Poem: What Happens

What Happens

What happens
when you disappear;
when you grow silent
not for hours
but days, weeks, longer still?

When your normal haunts
no longer see you each morning,
coffee in hand, smile
on your face, when

depression
slowly drains your life, leaving
a ghost,
a memory,
a wisp of fog

that burns
away
in the morning sun,
who remembers,
and how?

What happens?
Is there a hole somewhere
besides your own soul, or
does light flow in
to the vacuum
and you find yourself utterly
erased?

=======================

The picture is a camera "mess up" from a picture taking session about a month ago. It shows nothing, which seemed to match the poem.

Tom

Thoughts on a made bed

I woke up this morning and made my bed.

I am told that this is a rare thing: a man, and a man of my age and generation, who makes his bed most mornings. I will confess, it is not something I always did, but years ago, while battling through my first bad bout of depression, one of the things my counselor told me was to develop little disciplines and hold fast to them. That they would give me a collection of small victories to look back on each day, and mark progress. They would, she told me, make a difference.

And it was not just the doing of something as prosaic as making my bed that was important. She urged me to savor the experience. If you have ever battled depression, you know how hard that is. In fact, savoring is harder than doing, and doing is damned hard. Because in depression, just getting started each day seems to be an insurmountable task.

That's likely hard to imagine if you have not lived it. I know that I never understood it until I experienced it. For most of my fifty some years, I woke up in a flash, full of energy and ready to launch into my day. Mornings were a joy, full of promise, light, and energy. Since depression hit, mornings take work. At times, if I am in a dark, dark place, they take a lot of work. At other times, when things are better, only a jog of work. But I don't have the same kinds of mornings, even in the best of days, that I once had.

So I get up. I make my bed. As you can see in the picture, it is not Better Homes and Gardens perfect, but I make it. And I work at savoring it. I feel the soft sheets.. I take in the colors. At times I remember where certain things came from - what circumstances led to my buying this particular bed, how I inherited the old radio that serves as my bedside table, the pleasure in restoring the mirror over the bed and how I love it's imperfections.

Doing this sets the pattern for my day. It turns a depressed mind towards more positive thoughts, making each step ahead of it just a little easier. Haing finished one task, often before I even get dressed, it is easier to do the next, and the next.

No one would know this, of course, if they came to visit. They would see a house in fairly good order, and a fifty six year old man who makes his bed. That's all.

Because in general, we don't see the meaning behind what we do. And yet, the meaning is there. In nearly every decision we make, there is a story, something that speaks to the deeper person. What most of us do (and I am as guilty as the next), is assign our meanings, our experiences, to what we see. And that becomes our truth.

Sometimes that may be fine to do. But it is just as possible that we have it all wrong, that we are missing something. What we missed might be unimportant. Or it might be very important. But the odds are, if we don't know what's behind what we see, we're missing something. While much of life is simple People are not

So now, should you visit my small house house across from the quarry, and see my bed made, you will know I didn't make it for you.(sorry)  I made it for me. A small step towards sanity. You will know that for the day you visited at least, I started my day with a victory against inertia, from the very start. And when we share a cup of coffee, we can celebrate the victory together.

Tom

Poem: Depression

Depression

A veil.
That's what it is,
a mask of OK, of functioning, while
inside,
every breath is a struggle, every
action, every
act, kind or cruel,
is like swimming in tar,
black, thick, with the sucking sound
that pulls you even
as you lift your foot
for the next step.

A veil,
that's what it is,
that not only hides the tears
that burn like fire down your face,
but blocks the light
from your own eyes,
blurs the best truths,
hides the best of you
and the best beyond you.

A veil,
that is what it is,
frightening to strangers and loved ones alike,
a mask, not of pretension or pretend,
but of fear, desperate for light
and afraid of it
at the same time.

=======================

The picture was taken in Munich.

Tom

Thoughts: Lessons from a Clock

The clock in the picture belonged to my great grandparents, on the Drewry side. It’s a late 19^th century gothic mantle clock. From there it was passed down to my grandmother Lassiter, then to my mother, and on my 50^th birthday, it was given to me.

In all its homes, the clock’s simple Victorian mechanics clicked away, the reassuringly reliable click-click of the pendelum, the hourly deep gong of the chimes. Through my early childhood, when its ticking in the room below my bedroom lulled me to sleep at night, to my turbulent teen years, when it’s chimes told me regularly that I was up way too late, to my adulthood when the clock began to be, not just a timepiece, but a connection point to my family and it’s history.

