Come Sit Beside Me, Please

wp-1489684508446.jpg

Come Sit Beside Me, Please

We all need a call to wake up
To attend to right now, right here
With a quorum of the senses reporting for duty
To cast their vote, for slow

Not like we need food and shelter and all the things in Mazlow’s hierarchy of needs
But, like we need poets and psalmists and prophets and spring
And two thin slices of white bread, to be soft enough to hold a thumbprint soft
So that when thick cut bologna bound with red wrapper and Dukes mayonnaise conjoin to Be pressed forward on the roof of one’s mouth, it’ll stick, (serving its white bread pre-Destined purpose of being bookends for meat) later requiring manual unsticking
And requiring two Diet Cokes to wash down the chips that served as a side in lieu of fresh Fruit at the deli counter  at the Harris Teeter which serves Boar’s Head beef bologna and The best salt and vinegar chips anywhere served politely by the shy but friendly silver Haired lady with the hair net that she wears with pride because she cares to follow the Rules and she cares too

Like we need a young man on a plane to remind us that twenty two year old adventurers
Have not had time to grow old and cold and jaded like the sad stooped man in 19B
Who doesn’t remember what time zone he is in or what his anniversary is or was before She left him for someone who remembered every year with a Hallmark card and a night Out on the town in her church dress and hose

But rather like we need rust on tin to prove there was a time of new and green
And how we live for low tide to find the rare left-handed conch brought in by the Preceding high tide, deliverer of treasures needing a hand to carry them home

And like we need a toe headed toddler who pats the sofa
With his sausage fat fingers and a nose that needs Kleenex
A diaper that weighs heavy with the need for changing
A pat, pat, pat
Slow as a metronome slow on the far left setting
And says “Read me ‘Good Night Moon’ again”
And only you know,
But don’t care that it’s the 23rd time, since Christmas
As he adds, “come sit beside me, please”

And you do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why I Am Weary Of The Cliff Notes & Reader’s Digest Versions

250px-Goodnightmoon

                                                                                             (  Photo Credit- Wikipedia.com)

I was on a web site looking for an online course for a child of mine. And a beautiful question popped up, grabbed my heart, yanked it and got my attention. In a bold and hip font, surrounded by stylized graphics it asked “What’s Your Story?”

And I really wanted to tell them. But who would listen and who would I tell? I had a story. I have a story.

Recently a blogger/writer asked on facebook if we, her readers, would be interested in knowing the backstory to her upcoming book. Well of course, we/I would. Who doesn’t want to hear the story? Who doesn’t long to rest on the words woven around the events, which lead to passion, which feed the dream, which launch a book.

And I  wonder why and how we arrived at a place where everyone is clamoring for the “Reader’s Digest” version of events. And what value or beauty is held in stripping something down to such an elemental level that it is now called “the Cliff Notes Version”.  And who is Cliff anyway.

Bare and barely told, the story stands stripped of its beautiful. Stripped of rich detail.

In “The Three Little Pigs” children’s tale we learn specifics about the pigs’ homes. The author chooses to delve into enough detail to tell us the building materials of their homes. Was it straw, wood and bricks? The story hinges on these details. There is no story here without them.

And Margaret Wise Brown’s “Goodnight Moon” is resplendant in glorious detail. We know so many of the elements and contents of the mesmerizing story that takes place in one single, richly described room.

But even now, many of you reading are skimming and scanning and wondering when I will get to the “punch line” of this prose. And you are looking for a shortcut and a way out. You want to jump ahead or exit out. You want me to “cut to the chase”. But what good is it? Who cares about the chase without first knowing the characters involved in the chase. And where they live, how they’re dressed, what lead up to the chase in the first place.

Is this where poets go? Off to the place of elaborate detail. They will tell you every detail of the spider’s web. And stay there with you for a long while as you linger.

But somewhere along the way we became too busy for the details of  story. We know someone cried, but do we know or better yet, do we care that they cried for three hours, the saline drops ran down the cheek like  raindrops on a foggy window pane. One chasing the other, racing down the face. And that the eyes were swollen shut and a headache had crept in to the crying weary soul. And that she felt so alone.

Somewhere along the way we became too darn busy to crawl into the story and sit with the writer, the poet, the friend. To hear the lines that tell of the rich detail of color, texture, emotion, song, and the surrounding scene. We don’t ask “tell me about” and then wait expectantly, patiently for the rich description of the fabric, the flowers, music and the musicians at the  June wedding. And surely we don’t want to know how the light shone through at a certain slant, pouring through the stained glass windows hovering over the bride and groom like a halo. And the bells tolled exactly at noon.

What beauty we are missing when we run rough-shod over the nuances and the fine points of the unfurling of an event. The birth of a conversation. The heavy breathing of the winded teller. And the way in which she punctuated each paragraph with fear and a trembling spirit.

Do we really know the story if we don’t read the entire story in all its glory? Give it a chance to release slowly, beautifully unfurling detail on detail.

In our deep soul places don’t we care, truly about the red balloon, the picture of the cow jumping over the moon and the green room? Because without them, its just another good night story in black and white. Dull, boring and forgettable. And we were made for lively detail. We were created to savor and delight our senses. God is in the detail and He is a God of detail. In everything. Always.

When we water down, dilute and dilate we minimize the beauty, the richness. There is no musical soundtrack bound to be a best seller on itunes. It is just a short silent film. Grainy and dark.

I know a girl named Lilly and I decided to ask her about her chickens. Because for three weeks I had watched  them from my kitchen window. As they  pecked and scratched. And the rooster crowed, these weeks in the cold of March. While in “the Village” and away from home, I starred at them daily. And I longed to know more. To know the story. Theirs and Lilly’s.

lilly and her chickens

When I asked, Lilly opened up. Out gushed wonderful detail of Lilly and her chickens. I listened as she pointed and told me each of their names. Each one unique. She and I both loved the one with the furry feet. He looked as if he wore shoes on his claws, made of fur. And there was the little one from Australia. And the ones from Tractor Supply. Lilly has one rooster but she had five. All are gone but one. They fought a lot. And I asked her how many eggs they lay a week. And I know now that her favorite candy bar is Snickers. She savored one, bite by bite as she spoke, chocolate in her cheek, chickens staring at her waiting to be fed.

The chickens and the kids

Do you have time for a Lilly in your life? Do you know one chicken is named Chick-Fila and do you know where they go when it gets cold?

Do you have time for poetry? For a rich description of both the spider and his intricate web. To linger on the details. Of this wondrous life.

Would you wait for a story to be told? Would you slow down with me to hear. To listen. And to wallow around the rich moments of this life. I never really found The Reader’s Digest that enthralling. And I always associated it with the doctor’s office.

But the green room and the red balloon. Well I could read it a thousand times and it would never grow old. One room. So much rich detail. So much vivid beauty.

Oh, you stayed till the end with me. How grateful am I? Well let me see…..how can I describe my gratitude?

Joining Laura, Jennifer and Heather today in their welcoming community of writers.

the chicken at MCVL