eyes.
My face, my soul, burned in shame.
I finished spraying the Shout, very carefully put down a bath sheet, and put the Shout back in its habitual space in my closet. Turned out the light, pulled back my covers.
He helped. Raised the covers, turned to face me, waiting to put his arms around me as I lay back down on my side of now our bed.
I was astounded. He had to know. How could he not know? And yet, he lay there, ready and waiting to embrace me, and did so as though nothing at all were awry.
I hugged up next to him, grateful, stunned, happy. Thanked God for this wonderful man, fell asleep and haven’t wet the bed since.
And the lamp still sits in its new place, by his side of the bed on my chest of drawers.
God be praised, thanked, loved, adored.
Trusted.
###
Okay, readers--do your stuff! Let me know what you think, feel, believe about what has been said above. It's not a dialogue if you aren't speaking!
Love and blessings,
Dr. Ni
Friday, December 12, 2008
DR. NI'S NOTES & NIBBLES--20
This week we have a guest in the realms of Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles. My beloved has written a poem for me that I feel merits sharing; for those of you who crave love, who wonder what real love feels like, who want to know what a deep understanding of the spirit can yield between two people, take a gander at this poem.
And if you want our whole story, take a peek at my journal on Tim Hooker's SushiTuesday.com. But for the moment, this sacred work:
SACRED IMAGES
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Sacred images,
Do they come with halo careful,
gracing o’er their heads so pure,
and with angel’s wings adorning,
guarding their assignments, sure?
This our view through countless ages,
reigning o’er the wrecks of time,
We have seen and heard from sages,
they confirm thy heights sublime.
Why then, do I see before me,
such an image firm and true,
but no halo, round about her,
there, no wings, yet I construe
everything she does, angelic,
all she is, to God is true.
Proves to us, upon our planet
resting on this earthly sphere,
What we do in Christ, our Jesus,
will confirm his presence here.
Nothing of the pomp and splendor,
garbed in robes, like Pharisees,
can compare with love delivered
to the needy cross the seas.
Hence, my angel though not winged,
while no halo can be shown,
still by deeds, her angel’s spirit,
better yet, than all I’ve known.
Selfless giving, steadfast pressing
toward the goal her Father ‘spired,
never falt'ring, never failing,
never drifting, seldom tired.
Is this not, like God’s bright angels,
hov’ring o’er the wrecks of time,
guarding lives and serving others,
‘till we reach those heights sublime?
Sacred images abiding,
those invisible, or my loving “Dr. Ni,”
show the path we are to follow
On to God’s eternity!
- Pappa Joseph -
As per usual, feel free to comment away. We are ready, willing and able to read your comments and respond!
Love and blessings,
Dr. Ni
And if you want our whole story, take a peek at my journal on Tim Hooker's SushiTuesday.com. But for the moment, this sacred work:
SACRED IMAGES
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Sacred images,
Do they come with halo careful,
gracing o’er their heads so pure,
and with angel’s wings adorning,
guarding their assignments, sure?
This our view through countless ages,
reigning o’er the wrecks of time,
We have seen and heard from sages,
they confirm thy heights sublime.
Why then, do I see before me,
such an image firm and true,
but no halo, round about her,
there, no wings, yet I construe
everything she does, angelic,
all she is, to God is true.
Proves to us, upon our planet
resting on this earthly sphere,
What we do in Christ, our Jesus,
will confirm his presence here.
Nothing of the pomp and splendor,
garbed in robes, like Pharisees,
can compare with love delivered
to the needy cross the seas.
Hence, my angel though not winged,
while no halo can be shown,
still by deeds, her angel’s spirit,
better yet, than all I’ve known.
Selfless giving, steadfast pressing
toward the goal her Father ‘spired,
never falt'ring, never failing,
never drifting, seldom tired.
Is this not, like God’s bright angels,
hov’ring o’er the wrecks of time,
guarding lives and serving others,
‘till we reach those heights sublime?
Sacred images abiding,
those invisible, or my loving “Dr. Ni,”
show the path we are to follow
On to God’s eternity!
- Pappa Joseph -
As per usual, feel free to comment away. We are ready, willing and able to read your comments and respond!
Love and blessings,
Dr. Ni
Friday, December 5, 2008
Dr. Ni's Notes & Nibbles--WALKING WITH THE SPIRITS
In honor of the holiday season, we have this week a piece about spirits and family and God, and all of the ways we may need to make choices about each.
Please feel free to read, comment, and share with friends. Remember: this blog is all about your feedback to the work I post here. Comment away!