I’m one of the lucky ones in that I remember well all of my grandparents, all of whom were alive into my thirties and forties, and some of my great grandparents. I have pictures of them in my house, and for me, they are not pictures of people not known, but of people I loved and love still, whose lives still touch me, here in my late fifties.

When I was given the clock, I lived in Troutville, Va. My life seemed settled, and the clock in a small way, was something of a symbol of that, but of course, life does not work that way. A few short years later and I was divorced, and my life and work came undone. I moved twice in a few short years there in Botetourt County, then making the decision to move to Vermont to be close to the woman I have come to love here in Vermont.

And the clock moved with me. Carefully packed and set up, Whether I moved myself, or had someone move my belongings, the clock rode in my car, carefully set upright and strapped in so that it’s delicate works and old glass would make the trip intact. And once settled in my new homes, it would be one of the first things set in place, it’s ticking and hourly gongs a taste of stablility in what seemed to me to be a suddenly unstable life.

It did not make the trip to Vermont well.

The clock didn’t seem to have been damaged. It looked fine, but after I set it in place in my study, would it carefully, it would run for a minute or two, and slowly stop. I looked at it (which is something of a laugh, since I know nothing about clocks, and only have an average mechanical sense), read about clocks of that era, but I could find nothing wrong. And unfortunately, at this point in life, I had other priorities for any spare money I might have.

So I left it in place, silent. I told myself that it didn’t matter that much, that what was important was it’s legacy, the fact that it was a connection point. And to some extent, that was true. But still, it nagged at me, and from time to time I would return to it, trying to figure out what was wrong, how I might fix it. Again and again in the nearly three years I have been here, I would stand there, door open on the clock, tracing it’s mechanics, thinking, always failing to fanthom it’s mystery.

Last night, I was looking at it again, and it came to me. Perhaps it was not the clock. Old clocks are a magical mix of mechanics, gravity and physics. They need to be level, both side to side, and front to back.

The clock looked level, as did the piece of furniture it was on, but, I suddenly realized, I live in an old house, built in 1800. NOTHING is level in an old house. Visually it might look that way, because everything might be tilted the same way.

I went back to the project room (my version of a workshop, since my tiny snapshot of a lot has no room for a real workshop), and found my level. I put it on the kitchen counter. it was level. I move the clock to the counter, started the pendelum, and it clicked, as long and steadily as if it’s work had never been interrupted.

Five minutes with the piece of furniture and the level and everything was plumb and right. The clock was back in place, and now, 12 hours later, it continues to echo through the house.

Like so many things we lose in life, often we don’t fully realize how much we miss something or someone, until we have them back. I miss my friends in Roanoke and other places less when I am here, than when I am back with them, enjoying their company and their goodness and the joy of their presence. The same was true of my clock. Last night, as it began to tick happily away, the law of physics making all right with it’s world, I felt a return to mourning, just for a while, about what I had missed in the years before I finally discovered what was wrong.

And I was reminded of a few life lessons along the way.

First, that persistence pays. If I had not kept at it, returning to it again and again, it would have been a museum piece, instead of the living reminder (and timepiece, Rona is always telling me I don’t have enough clocks in the house.) that it once again is.

Second, that often things that seem hard, really aren’t. It was embarassingly easy to fix the clock. I battle depression, which ebbs and flows in my life, and when I am in the midst of it, everything is hard. But most things in life really aren’t hard.

And so the clock that now sits above my head to one side as I write and work and seek work, has taken on yet another connection point, this time not to family, but to an idea that is important to take to heart: Most of life is simpler than we make it.

Good lessons, both.

Now, I just have to get used to the tick-tock again. 

Tom

Poem: The Trenches

The Trenches

This is where life is fought,
not on the parade ground with colors bright
and creases pin-sharp
create oohs and ahs from the spectators,
lined to watch the show,

Not in the battlefield
where bravery is expected
and reactions, not our minds
rule the day,

but here, in the dark holes
of the trenches,
where, helpless, our walls
protect us, and we hunker down,

preparing in silence
for that moment
where we charge,
or flee. 

==========

The picture was taken at the Army Heritage Center, in Carlyse, PA, where they have, among other things, a recreation of World War One trenches. This was the headquarters of this section of trenches. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Rot

It is a slow rot
that brought you to this place,
each flake of pain silently falling
unnoticed

until your walls were raw and exposed,
your windows,
broken in the wind,
the weather no longer held at bay
but let in

to the floors, the beams,
all hidden,
all rotting,

all happening so slowly
no one notices
until finally the roof bows and falls,
or
someone arrives, dedicated
to restoration.

