My brain is wired for words. I don’t remember learning how to read. It seems I’ve just always known how. As a consequence of my enchantment with words, I was, among four siblings, the family “bookworm.”

I was often found nose deep in a book, practically insensible to input from the real world. Not unlike today’s texter or video gamer? I would read anything handy that had words on it: A box of breakfast cereal. Magazines like The Readers’ Digest, The Saturday Evening Post, Life. Library books (often overdue).

And comic books. As many as I could get my hands on. In later years, I learned that comic books in that era (the mid-1950s) were a fairly new and subversive influence on young minds. My mother was avid in trying to separate me from my mind-ruining addiction. It didn’t work. I devoured all the comics available to me: Donald Duck, Batman, Wonder Woman, Classics Illustrated, Archie, Little Lulu, and, of course, Superman. Friends complained, “You never want to play when you come over to my house–you just want to read comic books!” Sure I did–they had access I didn’t. Their mothers were not so rigid about bringing the dastardly comic books into the house.

Which brings me to the Cryptoquote–a newspaper feature involving a letter-substitution activity. Woe to the newspaper if it ever stops publishing the Cryptoquote. That will be the day I cancel my paper subscription. My morning ritual takes me straight from the headlines to the Crytoquote. I do this puzzle partly in memory of my father. It was his ritual, his passion, and his consummate skill. The reward of success in decoding the Cryptoquote is minimal. These days, the quotee is as likely as not to be a celebrity I never heard of. My hometown newspaper replaced the former “Cryptoquip” which was, I’ll admit, clever nonsense–possibly not worth the trouble–with the Cryptoquote. Perhaps the “quote” isn’t worth it, either. But that doesn’t matter to me. It’s all about the marvelous, mysterious decoding of letters, the revelation of words.

And after that, the JUMBLE….

It’s overwhelming. Even paralyzing. Having too many choices. What an exquisite thing to whine about in a country, and a world, that offers me, the privileged one, so many opportunities to pick and choose.

I’m set off this time by a visit to a retail store, a women’s lingerie store, as it happens. All I wanted to do was replace a few past-due garments with the same item new. Easy, right? In this small-ish store (no huge warehouse), tables and tables were artfully laid with dainty lingerie. Bins and bins were bountifully piled with more. Signs detailed the SALE prices and the comfort features, marginally different from one location to the next. I wandered around in a daze. I couldn’t find the “exact” item I came for. I wondered how to identify what I came for–or how to select something a little different and “better.” Finally I realized that my simple transaction was likely to take a lot more time than I wanted to spend, and I abruptly left the store. Fled the store would be a better description.

Decision Paralysis. It happens to me in grocery stores, cosmetic stores, drugstores, shoe stores. Online shopping does not ameliorate this panic of over-abundance. Comparisons between items and sites can lead to hours of clicking and befuddlement.

Worst of all, I believe that my impatience with multiple choice is a sign of “old age.” I remember heading for the store with my dad’s shopping list when he was a resident of so-called Assisted Living. This toothpaste, not that. This bath soap, not that other one. Sometimes it was hard to find the sizes and brands he’d been using for decades. (Does anybody remember that icky yellow bar of Dial soap??) Woe unto me if I brought back the bargain store brand of something, or the newfangled easy-open container. He wanted what he wanted.

And so do I. Please don’t confuse me with so many alternatives. All this picking and choosing just sucks up the precious remaining minutes of my life.

 
THE AISLE NOT TAKEN 
 
Two aisles diverged in a CVS,
And sorry I had to stop and guess,
A lonesome shopper, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it appeared I’d find success,
 
Then took the other, as straight a line,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it displayed a likely sign;
Though as for that, these eyes of mine
Could scarcely discern a product name.
 
On shelf after shelf the boxes lay
With every size and every brand
In a vast and colorful array.
Oh! How could I make a choice that day?
My brain cells failed to understand.
 
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Sometime many a headache hence:
Two aisles diverged–bumfuzzled, I–
I took the one to Exit by
And fled from the place in self-defense.
 