And think with a loving heart about your friends, relatives, and relationships this holiday season. It is the time of year when we can all use a little extra kindness.
WALKING WITH THE SPIRITS
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright April 2008
877 words
Dear God:
It is almost 4 a.m., my walking with the spirits time, and I am learning, as God reveals more and more of who I am, as He lays my path before me brick by noble brick, I come to understand that my time with the spirits is to be arranged for, planned for, lesser things moved aside for much as Uncle Rob claims to set aside—purposefully—time for the Ancients, for the silence in his daily life.
How the brilliant and the gifted and the touched lead by gentle example. Even Cousin Wendy amazed at Papa’s room now and his physical presence at home. Not that I want to pat myself too much on the back, but Papa’s happiness to be home, the way he is happy to be here, sleeping, writing, washing dishes, it lets me know a certain level of his misery is over, a certain level of his suffering is gone. And so his contentedness to be at home, at this home he so meticulously keeps now, shines like a beacon reminding me that my life is a spiritual one, my path a walk with one ear always attuned to the other realm.
My mother’s voice came to me the other day and she believes me my father’s child, Lewis’ child, she does not understand Ben’s hold on me, and I do not either. I only know the vision of the trinity, Papa Ben, Larry K., and Uncle Martin, that trinity and that estate in Lydbury. Something there. Something there. An investigation I must not turn away from. Time, I think, to ask Tim Collins for the boxes from Mother’s bedroom, if he’ll let me have them and Mr. Fisher to pay before they can be delivered. We pray Nadine says yes. We pray Nadine says yes and carries our books as part of Soul Purpose and if she does we are jubilant in our thanks to God. The secrets we spill as we work; we write when the spirits are walking, the gates of heaven swinging open.
We focus not, though, on the bills, but on the gifts of a spiritual life. Something as simple as watching a movie. God wastes no portion of His gift. I watched and I did not trust the police officers. I could not put my finger on why, but a Louisiana cop in the midst of a bunch of Southies, how those Afflecks love the Southies, and that Carey is no slouch, I watched Gone Baby Gone and that fine, hardworking Louisiana cop and his bruiser partner—something just wasn’t right.
It tries to become a morality tale, a story of a man forced always into what seems the right, the best decision, but rightful Catholic shame dogging him every step. We feel for him, suffer the shame with him the first one, two times, but then we see that final choice and we see his hard, unyielding Catholic core is not really a deep sense of right and wrong and morality but racism, deep-seated racism raw and smelly and finally disgusting even to himself. We see him finally as a man who justifies his wrong decision to himself even in the face of his gentle, loving wife; she refuses to take part in his blatant, unforgiving bias.
We finally see that he just didn’t want blond curls with rich Black grey hair, curled at the root. Didn’t matter where she was happiest. Didn’t matter where she was safest. He wanted her where she was born: poor white Southie, through and through. Wanted Southie to stand for something worth claiming, a lifestyle worth giving up better for. As the credits roll, though, even he sees the train wreck of his mistake and no lifetime of babysitting, of vigilance will save this child. Her chance, her opportunity ripped to shreds by his need, his racism, his desire for something noble in Southieness.
Do I want to claim Ben, Papa Massey because my own father insufficient? My possible birth father provided gifts yes: the shelter of early protection, safety, sustenance, something no child can repay, but what I find in Papa Massey’s home is an unconditional love L.W. could never grant, his love always came wrapped around an expectation and you’d better know what it was he shouldn’t have to tell you. His life, his youth, his own fortunes and misfortunes and survivals made him perhaps too hard a man to be a gentle father, the gentle loving father I needed, and as I walk away from his persistent demands, spoken and unspoken, it is not with ire or rancor or spite.
No, I understand that life made L.W. a man who must always insist about something, and because I understand this I can part with love and walk into health and understanding and father/daughter as it is supposed to be. I do not hang back with what no longer feeds me. I don’t need undying proof that Southie is good; I have enough sense to go where the love is and make a safe home there among friends unafraid to risk open hands, open hearts, giving with no price attached, trust with no punishment or penalty soon to ensue.
Love and blessings,
Dr. Ni
Okay: your turn. Comment, respond, critique. Let's begin an honest dialogue for all the world to see!
Please feel free to read, comment, and share with friends. Remember: this blog is all about your feedback to the work I post here. Comment away!
And think with a loving heart about your friends, relatives, and relationships this holiday season. It is the time of year when we can all use a little extra kindness.
