The legacy of Atticus Finch

"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what." --Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird

I read To Kill a Mockingbird when I was about 13, and loved the story. I felt like Scout, and my dad was my Atticus.

This week I read it again, with a 23-year old perspective, and dug deep into the pages of the story and the social commentary that goes along with them. I thought about families, communities, rights and wrongs and the wisdom of Scout Finch.

It's so much more than a story about racism or prejudice. It's about the strength of a family, the power of communities (for good or for evil), the simple things in life, and the never-ending debate of right vs. wrong, and what we should do with our rights about those wrongs.

It made me think about what I think and how that influences my actions. It made me long for times when life may have seemed simpler on the outside, but there were wars to fight inwardly.

Sometimes it's good to be reminded of the true strength of the human spirit.

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a question

Love-to-be:

You're old fashioned and I'm a little old fashioned,

so why don't we take black and white photographs and name our children Lucy and Harold

and build a home out of pennies and patience

and you'll read the paper as I'm finishing up dinner and after the food is gone we'll sit at the table for hours,

still hungry for each other's company,

even after all these years?

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simplify

It's halfway through the school year and I'm just finally unpacking half the boxes I moved in with.

Figures.

But at least I'm doing it, right?

It feels so great to get rid of all the stuff I don't need.

To take a big box of clothes that don't fit/don't look good/I'm bored with/aren't my style to DI and say goodbye to them.

I always sleep better in a room that isn't full of junk.

I found my old pointe shoes and leotards while I was cleaning out our storage room and I was reminded of the many opportunities I've been blessed with over the years.*

I put the leotards and ballet skirt in the giveaway pile, for some future ballerina to find.

But I kept the pointe shoes.

Because they taught me that hard work means blisters and tired feet and sore muscles.

And doing the same routine over and over and over.

But it also means getting to show off, just a little bit, when the work really pays off.

*And that really made me want to take a jazz or ballet class. It's funny how I came to college all excited to leave jazz behind and move on to ballroom. And don't get me wrong, I really do love ballroom. But sometimes I miss the grand jetes and the pirouettes and the tour jetes that my arms and feet grew up with.

image via deviantart

a story from the past

She had been in a foul mood since June

But she was blind to her own bad attitude.

Well, mostly blind.

She knew it was there.

It was like that conversation you never want to bring up.

Because you know it's not going to end well.

So she just let it stay there.

It kept her company.

But she didn't realize how much it defined her for that time in her life.

She didn't believe how many "he's" might have wanted to be with her.

Because she was so focused on one particular "he" that wanted everything but her.

And even sometimes, she still wonders what those other "he's" saw in her.

Because she felt so broken so much of the time.

What did they see behind that face of strength she kept up until she closed the door to her tiny little room and crawled into bed?

What made them get her out of bed to go do something to feel like she was alive?

But the big question is: why is she different now? what changed?

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At Her Fingertips--a series of three poems

Eight

She stood with two feet barely
Balancing on the knobby, uneven roots
Of the maple skyscraper in her backyard

Her eyes drew a line
From trunk to tip
Where green fades into blue

So many branches,
And she’d never been very good
At making decisions

He offered his hand to help her
Up to the thick, stable branch just above her fingertips

“I can do it myself,” she countered.

But he said, “Yes you can,
But you don’t need to.”
................................................

Twenty-Eight

She walked down the street
Not watching where she was walking
But who she was walking past.

Their faces told of birthdays and breakups,
Lost and found love,
A soundtrack to the pattern of their steps.

She looked at their eyes,
Curious if anyone wanted to know her story
But no one looked back

Then with a brush of his hand on hers
As he walked by

He whispered her name
And stopped.

................................................
Seventy-Eight

He laced his fingers through hers
As they took a walk
Down the hall with the white tile floors
And that smell that was too clean for the sickness it held.

She imagined they were barefoot on a beach
In Morocco
Forty-five years ago
After wearing an ivory dress and a gardenia in her hair

He tipped the driver of the rusty green cab
That had been their getaway car
And had carried her to the door
Of the quiet cabin that would be their castle

But that night,
When he lifted her onto a bed of clean white sheets
And crawled in beside her

They just slept
And that was enough.


