Try as Hard as You Can Every Moment You're Given

I got three books of poetry for my birthday this year, so I decided to share a poem from each one of them to help me get started blogging again. This poem is from a book my son gave me called The Poets Laureate Anthology, which was developed in association with the Library of Congress. My son works at the Library of Congress, and he knows I love poetry, so it was a good choice. In days to come I will pick a poem from each of the books my sister gave me.

I opened my new book at random and found the following poem by Rita Dove, who was Poet Laureate from 1993 to 1995. There is a lot of good stuff in this poem. I love the line: Don’t let a little pain stop you; try as hard as you can every minute you’re given or else sit down and shut up. I also like the idea of measuring a life in deeds.

See what you think.

This Life

My grandmother told me there’d be good days
to counter the dark ones,
with blue skies in the heart as far
as the soul could see. She said
you could measure a life in as many ways
as there were to bake a pound cake,
but you still needed real butter and eggs
for a good one—pound cake, that is,
but I knew what she meant. She was always
talking around corners like that;
she knew words carried their treasures
like a grape cluster around its own juice.
She loved words; she thought a book
was a monument to the glory of creation
and a library…well, sometimes
just trying to describe Jubilation
will get you a bit tongue, so let’s
leave it at that. But my grandmother
was nobody’s fool, and she’d tell anybody
smart enough to listen. Don’t let a little pain
stop you; try as hard as you can
every minute you’re given or else
sit down and shut up—though in her opinion,
keeping quiet in noisy times was a sin
against everything God and democracy
intended us for. I know she’d like
where I’m standing right now. She’d say
a man who could measure his life in deeds
was larger inside than the vessel that carried him;
she’d say he was a cluster of grapes.
My grandmother was only four feet ten
but when she entered a room, even the books
came to attention. Giants come in all sizes:
Sometimes a moment is a monument;
sometimes an institution breathes—
like a library. Like this halcyon day.

Rita Dove

Possibilities

I did strength training at the gym yesterday. At the end of my session, the Fit Linx system said I'd lifted 12, 650 pounds. How did I do that? If you put a box weighing 12, 650 pounds on the ground in front of me there is no way I could lift it.

On the chest press, I lift 20 pounds at a time. On the leg press I lift 95 pounds. I do 10 machines, 2 sets on each machine, 10 to 15 repetitions in each set. So I lifted that weight 20 to 95 pounds at a time. In other words, I take it one step at a time and it adds up. That is one of the most important things I've learned at Spark People - take it one step at a time. Don't try to lose 10 pounds in a week, be happy if you lose one. Don't start by running a marathon, aim for 10 minutes of walking a day. Start small and build on those small steps.

Do what's possible, and do it consistently, and you'll be amazed what you can accomplish.

Here's a sweet little poem by Emily Dickinson about possibilities:

I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of Eye –
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –


Emily Dickinson

Autumn Fires

Does anyone still burn leaves in the fall?

When I was a kid my Dad raked leaves into bushel baskets (remember those?) and piled them at the end of the driveway, away from the house and the garage. Then he set fire to them and carefully tended them until they were burned to ashes.

All this became illegal at some point because of the pollution, but I remember the whole process fondly. Burning leaves smelled wonderful in the crisp autumn air. Us kids danced around in the driveway just from the excitement.

Here is a great little poem From A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson.

If you have kids, read this to them and explain how people used to set fires in the fall.

Autumn Fires

In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!
Something great in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!

Soft October Night

I haven't been blogging much recently. I've been busy with work and other things, staying the course and generally enjoying life. But I wanted to share the following bit of poetry before October is over. It's from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot. This has been a favorite poem of mine since I was in my teens. I could write pages about this poem, and some day I might, but today I'm just going to share one little image from it. The poem is available on the internet if you want to read it for yourself.


"The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. "


From "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot

I hope you all are enjoying those "soft October nights".

A Peaceful Start to My Evening

I felt really good in my yoga class tonight. My mind felt still for a change, and I didn't think about work even once.

Then on the way home, I saw the sun set - just ribbons of color between the trees and under the clouds - and decided to share the following Emily Dickinson poem.



I’ll tell you how the sun rose,--
A ribbon at a time
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
The I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”

But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while

Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.

Emily Dickinson

Moon

The moon was full last night and it made me think of a poem by Billy Collins.
I love this poem because it reminds me to view the universe with the delight of a small child.

Moon

The moon is full tonight
an illustration for sheet music,
an image in Matthew Arnold
glimmering on the English Channel,
or a ghost over a smoldering battlefield
in one of the history plays.

It’s as full as it was
in that poem by Coleridge
where he carries his year-old son
into the orchard behind the cottage
and turns the baby’s face to the sky
to see for the first time
the earth’s bright companion,
something amazing to make his crying seem small.

And if you wanted to follow this example,
tonight would be the night
to carry some tiny creature outside
and introduce him to the moon.

And if your house has no child,
you can always gather into your arms
the sleeping infant of yourself,
as I have done tonight,
and carry him outdoors,
all limp in his tattered blanket,
making sure to steady his lolling head
with the palm of your hand.

And while the wind ruffles the pear trees
in the corner of the orchard
and dark roses wave against a stone wall,
you can turn him on your shoulder
and walk in circles on the lawn
drunk with the light.
You can lift him up into the sky,
your eyes nearly as wide as his,
as the moon climbs high into the night.

Billy Collins


Billy Collins is one of my favorite poets. He is a former Poet Laureate of the United States and edits a poetry site for the Library of Congress. You can find it at
www.loc.gov/poetry/180/

The website is designed to introduce high school students to poetry. I’ve found a lot of good poems at Poetry 180.

Gimme Some Fruit

I have really grown to like fruit this past spring and summer. I used to eat the occasional banana. Sometimes I drank orange juice or spooned in some applesauce. Now I eat 3 or 4 servings of fruit a day. I love peaches and blueberries on top of cereal or waffles for breakfast. I love cantaloupe melon for dinner as an appetizer. I snack on strawberries with yogurt. This fall I’ll be looking for fresh apples, pears and citrus.

Fruit gives you vitamins, minerals, fiber and sweetness. Buy yourself some fresh fruit at a farmers’ market and enjoy!


Here’s a fun poem by contemporary American poet Kevin Young.

Blues

Gimme some fruit
Gimme some fruit
Fresh salted melon
maybe some mango too

You had me eating pork ribs
You had me eatin ham
You had me so I was feedin
straight out your hand

Gimme some fruit baby
Gimme some fru-uit
Something red
& juicy I can sink
these teeths into

You had me eatin peas Lord
You had me eatin spam
(You had me so turned round)
I never dreamt all you said
came straight out a can

Gimme some fruit
Gimme some fru-uit
Gimme something strong girl
to clear my system of you

You served me up
like chicken
You deviled me like ham
Alls the while I never knew
you had another man

Gimme some fruit girl
Gimme some tomato too
What else is a poor
carnivore like me
without you supposed to do

Kevin Young


Here is a link to Kevin Young’s website. I have a book of his poetry and I love it.

http://www.kevinyoungpoetry.com/home.html

A Poem for Labor Day

My father always said God gave us work to keep us out of trouble. I think he was right.

All of us work.
Some of us herd cows.
Some of us raise horses.
Some of us are librarians, some teachers.
Some of us are medical providers.
Some of us are website designers.
Some of us are tax collectors.
Some of us work taking care of small children, or elderly parents.
Some of us mow lawns or plant flowers.
Most of us clean house, do laundry and cook meals.

