L. I. T.

November 30, 2023December 22, 2023

READ BETHANY REID’S LATEST POETRY COLLECTION “THE PEAR TREE: ELEGY FOR A FARM

Poet Bethany Reid’s most recent collection, The Pear Tree: elegy for a farm, won the Sally Albiso Award with MoonPath Press because it is gorgeous: language and rhythm, botany and breath from generations of a family surviving and thriving. She weaves memory of prayer and the King James Bible ever-present along with the growing curiosity of a child who sees wonder in the world. These poems bring to life grandmas and hayseed, the harvest and also the season when seed does not grow as promised:

Even so, the table had to be set for supper.
Mother, Father, older brother, younger
brother, younger sister, you,
all heads bowed, eyes closed, your mother’s hand
on the metal tray of the highchair
to keep the baby from banging her spoon
(“The Blessing”)

Poem after poem, I am immersed in this world. And the collection is much more than a “haunting elegy” writes poet Holly J. Hughes. “It’s a powerful evocation of childhood and a vanished way of life.”

Throughout the pages, an “ordinary pear tree” stands in witness, one planted by a grandmother on homesteaded land. Listen to this music!

Common pear tree, Pyrus Commuris.
Well water, dark deep, a child’s
reflected face. Grass knotted
with bullthistle, bumblebees
burrowing into purple crows.
(“The Kingdom of Childhood)

I love the honesty of Bethany’s voice. Along with the vivid presentation of life on the land, she shows us the coming and going of family. The “Little sister / crying to be picked up” and the grandma “wrinkled. I wrap her in my arms. / I bear her up the stair.”

The poems are elegy to so many lives connected. We meet the older brother who tricks his naïve sister into believing whatever he tells her. In later poems we lose this man.

In “Failure to Thrive” the speaker convinces her parents to allow her a horse. The life-lesson is again unexpected. The ending is the now; the speaker has grown from one who hid her pain into a more courageous being:

And while waiting for her foal,
I pretended a whole future of horses,

a horse-y-husband, a stable
with red and white doors
seven or eight horse-crazy kids.

So how did all this pretending end?
With the foal, a filly, a little girl horse
that failed to thrive. I stood up

from her loss, stood alone
in the morning field, mist rising around us,
and, oh, how fierce I was, pretending.

I would no more pretend.

Let us finish off with the final poem of the collection, in its entirety:

THE BRIDLE

I saved my babysitting money to buy it.
The bit is what “The Horse & Pony Encyclopedia”

call a Pelham, and my uncle Billy
called a gag, a severe bit for my tough-mouthed

mare. Skittish, wayward girl,
reddish coat, blonde mane, cat-soft nose

beneath a wide white blaze,
four white stockings, which, my uncle said,

meant she’d turn up lame. No creature
could outdo her for sheer will.

Brandy is long buried in the past,
but her bridle hangs on a hook

near my desk. If the meek
inherit the earth, the stubborn

have their own narrow stall here,
and if a field of sorrow, another of joy.

You can listen to the author reading her poem here:

You can purchase The Pear Tree: elegy for a farm from https://bookshop.org, and from your local independent bookseller.

See Bethany read from The Pear Tree: elegy for a farm, and l read from my new book, You Can Call It Beautiful.

Continue reading “READ BETHANY REID’S LATEST POETRY COLLECTION “THE PEAR TREE: ELEGY FOR A FARM”

October 1, 2023October 1, 2023

HARVEST TIME: PLUMS, CUCUMBER & POETRY

It’s harvest season, and this year plums top the list of luscious edibles. These don’t yet grow in our backyard garden though we planted an Italian Plum tree two years back. Which reminds me to share another sort of offering which has taken years to find its flourish: You Can Call It Beautiful, a collection of poetry, debuted September 1—thanks to MoonPath Press.

Plus–we’ve enjoyed three varieties of cucumber from our backyard garden: Lemon cukes fresh like an apple and pickled with basil, and the Asian cukes are delicious in tzatziki and perfect for raita. Holding this poetry book and reading to friends in late summer, felt almost as joyful and nourishing as those cucurbits.

