Poet Healed by John Crandall

Poet Healed A collection of writings by John Crandall Foreword by Chip Spann

Poet Healed Poet Healed: A Collection of Writings by John Crandall. Copyright © 2005 John Crandall. Foreward Copyright © 2005 Chip Spann. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. Lamp Legacy Series #2. LAMP books are published by the Literature, Arts, and Medicine Program at Sutter Medical Center, Sacramento, located at Sutter Resource Library. Staff and volunteers at the Sutter Resource Library, Sutter Medical Center, Sacramento, California, assemble each book To order or for more information, please contact:

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Literature, Arts, and Medicine Program Sutter Medical Center, Sacramento Sutter Resource Library, Suite 600 2800 L Street Sacramento, CA 95816 Phone: (916) 454-6802 spannc@sutterhealth.org www.sutterwriters.com Book Design & Cover by John Crandall johnalbertcrandall@yahoo.com Edited by Jan Haag Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data This is a work of creative nonfiction. Names, characters, place, and incidents may have been changed. Front photo, circa 1955, inscribed: “John Albert Crandall, alias Dennis the Menace.” FIRST EDITION

Crandall, John Title / John Crandall. – 1st ed. Poet healed: a collection of writings by John Crandall ISBN: 0-9754421-5-5 Library of Congress Control Number: 2005937587

Poet Healed Help a broken mirror a beam of sunlight darkness vanquished ignorance flees another beam of sunlight another darkness vanquished again ignorance flees break my mirror pass around the pieces illuminate the darkness of others join me help me heal

Poet Healed

Table of Contents Chapter 1 - Health Issues.................................................10 Chapter 2 - Autobiographical Works...............................53 Chapter 3 - Family and Friends ...........................................................................................70 Chapter 4 - Life and Living..............................................92 ...........................................................................................92

Poet Healed

For my late cousin, Bonnie Salma

Poet Healed

Foreword Struck with angina / A heart loses its magnetism / It is broken John Crandall, from “The Heart Remains Broken”

Some say we write to find out what we are thinking, John Crandall writes to embrace a fuller acceptance of himself and in so doing takes us along for the ride. These days it’s unusual to find someone who seeks healing from heart disease through writing. John Crandall is such a man: blacksmith, bookbinder, anger management counselor, engineer, electronics tech, and healer. He didn’t consider himself “a writer” when he joined Sutterwriters, a writing group for patients, caretakers and loved ones, in September 2003, and little did he or we know that he would publish a book of these writings two years later. John Crandall writes about what claws at him inside. I am often asked for writing exercises, especially for those who are ill. I know of no better place to direct someone than Poet Healed. John Crandall doesn’t tell but shows the reader how. There are often things we can’t tell anyone, especially ourselves. Angina strikes the very core of our being, yet we can’t admit it. Our bodies are sore, no longer supple—we ache. These are the areas explored by John Crandall. He makes it safe for the rest of us to go there, too. Chip Spann November 2005 Sacramento, California Chip Spann, Ph.D., practiced as a physician assistant before completing his doctorate in creative writing with an emphasis in medical humanities. He founded the Literature, Arts, and Medicine Program (LAMP) at Sutter Medical Center, Sacramento.

Poet Healed

Acknowledgements Before I met Chip (Dr. Lawrence Spann), I was neither a poet nor healed. The extent of my poetry was leaving rhyming messages on my wife’s message machine and putting cute salutations on greeting cards. The writing groups at LAMP (the Literatrue, Arts, and Medicine Program) have been an integral part of my physical and emotional recovery. As far as being healed, in many ways I have been helped by the process. This is not to say that my underlying health issues have disappeared. Writing in a structured environment is a documented method of improving health. Reading personal writings to a group whose responses are limited to “What was strong? What did you like? What stays with you?” only enhances the process. Furthermore, listening to other’s stories augments the therapeutic effect. So thanks must go out to all of my fellow Sutterwriters without whom this book would not have been possible. Without Chip Spann’s input, encouragement, support and assistance, this collection would never have happened. Jane Hobbs’ input was invaluable. Jan Haag provided me with the professional input I needed to keep this anthology readable. Denise, my wife, has, read and listened to and edited every piece in this manuscript. She has been supportive and has contributed her excellent editorial skill. Kathy Smith, a friend, has also heard and read this manuscript, and she, too, has been inspiring. The fine folks at the Sutter Resource Library have been encouraging and supportive in many ways. So thank you, KD, Theresa, and Sharon.

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Introduction This selection of writings is mostly from the first two years of my participation in LAMP at the Sutter Resource Center’s Library. Many of them are in response to prompts involving an object or a poem. I believe that Chip, as group leader and one of Pat Schneider’s disciples, garnered quite a few exercises from her book, Writing Alone and With Others. Her workshops and the Amherst Artists and Writers Group also inspired him. Other writings are in response to people and events of the time that I was able to express as a writer. Some of the inspirations for these writings are a phrase or a line from a poem; some are discussed in the footnotes. The writings are somewhat loosely organized according to the following themes: Health Issues, Autobiographical, Family and Friends, and Life and Living. In the spirit of Pat Schneider and Chip Spann, I have observed and now report—in writing. Most of these writings are minimally edited, although I do include some before and after writings. There are a few that are incomplete; they are the beginnings of stories that you might see again later. I invite you to join me in my journey toward wholeness. If you find that you are drawn to a particular piece, please let me know. For the enjoyment of copy editors, I have left a few errors.

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Chapter 1 - Health Issues

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The Question You ask—How are you? What answer should I craft? The truth to me is boring. And you, you couldn’t handle the truth. Suffice it to say—I am OK. Any other answer would label. And then I would have to work work work, Yes, work real hard for you to see Me.

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We Become What We Pay Attention To John Crandall is here because he has not died. There were a number of times when an audience would have been certain of his demise. But in spite of heart attacks, surgeries, diabetes, thyroiditis, halitosis, degenerative gums and God knows what else—he endures. When met by old friends and acquaintances, he is regaled by their observation that he looks great—never better, never healthier. This is one of the reasons he remains alive and writing—in spite of it all. He needs the help of these opinions to nurture a healthy sense of denial.

The prompt for this prose poem was: “You are here because . . .”

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Work in Progress This is my chance to set the record straight. Anne Marie Sladewski did not cause my first heart attack—it was preordained. Whether we had danced or not, the big one was on its way. I admit to having a harmless crush on my sister-inlaw, and when we get together, about once a year, we have fun. Then we won’t see or talk to each other for months. Anyway, Denise’s brother Kevin’s wedding was the scene of this particular reunion, and since dancing is an integral part of weddings, that is what we did. Anne Marie and I were ready to play—hard. Most of me was in excellent shape—cigarettes were gone, excess weight was gone, and good habits had taken their place. High-impact or step aerobics occupied their daily niche. I had even managed to reverse my hypertensive trend. So I was ready, and we danced all night. No room for conversation, food, or alcohol, just “good ol’ foot-stompin’ fun.” I was able to ignore that burning in my chest, just as I had during aerobics, and kept dancing. Needless to say, that evening is one of my favorite memories. A week later, on my way to pick up my wife, Denise, for our daily aerobics class, my heartburn got bad —really bad. The doctors Denise worked with instantly corroborated her diagnosis: I was having a heart attack. So she took the wheel, and I got an E ticket ride to cardiology land. That fling with Anne Marie did more good than family members could imagine. She gave me reason to recover. To this day, 13 years later, there are some who would blame her for what my genetics did. As time went by, I became adept at the process of recovery, but that was not good enough. The heart disease 13

