the abnormal is not courage

The Abnormal Is Not Courage
The Poles rode out from Warsaw against the GermanTanks on horses. Rode knowing, in sunlight, with sabers,A magnitude of beauty that allows me no peace.And yet this poem would lessen that day. QuestionThe bravery. Say it's not courage. Call it a passion.Would say courage isn't that. Not at its best.It was impossib1e, and with form. They rode in sunlight,Were mangled. But I say courage is not the abnormal.

Not the marvelous act. Not Macbeth with fine speeches.
Not the marvelous act, but the evident conclusion of being.Not strangeness, but a leap forward of the same quality.Accomplishment. The even loyalty. But fresh.Not the Prodigal Son, nor Faustus. But Penelope.The thing steady and clear. Then the crescendo.The real form. The culmination. And the exceeding.Not the surprise. The amazed understanding. The marriage,Not the month's rapture. Not the exception. The beautyThat is of many days. Steady and clear.It is the normal excellence, of long accomplishment.-Jack Gilbert Gilbert has several books. One is *Refusing Heaven,*

letter to a student

Dear Scott,
I wanted to tell you some of my thoughts after our lesson, as I have been able to process over the past day.
I noticed a very big difference in your breath control, especially when you were singing Amazing Grace, and I hope you can see that this summer you did make a lot of progress. I realize now that I was indeed overlooking the bad breathing habit you had formed while focusing on other things like pitch recognition and repertoire for the recital, and it was time for you to move from building strength to focusing on subtler control. Jared was right on with the things he was having you work with, and I am so glad that he was able to point you in just the right direction. I noticed that your hard work of the summer truly paid off, and I hope you can see that progress more clearly as you move into the fall.
I can see why you are interested in continuing with Jared, he has so much to offer and you have also made great strides working with him. Mary mentioned that it took a lot of courage for me to send you to other teachers and that most people wouldn't ever do that for so many reasons-- I guess it just never occurred to me no to. You are so eager to learn and so disciplined, singing is kind of becoming a lifestyle for you. I would almost venture to call it a "practice". My thought was that learning different approaches or hearing what others have to say could only be beneficial to you, and if that means you move on to other teachers, well, I want you to find your way to your voice however you need to! I really mean that.
So then I started getting a little doubtful of myself. Asking, what the heck do you know anyway, Heidi? I don't have a PHD, I can't play piano (damn my parents! why didin't they force me? ha ha), I just had a baby 6 weeks ago . . . well, you know how these things can go.
But you gave me a great gift on Monday, I had an AHA moment that has continued over the past couple of days. I think I found the secret to my talents that I need to be focusing on, and I wanted to share it with you because you helped me put a finger on it with something you said. You mentioned something to the effect of yes, you learned a lot with Jared, but you have fun with me . . . and I said something about connection, but later on I thought more and realized that maybe you were saying I help you to be inspired .
I hope I am not sticking my foot in my mouth if that is not what you were really saying, but I realized that that is why I love coaching people to sing (I would rather call it coaching). I feel their inspiration, and I am also inspired in the process. You know that part I was saying about how nobody can teach you to sing, you have to find your own voice, and I think that is really true -- but you have to be continually inspired to want to keep going deeper. I don't want to say I inspire my students, but I think I help them find their own inspiration. What is it to "inspire"? Doesn't it literally mean "to breathe in"? (Okay, i didn't look it up, but let's go with it).
I realize now, as life becomes more work and less fun the older I get and the more responsibilities I have, that inspiration is the precious water we are thirsty for. When the well runs dry, I feel like I am not alive anymore. It is also harder to feel inspired because I have my head down in the muck of life and not up in the heavens where music and art and poetry and dance, etc live. But what is the first thing we give up when life gets too hectic ? -- the "extras". I see now that inspiration is food for the soul, and if we don't get it we starve in a very slow and harmful way. Perhaps this is the reason why so many people are depressed and anxious -- their souls are hungry for inspiration and we have forsaken the Arts in our culture as a needless extra.
All that said, I wanted to thank you for continuing to inspire me with your generosity and insight, and for helping me learn this important lesson in my life. I realize now that I must use my gift to inspire in every way . . . and I need to stop holding back wherever that may be happening in my life.
As for the scheduling of lessons with Jared and me together, I don't know how that might work, but I am willing to try it once and explore the possibility, see how it goes, etc. Please feel free to talk with me about anything, I am open to suggestions and I know there is so much for me to learn. Sorry I may not have left enough room to hear some of that on Monday. Let's keep talking.
Okay, thanks for listening to me ramble.
Heidi

gorgeous

Lament for the Makers
, , -->
Not bird not badger not beaver not bee
Many creatures must make, but only one must seek
within itself what to make
My father's ring was a B with a dart through it, in diamonds against polished black stone.
I have it. What parents leave youis their lives.
Until my mother died she struggled to make a house that she did not loathe; paintings; poems; me.
Many creatures must
make, but only one must seekwithin itself what to make
Not bird not badger not beaver not bee
•
Teach me, masters who by making wereremade, your art.
Frank BidartStar DustFarrar, Straus and Giroux

back to poetry

I would've written this one just this way, I feel so reminiscent all the time! And I am still so young . . .

Archaeology
The older we get, the deeper we dig into our childhoods,Hoping to find the radiant cellThat washed us, and caused our lives to glow in the dark like clock handsEndlessly turning toward the future,Tomorrow, day after tomorrow, the day after that, all golden, all in good time
Hiwassee Dam, North Carolina. Still 1942,Still campfire smoke in both our eyes, my brother and IGaze far out at the lake in sunflame,Expecting our father at any moment, like Charon, to appearBack out of the light from the other side, low-gunwaled and loaded down with our slippery dreams.
Other incidents flicker like foxfire in the blackIsolate distance of memory, cross-eyed, horizon-haired.Which one, is it one, is it anyone that cleans us, clears us,That relimbs our lives to a shining
One month without rain, two months, third month of the new year,Afternoon breeze-rustle dry in the dry needles of hemlock and pine.I can't get down deep enough.Sunlight flaps its enormous wings and lifts off from the backyard,The wind rattles its raw throat, but I still can't go deep enough.
Charles WrightScar TissueFarrar, Straus and Giroux

sisters

A poem in progress for my doulas:

This I know for sure:
many years from now
when all detail slips from this memory of my labor
like a young child quickly grows old
(and we forget the cloudy grey of their infant eyes)
I will remember these few things
you gave me in those short hours we stepped together
behind the veil that separates this life from that --
when darkness set her teeth upon me,
when pain cinched its rope around my chest
and squeezed the breath from my lungs
when loneliness crept like a spider into my heart
and threatened to overcome me --
and somewhere in that frightening world
I might've been lost forever.
In that darkness, I felt your hands'
firm touch, heard your strong voice
your breath in sync with mine
and there was dignity where none would have been
dignity before the knife, and your steadfast sisterhood
holding me up, keeping the door closed
on my deepest fear.


and another post-cesarean poem

I have been to this place before:
sweet baby's breath,
hot mother's tears,
slow, aching body
cut down the center.

I have been to this place before
(I remind myself again and again)
of loneliness and despair,
stark beauty and regret,
guilt for my body's sorrow.

What sacrifice a mother makes!
For surely I would've died to bring you here
as so many have before. Twice the knife
of a surgeon released these children
I would not otherwise have.
And who would this mother be,
otherwise?

I have been to this place before,
weeping for a torn middle self
smiling with the secrets of this precious baby
miraculous pleasure bleeding lonely pain.

I have been to this place before
only this time I know I will make it out alive.
I will not stay long.
This time I will turn quietly, gently
and make my way home.