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One year closes, and I know that I'm supposed

to take a long and introspective look at what
has taken place within the last 12 months, but
since I also had a birthday recently, I had to do
it then, but looking back for 12 times 56. So much
I'm thankful for, the joys, delights, the people who
have taken time to know and love, the things
that stretched me, grew me up, the hurting things
(but mostly people - things can hardly help it).
The sum of great and good and not-so-good
combined with worst-thing-ever has all
flavored, tempered, sharpened me in
certain ways, refined and pruned and smoothed a
way rough edges in yet some more, in summary
a coalescence letting me be who I am today.
And since you love me just the way I am,
precisely, exactly, definitively looking past
the quirks and flaws, I find that very cool.
Another year now looms, the hated turn of numbers
which I always dread, but the hope of it, the possibilities,
that sense of one enormous page still blank on which to write
whatever I might choose, looms larger still.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Love in Line

Newlyweds Agyness Deyn and
Giovanni Ribisi
kiss at the supermarket in 2012.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk

Maybe they were in their 20's, but just barely,
Wal-Mart shopping with her folks, no...his, I
think, kid sister off to one side with a guy
who didn't seem to mind her braces. The older
version of the same exact rendition (whose teeth did not
need help) unloaded the cart ahead of me, the
Mom who might be used to being asked if she was
possibly the girl's much older sister. Dad was gray
around the gills which tipped me off as to his role,
a tv dad who has an office job and stays in shape
and mostly doesn't know what's going on. He didn't
seem to even notice that his son was making love
behind him, but I caught him showing hints of
grins a time or two, I hope (for his sake) not the
wistful, longing sort. The couple could not
be apart two seconds, it would seem with
groping, searching hands on arms and backs,
then locking lips for no apparent reason (the best,
in my opinion). So darn wholesome looking,
there was nothing inappropriate about the
way they stood or spoke, but something in
the atmosphere around them walled them
off from everyone around. Their private world
smelled sweet and made me smile and wonder
it they'd set a date or was the plan to wait for
something huge to happen first. And would it
last, this passion, the obsession
just to be an Us?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

All That is Within Me

When the dog bites and the bee stings, thinking

of my fav'rite things will only go so far. There are
trials and tribulations every day, every day, and
I get tired, but listen well,  I'm not defeated.
Are you listening, Satan? Can you hear me there
in hell? I know you're hovering and jacking off
to my despair, or just because I'm no one special
more likely you've dispensed some demon of detritus,
whiny minion with foul breath that's been assigned to me
and all my kin  from eons past who knows exactly how
and when to push the buttons that will be the worst for us
and does and does and does until we think
we just can't take it any more. We can, you loathsome
whore, you spawn of what is wicked and putrescent.
Come a little closer and you'll hear me roar the
song of the redeemed, the song that makes your
belly ache and sends you screeching with a hiss:

BLESS THE LORD, OH MY SOUL, AND ALL THAT
IS WITHIN ME, BLESS HIS HOLY NAME.

How 'you like them apples, troll of hell?
Whatever you send here, WHATEVER, that is the
return for all your trouble. Try to stop me.
Want me praising all the more? Send it, you
decrepit coward. Defeated foe. Eternal fuck-up.
a third of all the host of heaven sits with you,
united in your corner, under your control.
I've got the rest in mine, or rather, I'm in theirs.
Do the math, you fiend of wrath. Your time
is short and you will find that even if you try
your best to steal my hope, my joy,
I'll only sing the louder:

BLESS THE LORD.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013


Years ago, a Scottish evangelist named John Hamilton visited Fort Pierce. My husband and I eventually traveled with him and his wife and another couple to India for a few weeks, which then led us to go on the mission field for a time.  John told a story of being at his worst and calling for the demons of hell to come closer so that he could blast them with those words from Psalm 103. If he ever reads this, I hope he will be pleased, rather than offended.

Gunfire as a Stressor

Studies show the sound of gunfire is stressful; I agree.
Just down the hall from me, automatic weapons punctuate
the peace I'm almost sure would be the atmosphere
were it not for resident zombie apocalypse there.
And it's make-believe.
A few miles north,
the neighbors hear staccato signals heralding the
bitter news: another son has fallen, and they'll look
away before they see who did it, so they won't
incur the gang's wrath too.
In hate-filled distant lands, it's everywhere
and all the time, no periodic truces, pre-arranging that at night,
they'll let the kids sleep quietly. We may complain
about a lot, but even when the stress is bad,
it's not as bad as that.
It's not the guns. I may not love them,
hang them on my wall, but I defend the right
of those who do. It's the shooting I mind.
The noise of it.
The blood that can't be
turned off as it can within the
set-up of my grandson's games.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Water Has a Need