WALKING WITH THE SPIRITS
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright April 2008
877 words
Dear God:
It is almost 4 a.m., my walking with the spirits time, and I am learning, as God reveals more and more of who I am, as He lays my path before me brick by noble brick, I come to understand that my time with the spirits is to be arranged for, planned for, lesser things moved aside for much as Uncle Rob claims to set aside—purposefully—time for the Ancients, for the silence in his daily life.
How the brilliant and the gifted and the touched lead by gentle example. Even Cousin Wendy amazed at Papa’s room now and his physical presence at home. Not that I want to pat myself too much on the back, but Papa’s happiness to be home, the way he is happy to be here, sleeping, writing, washing dishes, it lets me know a certain level of his misery is over, a certain level of his suffering is gone. And so his contentedness to be at home, at this home he so meticulously keeps now, shines like a beacon reminding me that my life is a spiritual one, my path a walk with one ear always attuned to the other realm.
My mother’s voice came to me the other day and she believes me my father’s child, Lewis’ child, she does not understand Ben’s hold on me, and I do not either. I only know the vision of the trinity, Papa Ben, Larry K., and Uncle Martin, that trinity and that estate in Lydbury. Something there. Something there. An investigation I must not turn away from. Time, I think, to ask Tim Collins for the boxes from Mother’s bedroom, if he’ll let me have them and Mr. Fisher to pay before they can be delivered. We pray Nadine says yes. We pray Nadine says yes and carries our books as part of Soul Purpose and if she does we are jubilant in our thanks to God. The secrets we spill as we work; we write when the spirits are walking, the gates of heaven swinging open.
We focus not, though, on the bills, but on the gifts of a spiritual life. Something as simple as watching a movie. God wastes no portion of His gift. I watched and I did not trust the police officers. I could not put my finger on why, but a Louisiana cop in the midst of a bunch of Southies, how those Afflecks love the Southies, and that Carey is no slouch, I watched Gone Baby Gone and that fine, hardworking Louisiana cop and his bruiser partner—something just wasn’t right.
It tries to become a morality tale, a story of a man forced always into what seems the right, the best decision, but rightful Catholic shame dogging him every step. We feel for him, suffer the shame with him the first one, two times, but then we see that final choice and we see his hard, unyielding Catholic core is not really a deep sense of right and wrong and morality but racism, deep-seated racism raw and smelly and finally disgusting even to himself. We see him finally as a man who justifies his wrong decision to himself even in the face of his gentle, loving wife; she refuses to take part in his blatant, unforgiving bias.
We finally see that he just didn’t want blond curls with rich Black grey hair, curled at the root. Didn’t matter where she was happiest. Didn’t matter where she was safest. He wanted her where she was born: poor white Southie, through and through. Wanted Southie to stand for something worth claiming, a lifestyle worth giving up better for. As the credits roll, though, even he sees the train wreck of his mistake and no lifetime of babysitting, of vigilance will save this child. Her chance, her opportunity ripped to shreds by his need, his racism, his desire for something noble in Southieness.
Do I want to claim Ben, Papa Massey because my own father insufficient? My possible birth father provided gifts yes: the shelter of early protection, safety, sustenance, something no child can repay, but what I find in Papa Massey’s home is an unconditional love L.W. could never grant, his love always came wrapped around an expectation and you’d better know what it was he shouldn’t have to tell you. His life, his youth, his own fortunes and misfortunes and survivals made him perhaps too hard a man to be a gentle father, the gentle loving father I needed, and as I walk away from his persistent demands, spoken and unspoken, it is not with ire or rancor or spite.
No, I understand that life made L.W. a man who must always insist about something, and because I understand this I can part with love and walk into health and understanding and father/daughter as it is supposed to be. I do not hang back with what no longer feeds me. I don’t need undying proof that Southie is good; I have enough sense to go where the love is and make a safe home there among friends unafraid to risk open hands, open hearts, giving with no price attached, trust with no punishment or penalty soon to ensue.
Love and blessings,
Dr. Ni
Okay: your turn. Comment, respond, critique. Let's begin an honest dialogue for all the world to see!
Thursday, November 27, 2008
A POET'S SACRIFICE--NOTES & NIBBLES 18
Welcome to this week's literary walk on the wild side. As always, posts here are open for response and critique. Tell me, have I grabbed your gut this week? Is your solar plexus feeling the grip of my sweaty, feverish palm? Take a gander at this week's submission and let me know.
From an August 2000, letter to the editor:
Dear G.,
As to your question: how much sacrifice does the poet's life entail? Much, and daily. Daily because we live in a society, despite the raving of and about spoken word, despite Larry Jaffe and Poetic License, despite poetry venues from here to Kingdom Come, that does not respect poetry as an art form, and thus does not compensate it adequately. Screenwriters expect to be paid for what they do. Novelists expect to be paid for what they do. Poets do not, and are not.