Poet Healed and diabetes and high blood pressure were for the most part held at bay by newer treatments. However, each positive change in lifestyle that I made seemed to herald another heart attack. Eventually I developed a phobia to ambulances, emergency rooms, needles and angioplasties. To this day, I avoid admitting that I have an elephant on my chest, or angina radiating to my jaw or arm, or getting out of breath easily, or yes, dammit, to having another heart attack, just to not go through that dreary process again. I needed a sense of control, so I held on to the hope that I could recover and all would be well. After a hiatus of about a year, I began to experience angina again and I made an appointment with my cardiologist. Because of her own stress, sex with my wife was sporadic at best. Saturday night promised a change for the better until Mr. Elephant landed in the middle of my chest. Suffice it to say that the evening was over. I took nitro, which helped but also confirmed the reality of the situation—my arteries were clogged again. They were clogged enough that some intervention would be called for. I hid my pain from Denise but could not hide my inability to finish. I finally admitted to my difficulties and got trucked away in an ambulance—shouldn’t have waited so long to make the damned appointment. Again, I am on the table, it is cold, and I am afraid as usual. Overhead, the bright lights belie the temperature. Beneath the painted drop ceiling, I can see the metal beams that hold all of the equipment suspended above and around me. Hanging to the left of me is a bank of monitors where the doctor will be able to see my vital signs. There is one 14

Poet Healed for the EKG (electrocardiogram), showing the familiar traces of my heartbeat, from twelve different leads. There are several others for viewing real time and delayed X-ray pictures of my heart. From experience, I can visualize, and feel, the progress of the probe as it enters my heart, searching for occlusions. I can remember, too, the warm and almost overwhelming feeling in my testicles when the doctor injects the radio-opaque dye. There are the usual smells of the antiseptic used to clean the room after the last patient, and then there is the smell of anesthetic and fear coming from my own breath. The “lead tent,” below the table to protect the cardiology team from radiation, is in place, as is the clear plastic (and lead) shield that will be between the doctor and me during the procedure. Above my head is the X-ray generator, which will be moved to above my chest at the appropriate time. The sharp pain in my left arm is the needle that carries the requisite saline solution and is the conduit for any anesthesia they may offer. Someone’s favorite music is playing in the background—Jimmy Buffet, I think. I have experienced this enough that it should be old hat. But that just makes it worse; I know what is coming, dread it and would like to run but won’t. “Are you cold?” the nurse asks. She has seen me shivering and thinks to quell it with a warm blanket. “Here —this should help,” she says. But it doesn’t help. I pray for the deliverance of sleep, but my lizard brain insists on maintaining awareness. I have had two shots of the anesthesiologist’s cocktail, and they are not working. I try to calm myself—if only half-heartedly—but can only hang on and wait for it to be over. In comes the doctor—he notices my awareness and calls jokingly to the anesthesiologist, “Better give him some more. He doesn’t even want to remember your face.” 15

Poet Healed She comes around and asks, “Is that so? I did not know I was that unattractive.” Not in the mood for flirtation, I simply grunt as she gives me another shot, but this one is ineffectual, too. As the time nears, I get more and more anxious until the doctor reaches towards my groin with the scalpel, and my lizard brain goes wild. My entire body tenses and refuses to believe that Phil is only being helpful—not trying to castrate me. The knife plunges in—I feel it passing through the fibers of my muscles. The crunch as he cuts the artery is almost loud enough to hear. I feel blood run down my leg as a tear runs down my face. I want to scream and beg them to stop, but I can’t seem to find my voice and can only hold the sides of the table with all my might. Besides, a small voice in the back of my head, which sounds like my father, tells me to “take it like a man” and “don’t be a baby” and “suck it up, boy.” And it is not over. Now it is time for the catheter, which I feel as it worms its way to my heart. This is an alien invader that I am supposed to welcome. Phil tells me that we are there and begins the first angioplasty. As the balloon expands, so does the pain—say 100 on a scale of 1 to 10. Time to go—enough of this. So I back quietly away. It gets quieter, the beep beep beep of the heart monitor is silent, and the pain is gone. I get a glimpse down that tunnel with the light at the end that people describe as their near death experience. It feels as if I am being denied entrance, as if it is not my turn yet. But it is nice here, and I am going to settle in, no matter what they say. I barely have time to get myself settled when the nurse yells in my ear—“John, you quit fucking around and get back here!”—and surprised, I do. I am less than happy 16

Poet Healed because the pain returns, too. “It should get better soon, honey,” she says. “We just gave you some morphine.” The doctor comes to my head and informs me that “you are part of the 4% who get to go right from angioplasty to open heart surgery,” and that “your wife will be allowed in to say goodbye in a moment.” “Goodbye,” I think, “that certainly does not bode well.” That is my last memory—spread-eagled on the table, naked and finally pain-free, feeling embarrassed because Denise and our friend Kathy will have to see me in that state. I wake up and my hands are tied to the bed, which pisses me off. And a tube is down my throat breathing for me, which pisses me off even more. And I cannot see because someone has my fucking glasses. Denise puts my glasses on, and I begin to calm down. Medicos, who each have some demand that I must fulfill in order to be left alone, surround me. “Breathe, John, breathe. If you don’t breathe on your own, we can’t take the tubes from your throat.” “Don’t move around, John—you will pull out your lines.” “If you don’t calm down, you will tear your stitches.” “As soon as we remove the breathing tube and you can talk, we can take the restraints off.” “If you move your legs too much, you will dislodge your catheter.” All I want is to go back to that dark, quiet place where I was hiding moments ago. But what really has my attention, what really pisses me off the most, is that an alien symbiote has been ripped

Poet Healed unceremoniously from my body. I have been cut literally from head to toe, and I really, really hurt. My “recovery starts now,” they say, and that pisses me off because in my experience, all the recovery in the world will not change the fact that my body creates cholesterol and that I can expect to have heart disease for the rest of my life—dammit. But recover I must, because if I quit living, I will have to die and I won’t be able to dance anymore.

This essay is a combination of about four different writings combined to tell the story.

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Cold —naked and cold

Waiting for the anesthetic to take One shot, two When will they begin working Everyone is ready but me And they are beginning Stop I say—not yet Another shot Then the scalpel cold and sharp and Crunch —the artery is pierced and blood flows down my leg as a tear runs down my face

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Quiet 1 One time I died. Then it was quiet until I heard, “John, you quit fucking around and get back here.” I don’t think the nurse wanted to lose another one that day. I found out later that the patient before me had “died on the table.” It was like turning off the water—the silence was so profound. I liked it there and did not want to come back, but I did—I always do. Being quiet reminds me of being dead—-not necessarily a good or bad thing, just different. Coming out of anesthesia can be quiet for a while, but then the noise starts and the pain that I had run from returns. Makes you wish it were quiet.

This prose poem is as written in a workshop.

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Quiet 2 One time I died and it was quiet. Then, “John, you quit fucking around and get back here.” The nurse did not want to lose another one that day; the patient before me had “died on the table.” It was like turning off the water. I liked it there and did not want to come back, but I did—I always do. Being quiet reminds me of being dead— not necessarily a good or bad thing, just different. Coming out of anesthesia can be quiet for a while but then the noise and the pain return. Makes you wish it were quiet.