 

Barbara Loots

Behold…the New Me.

Making the decision to “go natural” involved giving up the cachet I adopted decades ago upon choosing to become a redhead. Growing up as a regular brown-haired girl, I discovered in adolescence that having red hair, even temporarily, conveyed a certain social advantage. Do blondes have more fun? Well, redheads are “known” to be audacious, and that suited me just fine. I became a redhead forever.

The hair on our heads (or not) and what we do with it conveys a message and holds power, both within ourselves and in our public perception. Classic Bible stories like Samson, as well as the tradition in many religions of not cutting the hair, support the idea that hair makes a difference.

So I made the leap, celebrating my 70th birthday with a long-postponed decision. Surprise, surprise. I never expected to feel so…glamorous. Looks like I’m in for silver fun from now on.

(See Hair’s The Thing Part One 8/24/16)

A holiday time of leisure invited me to revisit a book I’d sometime downloaded on my Kindle reader: The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind by Julian Jaynes. I’ve owned this–as an actual book–ever since it first came out in 1976. It’s a bit intriguing that I decided I needed to read it again. Why this? Why now?

As you can guess from the title alone, it’s a challenging book. Jaynes, a psychologist, makes the case for a theory of how the human brain developed into a state of consciousness. He derives evidence from archaeological discoveries, works of ancient literature, and contemporary neurological research, among other things. If you’re seeking a major intellectual massage, this could be it.

I’m especially interested in two aspects of his discussion. First, the way Jaynes’s theory touches on Biblical accounts of prophecies, visitations, and divine instructions. These are reported as delivered via visions (eg. a burning bush, a ladder to heaven), voices, angels, and dreams, among other things. Second, how the advent of language and its cadences created a new way of transmitting information and ideas, and thus an entirely different experience of human thought that could be described as consciousness.

In a previous post, I spoke of my delight in words–words as artifacts involving sound and history, as well as meaning. As a poet, I’ve always been captivated by meter and rhyme, even, stubbornly, during the most unfashionable period of these poetic devices in American literary life in the mid-twentieth century. Jaynes’s theory suggests that I may, in fact, enjoy the inspiration of a muse–a muse who not only feeds me ideas, but also dictates in iambic meter. And like the prophets of old, I might receive a gift of transcendent meaning simply by taking notice: of a dream, a star, the murmur of water, the handful of words that starts the engine of thought. Or even…silence.

 
SILENCE
 
 
No sound improves on silence
except a singing bird,
though other song is present
that may be sometimes heard:
 
the measure of beginnings,
the grind of celestial gears,
the thought as yet unspoken,
unmeant for human ears
 
enfolded in the golden light
that every morning brings.
Without an explanation
it sings…it sings…it sings.
 
 
Barbara Loots

Like veins and capillaries black
against the evening sky,
Naked winter branches suck
the last hour dry.

Barbara Loots

It was in the Dark Ages of my life–that awkward time between the end of childhood and the beginning of maturity. It was also, probably, the dark time between my latest “crush” and the acceptance (again) of the crushing disappointment that often follows infatuation. At the time, my mother observed (I am told, for I don’t remember her ever saying this directly to me), “Oh, you know Barbara. She’s in love with love.”

I believe that my mother hoped I would avoid making a very big mistake in a matter of romance. However, she was wise enough not to make a big deal of my perpetual heartbreak. The independence of her children, mistakes and all, was her primary goal.

While my eventual choice of a husband had its heartbreaking aspects for my mother–and for me, too–the marriage lasted 38 years until his death. So, as a best-selling greeting card I once wrote for Wedding Anniversary observed in wry fashion: “It was the best mistake I ever made.”

But back to that “in love with love” thing. My mother was right.

My gaping hunger to love and be loved, in all of its capacities–from sexuality to spirituality, affection to compassion, friendly acquaintance to lifelong partnership–needed to be fed. Perhaps my particular neediness hung out a bit more than the average person’s. I was a kid prone to cry over spilt milk. So, as soon as I learned how the alphabet worked, I became a writer. My emotions were always conspicuous.

