Coal Train

Diesels bay at 3 a.m.
as they prowl railyards
on the north end of town

A screen lights the kitchen
half-cleaned, still
fragrant with cumin and onions

an update chimes:
the rodeo queen has shared
another picture of her boys

Facebook maps a diaspora 
coal-dusted children
departure-seared

poured like mine tailings
from the Valley down the 
slopes of the Rocky Mountains

Goodbyes trace like fireworks
the explosion at the mine
blew out the heart of our town

Iron wheels clatter in time
with breakfast pans. Men
descend into the seam
echoing 
the whistle of the coal train

Poets of G+ Challenge: write a  poem the starts at the end and moves toward the beginning

A List

Things that hollowed me out
today, a list for
no good reason

Casual jazz under red
string lights
a gift from a man who
will never be my friend

The moment a little
girl rested her head
butterfly gentle
against my shoulder
before flitting off to play

The elusive scent
of lilacs

Two chattering women speed
walking past
as I untangled
The dog’s leash from
my legs

The wobbling path
of my son’s bicycle
as he rode away

A Swan from the Start

The other day, I read a parenting post stating decisively that people shouldn't tell a little girl how pretty she is. Physical attributes, the thinking goes, are neither a good measure of a person nor permanent. The unstated judgement is that valuing appearance is shallow and leads to irreparable vanity. Instead we should praise her strength and intelligence and sense of humor and other more "laudable" traits. The goal is to teach self-worth based on character, not her body.

That sounds really good. I almost bought into it, until I looked into the mirror.

It's so easy for a child to latch on to the most ridiculous of ideas. For me it was the understanding that I'm not pretty. I never thought of myself as ugly, just unremarkable. I don't know the genesis of this thinking. It was probably a generic criticism, mixed in with the other flotsam of girlish competition. Unfortunately this one became entangled in all the other insecurities native to a young girl and fell to the floor of my consciousness, slowly seeping its particular poison through the years.

Looking back I can see subtle ways my behavior was shaped by this one idea. I ached to be pretty and found myself drawn to beautiful people, hoping their magic would dust off onto me. When it didn't, I withdrew into my mind and distanced myself from the disappointment that was my body. I neglected to value myself, and as a consequence didn't care for myself. Exercise was pointless. Beautiful clothes and jewelry were for beautiful people. I would just have to make do. Still, in my secret heart-of-hearts, I longed to be a princess, if only for one Cinderella night.

This doesn't mean I lacked all faith in myself. I took pride in my strength and determination and smarts. I was determined to make a difference in the world. But on the occasions that a man did -- miraculously, I thought -- notice me, I was careless with my body and my heart. I once asked a lover if he thought I was beautiful. He  prevaricated until finally admitting that he didn't. Despite my shredded heart I stayed. 

Over time I've learned to admire my parts. My college roommate taught me that every girl deserves pretty lingerie. My sister-from-another-mother has taken me shopping and shown me how to flatter my curvy figure. I've been given lessons in makeup, and compliments on my eyes. Sometimes, when I least expect it, I look in the mirror and find beauty there, wrinkles and dimples and spots and all. I am grateful for those moments.

To be honest, I don't know if thinking myself pretty would truly have changed anything. Still, I will tell my daughter every step of the way that she is smart and funny and strong and, yes, beautiful. I will tell her until she knows in every cell that both her mind and her body are to be cherished and respected and cared for. I will declare her beauty to the world and I will not be satisfied until she can do the same. 

On Thursday

"This must be Thursday. I could never get the hang of Thursdays." - Douglas Adams, Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy

In Hungarian "On Thursday" is csütörtökön. This is one of my favorite words. I love the precision required to say it correctly. How foreign it feels in my mouth. I've forgotten most of what I learned, but this particular phrase has stuck. I have a treasured collection of linguistic oddments that are part of my internal vernacular. Sometimes I say them out loud to myself, like a child playing with her toys. Once I had to do so in empty rooms, lest people fret. The rise of earpieces and cell phones has done wonders for my perceived sanity.

It's a lovely morning for sleeping in -- overcast, damp, and 63 degrees. The dogs believe it to be a perfect day for a walk. We're agreeing to disagree. The house is quiet, except for occasional song from the more ambitious robins in our neighborhood. The oven is ticking as it preheats -- cinnamon rolls should get us all moving, although I'm tempted to abandon responsibility and leave the kids abed. I take comfort in standing guard over my slumbering sweetlings. 

I was reminded this morning that one of my two superpowers is rescuing trapped insects and small mammals. This morning we saved a Very Large Dragonfly from the bag of apricots on the kitchen counter. I have no idea how it got in there. I couldn't catch it with a container, but at the offer of a fingertip it gingerly stepped aboard for the ride outside, even allowing some photos before hurtling into the brightening sky.

The other is the appearance that I always know where I am and where I'm going. I have been approached around the world by strangers needing directions, sometimes in their own country where I am a visitor.

For the record, my sidekick power is making animal noises. Really. I can imitate most domesticated animals (including livestock). Comes in handy when distracting the villain.

Text copied from Facebook at my mother's request