It was just water, but it came from a well
so deep that nothing had contaminated it,
and it was cold, cold enough to quench the
kind of thirst you have after working all day
in the hot sun, parched, skin turning to leather
from dehydration. It was poured generously
into cups and bottles and vessels and tasted,
set aside with upturned noses, disregarded.
Water. We don't want water. Purpose unfulfilled,
the liquid turned cloudy, flat. Because they
had no perceived value, filled bottles were carelessly
toppled over, precious contents spilled,
sent back on the long journey to its source
far beneath the earth, through rocks and sand.
Wasted. But not all.
One bottle, cast aside, ignored but without
damage done, survived until a truly thirsty soul
looked up, found a stool to stand on so it could be
reached. A tentative taste - it might have been anything -
gave way to gulps of sweetness and the satisfied sigh
of one who finds, at last, the treasure he
didn't even know that he was seeking.
Thirst dissipated as the water became part
of him, filling cells, the nooks and crannies
of who he was, until every drop was gone,
and he became the vessel for the water.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Christmas Sweaters

Not the ugly reindeer type

with pearly messages or trees or

Christmas cheer, the sweaters

here in Florida are people. 

Windows opened wide

anticipating chilly dips 

into the 70s now let in heat; 

the weather man was off by 

10 degrees or so. Fans are blowing,

'stead of snowing for the folks

up north, and we enjoy such

pleasing ocean breezes as we put away

the bows and wrapping paper 

for another year. I miss the changing 

of the seasons, remember people up that way

with longing and with love, but it's

something close to awesome

wearing shorts and flip-flops,

 in December.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Tea Leaves

A year ago, there was no premonition that it would be
Bud's last Christmas, but clearly he was winding down.
You could see it on his face, hear it in his voice, that he was
gearing up for his greatest adventure, that he was tired of
all the foolishness of pain and chemo.
We didn't even have a hint, a twitch, some subtle nagging
feeling that we'd sell what was to be the one house that we kept, no ominous foreboding: Your live-in daughter will move out and then return like the swallows of Capistrano, only later in the year and with less fanfare.
We read no tea leaves forming clusters in the bottom of a cup
foretelling that some fairly new relationships would have such
staying power or that the family would have new babies in its midst,
"First Christmas" ornaments hung proudly on the trees.
We couldn't know a car would die and be replaced.
The temptation is to sit back, take stock of Christmas
Last through Christmas This and make a judgment call,
the negatives and positives checked off in neat straight lines
before we say goodbye to the year next week, singing
 Auld Lang Syne and sipping champagne and watching
"Sleepless in Seattle" one more time.
But. From another perspective:
It's been one year more of love and joy and glimpses into
what a peaceful life will look like, if I ever get the chance
to have it all the time, which makes up nicely for the hurts
and disappointments, unplanned changes, stinging words,
the snubs and let-downs, unexpected expenses, declines
and snarky Facebook posts. One more year of hope,
the heart of Christmas that was born within a manger long ago,
so powerful that if you listen hard enough, you can hear
the celebration song of angels that still echoes in the air.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Christmas Miracles

Leaving my door open downtown at night,

purse exposed inside the car like a woman
waiting for her yearly pap exam, was not a miracle.
It was foolish, sign that stress has taken hold
within the folds of what's contained within my head.
I returned in hours to find the door ajar, reproaching
me in silence, and the purse inside untouched,
every hard-earned dollar, every credit card I hate
but not enough to cut them up yet that was a miracle.

Finding my favorite pair of sunglasses that I'd
looked all over the house and car for, confident that
they were gone forever, gone the way of several
favorite pairs of sunglasses before them, leaving me with
ones that threatens to put an indention in my nose because
it's missing one of the little plastic clips (but still usable,
for which I've been grateful) was not a miracle,
but it was a nice surprise on Christmas Eve to walk through
a room I've walked through countless times and reach
out my hand,  pick them up off a box as if I'd gone to that very
spot for just that purpose. A nice surprise indeed.