It’s all work, and something to celebrate. So let’s all celebrate work this Labor Day, and hope it keeps us out of trouble.


The Expulsion

By Katha Pollitt

Adam was happy -- now he had someone to blame
for everything: shipwrecks, Troy,
the gray face in the mirror.

Eve was happy -- now he would always need her.
She walked on boldly, swaying her beautiful hips.

The serpent admired his emerald coat,
the Angel burst into flames
(he'd never approved of them, and he was right).

Even God was secretly pleased: Let
History begin!

The dog had no regrets, trotting by Adam's side
self-importantly, glad to be rid

of the lion, the toad, the basilisk, the white-footed mouse,
who were also happy and forgot their names immediately.

Only the Tree of Knowledge stood forlorn,
its small hard bitter crab apples

glinting high up, in a twilight of black leaves.
How pleasant it had been, how unexpected

to have been, however briefly,
the center of attention.

Katha Pollitt (born October 14, 1949) is an American feminist poet, essayist and critic.

If the Locomotive of the Lord Runs Us Down

Today I am sharing an amazing poem I discovered a couple of years ago. It was written by a twentieth century American poet, Jack Gilbert. I was first attracted to this poem by the scene at the end of standing in a boat in a dark harbor, listening to the sound of oars. Being on the water at night is so beautiful and peaceful.

The poet seems to be saying that in spite of all the sorrow and suffering in the world, there is also beauty and laughter, and we should enjoy them.

See what you think.

A Brief for the Defense
Jack Gilbert

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music, despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

Sex, Drugs and Rock 'N Roll

I recently joined a Spark Team (on my weight loss website) called "Old Hippies Losin' It." I love the name, and having survived the 60's and 70's, I felt qualified.

I wore bell-bottomed pants and love beads.

Jane Fonda spoke at my University in protest of the Viet Nam War.

I attended a Janis Joplin concert.

So, in honor of my new team I am sharing the following poem by Denise Duhamel. She writes a lot of cool poetry.

Hippie Barbie

Barbie couldn't grasp the concept
of free love. After all, she was born
into the world of capitalism
where nothing is free. And all she had
to choose from was a blond or dark-haired Ken
who looked exactly like Midge's boyfriend Alan.
Ken wouldn't even get bell-bottoms
or his first psychedelic pantsuit
until it was way too late, sometime in the mid-seventies.
And then, whenever Barbie tried to kiss him
his peel-off lamb-chop sideburns loosened
and stuck to her cheeks. There were no black male dolls yet
so she guessed a mixed-race love-child
was out of the question. Barbie walked her poodle
past the groovy chicks who showed their bellybuttons
and demonstrated against the war. She couldn't
make a peace sign with her stuck-together fingers.
She felt a little like Sandra Dee at a Janis Joplin concert.

Denise Duhamel

Do You Mind?

I had yoga class again on Tuesday. Yogi Clare couldn't be there, but we had a lovely Asian lady named JK to lead us. I am beginning to get just a glimmer of insight into what yoga may be about. Those of you who do yoga regularly can let me know if I'm on the right track.

Yoga is not just about twisting your body into weird shapes. It is more about being mindful of your body and movement, even the movement of your breath. We spent several minutes lying on the floor focusing on our breathing, not trying to breath in any particular way at first, but just being mindful of how we were breathing. We got up slowly. In fact, all our movements were slow and deliberate. It seemed like the movement from one pose to another was as important as the pose itself. The journey was as important as the destination. I found it all very appealing.

On Thursday I went to my weight lifting class and again the coach was talking about being mindful of our bodies and how we were moving. We are not just to toss weights around, we are to lift slowly and return slowly with a focus on form. We had fun, too, bouncing around on Stability Balls, being mindful of our balance.

It's odd that I heard the word "mindful" in both classes. Or maybe not so odd. Spark People teaches us to practice mindful eating. Now I am learning mindful movement.

My poem to share today is one I've loved since I was a child. It seems particularly appropriate for summer.

by Edna Casler Joll

Every child should know a hill,
And the clean joy of running down its long slope
With the wind in his hair.
He should know a tree --
The comfort of its cool lap of shade,
And the supple strength of its arms
Balancing him between earth and sky
So he is a creature of both.
He should know bits of singing water
The strange mysteries of its depths,
And the long sweet grasses that border it.
Every child should know some scrap
Of uninterrupted sky, to shout against;
And have one star, dependable and bright.
For wishing on.

Yoga Class

I went to my first yoga class this week, and thought I would share it with you all.

Our instructor is Yogi Clare, who looks like a little round Buddha. She has a round knot of gray hair on top of her head, round cheeks, and a round belly. I was chastised early on for talking too loudly to my neighbor. Apparently one is supposed to whisper during yoga, or better yet be calmly silent. Asking me to be silent is like asking me to touch my toes, but with practice I hope to be able to do both. If Yogi Clare can sit on the floor with her legs out straight and lean forward to grab her own feet, there is no reason why I can't get there, too.

We did some very simple stretching and poses. I am so not limber, and my balance isn't so great, either. Moving slowly and stretching gently is just what I need. Yogi Clare is quite encouraging and takes into account your current physical abilities. The class is called "gentle yoga" and is designed for those who may have physical limitations. One class member has MS, one has artificial knees, one has arthritis, and one is almost blind. I felt right at home.

I've been trying to do some of the moves at home. I know this is going to take practice. Once a week in class won't be enough for me to gain the strength and stability I want.

If you're considering yoga, but are afraid you're too old, too stiff or too type A, I say give it a try. You are not competing against anyone but yourself in yoga and you can move at your own pace.

Just remember to whisper.


Here is a little poem by Dorothy Parker that I love:

Ladies

The ladies men admire, I've heard,
Would shudder at a wicked word.
Their candle gives a single light;
They'd rather stay at home at night.
They do not keep awake till three,
Nor read erotic poetry.
They never sanction the impure,
Nor recognize an overture.
They shrink from powders and from paints...

So far, I've had no complaints.

I grew up in Iowa, and they are the pork capital of the country. That’s what they do with all that corn – feed it to the hogs. My father is German, and the Germans must eat a lot of pork, too, because my father loves it. Pickled pig’s feet were always a favorite. All kinds of sausage, pork chops, ham and bacon showed up on the menu at home.

I bought fresh green beans at the farmer’s market yesterday and the first thing I thought of doing with them was to make my father’s green beans and bacon.

Dad started with about a half pound of bacon ends. (These are the scraps left over after they put the neat little slices into the Oscar Mayer package.)(I was married before I knew bacon came in slices.) My Dad cooked the bacon in a big skillet until not quite crisp, and poured off some of the fat into the jar on the stove. (This jar of pork fat was kept and used to season other vegetables and to fry eggs.) A chopped onion or two was thrown into the hot bacon/fat mixture in the skillet, followed by a bunch of cooked green beans, a little salt and a lot of black pepper. The whole mess was cooked down until the onions were browned and the green beans were almost falling apart. I’ll tell you, that is some good eating. Now we all know that pork fat is not a health food, but don’t tell that to my 96 year old Dad.