This poem is a reformation of the previous piece.

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When the Doctor Told Me I Was Ill It was like an immense shock. I felt galvanized. I was a new person. All my old trivial selves fell away and I was reduced to essence. I began to look around me with new eyes. Anatole Broyard

That may have been true the first time—it was so long ago and I have gotten that type of news so often, I don’t remember if I was galvanized or became a new person. The last time was another instance of my “suspicions” being verified, with a course of treatment “to be determined.” What I noticed was the reaction of the clinical staff but most poignantly my doctor’s response. We have had this (or one like it) discussion innumerable times over the past 13 years, but it always seems to surprise and disappoint him. He doesn’t disbelieve me when I talk about angina and tell him which arteries are affected. He has seen me be right too many times for that. It is as if his carefully built belief in my restoration to health is crushed by the news. He is the one who seems frightened and galvanized. I can see his essence and can almost see his metamorphism—into what I don’t know. For his sake I don’t act sick and try to put a good face on the situation.

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Disgusted You are disgusted—by me? What did I do? I am sorry I was crying. Is that why you despise my presence? Your recital drips disdain, you tell me what I know, as your peers grant me status as alumni. I disgust you—I am sorry I am not your Adonis, I cannot help that I am just a 50-year-old boy with a broken heart. I bathed and prepared as if for a date, on automatic you recite your spiel ignoring Me. Then, “do you think you will manage my treadmill?” As if I wouldn’t die trying? As if my death would be another way to inconvenience you, and further demean me— in your view.

This piece is in response to an interaction that I had with a healthcare professional (?).

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You Took Aim careful exacting aim and though warned you sent your bullet straight to the heart of my happiness and missed. now I tell you to move on. try to find your own happiness and for god’s sake don’t try to shoot or trap or control it. just let it be.

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There is a Pain You cannot touch It weakens me Just listen and become me Touch me as if I were you Your indifference saps my will to live, it sticks my emotions and will Kill Me Pain pulls me in to places I cannot bear to be Any beauty allows escape A kind touch or gentle word transforms Death welcomed is pushed back To wait her turn

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In Spite of Evidence to the Contrary …I am not going to die. Even if this physical manifestation does cease to exist—the adventure will go on. In fact, I look forward to being face to face with my past and finding out just what I meant to accomplish by being me. The lesson that I have learned from all of my brushes with death is that I will be allowed to leave only when this feature movie has ended—not a second before. Understanding that I chose this life and all of its lessons has given me a sense of accountability that colors everything I see and do and have had done to me. They are all a part of something I wanted to learn. Uncharitable people help me learn charity; unkind people help me learn kindness, and so on. Because of all this I have more patience and have learned to live in the here and now, paying absolute attention to what I am doing at the time. My interests and attention seem to become narrower by the day. Long ago I lost interest in world news as the modern media presents it, and found it a distraction. Now I actively avoid being bombarded with information about the lessons of others. If I were to pay serious attention to politics or world hunger or environmental issues or or or, then I would be compelled to act on them, or at the least be distracted from the here and now. Even Jon Stewart is becoming too newsy for me, tempting me to do something about the ills of the world. I have learned that I cannot save the world and that I am not master of the universe.

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He Was a Master of the Occult …not because he set out to be. It just turned out that way. Always healthy looking, he appears vigorous. You only recognize the heart failure when you examined his legs or x-rays of his chest—then you knew it was more than “just a cold.” He ate right and exercised, but he gained weight. Without blood tests you wouldn’t know of his diabetes. The medications he took kept his thyroid levels up, so you might miss the fact that Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis had done his thyroid in. Without careful scrutiny of his blood levels, you might mistake high lipid levels for over consumptions when the real problem boiled down to genetics. The cardiologist trusted him to know himself, but the insurance company required a Cardiolite Stress Test. Only with x-rays would you see the numerous stents holding his cardiac arteries open—patent, I think they call it. He appeared to tolerate the EECP treatments until staff found him helplessly crying due to the discomfort. Most people see a young retiree who is thriving, so they don’t know that he thinks of himself as a “dead man walking” and is finally comfortable with it.

The title was the prompt for this poem.

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Depression Depression rubs against me like a cat —purring. Another bout of heart problems looms and other health issues hover in the background. Yet I am happy. Why? I know life is fleeting and happiness even more so, but I make the effort and can usually push the doubts away. And just be in the ever perfect present. Memories of troubled times lurk like shadows and “illness” is always just around the corner. But I am embroiled with learning and doing new things. I live in a constant state of adventure and feel immortal. I have cheated death numerous times. So for now, I make it my job to experience as much as possible. Sooner or later it is going to end. The urgency of my exploration is rooted in the unknowing. I don’t know when the end will arrive, Just that it will sooner or later. So for now I give a toast to life and drink deeply with an unquenchable thirst.

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On Dieting food has always been a comfort sometimes too much so I have to watch what I eat and balance my diet —so they say— and I do because compliance is easy but I would rather balance genetics

Poet Healed The prompt for this writing was “food.”

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Should I Eat a Cookie? Will I eat a cookie? How many seconds will be taken off my life if I do? Will the sugar and fats be immediately subtracted from my time on this planet? Or will the mere moderate enjoyment add to the other side of the scale? Will it be worth it? Will it taste good? Can I stop with one? How many cookies would a cookie monster eat if a cookie monster could eat cookies? For now, just the one, please!

I forget the prompt, but I do remember the cookies. They were dessert for a workshop led by Naomi Shihab Nye.

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Boom Time stops Eyes close Fire rushes past Time starts Pain Not too much Relief Fire Who has always been Remains my friend And a strict teacher

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Death Toys As a cat with a mouse Stands over my shoulder Plucks at my heart strings Creating a mournful, longing song; Keening, angina cries for recognition. Death has the ancestors on his side. He lists their names as proof that there is no escape. I would turn and embrace him were he not just toying Yes, I resist.

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The Sun Has Deigned to Make an Appearance Where has he been? Away too long, if you ask me. These human animals require a certain minimum of sunlight if we are to survive. Otherwise, we need to be in hibernation so we can dream away the darkness until spring flowers mitigate the dreariness of life. As I sit and allow my skin to create the vitamin D that it craves, I can feel the difference on many levels. It makes me wonder why I live in a climate that is sunless in winter. As the rays work their magic, I can feel the aches and pains of the day evaporate like drips of water falling from an icicle.

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Questions So many questions My heart was broken not from love lost but from loss of a dream. At age thirty-seven my life lost me so I could escape the pain of a broken heart. Then with the help of morphine and at the urging of a nurse I found life And pain. So, what did I learn? What should I do with this newfound life? Where will it take me? And me—why me?

The prompt for this poem was “Questions.” It was written at Naomi Shihab Nye’s writing workshop in Sacramento.

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Getting Old Hey, wake up This soft bed isn’t so soft any more. It feels like we have been sleeping on a gravel road, every one of us ribs wants up—now. Yeah, and this shoulder needs to move. Gently, gently, I tell you, and don’t put any weight on me we’re not young any more you hear? Ooohf—you forgot again, didn’t you? This is your back speaking, and you can’t just jump up like that. But hurry, I tell you, or there will be a puddle. I told you not to drink that water at 3:00 am. Now get a move on. Easy does it, and put some slippers on, you fool. I need softness, and you don’t need to injure us. Hey, when you are done with all of that, I need breakfast. This diet you are on leaves me cold in the mornings. Too bad, I am going back to sleep.