Like tomato and kale, zucchini and chard, these poems have grown from seed. Some happened spontaneously—without forethought or shopping first. No trek to the nursery for starts or special nutrients to feed the soil. But most grew after huge dedication to the dig. All required care and water—tender and wanting to grow into their own life.

Just last weekend, pounds of plums arrived on our front porch from a neighbor. The next bounty came from across town. She lives in Kailash Ecovillage. These acres grow apples, figs, and pears, too. Residents tend rows of vegetables they eat and sometimes sell at the market. They’ve built a tall tree house in one corner of the land, big enough to host a party. The place is amazing in urban southeast Portland. Surprises everywhere!

Another lover of good food has been sharing her joy of simmering plums into a sauce she and her husband enjoy through the winter. So, I tried it. I’m sold! It’s one of my new faves—and a terrific topper for tapioca pudding which reminds me of my grandma. It will adorn my steel cut oats as mornings grow cold. On vanilla bean ice cream, we’ll share with guests in the evening.

You Can Call It Beautiful became title of this poetry collection because so much of life can scare and scar. Trauma and tragedy, bangs, barrages, and debt can pull our attention so far from today: We forget the gift of simply breathing alive. We lose our way. We fail to connect with each other or first with ourselves. Yet those kinships can feed and sustain us.

For me, these poems, these words, the plums, cukes, and all of the dear people who share moments in person or through poetry, their recipes, song, art on the walls, the cashier at Natural Grocers–and Brent who fixed my bumper back onto my car in Port Townsend so I could drive home safely down I-5–divine life. There will always be pain and burnt berries, and still, You Can Call It beautiful. Continue reading “HARVEST TIME: PLUMS, CUCUMBER & POETRY”

June 7, 2023July 7, 2023

BREAKING THE SILENCE: LET’S TALK ABOUT SUICIDE

The need for us to talk about suicide might seem off-focus for a blog called “Live(s) Inspiring Today”. But, the topic feels important. We are losing people of all ages to loneliness and disconnection, some with mental illness but many with no diagnosis. Alongside these stories of loss, these paragraphs celebrate people who inspire with their gift-giving, their clarity, and their appreciation for life.

Spiritual teacher Eric Triebelhorn lost his brother last year. He has also lost dear friends–one when still in high school. “If anyone mentions thoughts of taking their own life, I take it seriously. I ask questions. I check back,” he says.

It’s hard to know what another person needs or wants from us, but Lama Eric offers his simple commitment: We can listen. We can share our caring, our time, and we can express our love.

Yesterday I received a text from a contributor to the Portland Food Project.

“I’ll be out of town for the next pick-up,” Sarah wrote. “But my neighbor’s husband died, and she has two boxes of food to pass along. I’ll bring them by.”

Later that day, as we carried the hefty boxes onto my front porch I asked, “Was it sudden? Had he been ill for long?”

“It wasn’t a surprise,” Sarah said. “But still it was shocking.”

The man had posted sticky-notes all over the garage so his wife would call 911 rather than enter the house and find him.

“He was depressed for the past few years—and it got worse during Covid.”

Sharing our stories

So many of us are impacted by suicide: Sarah, like me, lost a close family friend to suicide as a child. My neighbor’s father took his life when she was a toddler. A colleague lost a niece who had gone away to college seemingly on top of the world.

A friend lost her husband after a few years of marriage. She knew he had been struggling, but he hadn’t talked of ending his life. For years after his death, his mother would call to ask my friend for answers, but she had none.

I write about suicide because it is all around us. Many of us carry stories, and stories can heal when shared.

Years ago I realized a lingering fear stuck in my body: When my husband seemed down or when he didn’t communicate much, I feared one evening I would come home from work and find him dead. This fear stemmed from my childhood loss—one we never talked about. Once I was able to realize and share these feelings and their origin, the dread dissolved. We can’t know who we touch when we share our lives.

Talking about suicide can prevent it

People who are contemplating suicide often make comments and attempt to ask for help in a round-about way, says Kate Rudigier, an acupuncturist practicing in Vancouver, Washington.