I decided to modify my Dad’s recipe a little to make it a tad healthier for me. I cooked two slices of all natural, no nitrates, no antibiotics, smoked bacon. Once the bacon was crisp, I poured out the fat and cleaned the pan. I used a tablespoon of olive oil to cook down an onion and a red bell pepper. The bell pepper is my own addition. I like them and they’re colorful. While they were cooking slowly, I cut my green beans into a pot of boiling water and after 20 minutes used a skimmer to add the green beans to the onion & pepper. I tossed in some minced garlic, too, just because, and ground in a lot of black pepper. I can’t remember whether my Dad put garlic in his beans or not, but I don’t think he’d mind. At this point I added back a tablespoon of the bacon fat and the bacon, chopped up small. Then I cooked and stirred until the beans were totally soft and coated with the bacon fat. You can’t rush these green beans. Just be sure to keep the flame low under the pan so they don’t burn. I’m not going to pretend this is diet food, but I did the recipe calculator and for ½ a cup it’s only 112 calories and 7 grams of fat.

My husband won’t eat them. He doesn’t like green beans. I had to put the leftovers in the refrigerator as soon as I’d measured out my serving so I didn’t eat the whole pan full myself. I can enjoy them all week.

Here is a poem about husbands and food. It’s by Leo Dangel.

After Forty Years of Marriage, She Tries
a New Recipe for Hamburger Hot Dish


“How did you like it?” she asked.

“It’s all right,” he said.

“This is the third time I cooked
it this way. Why can’t you
ever say if you like something?”

“Well if I didn’t like it. I
wouldn’t eat it,” he said.

“You never can say anything
I cook tastes good.”

“I don’t know why all the time
you think I have to say it’s good.
I eat it, don’t I?”

“I don’t think you have to say
all the time it’s good, but once
in a while you could say
you like it.”

“It’s all right,” he said.

For more poems by Leo Dangel, check out the Writer's Almanac, one of my favorite sources for poetry.

writersalmanac.publicrad
io.org/author.php?auth_id=
1577

There's No Crying in Baseball

One of my favorite movies is a film called “A League of Their Own”. Madonna was in it, and Rosie O’Donnell. Tom Hanks played the alcoholic coach of a girl’s baseball team. The most famous line in the movie is “There’s no crying in baseball” but I liked another line better.

One of Hanks’ best players is quitting the team. She tells him, “It just got too hard”, and he tells her off, saying something like, “Of course it’s hard. If it were easy, everyone would do it. That’s why it’s good. It’s the hard that makes it good.”

It’s the hard that makes it good.

Many of the best things in life require effort – graduating from school, having a baby, even, sometimes, staying married – but the coach said more than that. He didn’t just say good things take effort, he said, “It’s the hard that makes it good.”

Among the best experiences in my life was learning to scuba dive when we lived in Bermuda.

I’m a good swimmer, but the dive course was hard. As part of the final test we each had to go to the bottom in about 15 feet of water, take off all our scuba gear – mask, fins, tank, weight belt – go to the surface, take a couple of deep breaths, then go back down to the bottom and put all the gear on again.

Getting the gear off is fairly easy. The first challenge for me was getting back down to the bottom. The laws of physics say that fat floats, and I am a champion floater. I normally wore 10 pounds of lead weight around my waist just to get my butt under water. Without the weight belt, I really had to struggle to get to the bottom.

The next challenge was getting my mask on again. When you breathe air through a regulator under water you are normally wearing a mask over your eyes and nose. This creates a little pocket of air over your face that makes it a whole lot more comfortable to breathe. When I got back to my gear, I grabbed my weight belt, and reached for my regulator to get more air. At this point my lungs were screaming “breathe” but my brain was screaming “don’t breathe you fool, you’re under water, you’ll suck water up your nose”. I had to pinch my nose shut in order to breathe through my mouth. This left me only one hand to put my mask on. Once the mask was on, I had to clear the water out of it by pressing it against my forehead and exhaling through my nose until the air replaced the water.

I passed the test on the first try, thank goodness. It was hard, but it was good. I got my license to scuba dive and I spent many enjoyable hours exploring the reefs and ship wrecks around Bermuda. The best part of every dive was getting back in the boat with a deep feeling of accomplishment. I was a diver – and I lived to tell about it.

Losing weight isn’t easy either. It’s not easy to come home from a long day at work and get on the treadmill for 40 minutes, but walking off the stresses of the day is good. It’s not easy to watch other people in a restaurant order anything they want while I’m mentally counting calories and portion sizes, but it’s good to leave the restaurant feeling satisfied, but not stuffed, and it’s good to have a bag of leftovers to make a lunch for the next day, instead of having heartburn.

So next time you tell yourself you’re going to quit because it’s “just too hard” to lose weight, or get strong, or stay healthy, I want you to hear Tom Hanks telling you “It’s the hard that makes it good” and I want you to stay on the team.

I always end with a poem, but it’s going to be a short one today because the blog was so long.

By Edna St Vincent Millay:

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light.

A Poem for Memorial Day

by Edward Arlington Robinson

The Dark Hills

Dark hills at evening in the west,
Where sunset hovers like a sound
Of golden horns that sang to rest
Old bones of warriors under ground.
For now from all the bannered ways
Where flash the legions of the sun,
You fade—as if the last of days
Were fading, and all wars were done.

Circuit Training With Ashton Kutcher

Today I went to the County Recreation Fitness Center to learn to use the strength training machines. These Recreation Centers are wonderful places. The one closest to my home is only 3 miles away, and has an Olympic sized pool, classrooms, racquet ball courts, and a fitness room full of treadmills, stair climbers, elliptical machines, and a bunch of intimidating weight machines.

After buying a fitness pass I was able to make an appointment with a trainer (at no charge) to walk me through using the machines safely and effectively. My appointment was this morning with Brien, who turned out to be a really sweet young man who looked like an 18 year old Ashton Kutcher, with the puppy-dog eyes and the floppy hair. He set up a circuit training schedule for me, and helped me get the right settings and weight levels. He stood by with advice while I worked through my circuit for the first time. The machines are really pretty cool. They keep track of your repetitions and sets, remind you to slow down if you are going too fast, and give you a report at the end to show what you’ve accomplished. I just totally enjoyed myself. I’m not too strong, yet, but I know that will improve. I plan to go back on Thursday to do it all again.

I didn’t really have a poem for strength training, so I am sharing a poem titled “The Courage of Women” by Jane Glazer, a poet born in Iowa who now lives and writes in Oregon.

The Courage of Women

I think of the courage of women,
how they endure,
how they walk miles to carry back water,
silence their pain, apportion
what’s left of the rice.
Keepers of eggs without shells,
they know how fragile the days are,
how hope can spill into the ground.

Jane Glazer

Thump Thump......Thump Thump

I saw the doctor yesterday and had good news on several fronts.

My leg is much better. Keeping it elevated and wearing the compression stockings for a few days did the trick.

I think that leg is just going to swell sometimes, weight loss or not, and the swelling can lead to cellulitis. When I was in high school I injured that ankle and it's not been quite right since. My mother was giving me a ride to the bus stop, and we were arguing. (I don't remember what about, but I was a high school girl so I frequently argued with my mother.) My mom dropped me off behind the city bus I needed to catch. I was running for the door when I slipped on the ice and went down. The bus driver didn't see me, and he started the bus and ran over my right foot and ankle. Because of the angle, I scraped a lot of flesh off that ankle, but oddly enough I didn't break any bones. So that ankle has been scarred and prone to swelling most of my life. (Now that I've broken the other ankle, my ankles match again.)

The doctor said I could wear the compression stockings for work when I sit at my desk most of the day, but probably won't need them the rest of the time. So that was good news.