The prompt for this one was “talk to your body.” I think it was at Naomi Shihab Nye’s workshop.

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Needing Nothing My heart stopped. In that great absence I found nothing. This was a relief, a respite, a rest. Then there was a tone, low and sweet. And I could see a thread, a red thread that seemed to glow gold. From far far away, came another thread —it was blue, and with it came a soft whispering as of many voices. The two threads intertwined loosely then tightly then loosely and as they did so the sounds began to work off each other creating new sounds and the beginning of a rhythm. Hours later, from below a green thread approached and brought its own vibration. The three threads joined and split then were joined by a fourth 37

Poet Healed —I think it was orange.

Eventually, other threads joined the nascent rope, which contributed their own style of pulsation. Of course the sight and sound grew cacophonous making me wish for blankness again. Eventually peace came, and I found myself wishing for the vibrations. I woke up needing nothing.

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Quilt Each moment you are being healed. Everybody has pain, but you cannot touch them. It weakens people to feel isolated. They touch me as if they don’t know anyone is in this body. Indifference. Another set of problems. Let yourself know something. Creativity and healing are very close, healing themselves and each other, dealing with pain, fear, and loneliness. The worst thing would be for them to miss it. Integrity as I am—self-acceptance is chosen. A bad emotion is a stuck emotion. Anger was my will to live, a demand for change. Nothing numbs the mind like pain. Love evoking the will to live. I think all emotions are positive. Show up, pay attention, tell the truth, and do not become attached. We just listen and become who we are. Healing happens.

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Alone I must live as if I have less than six months left. As a matter of fact, I live as if every day were my last —it could be. So every day I choose to be with friends and lover. I say farewell to them as if it is goodbye, not hastalavista. My life is my meditation —Even sitting here writing is meditation to me. Recovery is just a reprieve from the final sentence. I believe that I will be recovering for the rest of my life. So again, I have made choices and am where I would like to be. I go places, I do things, and I rejoice in yet another day. I don’t really worry about being remembered. I just hope that my presence on this planet has had a positive effect on at least one person. Meditation, recovery, death, life, sickness, health. Who are these people? I hear their voices on the wind when I am alone.

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Fighting I am only interested in living. Many years ago, a white coat said—you are sick! Crushed, I cried, thinking to die. Sick is bad—right? So I fought. White coat said you are still sick, and there is more. Again I cried, thinking to die. Instead, not ready to die, I fought harder. Crises came and went and the white coat said, “Well, now . . .” Not ready to be the illness, I fought even harder. Then I heard Buddha say, “You strengthen what you fight,” and Sri Ramakrishna say, “There is no evil or good in the world—those are just judgments of the ego,” Then I heard Christ say, “The meek shall inherit the earth,” and someone else said, “You are not your body,” and another, “You chose the trials that you are experiencing on this earth,” yet another, “Only the here and now is real; tomorrow never comes and 41

Poet Healed yesterday is a fiction of memory.” And the white coats find new diagnoses to inflict on me. But now, I can accept that my body is still sick and may stay that way. So I quit fighting to live.

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Observe and Report My life opens when I die. When dead, I have no control over ego. My life opens when I live. When called back from the edge of eternity, I have no control. My life opens when I give up control. When I surrender, I abrogate control. Shedding the snakeskin of life, I am reborn. With chapter’s end, there is a beginning in the never-ending story. In all I fare best with the realization that my purpose is to observe and report.

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What Skeleton of Dust? This one I carry? What would you have me do, put it down and let the breezes blow it to heaven? Or scatter it in the garden, so the rose blooms are more fragrant? Should I feed the river and let the fishes feast? Where would I be without this framework of ashes? How could I survive the emptiness of hands without purpose? No, I think it belongs with me on this, my journey —so I will carry it awhile. When again the journey requires space for a companion, then I will give it up.

Inspired by a poem of Jack Hirschman’s

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Please Wait I said to the wanting creature inside me what is this river you want to cross? Can’t you see the storm clouds on the horizon, feel their soul? Why not just lie here in the clover and watch the bees, oh and the birds, why not just lie back and see their music? The water is so clear and fast and cold, why not just watch the finned travelers? What is it you see on the other side that is worth giving up all of this? It looks lonely over there— why leave these lives and lovers for strangers? Can’t you just wait until tomorrow? I think such a change would be more propitious then, or better yet what is wrong with next week, or next year or even never? I am fond of this meadow and don’t really want to leave.

I think another of Jack Hirschman’s poems inspired this one.

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I Am Here, Yet I belong there in that great expanse where the sun is shining and warm and there are mountains in the distance. I belong there among the blowing wheat watching the clouds form in the distance. I belong there hearing the wind blow in counterpoint to the song of the blackbird. I belong there under the ancient oak tree whose leaves have long since blown away. I belong there with my bare feet in the warm earth. I belong there healthy and happy and whole. I belong there with tears of joy running down my face. I belong there, yet, I am here.

The prompt was “I belong there.”

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Frog Soup “Come on in, the water is fine,” says life. Come on—it is safe. “Have I ever lied to you? Just feel it —see, it is warm.” So in we jump and out we pop, cold, and crying, smacked on the butt, reluctant to breathe. “If you live right, and eat right, and don’t fool around, you can have a nice existence,” says life. So you try, and for the most part are able to live right, and eat right, and you fool around as little as possible. For a while this works, but then death starts to turn up the heat. First you have an illness. The white coats distract you, while death increases the fire.

Poet Healed Then some other syndrome, more white coats, more pills —more heat. Once you almost join death But the white coats intervene —you are not done yet. So you continue to live in spite of the infirms. And every time you get used to the heat, death redoubles it. Until finally your frog is cooked, and you can escape life.

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The Joke Illness is not all tragedy—much of it is funny. Anatole Broyard

I started to cry and the whole world started laughing. The joke was on me. Well, really it is because I got exactly what I asked for. No, I did not ask for all of these aches and pains and symptoms. I believe I asked for an understanding of how it feels to be healthy and got just enough illness for comparison’s sake. This is a human body and those expressions of unhealth do distract, but in moments of clarity I can and do laugh at “another fine mess” I have got me in.

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Should He? He has had a Heart Attack. Should he be exercising like that? He has Arthritis. Should he be blacksmithing? He has Flat Feet and Shin Splints. Should he be walking that far or that fast? He has Depression. Should he be left alone? He has Diabetes. Should we offer dessert? He has Sunburn. Should he be in the sun? He has Congestive Heart Failure. Should he be eating salt? He has Thyroiditis. Should he not take his medicine? He has High Blood Pressure. Should he be on that ladder? He has life. Should he be allowed to live?