We've played lots of football games at family gatherings
for Christmas in the last three decades, but it's been awhile,
and never because my husband insisted on it. Post-60,
he talks about being old and tired and sore, but he kept
mentioning a football game until someone said to count her in,
and then another, and before you knew it we had two teams
on a field, laughing, running, letting the two
little guys make the calls and all because my old and achy
husband laid aside his preference for watching television
and took the lead, spoke up, made it happen.
And for me, to be together, so many happy people
at one time and in one place instead of the usual
stress that makes me crazy, makes me leave car doors
open and lose things, maybe it wasn't a miracle in
the classic sense, not like the miracle of Mary's
pregnancy or the angels or the star that shone
to show the way, but I'll take it.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Stained Collar

Some voices cry for for a divorce

from marriages of politics and faith,
but separation from what gives the breath
to a person from what he speaks with
that breath is problematic, peeling back
the layers of sinew in order to reach the
bare bones of the matter without breaking the
skin that holds it together. Impossible.
What a man believes dictates his actions and his
policy, spewing forth eventually in
words unless he's mute, and then he'll
find another way to show it. If he truly loves
the Lover of his soul, Incarnate Love, it
follows as the night follows day, as verdant
growth follows gentle rain, as anger follows
anger, as hurt follows hate, that love is what
will ooze up through the hardened mud
of man, from every pore.You cannot hide it,
cannot put on church clothes Sunday
over frames of bigotry and not have vileness
stain the stiff, starched collar. On the other hand,
you cannot hide a heart of peace and godliness,
no matter what the outer lack of fashion.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Home for the Holiday

Card games, burgers, catching frogs

and lizards, sitting out behind the house

in shorts and flip-flops 'cause it's Florida.

No snowball fights or making Frosty in

the front yard but the beer is cold and hearts 

are warm when far-flung family comes near.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Holiday Hayride

Christmas songs and carols underneath the stars

blended voices young and old in different keys
but no one cared. We decked the halls away
in the manger 'cause here came Santa Claus rockin'
around the Christmas tree when I'm dreaming
of a white Christmas. Bring me some figgy pudding,
Frosty, Rudolph, Jesus on this silent night, children
ho-ho-hoing on the hayride, taking gifts to neighbors
who had decorated nicely but were mostly either
gone or hesitant to answer doorbells when such
little strangers rang. No room, the silence said.
No time for listening to our pitchiness
when something good was playing on
the big screen plasma Santa brought a few days early.
Production of a family that runs on memories and
making more, so new ones coming up don't have
to just hear stories of the way it used to be,
but blend traditions with the people they've invited
to take part, each voice adding something
different to the mix. We saw a shooting star,
and each one breathed a wish kept secret
on this holy night. When someone muttered "Jesus Christ!"
the time a little boy jumped from the moving trailer,
fear behind the words, someone else piped in with
"will be born" and those who heard it laughed. But
he will be, born afresh in hearts on Christmas, in
hearts that have a little room.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Orlando's Special Magic

Thousand smiling faces enter,

thousand strained and weary leave,

and in between the hours of happy memories

are made and captured by a thousand phones

or cameras. Smiling couples walking

intertwined to stand in line an hour for

a ride that’s over in five minutes, but that’s okay.

The waiting is as entertaining,

watching people all around in every

shape and size and flavor, speaking in

a multitude of foreign languages around us.

Wheelchairs, scooters, strollers, multi-age

assistance so that everyone can ride

the movies, see the stars. Orlando may

not have monopolies on fun, 

but it knows how to deliver.

© Ellen Gillette, 2013

My Life as a Car

"Describe yourself as a car" it read,

and as I held the board game card in hand

I saw the image clearly in my mind-- the

very car I drove, a Honda Civic coupe. 

I noticed first its solidness, the moment I got in 

and shut the door. Sporty-looking, too, in black, 

low maintenance and economical. It suited 

me, and at the time, it served me well

as self-assessments go. But that was years

ago, and like fine wine, the value has 

improved, accrued, risen with my age,

not due to any great accomplishment,

but learning who I am at 56 and being

pleasantly surprised to find I like 

that person quite a bit. Self-perception 

and esteem expanding as the days have passed, 

I'd answer differently today. Something

candy apple red, perhaps, or cobalt blue,

with classic lines and that old solidness,

but just a hint of fun. If that sounds arrogant

or crass, if what you want to give me for

my birthday is a goodly dose of deprecration, 

(self- or otherwise) please be advised that humility's

true meaning, as I've heard it anyway,

is being willing to be known for who and what 

you really are. If I find, at this stage of my life,

that I've become a sports car, it just follows 

that I'm comfortable with that. And if you

find this problematic, thinking of another

model more befitting someone of my

age perhaps I can convince you, if you'll

love me and enjoy the ride.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

That last line sounds vaguely sexual when that wasn't actually my intent, but that's okay too. 56-year-old women have earned the right to be sassy, or whatever else they want to be. Happy birthday to me and all the others born today!

Jazz under the Stars

Sultry voices sing, inviting me

to disappear into the speakers
and become one of the band.
Some miles away the Jazz Society
is playing underneath the moon
as happy people mingle and sip wine
but they're too far away for me
to hear. I wonder, do those with
kitschy lofts above the bars and clubs
go down and join the music or
remain content to listen to a
muted version of the life that
rises up to meet them as they
sit beside an open window,
wishing they were someone else,
in love and closing down the joint?