The 24 hours heart monitor test showed that I have occasional skipped heart beats, but no other problems. My pulse varied from 50 (sleeping) to 132 (treadmill) and that is within normal range. I had no episodes of heart beats more than 2.5 seconds apart, no sudden rapid heartbeats or abnormally slow heartbeats. There were no episodes of arrhythmia. My thyroid tests were normal, too, so that is not causing the problem. The doctor thinks the skipped beats are caused by stress, and he's probably right. I've suffered on and off from anxiety attacks for years, and they usually start with a sudden thumping in my chest. The doctor said if the thumping continues to bother me he can prescribe medication, but he wants to just watch the situation for now. So my heart continues to thump, but it's not dangerous, and that's good news.

Overall my blood work was excellent. My fasting blood sugar was 86. It hasn't been that low in years. The doctor decreased my dosage of Metformin from 1500 mg/ day to 1000 mg/day and that's good news.

I've been with my doctor for 25 years and I love him. He's very careful. He answers all my questions. He takes me seriously, but he doesn't over-react. There is a serenity about him that is just what I need.

Serenity is something I need more of in my life, or maybe just in my personality. I'm hoping my yoga class this summer will help with that.

The following poem is titled "The Peace of Wild Things" and I love the serenity it describes.

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

It's Not Supposed to Be That Way

About a year ago I got an infection in my right leg, over the shin. The doctor called it cellulitis, and treated it with antibiotics. It went away, but came back again, more than once. My doctor sent me to a vascular specialist who said the veins in my right leg were insufficient and that I needed to wear compression stockings and elevate the foot of my bed on blocks to keep my legs above my heart at night. I asked him how long I needed to do that and he said, “Until you’ve lost 50 pounds.” Well, I’ve lost 50 pounds, or really close to it, and I quit wearing the stocking about 6 weeks ago, although I still have the blocks tilting the bed. And guess what – the infection in my right leg is back. It’s not supposed to be that way.

I saw the doctor today, to show him my leg, and to find out why I am suffering from heart palpitations. Sometimes it just feels like something is kicking me from inside my chest. They come in bunches at times and just drive me crazy. (I keep waiting for the Alien to burst out of my chest.) The doctor could feel one when he took my pulse, and described it as a “skipped heart beat”. He did an EKG and it was fine, so he hooked me up to a portable heart monitor that I am wearing for 24 hours to see how often I have this problem. He didn’t seem too concerned. Apparently a lot of people get this and it’s no big deal. He said he could treat it with beta blockers if it really bothered me. Meanwhile, he said to go back to the stockings, keep my leg elevated as much as possible, and try to reduce the stress in my life, since stress is a primary cause of “skipped heart beats”.

I did 2 miles on the treadmill this afternoon. I figured I would test the heart monitor, but I felt fine. Now that I’m back relaxing in my chair, my heart is kicking up again. It’s not supposed to be that way.

OK body, I have a message for you: I lost 50 pounds. I eat healthy foods and I exercise regularly. You have to do your part here. You’re supposed to function properly when I treat you well.

Here’s a funny little poem by Dorothy Parker. Maybe she had the right idea.

Observation

If I don't drive around the park,
I'm pretty sure to make my mark.
If I'm in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again.
If I abstain from fun and such,
I'll probably amount to much;
But I shall stay the way I am,
Because I do not give a damn.

Small Things

Have any of you read the series of books about The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith? If you haven't, you should, because they are really lovely stories, and there is a lot of wisdom in them. I think it was HBO that made them into a television series. My kids got it for me for Christmas because I'd read and loved the books, and the series was very well done.

I copied a quote from one of the books and I'm including it here because I found it inspirational. I love the idea that small acts of kindness make a difference in the world. It also fits in with the Spark philosophy that small steps can change your life.

We seem to read or hear about one tragedy after another these days, from earthquakes to oil spills to terrorist bombers, and there isn't a lot we can do about any of them. But we can be responsible for our own behavior. We can change our lives one act at a time, and we can make a difference in the world.

From "The Good Husband of Zebra Drive"

"The world, Mma Ramotswe believed, was composed of big things and small things. The big things were written large, and one could not but be aware of them –wars, oppression, the familiar theft by the rich and the strong of those simple things that the poor needed, those scraps which would make their life more bearable; this happened, and could make even the reading of a newspaper an exercise in sorrow. There were all those unkindnesses, palpable, daily, so easily avoidable; but one could not think just of those, thought Mma Ramotswe, or one would spend one’s time in tears—and the unkindnesses would continue. So the small things came into their own: small acts of helping others, if one could; small ways of making one’s own life better: acts of love, acts of tea, acts of laughter. Clever people might laugh at such simplicity, but, she asked herself, what was their own solution?"

-- From Book 8 of the "No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency" series by Alexander McCall Smith.

I don't have a link to the rest of the book. They are available at the library, or book stores, or by ordering on line.

Being Boring

I wanted to blog today because it's been more than a week since I had anything to say, but I still don't have anything in particular to talk about. I had a rough week at work, but I can't really talk about it. I'm sticking to my food tracking and exercise routine. I need to up my exercise, but I'm not quite ready. I bought new jeans in a size 12, and that was kind of exciting.

Then I found the perfect poem for the way I feel today:

Wendy Cope
Being Boring

“May you live in interesting times.”
--Chinese curse

If you ask me “What’s new?”, I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it’s better today.
I’m content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is.
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.

There was drama enough in my turbulent past;
Tears and passion – I’ve used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last,
If nothing much happens, I’m thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you’re after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.

Let Nothing Disturb Thee

I didn't post my weight last week because I hadn't lost anything. No gain, just no loss. So yesterday morning I woke up feeling, well, thinner, and decided to weigh myself. I stepped on the scale and "Yikes" I'd gained 5 pounds. It couldn't be. I was meeting my calorie goals. I was minimizing the off track eating. I was sticking to my exercise routine. I went to the bathroom, took a shower, and went back to the scale wearing nothing at all. The scale now said I'd gained 6 pounds! Have you ever seen a stark naked fat woman hyper-ventilating? Well that was me.

"Ok," I said to my self, "Slow down. What would your Spark friends say?"

Maybe I lost inches and not pounds. I grabbed the tape measure and found my waist was an inch smaller. That's progress. My clothes felt fine. My wedding ring was still lose. I decided to focus on that and not the scale.

As soon as I got home from work yesterday evening I asked my husband, "Do you think the scale weighed heavy this morning?" (He weighs every day.) "Not really," he answers, but he goes to check. "Oh yeah, the battery is low," he says, "I'll change it."

I was afraid to get on the scale again last night, but this morning I weighed a pound and a half less than last week. Whew!

So next time you can't believe your digital scale, check the battery before you panic.

Here's a little poem that seems to fit. It was written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Let nothing disturb thee,
Nothing affright thee;
All things are passing;
God never changeth;
Patient endurance
Attaineth to all things;
Who God possesseth
In nothing is wanting;
Alone God sufficeth.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

April Rain

I read somewhere that a writer should never start a novel or short story with the weather, but sometimes the weather is so absolutely perfect you can't start with anything else.

I was going to do the treadmill today, but after going outside I decided to enjoy the gorgeous spring sunshine by working in the yard. An hour of trimming, weeding and raking left me sweaty, but feeling great. I had almost given up yard work the last couple of summers because I just didn't have the energy for it. Now, after 6 months of Spark People, and 40 pounds lost, I can enjoy yard work again.