============================

The picture was taken down the road from in in West Pawlet. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Chains

Chains

Rusted, they no longer hold you,
no longer bind you to the past, straining
like Atlas holding a world not
of your making,

no longer wrapped around you
like a death embrace, false protection,
false love, false truth. No,
they are now

museum pieces, and you wonder
how you made them, what
madness caused you to forge each link,
one by slow one, what

blindness could not see the binding
was not theirs,
but yours and you laugh
even as you forge new links. 

==============

The picture was taken in Rupert, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Every Death Has A Story

Every Death Has a Story

The building stands like a boxer, punch drunk, 

a fresh coat of paint on the front, 

the back and foundations battered, 

abandoned, 

the slow erosion of time and neglect leaving

a facade, waiting for the final beam to crack

or for the wrecker's ball to strike

one final blow, 

to end the song, silence the music

that once lifted the hearts, like you, 

now worn, now waiting, 

a fraction, nay

less than that, of who and what you were, 

still savable, but failing, struggling, 

unwilling to collapse, 

unable to rise, 

echoes of opera and burlesque, 

of soul dancing and moments of frivolous courage, 

all resound in the silence, 

you look at the whitewashed walls, 

aware

that every death has a story, 

even before it comes. 

================

The pictures of are of the old Equinox Opera House, in Manchester Vermont. It was recently approved for demolition by the town, so it's days are numbered. You can click on it for a larger view, or visit my facebook album to see more shots. 

The Title was blatantly stolen from the New York Times, who take someone from the obituaries and fleshes out their life in a column called "Every Life Tells a Story." I am not an obituary reader, but that title gave me the idea.

Tom 

Poem: Two Views of Abandonment

Abandonment #1

Abandonment doesn’t happen

all at once, but

in slow steps,

a backing away, where

at any moment

a return is possible, until

you turn away

and stop seeing

what was left behind.

Abandonment #2

Abandonment doesn’t happen

all at once, but

you see it, the slow steps

backing away, always

more distant, waiting

for you to reach out

and draw them near

again.

================

The picture was taken  down the road at the edge of West Pawlet. You can click on it for a large version. 

Tom 

Poem: Preparation

Preparation

The plaster buckles, separated

from the lathe underneath, anything

but perfect. Holes pock the wall

like acne scars.

It is time to paint, but

the real work is not the painting,

but the tearing out,

the filling in, building

a foundation strong

and smooth, more work

than mere brushing, but

without it the paint

is worthless. 

================

The picture looks like a piece of modern art, but it is of a basement wall, damaged by water. 

Tom 

Poem: The Arbor

The Arbor

In winter,
all the protective coloration falls
and you are exposed,
no longer coddled in your garden of green,
every wrinkle and pain
on display, bare
to wind and rain,
no longer safe,
or hidden,
you sit on the bench
and pray for spring.

=====================

The picture was taken a few years ago in Williamsburg, Va. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Dark Walls

Dark Walls

The first thing you notice
is that there are no mirrors.
There are no windows,
no

glass to let in light, only
walls, solid and dark,
no matter what color
paint

is lavished on them.

===================

The picture was taken at the Thomas Nelson House in Yorktown, Va, which is actually a bright and cheery place well worth visiting, despite my photograph. You can click on the picture for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Color

The Color

Inside these walls grey reigns,
washed by 2000 years of blood
and neglect, a place

of history, death and dark tunnels
that lead to the barred chambers
of gladiators and lions,

a place of spectacles and endings,
where the future was short lived
and the end always before you,

like a soul trapped in itself, unable
to believe what it sees past the walls,
unable to see the color and believe

it is for you, this sun drenched
pink and yellow and green, trapped
not by lions or warriors,

but something far more fierce:
the demons
of your mind.

=========================

The picture was taken at the Colosseum in Rome. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Death and Easter

We forget, when we see the fresh garden,
that resurrection begins with death,
cold and harsh,
a piecing with thorns,
love itself, shattered and broken
emptied of life,
gray and broken,
every shred of life
taken,
ripped by violence from the earth,
or neglected into brokenness.
No matter the method,
the result is the same.

Only then, emptied and torn,
are we ready
to be filled with something more,
hopeful and bright,
Not life renewed or improved,
but fresh, a new thing,
bright with new color,
fresh with new love,
a chance finally to be gilded
by the master's hand
to resurrection
as real and certain as spring.