This needs to change.
And then there is the word, the persistence of the word. I was trying to finish looking through posts to an online workshop, but the words for the latest exercise kept coming, pushing their way, insisting. I finally gave up and reached for my pen. To good, blessed result (in spite of what my fellow poets may think! :)). And that is how I gather strength: when the words fall just right, when I finish a piece and it lands on the tongue like buttered cream, I breathe like I breathe at no other time, and there is a satisfaction: oh there is a satisfaction that novelists and screenwriters will never know.
This is what bolsters my faith.
This and knowing that when I stop and listen (as I was being instructed, forced, to do) God is well-pleased with me because I am doing what He sent me down to the planet to do: listen, then share. Knowing that I am doing what my Maker intended of me gives me a whole 'nother level of peace, and allows me to live on a part-time college professor's salary, instead of the megabucks of a screenwriter.
Could I walk away from it? Of course. Surely. I could ignore that pen, those words, every time they showed up. Could tell God I'm tired of living on no money; sorry, I'm going into computers instead.
But would I be happy? Would I be at peace? I don't think so. I can't really tell you for sure because I haven't tried it. I can tell you that when I wasn't doing my "right work" I was miserable.
So, somebody tell me the name of that prehistoric fish please, so I can properly title my poem. And I hope this helps you G., or whoever you intended opening up this line of questioning for. The sacrifice is always worth it.
Love and blessings,
Dr. Ni
From an August 2000, letter to the editor:
Dear G.,
As to your question: how much sacrifice does the poet's life entail? Much, and daily. Daily because we live in a society, despite the raving of and about spoken word, despite Larry Jaffe and Poetic License, despite poetry venues from here to Kingdom Come, that does not respect poetry as an art form, and thus does not compensate it adequately. Screenwriters expect to be paid for what they do. Novelists expect to be paid for what they do. Poets do not, and are not.
This needs to change.
And then there is the word, the persistence of the word. I was trying to finish looking through posts to an online workshop, but the words for the latest exercise kept coming, pushing their way, insisting. I finally gave up and reached for my pen. To good, blessed result (in spite of what my fellow poets may think! :)). And that is how I gather strength: when the words fall just right, when I finish a piece and it lands on the tongue like buttered cream, I breathe like I breathe at no other time, and there is a satisfaction: oh there is a satisfaction that novelists and screenwriters will never know.
This is what bolsters my faith.
This and knowing that when I stop and listen (as I was being instructed, forced, to do) God is well-pleased with me because I am doing what He sent me down to the planet to do: listen, then share. Knowing that I am doing what my Maker intended of me gives me a whole 'nother level of peace, and allows me to live on a part-time college professor's salary, instead of the megabucks of a screenwriter.
Could I walk away from it? Of course. Surely. I could ignore that pen, those words, every time they showed up. Could tell God I'm tired of living on no money; sorry, I'm going into computers instead.
But would I be happy? Would I be at peace? I don't think so. I can't really tell you for sure because I haven't tried it. I can tell you that when I wasn't doing my "right work" I was miserable.
So, somebody tell me the name of that prehistoric fish please, so I can properly title my poem. And I hope this helps you G., or whoever you intended opening up this line of questioning for. The sacrifice is always worth it.
Love and blessings,
Dr. Ni
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Dr. Ni's Notes and Nibbles--17
A poem and a prose piece for your literary review and analysis this week.
If you have ever been to Santa Monica, California, you know how sad we L.A. literati are that Midnight Special Bookstore closed its doors. Nothing will ever adequately replace it. I tried to give them this piece as a marketing tool, but the writing was on the wall and my words couldn't save them.
Read on. Enjoy. Comment. All for the literary good!!!
MIDNIGHT SPECIAL BOOKSTORE
I once took the podium here. That far room in the back, wooden floor gleaming pine, reached only by journey past books, floor to ceiling books. My anthology is there. It fits the politically active, unassuming, newsprint-stained doors--even the marquee is that understated rich which hints at money this place doesn't have. Floor to ceiling, journals piled on tables, clerks of every age and persuasion: grizzled old school, the young with punctures everywhere. They yell front to back if no one's manning customer service when you walk up. Not all of them smile; too much commitment in the air. My book is always in stock; my mother's smile does not make me prouder. For I do not come here to drink coffee, chip biscotti; I come to this place, this space spitting distance from the ocean, to drown, to drown myself in words.