Filling that wide-open heart with love has been a lifelong endeavor. Meanwhile, I can only hope that the spillover has had some benefit for others, too.
 

 
WHEN I SIT LISTENING
 
 
When I sit listening to the earth,
its clashing water, whispering tree,
I learn beyond a doubt that earth
is also listening to me.
 
In intersections never planned
among the living and the dead,
in serendipity of things
already thought, already said,
 
in conversations with the past,
in time however brief or long,
I join creation incomplete
without my life, my death, my song.
 
I replicate in syllables
the story of all grief, all fear,
because the world is leaning in
with love, with love, with love, to hear.

 
 
Barbara Loots

It’s the day between the two performances of The Journey to Bethlehem at Second Presbyterian Church. This walk-through theatrical presentation of the Christmas story has occurred annually for 39 years–with only one year off when the parking lot was being resurfaced. Upwards of 100 church people of all ages are involved in the planning, performance, and hospitality connected with this event. Rounding up that many volunteers is only one of the miracles that occurs each and every year.

For instance, somehow the role of a no-show actor–whether it’s one of the Three Wise Men or an Innkeeper or perhaps one of the Rabbis–gets filled on the spot by a replacement willing to “do the lines” on a moment’s notice. There’s always a costume that fits well enough. And the story goes on….

Over the years, the costume collection has grown to fill an entire room. The scenery? Well, that has spilled over into at least one remote storage unit. Actors may be recruited from the second or third generation of actors since the original production. Visitors who first saw the Journey as children are bringing their grandchildren. In fact, it’s a miracle that the tradition has survived–survived reluctant pastors, members complaining about the mess or the expense, and the general question of whether or not “we always do it!” is a good reason for doing it again. We are, after all, Presbyterians. Always asking questions, parsing the cost/benefit, reforming ourselves.

Every year, I anticipate The Journey with a mixture of joy and dread. Truth be told, as one of the original perpetrators, I’ve now backed away from much of the responsibility. So my stress level with the approach of Christmas is considerably reduced. I sign up for a part, and don my costume for the two nights, guiding groups of “travelers” along the road to Bethlehem. We visit Herod’s palace, we gasp at the appearance of the Angel, we gather around the campfire of the shepherds. We annoy the Innkeeper who has NO ROOM. And finally, we arrive with wonder at the stable, where Mary and Joseph watch over the long-expected Jesus.

And that’s the REAL Christmas. Let’s do it again next year!

This morning I read about a new smartphone app. It enables the smartphone user to scan a barcode and immediately purchase an item in a store or online.

I perfectly understand that a smartphone is only as smart as its dumb user, so I don’t usually “get” (as in understand) or “get” (as in purchase) so-called apps that aim to make my life happen faster. Especially in the area of buying stuff. Delayed gratification. That was a life skill, right along with independence, carefully cultivated in me by my parents.

Ages ago, with my first adult, full-time employment paycheck in the bank, I felt immediately the intoxicating persuasion of purchasing power. It was, to be specific, the intoxicating fragrance known as “new car smell.” Sitting in the driver’s seat of a sporty car in a dealer showroom, I could easily calculate the joy of trading in my college clunker for something more exciting. Luckily, at the time, there wasn’t an app for instant gratification.

That night, I called my dad, not a paragon of restraint when it came to the allure of a new car, but still…. His counsel went something like this: Yes, a new car would be great. But before you decide, give your old car a good wash, and clean it up inside. Then stand back and take a long look at it. Think about adding a car payment and other expenses to what you owe and what you want. Still want it? Well, then. Enjoy.

I didn’t buy that new car. My old clunker served me well for another ten years.

These days, it isn’t buying the big stuff that seems to be a problem. It’s the countless little things–only an app away–that add up. My defenses are usually pretty good. However, because the phone wouldn’t stop nagging me, I downloaded the “app.” I haven’t figured out how to use it yet and I probably won’t.

Life rolls over me too fast as it is.