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Roadside Beggars

Not to denigrate the truly needy; I just
liked this picture. When I worked
at a church in NC we got a lot
of foot traffic, people asking for
help. We tried to sort out the obvious
frauds & be responsible with our
funds, but we also tried to help those
in need whether temporary, or chronic.
Sometimes we all need help.
Doesn't mean everyone asking is
someone like we saw on the corner.

The family standing by the road
was well-fed, even overweight,
which made me drive past quickly
without reading what their little
cardboard sign was heralding,
something-something-baby,
food-no-money-please-please-help.
Before I even thought to turn the
moment into learning opportunity
for teenaged grand beside me
she piped up and said, "They're lying.
They take drugs and leave the little
girl alone," and I was sort of stunned,
not that such a sad thing would occur,
but that she knew the details,
knew their names. That they knew hers.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

A Ruined Book

The binding on a favorite book

splayed carelessly upon the floor

reveals a glue grown brittle from

the years and constant use. Words bleed

into the carpeting until someone takes note 

that it has fallen from the shelf, but it's too

late. The pages are already blank.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Family Photos

If Sunday morning hymns are, 

as they say,

the height of lies, hypocrisy,

some fam'ly photos I've observed

are quite absurd, artistic forms of such

deception, happy smiles with

little semblance to reality.

Perhaps each heart, however,

holds the hope of finding

what they've lost once more,

retaining memory of former

closeness, if not the touch.

There are two types I've known:

the ones who recognize dysfunction,

own it, deal with it as best they

can, and those who say, "Not us."

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Hail, Mary

Hail Mary, full of grace, I wonder what you look like?
Did you the teenage girl catch Joseph's eye
with pretty face and figure or was it something else,
a depth to you that drew him, led him to propose?

The Lord is with thee and inside thee those nine
long months curled up inside, swimming upside
down within the rounding belly making you the punch
line to so many jokes there at the well in town.

Blessed art thou amongst women, which must 
have been a bit for them to take, same Mary they had
known for years, the stuff of fairy tales- or angel tales,
more to the point, anointed to receive the very seed
of God. 

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, 
Jesus. Raised the way I was, I pray to him
directly, rather than through you or buddies
and I'm counting on the fact that this will not offend.
I know that as a mother, it would never bother me
if those who need my sons just speak to them.

On the other hand, you have the ear of God,
I'm sure. There's something special about mothers
and their sons. So next time you're just
spending time with yours, Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners, now and at the hour 
of our death. 

I'm ready for that moment, and I'd love to see your 
son, and even more, see mine, the one perhaps 
you've met? With freckles and red hair and smile 
to warm a mother's heart? If you haven't, look 
him up, because your son must stay much busier, 
and mine would do quite well to take a walk. 

I said I'm ready for the final call, but perhaps I
should explain. I mean in terms of all the legal steps, 
the contract based on faith and signed in blood. I've got
some living left to do, and since I'm here, I guess
that's in the plan. But when I get there, after
chatting with your son and hugging mine for
several thousand years, let's get together
for a cup of something warm and spiced, okay? 
You look so sweet in all the paintings, so serene,
two qualities I find in short supply each morning
when I look into the mirror.

Amen.

It Will Get Better

How do I tell her that it will get better,

Psyche Opening the Door into
Cupid's Garden
by John William Waterhouse, 1904

that she'll find another job, another
line of work, another way to make ends
meet, another paycheck that will feed
her family? A year from now, she may
be married to a man who will provide,
but does she love him? She has such
trouble letting someone care for her,
and now she's hit a wall. Will it push her
forward, into the waiting, open arms
of this new man who wants to treat
her like a queen or is the memory of
the one who haunts her still too strong?
I want to help, I want to hold her tightly
in a mom's embrace and whisper that
it all, eventually, will be well again, but I
don't know. I just don't know how it will
play out. Variables, so many what-ifs and
regrets and yet she knows the One who
holds her in His hand. She knows.
She knows, but even knowing, it is
hard to let a love move on. Having closed
a door, to let another open. I wish I knew
the words she needs to hear. I wish.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

High School Charmer

"Do you have a daughter?" asked the high school boy,

whom I will choose to think was pouring on the charm
because he could, and did it well. Smiling I replied
that\I have two, as well as sons. Knowing where his
interest would be truly, though, I volunteered the fact
that daughter's daughter is 15 and comely. (I said
"beautiful" because we rarely talk the same way that
we write.) He's the kind of boy I hope she meets one day, polite and working hard in school, respectful, strong, and handsome. Hard to think that one day she will marry. Born when I was 40, young to be a Nana, and
we're finding that this world is ill-equipped to handle her
in puberty and I in menopause, sharing house and stress
and all the rest! I suppose we're doing fine, this woman-child
and I, at least we are this minute. Taking just one minute
at a time, we both survive.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Fatty Goo

