Redbuds

made their entrance late this year;
lifted slender, graceful arms dressed
for midnight dances; they far outshine
the hybrid and pale city blossoms,
the enormous crinolined skirts that
earlier took up most of the stairs
and drew out, forgotten, sighs.
In the waking forests now, their lyric
cerise causes wintry trunks to recede,
gentlemen in gray in the back
of the opera box, letting all eyes smile
on the truest belles of the spring.

posted by Sandy at 8:42 PM

About my last posting, I should say: I'm prone to have trouble adjusting to anything new.

Suddenly, my life is packed as tight as the blossoms on the pear trees. (I love it when spring runs amok. I have raptures over every pink tree, every saffron bush, wanting to gather them up in my hands, loving them even more because they won't stay.) After a lovely but too-short early lunch with Helen, I raced to my ultra-friendly dentist's office for a dreadful gum treatment procedure. I won't describe it, but I will say it took about an hour and a half and 10 injections of novacaine. And they really WANTED me to have nitrous. So I obliged. Now, these people are the pleasing types, the opposite of the place I last went, so they have a TV for me to watch while they do their benevolent torture. I have to say that watching the war while breathing nitrous oxide makes for a truly surreal experience. Maybe a little like a bad LSD trip?

Does anyone know what nitrous actually does to the mind? I always think that I have profound insights that sound much less impressive later. And this time I got emotional, probably just releasing feelings that had been there earlier. I became overwhelmed by how hard it must be simply to live in a country of such terrain, sand, concrete, sameness. And then there were tanks and tanks and people in color and safe over here gesturing at lecterns. Children smiling in front of bare block houses. I really thought I might cry, but then poor kind Kim would think she was hurting me. Then, at one point, I must have had too much and experienced what might be the closest I've ever come to a panic attack. I suspect it was simply a little asthma, difficulty breathing, but it felt like a conviction that I might die right then and that I couldn't move or tell anyone what was happening. Ridiculous, because the next minute Kim asked me a question and I clearly could move and talk and did and the mood went away. I think I remember that someone else once told that the nitrous "backfired" on her.

Well, here's what I want to know now: could it be a truth drug? Or not that exactly: would the feelings I had in that moment of conviction about dying be real, legitimate ones? Would they compare with the ones I might have in a real near-death moment? Of course, I don't know if those are valid. But I found myself asking what was important to me, and zonked as I may have been, the answers were startlingly clear. They surprised me, going against what I tell myself I likely "really" feel. It felt like illumination, like Coleridge waking from his opium dream and remembering "Kubla Khan."

Anybody been here, drugged or not?
posted by Sandy at 2:49 PM

Somehow my weblog has now been decorated with photographs and a "support democracy in Iraq" sign. Not sure what's going on. Not even sure what supporting democracy means. But, in case it offends anyone, I didn't do it.
posted by Sandy at 9:36 PM

Musing about my response to staying at a convent for the first time (thinking on paper, may be tedious):

Tonight my dear Robbie (Happy birthday on Friday) was telling our women's group about the convent (Community of the Holy Spirit) where we stayed on Saturday night. "It was so wonderful," she turned to me, "wasn't it?" And, without expecting to, I let out a "yes-s-s" that was far too high-pitched to be convincing; then everyone laughed. I'm still wondering why I did. The convent was wonderful: beautiful, serene building, beautiful sisters, everything done with the kind of simplicity I love, everything one could need. I like little rooms like the one I stayed in: cosy, everything in its place high ceilings to help with the narrow space, view of rooftops, single bed. Reminded me of the rooms in the bed-and-breakfast in London that I've chosen to stay in three times now. I was more than glad for a chance to rest in silence. I liked trotting down the corridor to the shared bathroom, reading the sampler dedicated to the work of Reverend Mother Ruth, exploring the room with books for sale. I felt privileged to be present for the vespers service and managed to keep up with the service in our three books marked with ribbons better than I would have thought. There was a huge censor of incense activating my asthma, so I stayed quiet and listened. As I've already written, I liked the supper meal best. I was given a night and morning in a world I'd never been part of; I'm so glad I had the chance. On the shelf above me now hangs beatiful wooden prayer beads made by one of the sisters.