And, I was wearing my size 14 jeans and cute ocean blue polo shirt from LL Bean that I bought at the mall yesterday. Life is indeed good.

The following poem is by Langston Hughes, who is a favorite poet of mine. I enjoy this poem because it sounds almost like a benediction to me.

April Rain Song

Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night—

And I love the rain.

Langston Hughes

Cherry Trees

The cherry trees are blooming and spring is finally here for real. Life is too short not to get outside and enjoy the spring flowers.

The following poem is one I've enjoyed since I was a child.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.


A. E. Housman

Shoes

When I was a kid, I never had more than two pairs of shoes at a time. One pair was patent leather Mary Jane's that I wore to church. They were always bought at least a size too big so that I wouldn't outgrow them too soon. My other shoes were grey or brown lace up oxfords, really ugly, but practical. They were bought a half size too big, and I wore them every where but church, winter and summer. My mother did not believe in sneakers or sandals because they didn't give the feet enough support. This was a long time ago, before Nike. It was OK to go barefoot, though, and mostly we did in the summer.

I so much wanted a pair of red flats, but my mother wouldn't get them for me. Maybe that's why I love shoes so much now. (I love shoes almost as much as chocolate.)

Losing weight has actually made my feet smaller. I no longer wear wide shoes, so my options are greatly expanded. I am donating my wide shoes to charity and buying cute little flats in more than one color. I still don't feel comfortable in heels. Maybe 20 pounds from now. But I'm loving my cute little flats and my feet don't swell over the edges any more. I bought a lovely pair this weekend at Nordstrums.

I found this really cute poem about shoes. I couldn't find out much about the poet, but apparently the poem has been around for a long time.

Frida Wolfe
Choosing Shoes

New shoes, new shoes,
Red and pink and blue shoes.
Tell me what would YOU choose
If they'd let us buy?

Buckle shoes, bow shoes,
Pretty pointy-toe shoes,
Strappy, cappy low shoes;
Let's have some to try.

Bright shoes, white shoes,
Dandy dance-by-night shoes,
Perhaps-a-little-tight shoes;
Like some? So would I.

BUT Flat shoes, fat shoes,
Stump-along-like-that-shoes,
Wipe-them-on-the-mat shoes
O that's the sort they'll buy.

Dance Like a Wave of the Sea

Here is a poem for St. Patrick's Day by William Butler Yeats. This poem just makes me happy. I hope it does the same for you.

THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY

When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Mocharabuiee.

I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.

When we come at the end of time
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;

For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance:

And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney!"
And dance like a wave of the sea.

William Butler Yeats

So what do I eat now?

I have three separate food issues that complicate my diet.

First, I am gluten intolerant. This means that I cannot eat anything containing wheat, rye, oats or barley. “Modified food starch” is out. So is malt, usually made from barley. Oats are out, not because oats contain gluten, but because they are so often processed in plants that also process wheat, so are contaminated with gluten. I can’t eat bread, pancakes, donuts, bagels, pasta, or any number of other tasty foods.

Second, I am a diabetic. A kind nutritionist helped me develop a diabetic diet shortly after my diagnosis. I need to eat three meals and three snacks a day to balance my food intake and keep my blood sugar stable. I need to eat a little protein and fat, as well as carbohydrates at each meal, and eat a protein and carbohydrate at each snack.

Third, I am trying to lose weight. Spark People has set ranges for me to follow for calories, fats, proteins, and carbohydrates. I’m trying to eat more fiber and more fruits and vegetables and less saturated fat.

All of these issues come into play when I am deciding what and when to eat. I have a routine for home, eating gluten free products from the grocery store, and taking my lunch into work whenever possible.

When I travel, it’s a challenge.

On my recent trip to San Diego, I stayed in a huge hotel, with about 700 co-workers. The hotel provided coffee and pastries for us every morning before the planned classes and meetings started. Of course I can’t eat pastries. They all contain gluten, so that was not an option for breakfast. The breakfast buffet at the hotel was huge and contained a variety of foods, some of which I could eat in moderation. Unfortunately, it cost $24 a day, and that’s a lot even for someone getting per diem. After one morning at the breakfast buffet, spending $24 for a scrambled egg, a glass of orange juice and a slice of melon, the next morning I went by the coffee shop to see what I could find as an alternative. They offered more pastries, muffins, bagels, etc, all off limits. Then I spotted the cold cereals. The only one that seemed almost gluten free was Frosted Flakes. The box listed “malt” pretty far down on the list of ingredients, so I went with it. I wasn’t happy about the sugar & high fructose corn syrup (just another word for sugar). Any product containing 23 grams of sugar can’t be healthy, but with skim milk it made breakfast. I had some nuts with me for protein and fat, so I was OK. The Dannon “fruit on the bottom” yogurt contained 24 grams of sugar!

We went out for lunch every day and I did my best to stick to lean proteins and fresh salads and vegetables. One day I ate 10 french fries because I needed some carbohydrates with my lunch and the fries were the only thing available.

In the afternoon the hotel again provided snacks, usually cookies or brownies that I couldn’t eat. One afternoon they gave us rice crispy treats. I was so excited. I can eat rice and marshmallow, so I helped myself to one. Yes, there is malt in rice crispies, and way too much sugar, but I couldn’t say no. I went to the coffee shop for a latte to have with it and pretended the skim milk was a protein serving.

Dinner was a problem, too. The first night a group of us walked to a local grocery store where I bought a cooked chicken thigh, some baby carrots, and bananas. Not a bad choice. And that gave me carrots and bananas in my room for vegetables/fruits/carbohydrate
s on other days. On the remaining nights I had room service (horribly expensive and not that good), a restaurant meal (again expensive, but at least good), and a turkey and cheese sandwich from a deli (I threw out the bread and ate it with carrots and a banana).

I don’t know what I would do if I had to travel a lot.

Does anyone have any good strategies for eating on a trip and sticking to my diet guidelines? My job is sending me back to California in August for another one of these conferences, and I want to be ready.

I am sharing the following poem by Billy Collins, one of my favorite poets. It seems appropriate for someone who is very much afraid to fly.

Passengers

At the gate, I sit in a row of blue seats
with the possible company of my death,
this sprawling miscellany of people—
carry-on bags and paperbacks—

that could be gathered in a flash
into a bank of pilgrims on the last open road.
Not that I think
if our plane crumpled into a mountain

we would all ascend together,
holding hands like a ring of skydivers,
into a sudden gasp of brightness,
or that there would be some common place

for us to reunite to jubilize the moment,
some spaceless, pillarless Greece
where we could, at the count of three,
toss our ashes into the sunny air.

It’s just that the way that man has his briefcase
so carefully arranged,
the way that girl is cooling her tea,
and the flow of the comb that woman

passes through her daughter’s hair…
and when you consider the altitude,
the secret parts of the engines,
and all the hard water and the deep canyons below…

well, I just think it would be good if one of us
maybe stood up and said a few words,
or, so as not to involve the police,
at least quietly wrote something down.

Billy Collins is a former poet lauriate of the US. You can find a lot of good poems on the website Poetry 180, edited by Billy Collins, and owned by the Library of Congress. You should be able to follow the link below to Poetry 180.

bit.ly/y89dU

Happy Numbers

I had a very happy visit at the doctor’s office this morning, reviewing my latest lab results.

Glucose: 116, down from 151 a year ago
A1c: 5.8, down from 7.7
My diabetes is much more controlled.

