Chapter 46

Posted on May 19, 2013 by

Today I turned a page
And a new chapter leapt
From the unread, to read;
Forty five lost, not kept.

OpenBook

I turned another page
But I cannot turn back
No hope to again read
Those pages written black.

Each page of my ___ script
Is read but once, not twice.
Each act of my ___ play
is played out only one night.

As I turn each page
It crumbles in my hand,
Slipping through my fingers
Like tiny grains of sand.

Yet read on shall I, for
The end is still untold.
Climax not summited
My story, it will unfold.

Today I turned a page
And tomorrow, again.
No, the author’s not done
And yes, I hold the pen.

– Eric Winger

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | 4 Comments

A Mother’s Eye

Posted on May 12, 2013 by

“This poem is dedicated to
My wife, Melissa,
My mother, Lorraine,
My stepmother, Zona,
And every mother out there.
Happy Mother’s Day!”

If you ever wondered what she sees,
A mother, paused with muscles sore,
Looking far away. Then know this -
A mother’s eye sees more.

Mother's Love

She sees the kick, soft and silent,
Long ago in the womb;
A crib, then a bib,
The final diaper, finally entombed.

She sees the first day of school
As if it were today;
A baseball glove, a favorite doll,
Long ago put away.

She sees the first date
And a prom dress;
Shiny car keys, a dented fender,
Wounded pride to caress.

She sees years pass, too fast,
A final goodbye at the door;
A call from college, needs money,
Phone calls no more.

She sees a missing bed,
A sleeping head once kissed;
A father’s study now, tidy,
Stinky socks are missed.

She sees a bride
And a groom hand in hand;
A honeymoon, the bedroom,
Happy news so grand.

Then a blink and back to work
But you’ll understand her sigh.
Because she’s always seen it all -
Through her mother’s eye.

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | 2 Comments

Small May Not Be So Small

Posted on April 28, 2013 by

“We can do no great things, only small things with great love.”

– Mother Teresa

It may not seem like much, but volunteering in our community can help show us that the small things may actually be very big.

Our small volunteer crew in front of Open Meadow alternative school in Portland

Our small volunteer crew in front of Open Meadow alternative school in Portland

Yesterday, my daughters and I volunteered at Open Meadow high school in Portland. It’s a private alternative to regular public schools for kids who have either dropped out or have been failed by the system. Funded privately (you can donate here), but working in partnership with PPS, the focus is on small classes, equity, and re-engaging disadvantaged kids to break the cycle of poverty.

Crawford house

Crawford house, home to Open Meadows school

From an architectural perspective, it’s also a small wonder. Housed in a home probably built by either the historically-important Benson or Cheney families, the school sits on a bluff overlooking the Willamette river.  It was built in the early part of the twentieth century and reminded me of those majestic, southern antebellum homes.

Rounded "turret" with curved glass

Rounded turret with curved glass

During our break, we were able to tour the school and I was impressed with so many small details and how unusual they were compared to an average home or school today – rounded windows, an attic that once served as a ballroom,  walnut walls and floors in the entry, and floor to ceiling tiles in the bathrooms.

A lot of factors influence the people we become, yet one of the overlooked things is the space that surrounds us. I have to wonder if going to school in such a unique building has any influence on the kids that walk it’s hallways.

At the end of our volunteer shift, we had painted a fence and cleaned up a garden bed to help prepare the grounds for the upcoming graduation ceremonies. It was a small task with seemingly small results.

But I suppose like anything, small is what we make it. The volunteer work in the garden was small, but it will be noticed by everyone. Open Meadow may not be one of the glamour schools, but it is no small task if this small school can inspire a child who has given up, to give education one more chance.

And although it was just another day in the lives of my little girls, I hope it helped show them that the small may not be so small.

Yesterday’s gift of time … Volunteered with my daughters at Open Meadow alternative high school in Portland. Small, yet not.

Posted in In the community | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Glimpses of Kindness

Posted on April 23, 2013 by

“In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration:—feelings, too,
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man’s life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love….”

~William Wordsworth, 1798

The truck had stopped in the middle of the road.

Duck crossing Louisiana 2010-10-15

Near our house, coming back from another early morning school drop-off, a truck had stopped just past the corner. I turned into our lane but before doing so, I glanced beyond the truck, curious as to what obstacle blocked it’s path.

It was a duck. Standing proud.

I only caught a glimpse, but it was enough to store a memory of a kind man waiting patiently when no one but a duck would notice. I took that memory, and replayed it several times in my mind throughout the day.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s where most of the good happens in the world, in the glimpses. Maybe all the good that we are longing for is really there, under our noses. Perhaps it all happens quietly, unassumingly, in the corners of our eyes – a door being held for a stranger, a small check being written out to a homeless shelter, a neighbor helping a neighbor, a parent helping a child with homework or a giving her a ride to school.