So what made me hesitate to say it was wonderful? Strangeness, perhaps. There are all kinds of Episcopalian groups, this one far different, far more "high church," than what I'm used to. Trevor says he would have predicted I'd not like it; he thinks it sounds like a prison. Says he'd hate it and he's infinitely less gregarious than I am. I think he's wrong on both counts. It wasn't a prison at all, except that when I went outside to use the phone, I discovered that my key didn't work. Still, I could have borrowed Robbie's and did when I went to the bakery. And I actually enjoy being alone and being silent, at least sometimes. More likely it was just me at the time, not feeling well, no comfortable place to sit and read, already thinking toward home. Or, as Robbie said tonight, me in my red lipstick and nail polish standing out in the midst of those who've chosen not to adorn themselves.

But a little bit more, too. I had joked before leaving about how I might just stay, being obviously suited to convent life. It was a joke; I am not suited to discipline, much less celibacy. But I think that somewhere I had still kept alive the fantasy of the cloistered life that many women share. I really expected to feel an attraction for it, especially since this is the version one fantasizes about: full habits, vows of silence, simple food, marvelous cathedral, etc. (And right in the middle of New York, on Riverside Drive!) I know someone who planned for months to go on retreat to another convent, who read everything she could get her hands on about monastic life, who convinced the order that she was so serious as to be allowed to stay for a longer period of time than most visitors can. Beyond that, she was allowed into the nuns' own quarters, allowed to share their work, introduced by them to the natural beauty of the surroundings. She was not able to stay even for one week, forced by something in herself to arrange to leave by the third day. She said she felt overwhelmed by the presence of God. I didn't. Yet, somehow, I understood that I too would, if I stayed much longer, feel the need for flight. I understood it without being able to explain it. It was not a fear of sucked in. My fantasy was fulfilled just by seeing, and it was only an escape fantasy after all.

I hate to admit it, but I fear it had something to do with something rebellious rising in me. Did I want to be silent only when I decided to? Did I think there were too many books and ribbons? Was it being in a place where I had to follow strict rules made by others? Maybe it reminded me of dorm life at my first, ultra-strict college? Maybe it reminded me of home life during too many of my days heretofore. Was it that I hadn't known in advance what some rules would be? The signs, the brochures, the bells, the signing in and out, the lack of communal space that felt "open" to guests? Maybe a feeling that, really, my being there disrupted the order of things, that the best thing I could do was to shut my door and hide in a corner?

Getting closer. When I found that my key wouldn't work (neither did the doorbell), I knocked for a long time before a sister came to the door. She told me I was lucky that she was passing by as normally they wouldn't hear my knocking or open for me, yet guests were forbidden to open the door for others. Also, when we arrived, another guest was waiting to speak with a sister because she'd been given a room with no shower. She had injured her knee and could not lower herself into a tub. She asked permission to use one of the showers on the fourth floor (our floor) where she'd stayed before. One sister said she'd have to ask another who thought she needed to ask another, which meant locating the others, some of whom were wearing buttons to indicate they were under vows of total silence. The woman apologizing, explaining all the while. In the end, it seems, the issue was that they didn't know if Robbie might possibly be a man, and they didn't want this woman using a bathroom on the same floor as a man--"walking around in her robe" in mixed company. Now, I understand how that might trouble the sisters, but it's so far from me as to seem both ludicrous and blind to the greater need. The sisters were never unkind, but they were certain about how things needed to be. No cell phone conversations, even in the lowest of voices. The walls are thin. You may go here; you may not go there. Perhaps the guests' "contributions" help to keep the small order afloat, but surely we are a hindrance too.