SGOT: 26, down from 66
SGTP: 25, down from 60
My fatty liver disease is gone.

Total cholesterol: 131, down from 180
LDL: 66, down from 102
HDL: 42, down from 46 (this is the good stuff) The doctor says heredity has a lot to do with this number.
Triglycerides: 115, down from 160
Total cholesterol/HDL ratio 3.1, down from 3.9
My arteries thank me.

The doctor wants to see me again in June. If my numbers stay down, he will wean me off some of my medications. I’m hoping the numbers will be even better in 3 months as I should have lost another 15 pounds by then.

I love my doctor. He never, ever, got ugly about my weight. He seemed to recognize that when the time was right I would do something about it. Meanwhile, he has kept me in reasonable health through medication, and he was as happy as I was about my weight loss. He wrote down the name sparkpeople.com, and so did his assistant.

I love my family, too, because they all love me no matter what I weigh, and they support my efforts without ever saying “it’s about time.”

I love numbers, too. In fact, I was a math major in college many years ago. Here is a wonderful poem about numbers by Mary Cornish

Numbers

I like the generosity of numbers.
The way, for example,
they are willing to count
anything or anyone:
two pickles, one door to the room,
eight dancers dressed as swans.

I like the domesticity of addition—
add two cups of milk and stir—
the sense of plenty: six plums
on the ground, three more
falling from the tree.

And the multiplication’s school
of fish times fish,
whose silver bodies breed
beneath the shadow
of a boat.

Even subtraction is never loss,
just addition somewhere else:
five sparrow take away two,
the two in someone else’s
garden now.

There’s an amplitude to long division,
as it opens Chinese take-out
box by paper box,
inside every folded cookie
a new fortune.

And I never fail to be surprised
by the gift of an odd remainder,
footloose at the end:
forty-seven divided by eleven equals four,
with three remaining.

Three boys beyond their mother’s call,
two Italians off to the sea,
one sock that isn’t anywhere you look.

Small Victories

Life is full of small victories. I lost 4 pounds in February, a pound a week, which is my goal. I lost 1 inch off my waist and 1 inch off my hips, so that was another small cause for celebration.

Next, I had an appointment at the doctor’s office this morning to have blood drawn. My doctor keeps a close eye on my blood sugar, cholesterol, liver and kidney functions and other measures, so I go in every 4 months or so to get blood drawn for lab work. I won’t get the results until next week, so the lab work wasn’t the victory (yet). Ever since I gained weight, people have had a terrible time finding my veins to draw blood. It was not unusual for me to get stuck 2 or 3 times on the back of my hand in order to get enough blood for the tests I need. (I think 5 sticks was the record.) My good veins were just buried under a layer of fat and hard to reach, so the back of the hand was the only option, and that hurts. Well, this morning I was apologizing to the lab tech about my poor veins and she said “No problem”. Then, instead of tying her little rubber band thing around my wrist and poking the back of my hand with a tiny “butterfly” needle, she wrapped her band around my upper arm and stuck me once in the crook of my elbow with a regular sized needle. Next thing I knew she had four tubes of blood and she was done. Apparently losing pounds of fat uncovered my previously shy veins and made the whole blood-drawing thing much easier and less painful - a small, but significant victory.

This is one of my favorite poems because is it so joyful: It was written by Siegfried Sassoon.

Everyone Sang

Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark green fields; on, on, and out of sight.

Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted,
And beauty came like the setting sun.
My heart was shaken with tears, and horror
Drifted away…O but everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

Revery

Jane Austen wrote in a letter that her novel Pride and Prejudice was maybe a little too "light and bright and sparkling". Perhaps this description is what has often made me think that Jane Austin wrote prose the way Mozart wrote music. I find Mozart's music to be "light and bright and sparkling". Like Austen he is melodic, inventive, well structured and amazingly beautiful. I was thinking this the other day as I walked on the treadmill listening to "The Marriage of Figaro".

Then I was thinking that Beethoven reminds me of Emily Bronte - all stormy and brooding. Wonderful stuff, but I like the light and bright better.

Next my mind wandered to Bach. What author does he remind me of? I'm not sure. My father loved Bach. He said Bach was the father of modern jazz. My father had us listen to the Goldberg Variations because, he said, jazz has the same structure of theme and variations.

I never really developed this idea of comparing authors to composers. It was just a passing treadmill musing. But yesterday right after my treadmill walk, I logged on to twitter and saw a tweet refernce to a book comparing Jane Austin to Mozart. What a coincidence! I ordered the book on line and can't wait to read it.

The following poem by Emily Dickinson seems to fit because music and literature both start with revery.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.

I Never Saw a Purple Cow

Thinking back on my previous diet sins, one of the biggest was a lack of color. I mostly ate white, beige or brown foods, with the occasional yellow. Those colors are fine for decorating your house, but not so good on your plate.

I ate potatoes, rice, bananas, beef, pork, chicken, eggs, bread, chocolate, milk, cheese, and butter. Not much color there! So I am making a real effort to get more colorful foods into my diet. I'm going for baby spinach rather than iceberg lettuce. I'm choosing sweet potatoes instead of white potatoes or rice. I'm loading up on blueberries and strawberries and melon. I'm having green beans, tomatoes, and carrots rather than corn.

Colorful foods have more vitamins, and usually less calories, so I'm definitely making a colorful diet one of my goals!

I haven't seen purple cow on the menu anywhere, but I find this poem amusing, so I'm sharing it.

Purple Cow: Reflections on a Mythic Beast Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least

I never saw a purple cow,
I never hope to see one,
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one.

Frank Gelett Burgess

It's Not for Sale

I wanted to go to the mall today. I've been cooped up in the house for more than a week. My consumer confidence was feeling really healthy and I felt it was my patriotic duty to boost the economy by spending money. We got down the drive way without much trouble, then got stuck in the road. And I mean stuck. Not going anywhere. The road was a mess of slush with ice underneath and that car wasn't moving. Another car finally came up the road towards us and stopped. The driver helpfully got out to push and we got back into the driveway. No mall for me today. My husband didn't mind. He shops on line, but I hate to shop on line. I like to see things and touch them before I buy them.

What was I wanting to buy? Well, maybe some new underwear. I'm going on a trip in March and I need more underwear that actually fits me. Or maybe a pair of boots because I don't have any. Or maybe just a latte at Starbucks (skim, of course) or a new sweater. My urge to shop is sometimes stronger even than my urge to eat. It's one thing to not be able to get out to the office, but to not be able to get to the mall, now that pisses me off. I would pay more taxes for more snow plows. I really would.

So I vacuumed the rugs and did my 2 miles on the treadmill.

Maybe I'll check out the Victoria's Secret website.

The following poem was written by a Seattle doctor and writer. The title, Oniomania, is a word for compulsive shopping.

Oniomania

Not so much the desire
for owning things
as the inability to choose
between hunter or emerald
green, to buy
just roses, when there are birds
of paradise, dahlias,
delphinium, and baby's breath.
At center an emptiness
large as a half-off sale table.
What could be so wrong
with a little indulgence?
To wander the aisles of fresh
new good things knowing
any of them could be hers?
With a closet full of shoes
unworn back home,
she's looking for love
but it's not for sale —
so she grabs three of
the next best thing.

By Peter Pereira

Sometimes

I woke up this morning feeling thinner, but the scale said I’d gained more than a pound this past week. That can’t be right. I watched my food all week, and I got plenty of exercise over the weekend. Oh well. Sometimes the scale is like that.

