Friday, March 27, 2009

Peace Lost


One pure moment of world peace, even if it immediately vanished, would do more to inspire us than all the moving words and often futile actions of peacemakers throughout the centuries, for having seen peace as a reality, we would certainly unite in desperation to REGAIN what we all lost.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

In Response to My Student's Prompt To Write a Poem Related to the Holocaust

My student came to me with a school assignment: write a poem in response to a Holocaust victim's poem, "The Butterfly," by Pavel Friedman. We discussed the particular juxtaposition of a yellow butterfly's beauty with the haunting images of life in the Jewish ghetto, and the symbol of hope amid the ruins of life. I asked him to imagine himself in a concentration camp: "So, as an inmate, what would you see every day as you worked, something that you could see in another way, a brighter way, out of both desperation and hope?"
He mentioned a barbed wire fence in front of flowers on the other side. I replied, "How about the barbed wire fence itself--how might a hopeful, yet hopeless person view such an ugly fence in a new light; what simile could describe the wire and the barbs as looking like something happier?" I drew a line with asterisk-like barbs across his paper. "What does it look like to you?" I asked.
He replied, "Flowers on a metal vine." And so his poem, and mine simultaneously, was born. He turned in his free verse to his teacher with pride; I'm posting mine here, hoping to elicit your comments.


SONNET FROM ANOTHER LIFE
by Susan L. Lipson

Metallic flowers on a silver vine
Stretch taut to keep us in their garden walls,
Where worms like us must dig, but never whine,
Must bury seeds of hope before they fall;
No birds alight upon these petal spikes,
Lest they get pierced like friends I’ve loved and lost,
Friends who were but “vermin,” “dogs,” or “kikes,”
Rebelling, not considering the cost.
To sniff these blooms brings blood, not pleasant scents,
Yet still the petal barbs tempt me to climb—
Just up and over!—leave behind this fence,
Escape to fragrant fields and summertime…
Confinement alters views, both tempts and taunts;
Like a relentless ghost, our minds it haunts.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

How My Kids See Me

To them, I am a laundress, a perpetual dishwasher and cook, a nag--"Put away your dish! Close your drawers!"--a chauffeur in a minivan, and an ever-ready editor (even though I can barely see straight, let alone THINK, at 11 p.m., when their first drafts are finally ready for my editing). I am the one who volunteers them for community services "without asking," but also the one they later thank for getting them involved. I am easier to convince than Dad, and quicker to forgive and forget--clearly the one to ask for money or special privileges (does that make me The Pushover?). I am unconditionally loving, even when I'm stressed, and they know it, because one of us always fails to conceal a smile when I still insist on a kiss goodnight, even after an argument.

Because of them, I have a lot of half-finished manuscripts, a lot of double-bookings, and a need to clone myself. Their busy lives make me frantic when I can't find my pocket calendar or my keys, because I struggle to know where I need to be and when, and to do so on time, so that I'm not constantly yelling, "Come on! I'm leaving without you!" Because of them, I'm a liar, because I almost never leave without them, and so I deserve the angst of having late kids, don't I?

They tell me that they hope I won't sell "their" house, that I'll stay in our neighborhood so they can always come "home," that I'll dedicate a book to them, that I'll babysit their kids and always stay healthy, that I'll live to 110 and stay "cool." And I will try to fulfill their hopes as I now fulfill their needs, so they can still see me as cook, a pushover, a guaranteed kiss, and an editor (even if not a chauffeur or laundress anymore)--even when I've finished the half-done manuscripts and am busy squeezing in visits with them between book tours.

That's how I see my kids seeing me.

[This post was written in response to a writing prompt I gave my teenage writing students, a poem titled "How My Father Sees Us," by Kirsten Smith, in her poetry novel The Geography of Girlhood. You can read more about the prompt and how the kids responded on my other blog: www.susanllipsonwritingteacher.blogspot.com).

Monday, March 2, 2009

On Faith

On Faith
by Susan L. Lipson

People often say, “God gives me faith;”
But what faith is it that God gives?
Faith in oneself?
Faith in humanity?
Faith in God?
All of the Above?

Sounds like a kind of conflict of interest to me.
For if God just gives faith to us,
then our faith is not an achievement,
not a blessed state of mind
based on appreciation,
deep understanding,
and our suspension of doubts;
rather, such faith would be
a mere manipulation by God.
And since God does not manipulate us—
for then why would He have given us free will?—
it follows that our faith doesn’t come from God,
But from our coming to know God.
Faith is OURS,
to seek, find, and develop;
The faith we get from God
Is God’s faith in us.

Friday, February 6, 2009

Glowing Cross in Chopped Down Tree--Surely a Sign?!

Every day for the last few weeks, as I drive into my friends' driveway to pick up their kids for the school carpool, I notice the pile of tree chunks--yes, chunks, not trunks--in front of their home, left behind after they had an overgrown tree removed from their yard. The circular chunk of trunk that faces the street has a two-way split through its center in the shape of a cross, and the cross is surrounded by cracks like the rays a kid draws on a picture of the sun. I must admit, the image looks impressively intentional, and if I weren't a Jewish skeptic when it comes to alleged appearances of the Virgin Mary in cheese sandwiches, or tears and/or blood leaking from Christian iconic art, I might fancy that I even heard ethereal music and saw the rays glowing. I might even contemplate calling the Pope to report the sighting of evidence of the holy spirit....

But I'm too jaded for that.

And thus, I've been joking with my kids that any day now, the media will be at our friends' door when we pull up, and they'll be snapping photos that will appear in the local papers with the caption: "Holy Spirit Makes Appearance in Poway Tree"--or something like that. I also joked that my friends should put the tree on EBay, in slices, like the grilled cheese sandwich in which the blessed virgin's face supposedly appeared (I still marvel that people recognized her after so many years!). So imagine my surprise when I noticed on Facebook that a different friend had as her Facebook photo a picture of the very same glowing cross! I sent her a message, asking whether she'd taken the photo on E--- Road, and she wrote back that she had indeed, and was happy to hear that I'd noticed the cool cross, too.