The cussing dad in Christmas Story saw
the FRAGILE stamp upon the box that
held his lamp, the one appearing like a shapely
female leg, and thought it was a foreign word.
"Fra- jee- lay," he pronounced it, and we
smile each time we see it now, remembering
the line, the lamp, the perfect script that pairs
a silly tale with sweetness, double-dog-dares and
bullies coming to an understanding of what
karma really means. I'm feeling just a little fragile
at the moment, too, multitude of strings all pulling
me to varying degrees. But even more, I'm feeling
fatty goo, if spoken as it looks. Fatigue, from French
for tired, inspiring dreadful poem and not much else.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Vitamin R

I didn't know there was Vitamin R already.

 

Kids in third grade haven't learned
the ins and outs of being truly snarky,
tender-hearted still, of the opinion that
the teacher really does know everything.
Bottle that, you'd make a fortune.
Every district, every school would have
it in the water fountains or perhaps as additive
to lunchroom juice or milk. Vitamin R. Respect.
How refreshing would that be to all
the staff and teachers who go home each
night wiped out by dealing with at
least a few kids in each class, throughout
an entire day, who think they have the
answers, or know that you do not?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Christmas Movies

"That's right, that's right.
Attaboy, Clarence!"

It was a wonderful life when Harry met Sally
and they had a white Christmas, though their
miracle was not on 34th Street. Home alone,
they got together as the year began but "Sleepless
in Seattle" had to wait for Valentine's. A Christmas
story doesn't need the snow but something has
to grab us, draw us in, hilarious Elf, outrageous
vacation or someone being tricked into becoming
Santa Claus. Jack Frost nipping at your nose,
they all have happy endings, though, even John
McClane was yippy-ky-yi-yaying while ole'
Santa's sleigh was sleighing and that's the beauty of them, even if we suffer there with Bridget and the awful
sweaters or hope that Sandra Bullock's sleeping beau will
love her when he wakes. "God bless us every one,"
we want all Tiny Tim to tell us, take our troubles
all aboard the Polar Express and keep the Grinch away
from what we hope the holiday will be, one Christmas,
two or four. At Christmas time, as at no other, it seems
possible. Love, actually. That seems possible too.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Not Surprising

Sometimes you want Something to

This was on a yoga lover's blog.

go just Right so very, very badly that

when it doesn't, you forget that it's

gone badly many times before and

will likely go as badly many times again,

and therefore, why were you surprised?

Sometimes being positive is not the best,

because if you allowed yourself the

right to be negative, you'd have been

prepared, you wouldn't have been

caught off guard, you would have had

all bases covered well ahead of time.

Covered with what, you ask? If I knew

that, I would have covered them

and Things might have gone more smoothly.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Warm Down Here

Stuart's sidewalks filled

with sweating Christmas shoppers.
I love Florida.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Massage

Deep massage can be painful

FYI Groupon has THREE massages
for $99 at Massage Therapeutic Kneads
in Port St. Lucie. Had my first today,
and it was well worth it!

even as it heals, gifted hands first

kneading, pressure that increases

till the poisons locked inside

the muscle seek escape into the

atmosphere of Oriental music

playing softly in the background,

fit accompaniment to my groans.

Similar to this, God's sculpting

of our lives, not always pleasant as

he shapes our sinful flesh to fit inside

his hand, adapting circumstances

so they fall within parameters

of plans he laid before the

earth was even born. Burly Karl had

me on his table for an hour;

more than once he made a comment

when I winced beneath his touch. 

I wonder if God even cares much that

I am tender there, and there, and there

when he begins to push and prod

or if, since he is Love himself,

he only sees the end result, finished

product to reveal somewhere in

distant futures yet unseen. Does this 

make him mean or does it make him smile

as he picks up celestial tools to

chip away a little more of hardness,

granite layers I have gathered round 

me like the sheet on Karl's table?

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Short Money Rhyme

"Money makes the world go 'round" is what
they say and so it does, at least in measure.
But the saddest people on the planet point
to money as their best or solitary treasure.