The Federal government was closed again today in D.C. because of the snow, but I worked again from home. At least half my employees were also working from home. We all have laptops with special encryption capabilities and access cards so that we can work securely from any spot with internet access. One of my employees actually had to call 911 during the snow storm to take her husband to the hospital because he was having a seizure. When I talked to her Monday she was waiting for her husband to have some tests done and she had her laptop with her at the hospital so she could keep up with her work. Next time you complain about lazy government employees think about the thousands of us who give our heart and soul to protecting the public interest. Sometimes the government isn’t so bad.

So I worked at my laptop, reviewing work, running reports, and feeling hungry all day. My husband says cold weather makes him hungry, but truthfully, some days I am just hungry, regardless of the weather. So I had a substantial snack about 3 pm that threw off my calorie count for the day. Sometimes that happens.

After I closed up my work laptop for the day I got on the treadmill. I tried to listen to Nora Jones on my iPod, but it refused to play her songs. I’ve no idea why. The iPod was quite happy to play Billy Joel’s “The Stranger”. Well he’s cool, too. I had a good relaxing walk. Sometimes exercise is the best cure for a bad mood.

I love the following poem. It was written by a British poet and novelist. I checked her website and she says she doesn’t even like this poem anymore, but she doesn’t mind if people use it on personal blogs as long as they don’t use her name, and don’t change anything. So I am respecting her wishes.

Sometimes

Sometimes things don’t go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don’t fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man; decide they care
enough, that they can’t leave a stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.

Let it Snow Again

The Weather Service is calling for more snow starting tonight. We are on the southern edge of the storm so it's hard to say what we'll get. It could be 10 to 20 inches, or not. We just got shoveled out to the street, the mailman delivered mail today, and now we'll have to start all over again.

I don't remember where I found the following poem. I looked up Jesse Winchester today and discovered he is a singer-songwriter, and these are song lyrics. I've never heard his stuff, but I can totally get behind the thought he expresses.

Jesse Winchester

Snow

Yes it can!

Now you know what they say about snowflakes
How there ain't no two the same
Well, all them flakes look alike to me
Every one is a dirty shame

My ears are cold my feet are cold
Bermuda stays on my mind
And I'm here to say that if winter comes
Then spring is a ways behind

What Seemed a Good Idea

Some times I eat and I don't know why - maybe just because the food is there. I get up to let the cat out and stop by the pantry on the way back to grab a couple of pecans. No rhyme or reason. It just seems like a good idea at the time. (The difference is that now I stop at 2 pecan halves instead of 2 handfuls.) But a whole day of unmindful eating can lead to big-time regret.

I found the following poem by Connie Bensley in my collection and decided to share it for all of us who ever made a poor decision.

Permissive Society

Wake, for the dawn has put the stars to flight,
And in my bed a stranger, so once more,
What seemed to be a good idea last night,
Appears, this morning, sober, rather poor.

Connie Bensley

Let It Snow

What a winter this has been for snow! First we had the big storm right before Christmas. Next we had a small snow in, was it January? Then last Friday and Saturday we got two feet of snow, a real blizzard. Some winters we don't shovel at all, but this past weekend we shoveled for hours. Thank goodness my son spent the weekend with us and helped his two old parents clear the driveway out to the street.

He also shoveled a path to the bird feeder so we could continue to keep the birds happy. We've had two pairs of cardinals, a red headed woodpecker, a blue jay, and dozens of smaller birds taking turns at the feeder.

Now the Weather Service is calling for another 6 to 10 inches (or more) of snow starting tomorrow afternoon. The Federal government closed today and tomorrow so none of us has to go to work, and there is plenty of food in the house. Things aren't going too badly.

I found this bit of poetry by Ralph Waldo Emerson recently, and it seems an appropriate time to share.

From The Snowstorm

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Eating at Outback

My husband and I ate at Outback Steakhouse a couple of nights ago, and I made some sensible choices.

Previously at Outback I'd have eaten:

Small Cheese Fries (shared) 374 calories
Side Salad with Ranch Dressing 319 calories
7 oz Victoria’s Filet 587 calories
Baked Potato with Butter & Sour Cream 455 calories
Chocolate Thunder from Down Under (shared) 478 calories
Coffee with Cream 39 calories
Total calories: 2252

This time I ate:

Atlantic Salmon (1/2 order) 364 calories
Baked Sweet Potato (no butter) 418 calories
Fresh Steamed Green Beans (butter) 228 calories
Decaf Coffee (no cream) 0 calories
Total calories: 1010

A thousand calorie meal is not great, but it's less than half the calories I previously tucked into at a visit to Outback. And I wasn't dissatisfied at all with the meal. My husband was as charming as always. We had a good talk and enjoyed ourselves just as much as we always do, only we ate a much healthier meal by skipping the appetizer and desert. I got some fiber with the green beans and sweet potato, and the salmon was definitely healthier than my usual steak. I only ate half the salmon because it definitely looked bigger than a deck of cards! Next time I might only eat half the sweet potato, too. I pushed off the ball of butter, but there were still a lot of calories there.

Maybe I'm starting to figure out this weight loss thing. You don't have to deprive yourself of everything enjoyable. You do have to make small changes and better choices towards healthier eating.

My poem to share today is by Dorothy Parker who was one cool woman. It's not about food, but it is about staying out of trouble (or not).


Portrait of the Artist

Oh lead me to a quiet cell
Where never footfall rambles
And bar the window passing well
And gyve my wrists and ankles
Oh wrap my eyes with linen fair
With hempen cord go bind me
And, of your mercy, leave me there
Nor tell them where to find me
Oh, lock the portal as you go
And see its bolts be double…
Come back in half an hour or so
And I will be in trouble.


By the way, the Outback has a great interactive web site where you pick items off the menu with different options and add-ons and they give you the nutritional information.

They also have a gluten free menu.

February

I am so tired of winter.

I grew up in the midwest, where we certainly had plenty of winter. Then, when I was a young wife with a toddler, my husband, daughter and I moved to Bermuda for 5 years, and I never liked winter again. Now we live in Virginia where the winters are generally mild. Only this winter it's been cold for days at a time, and we've had lots of snow. It's snowing again right now. We're expecting 3 to 6 inches overnight, which means the commute tomorrow morning will be from hell. Starting Friday afternoon we are expecting a really big winter snow storm. It will probably snow all day Saturday, so there goes my weekend plans.

People in Virginia just do not know how to drive in the snow, and the county doesn't invest much in snow removal or salt, so you are taking your life in your hands to be on the roads. Since Friday and Saturday will not be good days for grocery shopping I may try to shop Thursday night. I need to have good things to eat in the house, like fresh fruits & vegetables so I will stay out of the leftover Christmas candy and the gluten-free cookies. (I still have peppermint ice cream in the freezer.) (I will not pig out on it.)

Maybe I can just walk on the treadmill all day Saturday.

Or I can relax, slow down, and enjoy life without running around trying to get everything done at once.

The following poem is a reminder to me, and to all of us, that winter can be beautiful if we slow down and enjoy. It's by Sara Teasdale, one of my favorite poets.

February Twilight

I stood beside a hill
Smooth with new-laid snow.
A single star looked out
From the cold evening glow.

There was no other creature
That saw what I could see—
I stood and watched the evening star
As long as it watched me.


Sara Teasdale

Hips

I’ve bought my clothes at Talbot’s Woman shop for years. They are a little pricey, but well constructed and designed for real women’s figure. I could get professional looking stuff there to wear at work and look like I cared.