{I wrote these for my creative writing class. I'm deciding that I really like poetry. Writing and reading it.}

Some Kind of Story, Part Four

She remembered a time when all it took to make her swoon was an acoustic guitar and letting a boy teach her how to play the first few bars of "Smoke on the Water."

A time before drum sets and the boys that sat behind them.

A time when butterflies were triggered by rainy day love songs and that spunk and confidence that always seems to come with being a musician.

She remembered a time when unpredictable was exciting and returned affection was maybe too much to take.

But now she dreams of bare feet on hardwood floors and mortgage payments and disagreements over paint colors.

A life that, though imperfect, will be perfect for her.

And butterflies that never get old.

I sing the songs of the glory of you

{I am always a little awestruck at beautiful pictures of "old love." love that has never let the butterflies die. love that has tired hands and feet, no longer tired from the searching, but from continuously walking and reaching toward that same love they spent so long searching for. from carrying a load that was too much for one pair of hands. from working together to cultivate that kind of love. the kind that lasts forever.}

..........................................................
"Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of
dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your
feet and hands, Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners,
troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,

Your true soul and body appear before me,
They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops,
work, farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating,
drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you
be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better
than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb, I should have made my way straight to you long ago,
I should have blabb'd nothing but you, I should have chanted
nothing but you.

I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you,
None has understood you, but I understand you,
None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to
yourself
...
O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are, you have slumber'd upon
yourself all your life, Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time,

What you have done returns already in mockeries, (Your thrift, knowledge, prayers,
if they do not return in
mockeries, what is their return?)
...
There is no virtue, no beauty in man or woman, but as good
is in you, No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you,
No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits
for you.
...
I sing the songs of the glory of you.
…
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what
you are picks its way."

-Walt Whitman, To You

(full version here)
image via vi.sualize.us

Born in the 80s

So what if I'm too young to really remember this song?

But I'm loving it.

Not sure why.

And maybe I wouldn't have followed John Waite's tour bus all over the country.

Or had posters of him all over my walls.

Or listened to his music nonstop on my walkman.

But I do like this song.

And the oh-so-80s sense of the music video.

Pencil marks, chocolate smudges, and battered dustjackets

Yesterday I was in a bookstore. One of my favorite bookstores.
I stood in one aisle of the Blue Room, holding two books in my hands. Two copies of the same book.

*the first: new, paperback, smelling of freshly printed paper, smaller/more portable, and also 3 dollars more.

*the second: used, hardcover with a slightly battered dustjacket, thick, musty pages, and the binding a little curved.

I stood there for at least ten minutes, trying to decide which to buy. It was not a matter of whether or not I would buy the book; that had already been decided when I looked up the author's last name, eagerly scanned the shelves, and stood on tiptoes to reach the two books. It was a choice of new vs. used, or new vs. new-to-you.

I have always felt that used books have more character. That if they are well-worn, it means they have been well-loved. That if the binding is curved or the cover is a little tattered, it's because it has been opened again and again to reread a favorite passage, or that the former owner took it everywhere with them because they just couldn't put it down.

One of my mother's cookbooks, when opened, immediately falls to her favorite brownie recipe. The page is scattered with annotations, adaptations, and a few smudges of chocolate. I love that. That's not just how cooking should be; it's how life should be.

We try to do our best, and take the best care of ourselves. And that is a very good thing. But sometimes we screw up, and our pages get a few smudges, and the dustjacket gets a few tears (or we lose it altogether), or we add pistachios to the mix, and later decide that made one terrible batch of brownies. And sometimes, much as we try, we don't learn from our mistakes the first time. Sometimes we must revisit that painful passage again (and again), to catch the whole lesson.

But at some point, when the screwing up has paused for a moment: we put ourselves back together, smooth out our edges as much as we can, and stand tall, knowing that someone will love us better for our scars, for our failed attempts at perfect life, and for the story no one else can tell.

{After several minutes of mental deliberation, I chose the sullied script over the virgin text.}

Somehow I know I will love this book. And I think I will love it even more because it has been loved by someone before me.

photo via deviantart