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I Want to Be Remembered Like the smell of a rose on a warm summer day I want to be remembered for my feeling Like the glow of a bloom I want to be remembered for my health Like cool green leaves I want to be remembered for having cared Like the thorns on a cactus in bloom I want to be remembered for my wit Like freshly mown lawn I want to be remembered for my love Like mist on the water I want to be remembered for being there Like petals snowing from spring trees I want to be remembered for my foibles Like leaves of orange and yellow and red I want to be remembered for my strength Like the crunch of a ripe red apple I want to be remembered for my sweetness Like icicles on the eaves I want to be remembered for my peace Like a brilliant aurora borealis I want to be remembered for being me

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Chapter 2 - Autobiographical Works

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Where Are You From (Coming From?) I am from my mother and father and their mothers and fathers. I am from the sum of all my experiences. I am from the choice to be human. I am from the muons, protons, electrons and on and on that make up my physical and not so physical self. I am from my cat that resents the absence of my lap. I am from my beloved—but not for long. I am from a cold and foggy outside I am from South Sacramento, California, Biloxi, Mississippi, Northern Michigan, Southern Michigan, Oregon, Japan, Korea, and many other transient locations. I am from Psychology, Masonry, 54

Poet Healed Electronics, Refrigeration, Fire Equipment Systems, X-ray, Surgery, Artistry, Metalsmithery, Pottery, and more. I am from Walking, Running, Skin Diving, Hiking, Biking, Sailing, and Skiing. I am from Writing.

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Names Expectations and responsibilities Responded to by ego Swami says—I am that

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Names All names bring with them an expectation or responsibility, I have been called by many: Mirrraho (pronounced Me-rrra-hoe) Mole Big black bear Lazy dumb ass Idiot Stupid Sir George Junior Mr. Crandall Patient Executive Director Counselor Advocate Poet Author Metalsmith Brother Uncle Husband Safety Adventurer Partner Friend Neighbor Human White Man Honkey Retiree 57

Poet Healed That I respond to any of these is a choice of ego. None of them have I chosen. I think Swami is right, “I am that.”

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Things I had Forgotten If you don’t all shut up, you will drive me to Pontiac (Hospital for the criminally insane). If you step on a crack, you will break your mother’s back. Don’t ask Uncle Ernie how he feels. Masturbation will make you blind, cause hair to grow on your knuckles, and give you a pimple on your temple—of course, if you check, you are automatically guilty.

The prompt for this writing was “Things We have Forgotten,” by Adrian C. Louis.

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Mud Puddle As the storm clouds moved east, the sun came out, bringing back the humidity. I didn’t know or care about all of that, just that the mud puddles were unbearably attractive. Somehow my mother knew the importance of those puddles. She stripped me down to my underwear and set me free. I ran and jumped and splashed and wiggled and wriggled and squirmed through mud puddle after mud puddle. I sensed a presence. Someone was watching me. A boy my age was standing by a run-down trailer, sucking his thumb and watching me. Watching him was his mother and with her, my mother. I watched them watch me as I partly submerged my face in the soupy water and made motorboat noises. It was too much for the boy; he started running toward my beloved puddle but was called back by his mother. His look of disappointment was profound but seemed to belong to his face. I watched as our mothers talked, and I made a few big splashes, just for fun. Again he tried to join me, and again he was called back. But this time his mother squatted to his level and started removing his clothes. It was not long before there was a monstrous geyser of mud and water heralding his arrival. I now had a companion and a competitor. We were like two otters in our great zeal for play. Swimming and splashing and running and jumping, we made the rounds and deepened each and every mud puddle in the trailer park. When the mosquitoes started coming, we were gathered up by mothers, who seemed to appear from thin air, and taken to the washhouse. Our simultaneous bath in the big cement sink got our mothers as wet as we were.

Poet Healed Wrapped in big, warm fluffy towels, we boys were toted to our homes by mothers whose eyes glinted with joy.

During a recent workshop with Pat Schneider, we were exploring creative nonfiction and fiction. This is the result of one of the exercises. A first version of the story is a fiction of memory in response to the instruction to write about something that happened. In this, the second version, we were asked to introduce a fictional character.

Poet Healed Further development, especially dialogue, would vastly improve this work—coming soon.

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Summer of 1956 3601 Corbett Avenue, Detroit, Michigan 48082. A new brick house wherein reside John and Francis Treuer and her father John, who is on his deathbed. Visiting are John and Francis’s daughter Magdalene, her husband George and their son John, age 3. It is a typical summer Sunday afternoon—hot and humid. John Treuer, known to his grandson as Poppa, is putzing in the garage and listening to the Detroit Tigers. The sound coming from his transistor radio drifts to the bedroom where young John is napping. A cool breeze softly awakens him, and he hears an airplane on approach to the city airport. These sounds are all comforting, but not the ones coming from other parts of the house—his parents are fighting again. He gets up quietly and sneaks out to the yard where he finds Poppa on a ladder painting the garage —again. “Poppa, me,” he says. The grandfather looks down and sees the image of himself as a child. Worried that the boy is outside alone but not scolding or chiding, he gets down from the ladder and picks up a coffee can and a paintbrush. With the boy in hand, he walks to the water spigot and turns it on, showing him how to fill the can with exactly 2 inches (the second line on the can) of water. Then he asks John to please help him by painting the driveway with the coldest of water. He promises that by the time that the driveway is painted, Ma (his grandmother Francis) will be home and his parents friends again.

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—a photograph— Japanese earthquake

In this one you are naked and running. The earth shook and so did you. Asleep you were and dreaming man dreams when the earthquake hit. Ten o’clock in the morning was midnight for you. It was hot and muggy and you were (un)dressed for it. Mom and her friends were having tea or coffee or whatever they did. Imagine their surprise when you went streaking by. Not easily embarrassed, you were this time.

The prompt for this writing was “describe a photograph from your past—real or imagined.”

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Fishing Trip It was when we were living in Japan—and if you know our family history, you know that this was a happy time. My memory of this day with Dad begins with our arrival at the river. We had been there before for a picnic lunch prior to visiting a local orphanage. Anyway, on this day we were fishing, fly-fishing. I remember thrashing my rod back and forth, trying to get my fly where the fish were. Their exact location remained a mystery to both my father and me that day. Since I was so little, I had to stay on the near side of the river while Dad reconnoitered the other side. Surprisingly I stayed focused and continued fishing while Dad was sneaking up on the pool below the waterfall. He had just achieved a precarious balance from which to fish when it happened. My fly was no longer sailing through the air. I shrieked, which made my dad jump— then he fell in the water, which at any other time would have boded badly for me. Once he swam to shallow water, he made his way over to me to help “land the fish.” When it was finally close enough, he dropped the rod and fell to the ground laughing—our only catch that day was a frog. On the way home we stopped at a vegetable stand and bought a watermelon—we couldn’t go home emptyhanded, now could we?

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Happier memories A Yellow box with Red writing— “Pop Pop.” In Blue “Snappers—a novel trick item. Bang. Drop it! Throw it! Step on it! Snap it!” When I was a kid, my dad loved to surprise us with these by throwing them to the ground at our feet— Bang/Snap—we would jump. Somehow the surprise was fun. Mom did not appreciate his hiding them under the lid of the toilet so they would explode when she sat down, which is why we were not allowed our own for a long time. As a matter of fact, they were verboten inside the house. But we were allowed caps for toy pistols. I never wanted the pistols but grew to love the smell of the caps as they exploded with a pop. My favorite way to explode them was with a magnifying glass and the sun. Boy, that looking glass showed me a lot about the world. There were many years between my childhood adventures and adolescent rediscovery of those “trick noise makers.” I was going through my adolescent mad scientist stage when I next came upon that little yellow box. Of course, I had to know how they worked and, of course, my dad knew and told me: Take laboratory grade iodine and laboratory grade ammonia— mix the two into a super saturated solution, then allow the ammonia to evaporate. The resultant crystals go “Snap, Pop” when disturbed. When concentrated, they tend to go bang. With this information, we were able to give Dad a comeuppance (and get revenge for our mom) by placing 66

Poet Healed some of the mixture on the sidewalk to evaporate. When all was ready, we enticed him to come out front in his bare feet. You can guess what happened next.