Now that I’ve lost almost 30 pounds my size 18W and 16W pants were just hanging on me. People at work were saying, “You’ve lost a lot of weight and your pants are too big.”

So today I went to the mall and walked into the Talbot’s where the ladies sizes are, rather than the women’s. I told the sales clerk, a friendly woman about my age, that I’d lost 30 pounds and wasn’t sure what size I needed, but I reached for a size 18 jeans, the largest size they sell in ladies. I was amazed to find they were too big! The ladies size 16 actually fit me, and in one style of pants the size 14 was the best fit. I ended up with 4 new pairs of pants for work and the jeans. I was so excited by the size 14 fitting me, and the sales clerk, who probably wore a size 6 or 8, was just as excited as I was. She asked me how I lost 30 pounds, so of course I explained to her all about Spark People. She said she wanted to lose weight around her middle. (I guess nobody is satisfied with their figure.) The other sales clerk was a bigger woman, with a nice big booty. She got involved, too, and wrote down the name of the website.

I’m trying hard to enjoy the size I am without worrying too much about what size I may be 6 months from now. I know there are people wearing a size 6 who can’t wait to get into a size 4 or a size 2, but for me a size 14 was a real thrill.


Here is a poem for all those lovely, big-hipped women who are happy and proud of what they are. It’s by Lucille Clifton. She’s an African American woman who has written a number of books of poetry, as well as books for children.


Homage to My Hips


these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don’t fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don’t like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!

Safe Snacks

I read a great Spark Article recently about creating good snacks to have on hand when the urge to eat strikes. The idea is to keep cut up fruits or carrot sticks in the fridge or small servings of nuts or cheese ready to go. This is really important for me. My diabetic diet calls for 3 meals and 3 snacks a day to keep my blood sugar level. It is much better for me to have a banana with me at work for a late afternoon snack than for me to get a bag of peanut M&M's from the vending machine. I'm making a good effort to snack healthy as well as eat healthy meals.

Some where along the way I ran across the following poem by Mandy Coe and the pun at the end cracked me up.

Mandy Coe is a prize winning British poet. (I guessed she was British by the title. A cheese and pickle sandwich just sounds like something the Brits would eat.) To me the poem also addresses one of the reasons people snack - it's easier than a relationship. Tell me what you think.

Go To Bed With A Cheese And Pickle Sandwich

by Mandy Coe

Go to bed with a cheese and pickle sandwich.

It is life enhancing.
It doesn't chat you up.
You have to make it.

A cheese and pickle sandwich
is never disappointing.
You don't lie there thinking:
Am I too fat?
Too fertile?
Too insecure?

Your thoughts are clear,
your choices simple:
to cut it in half
or not to cut it in half,
how thin to slice the cheese
and where you should place the pickle.

From a cheese and pickle sandwich
you do not expect flowers,
poems and acts of adoration.
You expect what you get:
cheese... and pickle.

You want, you eat,
and afterwards you have eaten.
No lying awake resentful,
listening to it snore.

Safe snacks.
It comes recommended.

Music Like the Curve of Gold

I listened to "Highlights from the Marriage of Figaro" while on the treadmill this morning. I like all kinds of music, but the perfection of Mozart gives me goose bumps every time.

Yesterday I woke up to find it had snowed over night, only an inch or so, and the pine trees in the back yard were lightly frosted. What a magical sight!

I'm not going to die wishing I'd spent more time at the office, or wishing I'd spent more time cleaning house. We need to remember that life is full of loveliness for us to enjoy. Take the time to enjoy it.

Here is another poem by Sara Teasdale that is, well, lovely.

Barter

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up,
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like the curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.

Work

I broke my ankle at the end of September, and didn't go back to work full time until yesterday. I enjoy my job and I'm not ready to retire, but I have to admit that my work poses challenges to healthy living.

First challenge is lunch. I have three choices for lunch. I can bring something from home. That's the best choice, but boring. There is a cafeteria on the first floor of our building. Their food is full of fat and salt, and not even that good. Then there is a Chinese restaurant next door to the office where the food is excellent, the prices are reasonable, and the staff is friendly. My first day back at work I went to the Chinese restaurant where I had my usual order of hot and sour soup and chicken cashew. Great food. Not so great to track it later, even though I brought home half of the chicken cashew.

I packed a lunch today.

Second challenge is finding time for exercise. I work what's called a 5/4/9 schedule. I work 9 hour days (or more) and get every other Friday off. With a half hour commute each way in traffic I don't usually get home until almost 6:30 pm. By the time I change clothes I am starving and my blood sugar is low. My husband is certainly ready to eat. But, if I eat dinner first, it's almost 8 pm. before I can get on my treadmill, and I go to bed at 10. Last night I gave up exercising in favor of sitting with my daughter as it was her last night before flying back to the west coast. Tonight I did the treadmill before dinner, but that made dinner time even later.

I don't want to change my work schedule, because I love having every other Friday off.

Does anyone have any suggestions on how to fit regular exercise into my day?

While you think about it read the following poem by Langston Hughes, which is a real favorite of mine.

Necessity

Work?
I don’t have to work.
I don’t have to do nothing
but eat, drink, stay black, and die.
This little old furnished room’s
so small I can’t whip a cat
without getting fur in my mouth
and my landlady’s so old
her features is all run together
and God knows she sure can overcharge—
Which is why I reckon I does
Have to work after all.

Painting a Room

My father could paint a window frame without masking tape and not leave a spot of paint on the glass. He had steady hands, and incredible patience.

My painting is more reckless, and I use lots of masking tape, but I am generally satisfied with the results. I painted a small room over the Christmas holidays to house my treadmill and it looks pretty good. I’m having bamboo flooring installed now that the painting is done, and I will be ready to start my new exercise program.

The woman in the following poem is painting a space that she has lived in for 10 years and is leaving. She is already feeling the loss of the life she leaves behind. In a way she is painting over that life in preparation for starting over somewhere else. I was thinking of this poem as I painted my new exercise room, and thinking of my father, who recently moved to a VA home. At 96 he is starting over.

I found the poem on the Poetry 180 website, one of my favorite places to find new poetry.


Painting a Room

Katia Kapovich

Here on a March day in ‘89
I blanch the ceiling and walls with bluish lime.
Drop cloths and old newspapers hide
the hardwood floors. All my furniture has been sold,
or given away to bohemian friends.
There is nothing to eat but bread and wine.

An immigration visa in my pocket, I paint
the small apartment where I’ve lived for ten years.
Taking a break around 4 p.m.,
I sit on the last chair in the empty kitchen,
smoke a cigarette and wipe my tears
with the sleeve of my old pullover.
I am free from regrets but not from pain.

Ten years of fears, unrequited loves, odd jobs,
of night phone calls. Now they’ve disconnected the line.
I drop the ashes in the sink, pour turpentine
into a jar, stirring with a spatula. My heart throbs
in my right palm when I pick up the brush again.

For ten years the window’s turquoise square
has held my eyes in its simple frame.
Now, face to face with the darkening sky,
what more can I say to the glass but thanks
for being transparent, seamless, wide
and stretching perspective across the size
of the visible.

Then I wash the brushes and turn off the light.
This is my last night before moving abroad.
I lie down on the floor, a rolled-up coat
under my head. This is the last night.
Freedom smells of a freshly painted room,
of wooden floors swept with a willow broom,
and of stale raisin bread.