“When someone knows you care and are willing to talk directly about this serious topic, they might begin to think, ‘There’s another way.’” Be sensitive, but don’t shy away from asking direct questions is her advice.

Numerous studies and research show that asking someone about suicidal thoughts or feelings won’t push them into doing something destructive.

According to Dr. Vivek H. Murthy, former U.S. Surgeon General in his book Together, the majority of people who die of suicide have no prior diagnosis of mental illness. Feelings of loneliness and isolation lead people to feel despair, and he emphasizes how connection and community can sooth and lighten the pain.

Rates of death by suicide increased approximately 36% between 2000-2021, according to The Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC).

The suicide rate among males was approximately four times higher than the rate among females, and people 85 and older have the highest risk. And suicide is the second leading cause of death for young people between 10 and 24 (after accidents and homicide).

Watch this quick video from YouTuber and host of The Psych Show, Dr. Ali Mattu which advocates for breaking the silence and breaking through the stigma around suicide. He offers suggestions for anyone at risk and for all of us who might notice a friend or family member at risk.

“There’s no one-size-fits-all approach to helping a friend who’s thinking about suicide, but you can never go wrong by showing compassion and support,” writes Crystal Raypole, a writer committed to helping decrease stigma around mental health issues, in How to Help a Suicidal Friend: 11 Tips.

Questions to ask:

According to Mayo Clinic staff

How are you coping with what’s been happening in your life?

Do you ever feel like just giving up?

Are you thinking about dying?

Have you considered hurting yourself?

Are you thinking about suicide?

Have you ever thought about suicide before, or tried to harm yourself before?

Have you thought about how or when you’d do it?

Do you have access to weapons or things that can be used as weapons to harm yourself?

Notice these warning signs

It’s important to know the warning signs and be ready to act. Besides the 24/7 Suicide Hotline 988 and the online resources Lifeline (988lifeline.org) numerous organizations now offer trainings and free counsel.

If these warning signs apply to you or someone you know, get help as soon as possible, particularly if the behavior is new or has increased recently. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, notice these signs:

Continue reading “BREAKING THE SILENCE: LET’S TALK ABOUT SUICIDE”

March 22, 2023March 23, 2023

FERMENTING WITH FRIENDS: SAUERKRAUT, KIMCHI & DOSAS

“A soul is but the last bubble of a long fermentation in the world.” George Santayana

On that sunniest and warmest Saturday yet of 2023—almost spring—Louise White and her daughter-in-law, Amie Oliver, showed up to our house with two suitcases on wheels—full of supplies. They hauled up the stairs an assortment of crocks, tall jars from the feed-store, and bags of thrice-washed and pre-chopped cabbage from the restaurant supply store. Louise had purchased pounds of ginger and a sack of green onions bigger than I’d ever seen—from H-Mart.

Over the course of the next few hours we would make sauerkraut, eat a lovely lunch of dosas, curry, and rice prepped by Louise—and then onto the kimchi-creation.

For the morning sauerkraut-making, we cheated. Those bags of pre-chopped saved us from the need to sharpen our knives just yet. The only “work” for this fermented white cabbage was to measure and massage.

Each of us had our separate bowl. We used a digital kitchen scale and weighed out the cabbage, tossed in the pre-sliced bag of carrots, a bit of radicchio, and three-plus teaspoons salt. We used our hands to squeeze and toss—until a brine filled the bottom of each bowl—and would eventually cover the kraut when jarred.

Making sauerkraut is easy: cabbage, salt, and water–though we tossed in some extras. The brine is the brew and likes about 2% salt to 98% water (a heaping teaspoon of sea salt to a cup of filtered water if ever you need to add more liquid.) The trick to fermentation is keeping the veggies submerged under the brine so mold won’t grow. I learned the hard way!

January 1, 2023January 7, 2023

POETIC TIES & HAPPY 2023

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—“

Charles Dickens, from A Tale of Two Cities, 1859

IT’S TIME TO WRITE again about poetry.