(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Oink, Oink

'Tis the season

The pig scene from
"A Christmas Story" 

to be overeating,
chocolate pecan pie
and eggnog,
first items on the menu
to pop into my mind.
Buttons popping,
delay the shopping
for new clothes
until there's time
to trim not only
trees but extra inches
off a waist that's
looking ominously
close to Santa Claus's.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Other Woman

Most times she's okay with spending holidays alone.

bothered not at all that he is shopping for his wife
and kids while talking to her on the phone, brief
stolen minute for a call.
Sometimes, though, it hits her, random comment,
mention of an ordinary purchase for a house
that should be,(and is in dreams) her home.
He uses "we" while telling her a story, and at first she
doesn't realize he means his other life,
the part where she's not welcome, the people
with him by the Christmas trees and birthday cakes
or turkey dinners with the family.
She skips a breath, unnoticed, but the subtle shift
in air between them
makes him stop and ask if she's okay.
"I'm fine," she says. "I'm fine. They haven't long
before he has to leave again, and there's no sense in
wasting precious minutes on things that
hardly even matter.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

I read something today that started me thinking about the "other women" and "other men" in life, and how holidays might affect them. Sore subject with some, especially if you've been hurt by such circumstances. Not trying to defend anyone, just took a thought and ran with it.

Orion's Belt

I don't feel like writing about Christmas's

good will t'ward men even though I
got the tree put up today. Nor, say, about
the welcome winter chill (in Florida, this means
any number below 80). Lately, I don't feel like
writing anything, the truth be told. I'm
tired and feeling old and dream of days
on end without the Internet, not even
via phone so I would have the perfect
reason and excuse for failure finding
inner muse material. No stress or turmoil
only time and miles and peace with days
of walking on the beach, or up a mountain trail,
campfire when it's dark, enjoyed with lots
of stories of the kind that never fail to make
me laugh, accompanied by Dixie cups
of wine. I want to look up at the stars
and find Orion's belt and point out
constellations to impress you as you
nuzzle there against my neck.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Phishing

I guess they think I'm stupid,

Forward scammers' emails to the
government or other groups
that monitor phishing.

that I'll sign on to an account

when they have misspelled words

and botched the logo. So I just plain

forgot I had an order coming

that is overdue from FedEx, but

if I'll verify the payment, I can

fetch it? My favorite ones come 

from scammers overseas, 

who pose as royalty in

Kenya or some friend who's

lost her luggage in Great Britain.

Someone over there with too

much time upon their hands. 

Sadly, subterfuge and phishing

must work now and then or

they would find another hobby,

more honest but less lucrative.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Anticipating Christmas

I wasn't planning to go shopping, but

when I found that I was stopping
to look for something needed at one big store,
the pull of yet another was so oddly gravitational
I spent an hour looking, spending longer and more
money than I'd planned.
And yet the gifts I bought are grand,
in my opinion, borderline sensational.
I find myself regretting that I still have weeks
to wait for a more proper date to hand them,
wrapped up nicely, to recipients of this fun
and unexpected venture out into the crowds today.
Suddenly I'm child-like,
wild anticipation for the Christmas tree,
still stored up in the attic as it waits, I fear, on me.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Black Friday Blues

Can't buy what I want (ba-dum, ba-dum)

Favorite scene from
"Adventures in Babysitting"
when no one leaves without
singing the blues.

Slept too late anyway (ba-dum, ba-dum)

Can't take all the crowds (ba-dum, ba-dum)

And I've got other plans today, 

I got those Black Friday blues

You know what I mean

Those Black Friday blues

My checkbook is lean

Don't like to go shopping

Unless it's with you.

Black Friday, Black Friday, 

Black Friday, Black Friday

Black (ba-dum ba-dee-dum, ba-dum ba-dee-dum)

Got those Black, Black Black Friday blues.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Firstborn Child

He bit me once while nursing,
and I bit him back, not hard,
of course, but on his arm. I
can't recall another time he went
out of his way to hurt me,
no thoughtless digs or
payback for not being his idea
of flawless motherhood. We
were companions for a year,
just mostly he and I while
daddy worked and crossed
the sea, and it has never been
like that again. Sometimes I
miss those times, the newness
of a firstborn child held
tightly in the night, rocking
back and forth and singing
songs for no one else but him.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

My firstborn is 36 years old today. We've always had a good time together.Happy birthday, Caleb Edgar Gillette!

Thanksgiving Memory

Wife for two years, mother for one,

first turkey cooked in a wood stove
the size of a Buick in a drafty Carolina cabin
that cold rainy Thursday in November
35 years ago. Little boy barely walking,
pregnant with the next and didn't even know it,
thankful for so much but I wouldn't go back
there even if I could. Long dark hair
and tight jeans three or four sizes smaller,
when I was 20 and life was simpler.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Legacy

There is a home school group around these parts
that started small, five families. Before the five,
there were my questions, research reinforcing
what I saw within my heart, desire to give my
little boy the best chance at an education.
Nancy and I looked into the legal stuff, convinced
a group to form around that seed of passion,
and it's grown so big, they have a prom! A legacy,
unnoticed now by anyone (who's she?) but me.
And that's okay, as well knowing that I played
a part in starting something grand.