Today I stepped out my front door and walked down the block to watch the first runners come through my neighborhood in the annual KC Marathon. At this point, they’ve already been running for about twenty miles. About a half-mile farther along, the course begins a mostly downhill path to the finish, after 26.2 miles of endurance.

I love them. I cheer for them. Hundreds of regular people with genuine pluck. (Webster’s: spirit, courage, resolution, fortitude.)

Here’s my moment of braggadocio: in 1979, I ran the first Kansas City Marathon (all 26.2 miles of it) in a time of four hours and seventeen minutes. I trained hard. For most of a year, I got up in the morning, in the frigid dark of winter and the sticky heat of summer, to put in my training miles before heading off to work. I followed a training plan from a popular running book so as to avoid injury and get the most out of my training. When I crossed the finish line, I felt totally triumphant over my own body, which was not exactly equipped by Mother Nature for distance running.

With the perspective of time, I realize that there were other things going on with me that year. Difficulties at work. Yearning for new goals. Battling with aging (at 33?) and weight gain. Picking a BIG (and unlikely) achievement provided exactly the space I needed in my head and in my life to work through it all. And, by the way, I also got bragging rights forever. You only have to finish ONE marathon to claim it.

I’m pretty sure that picking a goal and aiming high are built into my personality. However, I don’t believe that competing with others or “winning” is a necessary component of that. Looking ahead to some desired end brings hope, yes, but only if it also brings joy along the way.

Here’s a poem from those training days, never published.

MORNING RUN
 
This hour
the eye of the city shuts
over houses ten thousand dreams
deep. I’m drawn
down the center of things,
under the horns of the moon,
ears canny to windhush,
featherhover, leafsift,
oh, and the story in stars
where the sword of Orion
points me, points me
home.

That isn’t to say I don’t lie. I’m just not very good at it.

When I was a kid, my mother’s personal spaces were strictly off limits: her purse, her dresser drawers, her writing desk. Of course, nothing could be more intriguing to an 8-year-old daughter than any of these. So one day, I sneaked for a snoop into that Top Secret Dresser Drawer. At once I came across a small gold container. As I pried at the lid with my little fingers, suddenly it popped off–and SQUISH went my thumb into the creamy red rouge inside. Talk about red-handed. I hastily replaced the lid, put the rouge back in the drawer as I hoped I had found it, scrubbed my thumb, and kept my mouth shut.

Tense days passed before my mother confronted her daughters, all three of us, and asked, “Who has been in my dresser drawer?” At that moment, I learned that I would never grow up to be a politician or a poker player. The culprit didn’t have to say a word. “Written all over my face.” That’s how it went down.

In a favorite movie, The American President, the character played by Annette Bening tells her boyfriend, the President, played by Michael Douglas, that she knows when he’s not telling the truth. “It’s that thing you do with your face,” she says. I know. I know.

I’m not good at lying–in person, especially, but even on paper. Perhaps that’s why I write poems. Poems, I think, are all about diving for the truth. Some might say my range is rather limited. So here’s my excuse…

WHY I AM NOT A POET
 
a poem for Annie Finch in amphibrachs* mostly
 
I’ve never had children, a miscarriage, or an abortion;
was never rejected or beaten or sexually forced by
my father; have not yet experienced the death of my mother,
the loss of a sibling by suicide; never divorced.
 
I always succeeded in school, only bullied a little;
at one time relinquished religion, but then I came back.
I married a man who can cook; never took to the bottle;
discovered there’s pretty good money in being a hack.
 
My politics waffle, although I’m concerned for the Third World.
I often recycle. I’ve worked through my feminist rage.
Just fooling with words is a lousy raison for a poet
so just turn the page.
 
Barbara Loots

 
*amphibrach is a term for a “foot” of poetic meter that goes duh-DAH-duh. In this case, what you’re getting is approximately amphibracic pentameter–five feet of amphibrachs in each line. Annie Finch is a poet, scholar, and teacher whose workshop I enjoyed once upon a time at the West Chester Poetry Conference.