And now for the poem:
TOO TIRED TO TITLE
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright November 2008
for papa, who else
we both care more
for pen, page,
strings of words
dancing from His world
through our veins
pouring from our hands
as the blood and water
from the palms of Our Savior
gifts, both
blessings
Repentance
Amelioration
Forgiveness.
we work ourselves to a frazzle
me, loudly chastising
as he says yes to another church engagement
my first thoughts now
of the times we sit quiet
watch tv
talk
share dessert at the little dining table.
i think of our closeness
except when he comes to rub my back
i can think of nothing then
sixth, seventh hour at the computer
his door finally closed
my keyboard clacking rings through his dreams.
i could not ignore
friend’s plaintive plea
for more chapters
edited corrected annotated
her tale a pivotal one
angels and Aristotle
awaiting its publication.
i, bleary-eyed, know no tiredness
as i read of her heavenly escorts
her doubt and fear and trepidation
who would believe me a question
following like bees abuzz
knotting my head
when the pain-filled speak
sotto voce.
he sleeps now
door closed
i face, perhaps, more writing
fired up somehow
Him pleased that i put one child
then another
first.
barbara’s words incorrect.
never me first
except with Jim.
always with Jim.
i will not see Wendy’s house today
God wants my focus clear
2006 Dekalb Pike
all spiritual energies
on christine haycock’s response:
“no, i had not considered a tax write-off”
i doubt again today
have delayed and delayed asking this very question
to counter, reassure,
the Universe whispered tonight:
“What will I not do for you?”
i love the whispering breath of faith
will leave this poem for him to pray over
will sip my oj-ed root beer
contemplate
hope that i do not sleep
through all his awake hours
missing already his arms around my breastbone
his cheek resting on the top of my head.
###
Okay, your turn. Comment away!
Love and blessings,
Dr. Ni
If you have ever been to Santa Monica, California, you know how sad we L.A. literati are that Midnight Special Bookstore closed its doors. Nothing will ever adequately replace it. I tried to give them this piece as a marketing tool, but the writing was on the wall and my words couldn't save them.
Read on. Enjoy. Comment. All for the literary good!!!
MIDNIGHT SPECIAL BOOKSTORE
I once took the podium here. That far room in the back, wooden floor gleaming pine, reached only by journey past books, floor to ceiling books. My anthology is there. It fits the politically active, unassuming, newsprint-stained doors--even the marquee is that understated rich which hints at money this place doesn't have. Floor to ceiling, journals piled on tables, clerks of every age and persuasion: grizzled old school, the young with punctures everywhere. They yell front to back if no one's manning customer service when you walk up. Not all of them smile; too much commitment in the air. My book is always in stock; my mother's smile does not make me prouder. For I do not come here to drink coffee, chip biscotti; I come to this place, this space spitting distance from the ocean, to drown, to drown myself in words.
And now for the poem:
TOO TIRED TO TITLE
Niama Leslie Williams, Ph.D.
Copyright November 2008
for papa, who else
we both care more
for pen, page,
strings of words
dancing from His world
through our veins
pouring from our hands
as the blood and water
from the palms of Our Savior
gifts, both
blessings
Repentance
Amelioration
Forgiveness.
we work ourselves to a frazzle
me, loudly chastising
as he says yes to another church engagement
my first thoughts now
of the times we sit quiet
watch tv
talk
share dessert at the little dining table.
i think of our closeness
except when he comes to rub my back
i can think of nothing then
sixth, seventh hour at the computer
his door finally closed
my keyboard clacking rings through his dreams.
i could not ignore
friend’s plaintive plea
for more chapters
edited corrected annotated
her tale a pivotal one
angels and Aristotle
awaiting its publication.
i, bleary-eyed, know no tiredness
as i read of her heavenly escorts
her doubt and fear and trepidation
who would believe me a question
following like bees abuzz
knotting my head
when the pain-filled speak
sotto voce.
he sleeps now
door closed
i face, perhaps, more writing
fired up somehow
Him pleased that i put one child
then another
first.
barbara’s words incorrect.
never me first
except with Jim.
always with Jim.
i will not see Wendy’s house today
God wants my focus clear
2006 Dekalb Pike
all spiritual energies
on christine haycock’s response:
“no, i had not considered a tax write-off”
i doubt again today
have delayed and delayed asking this very question
to counter, reassure,
the Universe whispered tonight:
“What will I not do for you?”
i love the whispering breath of faith
will leave this poem for him to pray over
will sip my oj-ed root beer
contemplate
hope that i do not sleep
through all his awake hours
missing already his arms around my breastbone
his cheek resting on the top of my head.
###
Okay, your turn. Comment away!
Love and blessings,
Dr. Ni
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