There are four children all grown up except the
one who died too soon, and he's so loved and
well-remembered that he still affects the lives
of all who knew him. Policeman, nurse, a stay-home
mom, they don't always do things as I would,
but they were raised with love and discipline and time
invested in their characters, and the dividends accrued
quite well in many ways. As days fly by, they
are a legacy as well, another proof that I was
here, I worked and hugged, baked bread and
put on band-aids, tucked four little ones in bed.

Things I've written, painted, made, one day to
be sold off at auction to strangers holding something
up and making comments to their friends, or passed
along to relatives who may be pleased or not,
when I am laid to rest. Not that I'm ready yet, I've
years (I hope) to leave behind more treasures
of my time and effort but the ones that will endure
the longest are unseen, the love I gave to others,
love that was received with matching joy.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Sometime in the next few days, this blog will have reached 20,000 hits, a bit of a legacy itself. This got me thinking about what I will leave behind, my history of accomplishments, the people who will remember me, not in a morbid way, but realistically. Sometimes I feel like I should have more to show for 55, almost 56 years of living. Maybe being loved, having people who enjoy my company, is more important, however, than a bookshelf lined with novels I've written (not yet!) or walls covered with paintings I've done (one of these days).

A Blessing for Celeste

Be blessed, Celeste, with lots of shoes

When I asked my teenaged friend
Celeste what she wanted for her
birthday, a special blessing event
tomorrow with
guests coming from
out of town, dinner, a very
big deal, she said: "Shoes."

and level roads to walk on,
with all things good, 
brown food adored,
but even more, adventure! 
The courage to
explore things new, 
including thoughts and places.
Be blessed, Celeste, with questions answered.
More ups than downs,
more smiles than frowns,
on life's wild roller coaster .
Be blessed, Celeste, with full knowledge that
you are so loved, protected, with
more happiness than expected,
purest joy to come your way.
Miss Celeste Grace, be blessed today
and all your life with baffling wonder
that will knock your socks clean off
inside another pair beyond compare
of excellent new shoes.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

A Wedding Song

I think if I set this to music,
there would need to be
a banjo and fiddle.

God took pity on the pretty girl.
God took pity on the pretty girl
who longed so much
for a loving touch,
and so he met her need.

God was gracious to an audacious man.
God was gracious to an audacious man
who longed so much
for a loving touch,
and so he met his need.

God chose where their roads would cross.
God chose where their roads would cross
and had the plan in his own hand,
and so he met their needs.

Little did they guess that all the rest,
Little did they guess that all the rest
of life would lead them here
to stand before you now,
to stand before you now.

God took pity on the pretty girl.
God was gracious to an audacious man.
God chose where their roads would cross.
Little did they guess that all the rest
of life would lead them here.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Reflection on That Day in '63

President Kennedy was
shot 11/22/63. Everyone
over the age of 2 at the time
likely remembers what they
were doing when they
heard. I was watching TV.

One month shy of six years old and still at home
because there was no kindergarten in that town,
I was watching television, Dick van Dyke in
black and white, the only channel that we got
inside the valley, till the interruption that announced
a tragedy had taken place. Mama wasn't in
the room, and so I went to tell her Something Bad
had happened. I remember going, not the things
I said or if we huddled there in front of the TV
or left immediately to drive to school to get my sister.
Cars were lined up all chaotically, everyone with
Dallas on their minds. Parents wanted children close to hug, and children had so many questions. Why were
all the grown-ups crying? Why was news
the only thing to watch, this Friday in November?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Fishing From a Dock

Two boys fishing from the dock
did not mind answering the questions
about what was in the lake, nor
admitting that so far that day,
they had failed to catch a thing.
There was a cool breeze conjuring
tiny whitecaps as the sun
began to hang low in the sky
like a scarf around a woman's neck,
and even if they wouldn't take
their supper home, they'd spent
a grand afternoon together,
brothers from the looks of them,
one maybe 10 or 12, the other
well up in his teens, but raised
to be respectful, pleasant, not
too proud to fish but proud enough
to know their casts were skillful.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Water Heals

Water is a wonder, cooling, soothing,

quenching thirst. The tumble of it

over rocks is all it takes, at times, to

heal a ruffled mind, and whether by

a fountain on a table-top or creek

beside a mountain, water's dance

and song speaks to the anxious rhythm

of a heartbeat under stress. Beach waves

crashing, kissing just the edge of sandy

shores, can do the same. A mirrored lake

can take much longer, requiring

that one sits and stares into its depths,

holding focus on what lies beneath

the surface as it washes cares away

without one even conscious of the change.