Yes, it's that "West Tennesse rearing" again. So many ways we were taught not to cause others trouble and, at the same time, not to put ourselves under obligation to others, so that we had to ask for things. It may be why I prefer to stay in hotels rather than with family. To me, the convent was for the sisters, not for me. So, though I'm grateful I had one night there, I wouldn't have wanted to stay more. When the stress and impossible questions of the world get to me next time, I'll have to think of a new sheltered escape fantasy, no getting to a nunnery for me.
posted by Sandy at 9:27 PM

Memorable Moments from New York:

CCCC is the national conference for teachers of writing in universities. Nine of us were there from Belmont. None feels that he/she must attend every conference session. Most were intent to see the city in various preferred ways. I was ill and didn't sleep, not able to walk far or do things most of my friends did. Others urged me to go home, but I didn't want to. I wanted to do what I could in between times of resting in my room. At first I said it would be like a trip to the zoo for Kylie who sees hardly any of the animals but enjoys what she does see and experience. Looking back, I would say it was even better than that. ( And my paper was very well received!) Some highlights:

1. Seeing the skyline from the plane. The absence of the towers is tangible and entirely different when seen in this context than on TV. Also, since the sight of snow on graves has haunted me since I was last in NY, I found it healing to see them unblanketed. It is not spring yet there--no green--but spring is in the air.

2. Taxi journeys. Not one rude driver this time, and some who were remarkably patient and understanding. Some colorful drivers, one who kept beating on the console and laughing at news reports. Interestingly, he scared my friend, but I never even thought to be afraid. He was trying to tune his radio, expressing his opinions. Taxi journeys took me through places I've seen before, like Central Park, but also to places I've never seen: through Amsterdam and past Columbia's main campus, to Little Italy and Chinatown, through start-and-stop traffic in Harlem. I have no idea what I thought Harlem would look like, but I liked it. Bars on windows, sure, but so much color: people in marvelous hats, storefronts, women taking a break from hair-extensions, graffit quoting everyone from Malcolm X to Mr. Rogers.

3. Eating outdoors in cafes. Once we got past the cold and rain, the last two days were beautiful and balmy. One cafe was next door to the hotel. It was exactly like eating in the city in Melbourne: same kind of decor, food, sidewalk, views of traffic, vendors on the sidewalks. I had a Corona and a salad and laughing lunch conversation with Robbie. The second was near the convent. Actually, it was a bakery. Robbie had spotted it the night before, so I got up at 6:30 to make sure I had time to spend there. I am mad for going out to breakfast, anyway. Much prefer it to any dinner out. And I love real city bakeries. We have nothing like them in Nashville that I know of. I actually find both Provence and Bread and Company uncomfortable in some ways, the chairs alone discouraging lingering. This one warm with wood and mirrors and shouting among the workers and the bakery itself visible at the back. People with the Sunday Times spread out in front of them. Everything imaginable to eat, including every variety of bagel known to man. It was called something like Weinstein and Ho. The Chinese-American counter workers got all the orders wrong. It was great to watch the varieties of response to that. One guy kept asking a woman what meat she wanted: "Ham? Lox? Bacon?" She would say calmly, "Bacon, as I already told you." I had my breakfast and coffee, then walked down on Riverside Drivve, watched a mother and daughter circling bicycles, and later I came back with Robbie when she had her breakfast. By then, families from the neighborhood were beginning to arrive. Kids with their hair still sticking up in the back from sleep. People stopping with their dogs, little ones crooned to on laps, big ones tied to the railing. My face turned to the sun. Happy. A college-type girl came out and lifted her arms: "The suns heals," she exclaimed. "It heals the wounds."