Imagine again my continued surprise when I called my friend, the tree owner, to tell her about the funny Facebook coincidence, and she asked, "What cross in the tree?"

"You mean to tell me you haven't noticed it?!" I exclaimed. "You mean to tell me that you, the good Catholic, overlooked it? You let your Jewish friend notice the holy ghost in your front yard before YOU did?"

We both cracked up (my same friend from the earlier blog about my demented memory), and she had her daughter pull up the Facebook picture so she could see it for herself. She promised to go look at the log in person when it stops raining. It's still raining as I write this, but shouldn't the glowing cross be worth some wet hair and stained shoes?

"Maybe I can sell slices of the tree," suggested my friend between guffaws, "and pay for the backyard projects I can't justify doing right now!"

"Yeah, and maybe you can put the pieces on EBay and finance that new kitchen you want, too!" I added. "You can call it the Jesus' Kitchen Project."

Oy, such irreverence in the face of possible miracles!

The Problem with Memoirs: They Are Fiction

Given the fact that memories are unreliable as objective recordings of facts, and that memories merely offer perceptions of actual incidents, why call written recollections of the past “memoirs” at all? To create such a genre implies their “nonfictional” status, when in fact, they ought to be labeled “based on a true story,” to keep them from later being called “lies” or “misrepresentations” of the “truth” (whatever the heck that is!).

Recently, a Holocaust survivor published a widely acclaimed memoir, but he enhanced his actual story with a romanticized fiction portion. Thus, he was deemed a fabricator, and his book, a phony memoir. He didn't intend to deceive with his words, though; he intended only to touch hearts. He could have avoided that misconception of himself altogether merely by calling his Holocaust romance a “mostly true” story, or a tale “based on a true story.”

“Memoir” is a bogus word anyway, one created solely for marketing purposes, I think. My siblings and I could write three different memoirs about the same incident in our family life, and each account would sound markedly different, because memoirs merely reflect perceptions of past events, not objective facts. A memoir is not necessarily an excerpt of an autobiography; its most important truth lies in its emotional resonance. Truth is a matter of opinion sometimes....

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Sharing Thoughts with Strangers

Although I was at first disappointed about not getting to sit beside my husband on my recent long plane trip to New York, I discovered how a friend can materialize out of thin air--literally, considering our altitude!--when I started conversing with my seat mate, Donnie. Our conversation began with a handshake and my observation that Donnie looked like a younger Morgan Freeman. He laughed, and his eyes twinkled just like Mr. Freeman's, as he nodded. "I've heard that before," he confessed. From the mundane details about why we were traveling, where we live and where we are from originally, and who makes up our respective families, we soon found ourselves immersed in a heavy discussion about our own childhood experiences (with very similar family dynamics!), our shared philosophies regarding child-rearing and education, our views on love and marriage (we have been married the same number of years), religion and spirituality, life and death....

When the pilot announced we'd be landing, we both smiled with disappointment and told each other how much we'd enjoyed this surprise new friendship's evolution during a plane flight. I gave him my business card and told him to email me if he and his wife ever make the trip to San Diego that they have discussed in the past. I added, "Please don't think I'm just talking. I really mean it--stay in touch. My husband and I befriended a guy on a boat in San Francisco, and he gave us his card and told us to contact him if we ever visit Vancouver. We did visit, last summer, and we all had a fun lunch together. So please, don't hesitate to write, okay?"

I got an email from Donnie two days after I got home. He thanked me for a great conversation, and told me it was "exactly what I needed." Now, how 'bout that for memorable words?

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Memory--the Operative Word!

My friend Cindy and I were teasing each other this morning about which of us was more forgetful, kind of like a battle of "Yo Mama" jokes about dementia--but WE are the Mamas. She assured me that my forgetting to phone someone, or to take the clothes out of the washing machine, merely reflects that I have three jobs--Mom, Writer, Teacher--and am approaching 50. Some assurance, huh?!

Not five minutes after saying goodbye to her, I reached into my cupboard for a cup so that I could take my fish oil capsule (per Cindy's admonition during our morning get-together--oy, do I sound old or what?). To my shock, I found a half-full cup of coffee sitting among the empty cups! "What the heck!" I could feel my eyes popping out, followed by my hysterical laughter. Alone in my house, freaking out my poor dogs, I howled till my eyes started streaming, and then I picked up the phone.

"Cindy!" I recorded something like this on her message machine: "Okay, I have officially topped you in the battle over who is more demented! I just found a half-full cup of coffee in my cupboard!" I could barely get out the words, I was guffawing so. She called me back within a few minutes, and we continued laughing together. She admitted that my "senior moment" topped all!

At least I called the cup "half-full."

Thursday, January 8, 2009

Blog--Not Meant as Onomatopoiea

When I first heard the word "blog," I didn't know it was a contraction of "web log." I thought of the word as onomatopoeia, because, after reading a few pointless rambling blogs, the word's sound--reminiscent of a burp or reflux noise--seemed an accurate representation of the verbal vomit I equated with "blog." Thank goodness I found out I was wrong.

As I read great blogger's posts, I found myself feeling overwhelmed by the wealth of ideas and talented communicators. Losing myself in perusing blogs, I felt simultaneously guilty and ashamed of "wasting" precious writing time. I wondered why these bloggers were not working instead on writing words for publication in traditional media--a more "credible" job. But then I started blogging...

Now I know why. And if you're reading my words right now, and maybe even smiling, then YOU know why, too.