A pool, a hot tub, nice long bath,

even showers can refresh not just

the body but the soul. The dance of stormy

drops upon the roof, a walk outside in

pouring rain to hydrate earth and its

inhabitants, so thirsty from the busy-ness of life.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Mothers Must Leave From Time to Time, Though Not For Long

I'd like to pass a law against the snarkiness,

the snotty shrug of shoulders showing apathy,
the attitude that says "I know much better"
even when you both know it's not true.

I'd like to pass a law against the lack of love,
the selfishness, demand to be the center
of existence as we know it, without thought
to others, what is best for someone else
or how your actions make them feel.

It isn't up to me, of course, and so I leave
this planet on occasion, travel to a distant
universe, so parallel in many ways, but
where there's peace and quiet if only because
everyone's been threatened not to call.

They start to ask me days before: "When
are you leaving?," calculating
how much longer they must trouble with
the person who intrudes into their lives,
making sure that teeth are brushed and
chores are done, and graphic language is
turned off the xBox, talking back is not allowed.

Mothers, and in our case, Nanas too, should
fly the coop from time to time, not so they
are more grateful (that's unlikely to occur)
but so that we are grateful for the sense of
peace and calm and lack of drama that
the little time away inspires.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Plants & People

Plants will stretch their roots incredibly

to find a drop of water or they might
come up through a concrete crack
pushing, striving, just to catch a glimpse of light.
If they shrivel, it is not through any choice
that they have made, or act of will. Plants
do not love, but still they fight to live,
survive, grow to shade or fruit or flower.
People are not like that. If the water isn't there,
and plenty of it, they will wail, and curse
the dryness. If the darkness falls upon them,
the blame assigned points everywhere but
at themselves. But sometimes, they
are similar to plants, and dying in the
dryness are made new and vibrant.
There is a choice, though, to receive
or not, that vegetation does not share.
I was dying in a drought, leaves
shriveling from too much heat,
no rain, the pruning was too vigorous,
the petals' fragrance faint so as to be
a figment of someone's fantasy, imagination.
And then it rained. And then the sun peeked
through the clouds. And then the green.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

The Maid of Lorraine

Joan of Arc,
as she is known.

Burned for heresy, the farm girl rallied troops,
saw saints, and cut her hair into a bob (though
not quite in that order). She crowned a king
who later could have saved her from the flames
but didn't want to bother. Voices told her this and that,
and she obeyed. A girl of faith, conviction,
loyalty, so gifted and outspoken that intimidated,
weak and foolish men felt stupid in her presence,
emasculated by her strength; they couldn't bear
to let her live, and heaven, who might have spared
her too, did not, preferring that she end a life
spectacular in  humility to come and be with
those who'd spoken to her all along.  Amazingly,
some folks would rather think her gifts a sign of mental
illness than accept that maybe she was someone special,
someone great. Oh, wait. She mentioned God, and was
convincing. That was her undoing, the unforgiveable
sin of merely speaking truth.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Bullies

"If you can't take the heat, stay out of the kitchen"

Not even pro football players
avoid bullying, apparently.
Jonathan Martin has
accused fellow player
Richie Incognito.

may have merit, but when the kitchen is the locker room

or school, and the heat is that of bullies, what to do? 

How best to act, for safety and integrity, for others 

who may lack the skills or will to stand up for themselves?

Hurting people hurt the ones around them, subconscious

adaptation to another adage: "Misery loves company."

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013

Strange Perfume

http://vivianasfahion.blogspot.com/
2010/06/tears-of-joy.html

I googled "tears of joy" and found
this lovely photo at this site.

I know some people who have mostly given up
on life. Not sick or ill, no tragic diagnoses,
they're just weary of the drama each day brings.
I understand, I do, the overwhelming crush of
circumstance and dark awareness that the things
you wish would change are really people, and
they likely won't. But as the night turns
into morning, as the sun climbs high into the blue,
perfection reigns beyond the small and finite
problems we will face. If we are blessed, we'll catch
a whiff of strange perfume upon a breeze, or hear
a song we've always loved so faintly played behind
a crowd we have to strain to figure out the words.
Both the strangeness and the straining
give importance to the commonplace,
and suddenly a hope stirs deep within.
Things will get better, we surprise
ourselves by thinking. That problem will work
out, that person will pick up the phone and call,
apologies we've waited on for years will
come, we'll find the proper drink with which
to swallow bitter pills and find the mixture
to our liking. And all it took was just
a whiff of strange perfume, forgotten
by the end of day, but should we ever
catch a whiff again, a joyful tear will find its
way from eye to cheek before we even
know its there.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013