If it is, maybe that’s where the antidote is hidden, the antidote to all the streaming awfulness that passes as news. We can find it, there, in the corner of our eye. Look for the glimpses of kindness.

And look out for the ducks.

Today’s gift of time … A ride to school, a ride home, and a glimpse of kindness. 

To my readers … I know that, of late, I’ve taken some days off from the daily writing, but please rest assured that the daily gifts of time continue uninterrupted. No days off from what’s important. 

Posted in Around the House | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

I Did Not Finish

Posted on April 16, 2013 by

Dedicated to the victims of the Boston Marathon bombings,
and anyone who was taken out of life’s race too soon.

I took a run today;
The day warmish,
time I cherish;
Birds circling,
a stream gurgling;
But I did not finish.

Flowers mark the barricaded entrance to Boylston Street near the finish line of the Boston Marathon in this photo from April 16. Two bombs packed with ball bearings tore through crowds near the race's finish line, killing three people and triggering a massive hunt for those behind the attack.

Photo by Shannon Stapleton / Reuters

I took a run today;
Sun guiding my way,
a break in the day;
Trees whistling,
sweat glistening;
But I only went part way.

I took a run today;
No one saw,
no cries from the maw;
Just subdued shuffling,
squirrels rustling;
But I stopped short, emotions raw.

I took a run today;
Slightly less far,
my thoughts afar;
Distracted,
conflicted;
Another finish line lay scarred.

I took a run today;
Visions of a historic space,
an old race;
Two thunderous claps,
many collapsed;
There is death in that place.

I took a run today;
Fearful eyes entreat;
running shoes without feet;
A star spangled bag,
a red stained flag;
Blood flows on that street.

I took a run today;
My path of no cares,
not so for theirs;
My path silent,
theirs was violent;
The wounded laid bare.

I took a run today;
A boy with words unequaled,
“no more hurting people”;
Now deceased,
he rests in peace;
Too many hurting people.

I took a run today;
On time borrowed,
steeped in sorrow;
Through ears that listen,
and tears that glisten;
I feel those that will not run tomorrow.

I took a run today;
Alone in thought,
answers sought;
My tribute smallish,
but I did not finish;
In memory of those who could not.

– Eric Winger

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Passing Judgement

Posted on April 14, 2013 by

“No one is here to judge you. We’re all just waiting to hear what you have to share.”

– Michael Allen Harrison, speaking to piano students
at Classic Pianos in a workshop for members of Chordination

If you were to walk out your front door tomorrow knowing that everyone you met was eagerly anticipating whatever you had to share, how would that change your day?

IMAG4489

My daughter Hayle (left) and my son Zachary (right) with Michael Allen Harrison – Passing along encouragement, not judgement.

We spend an awful lot of time and energy passing judgement on one another. Just for a moment, try to envision a day where you weren’t judged. Would you feel more confident? More secure? More relaxed? More creative?

From experience, I know that when we’re surrounded by people who encourage rather than judge – whether it’s on a close-knit team in a supportive office, at a home with more hugs and less hurt, in a Weight Watchers or Toastmasters meeting, in our churches or synagogues, or at a piano workshop where everyone wants to learn – we start to feel all of those things.

Now imagine if you and I, starting today, tried to be the ones who didn’t judge. What if you and I were the ones who tried very hard to encourage, regardless if others judge us?

My hunch is that we’ll start to feel more confident, secure, relaxed, and creative. And so will those around us.

If nothing else, passing along encouragement is more noble than passing judgement.

Today’s gift of time … Enjoyed some time with Michael Allen Harrison while he gave a piano workshop to my son and daughter. 

Posted in Around the House | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Low

Posted on April 9, 2013 by

This poem is dedicated to anyone who is struggling.

Low

Low, is a place
that well I know;
dark and alone, time slows;
eerie light, shadow.

Sunrise_in_Helsinki

Low, is a place
that devours all space;
brings tears to my face;
stabbing pains of disgrace.

Low, is a place
too well I know;
where I grudgingly go;
when the demons say so.

Low, is a place
known not to the young;
a foul taste on the tongue;
a black song harshly sung.

Low, is a place;
vile air, so gritty;
tiny thoughts, itty-bitty;
eternal home of self-pity.

But Low, is just a place.
That. I now know.
Like a bad dream so
awful, but only a show.

Low, is just a place;
a lonely blacktop
to cross. A shop
to pass, not stop.

Low, is a just a place
like dung in the soil.
It’s stench rotten, yet does it toil
so new growth may roil.

Low, is a just a place;
a pausing space to be;
a vantage point to see
those most dear to me.

Low, is just a place
from which to measure
the memories of pleasure
and the people I treasure.

Low, is just a place
which I must go;
to reflect, then to grow
in love that I already know.

Eric Winger

April is National Poetry Month

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