I had a terrific time last night at Phoenix and Dragon bookstore, a really fun place to hangout. I was there for the monthly poetry reading. It was great to see my friend Cliff Brooks and hear some excellent poetry. I am always inspired when I attend an evening like that.
One thing that a good poem or a good sermon always evokes in me - reflection.
Here's one of the poems I read last night. It's a work in progress.
The Cowgirl
I was different from the moment I was born,
late and scrawny,
waiting until Independence Day,
until Mama was at a barbeque,
and the cord was choking me.
(Thank God the obstetrician threw the party.)
Months later-
I liked to throw the baby bottles out the car window,
Sit on top of the swingset,
Bump down the stairs on my butt.
I snacked on Purina dog chow, and ran around the yard nekkid.
Only spanking threats got me into the ruffled dresses
and black patent leather Mary Janes on Sunday morning.
My brother’s 6th birthday party: Punky’s Ponies were hired. I spent the afternoon in a cowgirl outfit and pink wax lips.
I took off my shoes and shirt because I was hot.
That was always the small me: barefoot, shooting from the hip, demanding to ride the ponies.
Adolescence birthed several decades of Caring About What Others Think. I wish I could go back and slap some sense into that idiot Me.
I kept notes about all my outfits so I wouldn’t wear the same one too often.
As a teen and young woman, I jazzercised, aerobicized, raquetballed, speed walked.
I wore out half a dozen curling irons, and spent a fortune on pantyhose.
One Sunday afternoon I found myself riding down Peachtree Street, after the gym, drinking a Starbucks latte and listening to a CD on the car stereo, and I thought with great horror, I AM A YUPPIE!!
Somewhere inside me the cowgirl sneered.
Years of refusal sped by. Many things were offered that I refused - sorority membership, law school, Junior League, marriage.
I realized at age 34, after Dad died, I had never lived up to what my dad had wanted for me: husband, two children, the minivan, the country club membership. I spent my prime childbearing years in love with a man I later learned was gay.
After the fog lifted I began a long unfurling from the confines of the cubicle.
I smoked in public. Then I quit smoking.
I vacationed with friends.
I kept a loaded pistol under my bed.
I bought my first home.
I quit wearing pantyhose and threw out the curling iron.
I flew to Russia.
After that nothing was ever the same.
I asked God for a family and he gave me two traumatized orphans and my own mother.
Suddenly the days were very full.
I quit watching TV.
Once I realized I didn’t care about getting married, or what my hair looked like, or whether or not I was “normal,” life got better.
Despite ups and downs, illnesses, trips to the ER, estrangements, personal and professional losses -
Now… well, I like me.
My house is old and quirky and drafty. Nothing matches.
I only wear pants with elastic waistbands.
My son is 17, and has three piercings in his ears. He is saving up for a tattoo. He hates school more than I’ve ever hated anything in my life.
My bassett hound runs the house, and steals food off the kitchen counter as often as possible. We love her anyway.
I don’t own a curling iron or a pair of pantyhose.
My give-a-damn’s busted and it ain’t ever gonna get fixed.
I look at people without expectations,
grateful to God I’m still here,
glad for every laugh I can find.