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I Will Not Forget My First Brain Concussion The family—all eight of us (and the dog) —had piled into the station wagon on Friday after Dad got off work and drove to Grandmother’s house. This might not sound like much of a feat until you learn that we lived in Detroit and my father’s mother lived in upper New York state. Our arrival in the morning was heralded by all of the customary kissing and hugging that family tradition calls for. Then it was naptime for Dad, which meant that it was quiet time for the kids. Fortunately, our aunt glommed on to my sisters, all four of them, and went shopping or did some other kind of girl business. I was happy to be left out and anxious to give up child-rearing duties, usually conferred on me because of my place in the birth order.

This is the beginning of an essay about a brain concussion I experienced. I will complete it in future writings.

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Chapter 3 - Family and Friends

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Dining time And living is easy Breaking bread Breaking fast Eating to live or living to eat Friends share and become closer

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Who to Tell What? Who can I tell? What should I tell? Cousin Bonnie is dying and doesn’t know how to quit but wants to Lynn is rebirthing herself after death by stroke Eric has hung himself twice and so I sat shiva at the psychiatric ward Larry is deathly ill but makes plans for a new business Chris, whose cancer was beaten into chemical submission, has had a remission Ruth is being given chemotherapy Angina reminds me that my time is short

Eric appeared to have recovered and returned to living. Recently he stopped taking his Lithium and started drinking with the expected consequences: He got into a fight with his wife and was arrested for domestic violence. Larry Walters died and is missed by all. Bonnie, too, has gone to her maker. Chris has had a relapse and is again undergoing a course of chemotherapy. I have had yet another heart attack and, after having several more stents placed in my cardiac arteries, am receiving EECP treatments.

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Dreams and Memories They are the same to me— This is why I can never be certain. Having one, I yearn for the other. Awake I yearn for the dream, not sleep. Even dreaming I dream. When I awake from this life to another, will I remember this one? I just wonder which dream I will wake to and if it will feel like this one. Death is easy if all you are doing is waking up.

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Dreamers Dreaming Dreams Of a butterfly dreaming of me. Where does the butterfly end and do I begin? Does it matter—all of it feels real to the butterfly and to me? I hold my lover’s hand in that interstitial land and know who it is. She is the same as Denise and as a butterfly. I wish she could remember her butterfly life—we have so many adventures there. But she doesn’t, so I remember for her and keep both lives alive.

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Cancer As I walk in the room, I see Bonnie not as I remember her, but she is still recognizable. Having spent most of her life in service to others, now she is the patient. Asleep, but not resting, her lips flutter and her legs seem restless. Her head is bald from her recent chemotherapy, and her skin is puffy from edema. When she wakes, she is confused but eventually recognizes me. It has been a couple years since we last saw each other. So what vagaries of fate brought her to this condition? As she relates it, her demise began 10 years ago when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. It seems that the treatment (“a double-edged sword,” as she called it) she received usually results in Hodgkin’s disease about 10 years after the “cure.” It appears that her genetics also caught up with her in the form of diabetes and heart disease. Around Christmas she started experiencing the symptoms of congestive heart failure: shortness of breath, rapid heartbeat, and dizziness, and she was hospitalized. The progression of her illnesses greatly sped up. Her cancer returned, her immune system severely compromised, and her right arm, broken in a fall at the hospital, refuses to heal. All of this is an awful burden but she remains more concerned about the children than herself.

This essay is about my cousin Bonnie Salma, who has died. She left a legacy of loving children who emulate her unconditional love for their fellow man.

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Who? Who is this self—the one feeding her? Her self lies flat, lips moving in quiet conversation. Her eyes are focused on a distant vista, watching events unfold in another land. A clearing of my throat inspires her temporary return to the here and now. Unsure of the person speaking, we, this soul lying in the bed, and I address her physical condition. She mumbles her need for a drink and feebly lifts her head. I hold the milk carton as she sips through the straw. I feel the creamy cold as it travels down her throat. A little Jell-O, green with chunks of fruit, becomes a final feast.

This poem is also about my cousin Bonnie Salma.

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Lynne Sat There Crying Because the stroke had taken her speech Because the stroke had not taken her intelligence Because she could no longer read Because she could no longer write Because her hands cramp Because she was amazing grace Because her things had been thrown willy-nilly into boxes —again Because even in the chaos, she is a neat person Because she keeps ending up with crazy women Because her family couldn’t/wouldn’t help Because she had to move again Because she was overwhelmed by the memories Because… Because… Lynne Aldridge is a fellow writer who has become a close friend. She suffers from stroke-induced aphasia.

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whwhwhwhweeeeedddttt weeed Ohhh, John, she cries. Watching her progress with the aphasia program had brought a silent tear. But when she starts crying, I can’t help but join. For the first time in four years she has hope. Yes, the stroke took her mobility her strength her speech her ability to be independent her ability to communicate But the biggest thing it took was her hope —that was a terrible loss. People came running to see why she was crying. When they understood, they joined. Soon everyone in the library knew and cried for joy because of her glimpse of hope.

This poem is about a success of Lynne Aldridge’s that I was witness to. It is a testament to the tenacity with which she has approached her recovery.

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Peace Comes The light in his eyes dims He is resting Now we can, too. The fire of cancer raged The pain was not enough There was still a spark The end was not here! Prognosis was bleak But not Hector There was still a spark in his eye.

Hector was a very special friend to me and to everyone who came into contact with him. He remains in the heart of all who knew him.

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A Metamorphosis With dignity, peace comes at last The light dims as he does He is at rest and so are we His legacy Flashes of sorrow, Joyful remembrances, Tons of gratitude, Immeasurable respect, Countless friends A final lesson, A cycle complete The nymph must become a dragonfly So to will I Thank you, Hector My man dog friend

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The Piano Crying from joy, she decorates the house with her music. It wanders from room to room, creating light and color. Most of all it touches my heart, and I am transported to a peaceful place. I am grateful that a mere piano can bring such joy to her and beauty to my life. All before a single note is sounded.

Denise was finally able to get her baby grand. The look on her face would have been enough, but now I am blessed with her music.

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For Seventy Years Born within hours of each other They have been friends As cousins They have been friends Raising separate families They have been friends Burying husbands They have been friends No matter the journeys taken They have been friends With a decision to celebrate We ask you to join us In rejoicing and remembering The birthdays of Janet Smith and Janey Guessner

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Family Secrets The door closed with a bang And I never told anybody Darkness, the stench of fear, the ugliness of self left behind And I never told anybody Light, beauty, art are all that remain And I tell everybody

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Secrets, Killing Secrets Out of laziness, fear? Blossoms remain unopened, leaves uncurled. The flower withers and dies because I never told anybody. Secrets revealed, Flowers are fragment, the sun shines, and fruit ripens. Because I told somebody.