4. Standing on the stairs on the 4th level of the Folk Art Museum. Someone mentioned on Friday that this museum was just across the street--so glad they did. I'd found I couldn't walk far and until then had discovered only an international grocery. There are exhibits in the stairwells, like 19th tenth-wedding-anniversary gifts of tin. For some reason, people shaped objects like bonnets and top hats from tin (fairly large) and gave them to friends. I was glad for the exhibits, as I made my way slowly up. In a central stairwell, there were weather vanes hung at different levels, vanes shaped like the angel Gabriel or eagles or pigs. At this level the shadow of one of the largest, a horse and rider, fell across the wall. It felt prophetic, like tthe Book of Revelation, but not terrible. The horse and rider would not fall; their stability seemed certain. The featured exhibits, collage works by a German madman, and sampler-like paintings by the Pennsylvania Dutch, merit another blog entry.

5. Sitting in the refeectory of the Episcopal convent where Robbie and I stayed on Saturday night, staring at a candle sconce and waiting in silence. I think I will write another entry about the convent, both what I loved and what I didn't, but I'll say now that I liked the supper best. Following vespers, we all trooped down corridors and flights of wooden stairs until we came to refectory in the basement. Since we couldn't speak, the sisters and some of the women in retreat showed us what to do in by pointing and taking our arms. A sister is allowed to pray aloud before and after the meal, and one reads to the group during part of it. There was one hot dish (corn and asparagus casserole), cold cuts, cheese, salad, bread. Also fruit, but the sisters must have given it up for Lent. No one ate it except Robbie. The reading was fairly theoretical, about language; it came from a text answering a feminiist reading of how language works. No idea where the sisters stand on this (in full habits but could be entirely feminist, for all I know). No one took much food, wanting there to be enough for others, and we finished eating quickly. After the reading, there remained perhaps fifteen minutes when most of us simply sat there in silence. I enjoyed it but found it strange; though I spend much time in silence, I seldom do it in community, looking into others' faces. I could not read how others were using their minds during this time. A couple of the lay women in retreat were praying. Most people looked blank. I decided to use the candle sconce as a meditation aid. I thought of the hospitality of people who shared with us what was very little already.

6. In contrast, glimpses of war on the elevator at the Hilton. No one had TVs on in rooms. I think people wanted to be immersed in the conference and delay for a while the reality. Most wanted to have fun and went off to the party at the Copacabana or the rock-and-roll dance. But there were small televisions in the elevators tuned to CNN. Phrases would hit us: "shock and awe," "coalition forces," "prisoners of war." Iraqi, Iraqi, Iraqi. In the elevator, people turned away from the TV; they seemingly could not be still. They muttered various things. They hurried off, grateful their room was on the 8th floor, not the 25th. Oh, yes, one night, out of the blue, a huge clap of thunder sounded close to our hotel. We were afraid for a minute, but it was the only time we were.

7. Eating gelati (hazelnut and cherry amandine) in Little Italy. This area is almost exaclty like a similar one near the university where I taught in Melbourne. Earlier, at a restaurant with plenty of character, our Italian-American waiter teased and flirted with us. Bonnie, our new composition specialist, rose to the teasing in fine spirit. I had just met her; we found we both liked Nanci Griffith, Buddy and Julie Miller, and EmmyLou, of course. I'm glad Bonnie will be there when I go back to work.

8. (last one!). The final room in the Manet and Velasquez exhibit at the Metropolitan. (It was also good to find I knew the museum so well, having spent three days there on my last visit.) The rooms were in the following order: French king discovers Spanish art; Spanish influence on various painters, Spanish influence on Monet; Spanish influence on "American" painters, mainly Sargent and Whistler. I had never thought of Sargent's and Whistler's paintings as being Spanish-influenced, but clearly, one could see by that point, they were. The museum had hung a Manet portrait next to one of Whistler's. Even his famous grey-black-white color schema was the same-- and inherited. Most of all, though, being there reminded me of a beautiful day at the Frist exhibit last year. I stood in front of a painting that I last saw in Nashville. I closed my eyes and remembered.

I really like New York, now more than ever. Wish I'd been able to begin to know it sooner. I wonder what it is about it that terrifies so many people. I find it alive, friendly, familiar yet offering of newness. But I am always happy to see Nashville spread below as the plane makes its descent, bringing me home.


posted by Sandy at 8:44 AM