=============

The picture is of a lamp I bought at auction for a couple of bucks, that I am just beginning to restore. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Nightfall

Nightfall

Slowly the night falls,
draining the color from the sky,
until, shortly, all light will be
no more than a memory

to cling to in the black hours
that come like clockwork.
So easy to forget the day,
to forget the bright colors

of failing day, yet this is God's gift
and reminder that night
is only a passing fancy,
a time to renew, not fret,

To look into our soul
for the spark of God
and his direction,
not into our minds

to dance like madmen
in darkness.

=================

The picture was taken in Botetourt County, Virgina. You can click on it for a larger version.

The poem was inspired by this morning's bible reading - Exodous 13:23: By day the LORD went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud to guide them on their way and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light, so that they could travel by day or night

Tom

Poem: Therapy

Therapy

You thought you were finished
when you looked down
and saw the tiny patch of truth,
the tidbit of the original spruce flooring,
rich with color and grain,
rich with the true beauty
that lay beneath 25 years
of paint.

You are sure that those that came before
thought the paint an improvement,
and for a time, perhaps, it was
bright and new, full of color
that gleamed under the morning light.

But that paint no matter how carefully put on,
wears,
becomes scratched, and all the layers
of all the years, cannot forever
hide what is real,
and you may fight it,
or choose to open yourself to it.

It is hard work either way. more paint,
to hide the truth that lies beneath,
or taking the time to strip these floors
back to their beauty,
to embrace their age and scars,
their original beauty,
and you know

that you want that beauty in your life,
want it so badly you will do the work,
endure the chaos and smell and pain and time
to have it.

=================

No, that is not abstract art in the photograph. It is instead a tiny patch of worn flooring in the living/dining/library room I have been painting. The paint is done and I was going to move the furniture in this weekend. But she who I live, suggested I do the floors too while I had the room apart and the house in chaos. I resisted it, until I saw this little patch and saw what the floors were underneath. A richly grained spruce. Beautiful stuff. So I will live in chaos a little longer. It will be worth it to truly finish the room and have that gorgeous flooring to look at each day. (and yes, like the others, you can click on it to get a larger version.)

As I thought about that, it made me think of therapy, and how it is so much the same way. You make progress. You feel like you are there, but you keep finding places of potential truth and beauty in your life, and so you push forward. No wonder it takes years. And no wonder so many people give up. But for those who persist.... such rewards!

And so the remodeling poems continue for another week or two anyway. The photographs may not be art, but I am enjoying them.

Off to church.

Tom

Poem: Therapy

Therapy

It is so much more than a new coat of paint.
You have to look hard at the room,
at the cracks in the plaster,
the color, the light,
the holes poked and never repaired
because they became nearly invisible,
part of the landscape
in the clutter of life that fills a place
over a lifetime.

You look at the foundation
to see where the shifts came,
and when and why, to prepare
the room to absorb the use,
wear and tear of the next twenty years.

You reflect on the white walls
and consider color: what hues do you want
to punctuate your days and night.
You want to be careful,
for in middle age you are more aware
how one room leads to the next
and how, as you examine everything,
your entire history of renovation,
this room will punctuate the next and the next, and.....

And so it takes you perhaps longer
than makes sense to those on the outside
who thought your room warm enough,
for you want more in your life
than a coat of paint,
you want renovation
from the plaster and lathe,
each hole patched,
each color looked at for long stretches
of time before choosing,
and two coats, not one,
of the best paint your meager budget can afford
to bring your brightness and preserve it
for a lifetime, leaving you with
the perfect palette
to live in for years and years
to come.

===============

The painting continues, and with it, new poems. Hopefully I will be moving furniture back in next weekend.

Tom

Creativity Crazies

So along comes a Hungarian report that links creativity and mental disorders to the same gene. Does this confirm the steretype of creative types being depressed skitzo?

Think again, say the bloggers at "How Things Work". They take a thoughtful look at the report, and why you can't always trust what you think you know. Good reading!

Tom

Poem: From the Outside

From the Outside

From the outside,
the house is bright,
fall flowers still light
the neatly cut flower beds
below each window.

Inside it is dark,
a place of shadows,
sparse and fearful,
gothic, empty of color.

And you can never know
until the moment
you open the door
and walk in.

==============

The picture is from outside Munich, Germany, one of Mad King Ludwig's castles in the Bavarian Alps. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: A Change in Weather

A Change in Weather

The sky is suddenly dark,
and there is wind,
harsh,
with the first cry of winter
hidden in it's bursts,
cutting and cold,
angry, dark and sad,
erasing in it's darkness
memories of summer,
and worse,
your heart
darkens with the sky,
forgetting that all weather
is fleeting.

============

My eleven year old son took this picture out of the window of my car. You can click on it to see a larger version.

Tom