We’ve now read 33 books together—our Poetry Pals Reading Group. We began on Zoom during the early months of the Pandemic and continue coast-to-coast meeting monthly. While I’d love to sit in one room with these brilliant heart-women, it’s such a delight to visit with friends who live in New England, D.C., and near the Oregon Coast without needing to fly or drive.

Next month’s choice is Good Bones by Maggie Smith. The title poem emerged on the scene after the 2016 election and speaks of joy and sorrow and how we must offer hope to the next generation (and to ourselves) amid the hardest of times. Readers were hungry for such poetry—and “Good Bones” won many awards

See the source image Which seems an ongoing predicament: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” Dickins wrote in the 19th century. Surely these words in some form have been written or spoken forever—which leaves the human being to grapple with finding and making meaning, nonetheless.

We often expect so much. We do it with our partners, our parents and children, our friends. We are the center of our own universe and forget it’s the same for each soul that breathes. We get caught up in what we want, what we like—and how wrong someone else has been to us.

Continue reading “POETIC TIES & HAPPY 2023”

May 16, 2022January 1, 2023

HEART-DONKEY TALK

I opened my hard-covered copy of A Year With Rumi, edited by Coleman Barks, to May 16—while taking a tea-break this morning. In the final stanza the words got me Googling.

“because my heart-donkey was strong enough to take you there.”
from “The Lord of Beauty”

I easily found a Sufi story about an old man arriving to an inn after a long day with his favorite donkey and longtime companion. (Plenty of Etsy garb for sale assured me many people already celebrate this tale.)

“Welcome to our humble inn,” a young man greeted. “Let me tend your donkey.”

“But he needs a warm and comfortable place to sleep. If he doesn’t get good rest after such a long day, he will be grumpy,” said the old man.

“No problem. I’m a professional and know what to do,” the young man assured.

“But he needs barley mixed with hay,” said the old man. “And fresh water.”

“No problem,” said the youth. “I will feed him well. Do not worry.”

“The donkey is old and needs the barley first soaked in water,” said the old man.

The youth’s eyes rolled though he turned away so the older man could not see his frustration. “I’ve done this a hundred times. Trust me.”

“He loves a long stroke down his spine. It’s been a long journey,” the old man said and grinned.

“Yes—of course,” the young man replied, annoyed.

The old man gave over the care of his donkey to the younger man.

After removing the saddle and tying the donkey to a post, the young man snicked and soon sat with friends playing cards in a nearby den.

The old man entered the inn and met open arms. He ate a fine dinner and drank wine. But he could not sleep despite silk sheets. When he closed his eyes, visions of his donkey standing tied to a post, hungry and thirsty, pelted his vision. His whole body ached.

He went into the night and found his dear companion tied to a post—as he had feared.

The man knew he should have cared for his donkey himself. He doubted the youth would do as he promised yet handed over the reigns.

The story reminds me of how we can tell each other what we believe others want to hear. We can say “don’t worry” “I’ll do that”—sometimes with good intentions—but fail to follow through.

The story reminds me it’s up to me to listen—to feel—my intuition, my “gut” response. I must take care what matters most to me and can’t expect someone else to do things my way.

I like this story for the friendship. This man values his donkey’s comfort. He values the donkey as companion and as a being who deserves care—a safe and warm place to sleep, food, water, and a kind stroke over his tired back.

The younger man snickers—as if the older man is crazy for loving a donkey, for seeing this worn animal as alive and as vital as himself.

Perhaps the story touches me so deeply as I face my own sadness, wondering what to do next. So many people sleep in tents on the sidewalks of Portland, on patches of grass next to the freeway. In this wealthy country, children are born every day, every hour, and some will be well-nourished—body, mind, soul—and others will cry to be held and die of loneliness.

My friend, Dotti, gave me this book. Some years later she was visiting, and we were driving through the parking lot of Fred Meyer in the small town where I lived.

“Stop!” she said. “There’s a dog running around. He’s going to get hit.”

Her sudden words startled me. I didn’t see the dog—never did see the little runner—but I tried to reverse and help her find him again. At least, that’s what I think I did.