The Past Month

Wow, what have I been doing for the past month that was so compelling as to keep me from posting on this blog? Digging into my recollections I find the events pass my attention like so much sand through a timer.

I've done some reading. Only yesterday I finished reading The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz. I'd encourage everyone with an interest in literature, language, and story to study this book. The Pulitzer Prize hardly seems sufficient for this narrative. The language crackles with intensity, with passion, and with the bi-lingual/bi-cultural perspectives of the characters therein. The book is very much an elaboration of the Derek Walcott line "...either I'm nobody, or I'm a nation."

I picked up Philip Levine's autobiography The Bread of Time--Toward An Autobiography. Levine first came to my attention when I plucked his volume of poetry entitled What Work Is and read the the title poem:

We stand in the rain in a long line

waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.

You know what work is--if you're

old enough to read this you know what

work is, although you may no do it.

Forget you. This is about waiting,

Shifting from one foot to another.

Feeling the light rain falling like mist

into your hair, blurring your vision

until you think you see your own brother

ahead of you, maybe ten places.

Your rub your glasses with your fingers,

and of course it's someone else's brother,

narrower across the shoulders than

yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin

that does not hide the stubbornness,

the sad refusal to give in to

rain, to the hours wasted waiting,

to the knowledge that somewhere ahead

a man is waiting who will say, "No,

we're not hiring today," for any

reason he wants. You love your brother,

now suddenly you can hardly stand

the love flooding you for your brother,

who's not beside you or behind or

ahead because he's home trying to

sleep off a miserable night shift

at Cadillac so he can get up

before noon to study his German.

Works eight hours a night so he can sing

Wagner, the opera you hate most,

the worst music ever invented.

How long has it been since you told him

you loved him, held his wide shoulders,

opened your eyes wide and said those words,

and maybe kissed his cheek? You've never

done something so simple, so obvious,

not because you're too young or too dumb,

not because you're jealous or even mean

or incapable of crying in

the presence of another man, no,

just because you don't know what work is.

I wondered, then, of the man who could write in such a plain-spoken way and direct way about work, about love. I wondered of his upbringing--Detroit, Michigan, his education--studying with John Berryman and other luminaries, and his homes--Detroit, Spain, California.

I think, probably, the most consuming thing I've done in the past month is to have made the decision to return to school. I've danced around that decision for years now having considered a Master's in Social Work, a Master's in Counseling, a Master's in Psychology and finding the idea of specialization too confining, too narrowing at a time in my life when I am more able to have and hold wider perspectives. The Master's Program in Liberal Studies allows for study across disciplines, allows for the energizing clash of differing viewpoints, and allows for the enriching possibilities of synthesis.

I've otherwise occupied my time enjoying the harvest of our small garden, of meals enhanced with fresh tomatoes, zucchini, and peppers. And how better to enjoy these waning days of summer than in dining on the past efforts of Spring?