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Patrick James Martin Patrick died last Friday. He left a loving wife, two adult children and two grandchildren. At the age of 63 he remained a caricature of a burnt-out hippy. With a checkered past and too many drugs, his mind was not the one he was born with and his body only worse. When my sister Marjorie called to say that Patrick was gone, I found myself unmoved. This emotional distance was one I knew I would have to explore. I was never close to Pat and never felt an affinity for his lifestyle, but I guess I do feel grateful to him. Grateful because he treated Marge well and because he was a support for her. You see, Marge was abused by our father and needed something nice in her life. Even though they both relied on drugs more than I thought appropriate, they complemented each other. They were happily married for 23 years.

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Intake I care for you, and I know you as well as I know myself. I surprise you because I can predict your past and remember your future. NO, I don’t sleep under your bed —I don’t need to. I can tell you what your wife said to “make you” hit her and I was not even there. I know that your children are not doing well at home or at school. I have felt depression and heard your suicidal ideation a million times before. Yet I sit here and listen.

Poet Healed My only agenda is to convince you that you are worth the effort. Gentle rejoinders that things will get better do violence to you. So I acknowledge that this seems like the end of the world. Because I have seen others return, I know that this approach works and hope that maybe next week we can learn something new together.

I dedicate this poem to all of the clients who I came to know at the Western Institute of Therapeutic Studies.

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I Cannot Remember My First Love Because my attention keeps returning to last night and I am numb. She entered my classroom and my mind froze. Assembling my persona, I asked her to join me in the hall. Bruised and battered, she stood before me. “What now?” I asked. “I still love him,” she said. “And I her,” said his voice in my head. I ask more questions, not for their answers, but for the awareness they might bring. “He does awful things to me and my children,” she said. “I love her with all my heart,” said the voice. “Someone is sure to die soon,” I said. In chorus I heard, “But we cannot leave each other.” The voice said, “I have a temper, sure, but those are my children.” “You are killing them with your love,” I said to her and the voice in my head. How I wish he were here to witness the carnage of their love.

The ripples of this violence spread out to affect many people.

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Helping Others, We Say Thank You Though limping, he was walking briskly. Obviously late for something important, he was dressed well but walking in a neighborhood where every house has at least three cars. To add to his incongruity, he was African American, again something not often seen here. “Where are you going?” I asked. He immediately looked apprehensive (another clue that he was not from around here). “To River Parkway,” was his reply. “Can I give you a ride?” I asked him. Warily and with a quick look at his phone (to check the time) he accepted, saying, “I am trying to reach the 9:40.” We got in and started off. I asked where he would be catching the bus. He said “downtown” as my phone began to ring. I excused myself to answer. Chip agreed to let me call him back. I asked my passenger for more information. He said, “I can take light rail from there to 65th and Folsom.” Having been fed this much information of his ultimate destination—a temporary agency on Howe Road— I let him know that my travels would take me near 65th and would be glad to take him that far. The look of relief on his face was thanks enough for me. Now that he felt safe, he began to tell me his story. He had raised two children as a single parent, noting that no two children grow up the same. His son was in his final year of college. “He is going to be an engineer, you see.” His daughter, though, had made some bad choices and now his grandchild was in foster care, bringing him back to Sacramento. He was here so that he could be near his 89

Poet Healed grandchildren. The courts would not allow him to return with them to North Carolina, so he had pulled up roots and moved here. Today he had a job interview he could not be late for and was grateful not to be at the mercy of the public transportation system.

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I Hope I Die Warmed by the Life I Tried to Live Each day dedicated to the betterment of someone —anyone. I watch the faces of my peers grow square with age. Their skin turns to parchment, and I am taken by the beauty I see. Then the sagging. Everyone seems to be affected by this sag, which I somehow find comforting. Life and death take their toll. Now I am asked by women for the secret of my shiny gray hair —and am flattered.

This writing was prompted by “I Hope I Die Warmed by the Life I Tried to Live”— another poem I cannot find a reference for.

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Chapter 4 - Life and Living

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Why Are You Here? What is your task—why are you here? Can you describe this? When you feel excitement, joy or fear Can you describe this? When a warm clean towel is wrapped around your shivering form Can you describe this? When the air sings with the coming of fall Can you describe this? When your heart is full of the love of another Can you describe this? When you and your lover lie quietly on the bed Can you describe this? When the creaks and groans remind you of your age Can you describe this? When you find yourself to be the oldest living relative Can you describe this? When your cat sleeps on your lap—warm and purring Can you describe this? When you realize you haven’t eaten and aren’t hungry Can you describe this? When you realize that you are alive Can you describe this?

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Quilting Quilting is not for the faint of heart. I knew that going in but the reality of it shocked me. Even me. Now I don’t consider myself one of those mamby-pamby sock stitchers, but that is what it felt like when it came to throw stitches. Why, those women were a marvel to behold. Their fingers danced across the quilt as if possessed. The needles almost flew from stitch to stitch. Close your mouth, boy… There are laws about that, and if you walk around dragging your tongue like that, you will be force to go outside to chop wood or some such. For now just sit down and see what you can do with this simple little corner. You can do that, can’t you? Well, I did, and before long I was able to keep up with the best of them. That was when the fun really began.

The sentences that are underlined were the prompt for this essay. We were given the first to get started and then were to incorporate the second while keeping the story contiguous.

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I Chose Not to be Kind Today Did they not deserve kindness, that couple in the broken car? I could have easily offered them advice— the man fumbling under the hood acting as if he knew what was wrong and his partner depending on him.

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Singing the Light Singing the light words fly from my throat Singing the light music roams the night Singing the light deeds do themselves Singing the light joy swims through love Singing the light love flows like lava Singing the light lust follows them home Singing the light night follows day follows night Singing the light death comes to pass Singing the light… Singing the light… Singing the light…

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Marta Sat with Her Head Thrown Back Her torso was arched and her legs were akimbo but modestly so. She was occupied with absorbing as much of the spring sun as she could in the little time she had left. The breeze, when it came, cooled the moisture that formed on her upper lip. She followed its caress from the little hairs on the nape of her neck to the cloth of her sundress as it fluttered against her breasts. The coolness of the breeze and the silkiness of the dress caused her nipples to harden. The breeze continued playfully down to caress her inner thighs, almost as Andre had last night. Beginning to be aroused, she felt the almost pleasurable soreness where he had been with his thrusting hardness. As she lay there reminiscing, other places where he had aroused her let themselves be remembered. Just as a small moan escaped her lips, the sun was eclipsed by…

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Famous The peony is famous to the ants. The woman is famous to Rexroth. Your place in the family of things is famous to the world. Kindness is famous to the sorrowful and those who have lost. Health is famous to the infirm. A warm, dry bed is famous to the fisherman. A meal, any meal, is famous to the hungry. A battery is famous to the stranded motorist. An act of generosity is famous to the recipient. A beautiful sunset is famous to lovers anticipating night. I often choose to be famous and find peace in my notoriety, but I am trying to cure myself of Mother Teresa’s neurosis.

This poem was inspired by Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem of the same name. Kenneth Rexroth is a poet I also find inspiring.

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Magic Words A word spoken by dance A word spoken by dance Now what could that mean Words are spoken by mouth, aren’t they Or is that just an old wives’ tale Why, if you could speak by dance, that would be magic In ancient times it was so Even today a real dancer would agree It is all there for us to see But all this is moot For my tired eyes had betrayed me The word was chance not dance But I liked my first reading when I could see Stories told by bodies bold And the endings were always happy

This poem was inspired by the poem “Magic Words” by Edward Field.

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On Becoming A beam of gold gleamed through the window and onto his hand. It was as if his hand was now imbued with magical powers. The sculpture he was struggling with seemed to appear out of thin air. He was no longer in control, barely a participant, and could only watch. They say that is the first sign. And he hoped it was so. Just to have all of the techniques that he had read and talked and dreamed about flow from his hand like water was more than he could take. Maybe now he could be an artist.

“CJ’s frustration turned to inspiration when the sun rose” was the prompt for this writing.

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Times of Quiet and Peace The time following the painless Death of a loved one. Cold white forest, waiting for a deer to walk by —hoping one does not. Velvet darkness watching satellites traverse the sky. In a warm sleeping bag listening to the oil wells pump —oh that was my heart. Listening to swami pray, and allowing OM to direct my thoughts. Kneeling as an alter boy, allowing memorized Latin passages to speak for me. Lying with Denise on a Sunday morning.

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Objects Pink Thread. Purple button and silver needle. They accuse. Help, The shadow knows but won’t tell. I am dried and shriveled and empty as . . . Where are the words? They are there but the shadow has them. So much to say but he won’t let me. Is it a secret? How can it be? These people don’t know. I don’t know. I am afraid of it, but don’t know why. I am so tired. It would be nice to just lie down and sleep. I know why I am afraid— If I think about this too hard, it will become my reality, and soon someone will be looking at talismans of my past. Will they feel my anguish and pain? Or will it be just another writing exercise? Just handling these things of Mom’s brings her alive.

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He Was Ready to Go In his rucksack he had lunch, matches, fishhooks, a stick wound with fishing line, a pocketknife, a snakebite kit (at his mother’s insistence) and the arrowhead his uncle had given him. When Uncle Bob had given him the arrowhead, he had a yarn to go with it. Of course, Uncle Bob had a yarn to go with just about anything. This particular story seemed to carry some magic for his uncle, which imbued the arrowhead with significance. The arrowhead was not found in the dirt like most that boys carry but had been removed from the arm of Pothweet—Uncle Bob’s friend and lover. It was the arrow that saved the lives of Pothweet and Bob. On an adolescent romp, Bob and Pothweet had ridden harder and faster than ever before. In their exuberance, they lost track of time and space. With their horses tiring, they realized that they were no longer on familiar territory and that it was getting late. They decided to spend the night, knowing full well that there would be hell to pay because their secret rendezvous would be exposed. Climbing off their horses at a stream, they let the horses drink their fill while they took stock of their situation. In the settling quiet, they watched the sun go down. It was going to be a cold, hungry night, but they had each other for comfort.

This story beginning was written at a workshop of Pat Schneider's. The prompt was simply, “He was ready to go.”

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Humanity Marches to the Tap Tap Tap of a Drummer And when I try, I find I can’t keep time with their interpretation of the tempo I hear a beautiful love song and they seem entranced into a lockstep that would make a lemming proud So I sweep the walkway Listen, the dogs bark at the caravans of people hurrying nowhere When a butterfly lights on a sweet-smelling flower, I am prepared to contemplate its dream I tried once to show them the beauty but got trampled for my efforts Now my displays of affection for the public are limited to the few wanderers who themselves come to sweep the walk

Kabir says—don’t keep time; pay homage to the quest

I could find no suitable substitute for the word “mankind,” so I left it.

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The Heart Remains Broken Struck with angina A heart loses its magnetism It is broken The body begins to fail Vision blurs Muscles falter Speech becomes a cry The person is Shocked back Becomes childlike Infantile But if Another person Hugs the broken-hearted The body can recover By hugging hugging hugging The infant The child The heart Can begin working With its body again Though the heart remains broken

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Why? Anger is a demand for change! If that is so, what is sadness? I have not been angry for a long time. I do get irritated and impatient but that is only when my mortality is an elephant on my chest and broken glass in my joints. You be angry; I have had enough, so much that anger has burned out of me. I guess that for the most part I have chosen not to be angry. Does that mean that I have no need for change? No, I am ever changing even while I remain the same. When I understand how that works, I will let you know. Maybe I quit being angry when I realized that there are some things that will only change themselves—on their own time schedule. That I am not master of the universe is a peaceful realization for me. I have also learned that the only way I can change anything is by changing me. So why get angry?

The prompt was “Anger is a demand for change!” which is a line from a poem. I am not sure what poem or by whom. If you know, please let me know.

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What is LAMP? The Literature, Arts, and Medicine Program (LAMP) at Sutter Medical Center, Sacramento, was initially established as Sutterwriters in February 2002 with the mission to give patients, health professionals, caregivers (and just about anyone) a safe place to express themselves through writing. In these groups, participants write and respond to each other’s creative work. The sessions are held in the hospital, and therefore, much but not all the writing is related to illness and loss. Since inception, the program has logged over 6,000 participant hours with people from diverse backgrounds, and a variety of diseases. Regularly scheduled writing groups are well attended year round at both Sutter Medical Center campuses in Sacramento. Programs are offered at minimal or no cost to participants and open to all regardless of hospital affiliation. In addition, LAMP offers interactive events and workshops featuring well-known writers. Julia Vinograd, Naomi Shihab Nye, Ellen Bass, Jack Hirschman, Agneta Falk, and Pat Schneider have appeared. LAMP also has on-demand book binding equipment, and participants prepare their own books, like this one. Six LAMP books have been published. The program has received both local and national media coverage. LAMP is open to everyone, regardless of physical limitations.

Sutter’s

LAMP

Literature, Arts, and Medicine Program Sutter Medical Center, Sacramento Sutter Resource Library, Suite 600 2800 L Street Sacramento, CA 95816 916-454-6802 spannc@sutterhealth.org www.sutterwriters.com

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The Author

John Crandall was born July 2, 1953, in the hospital (converted from a pig farm) at the Clovis Air Force Base in Clovis, New Mexico. As an Air Force brat, he lived in New Mexico, South Carolina, Northern and Southern Michigan, Oregon and Japan. As the eldest child of six in a military family, he assumed responsibility for his brother and sisters, as well as his mother, when his father was stationed elsewhere. John has spent time as a surgical nurse, fire systems engineer, mason, electronics technician in the Air Force, refrigeration engineer, teacher, and executive director of a non-profit counseling agency that he founded. His education includes a Master of Arts in Counseling Psychology, and Doctorate-level Psychology courses. He has also attended additional classes and workshops in art, 108

Poet Healed pottery, blacksmithing, foundry techniques, domestic violence, fire suppression, and writing. Semi-retired, John is focusing on artistic endeavors. His interest in art has extended to metal casting (bronze, aluminum and iron) and blacksmithing. He is most happy when combining different media in his sculpture or learning new techniques. John continues adding to his repertoire through constant experimentation and education. New to writing, he has discovered a penchant for it and enjoys poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction. John currently lives in Sacramento with his wife Denise, their dog Molly and the kitty Herman.

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LAMP Books Poet Healer: Contemporary Poems for Health & Healing Chip Spann, Editor Do They Wear Shoes in Heaven? Terry McCabe Where My Soul Leads Me Larry Walters Autumn’s Flush Connie Gutowsky Poet Healed: A Collection of Writings by John Crandall John Crandall Blood on the Page Chip Spann and Jan Haag, Editors

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