Mother's Day Meditation
Cinderella comes home tomorrow night, trusting her mother to her own fate and returning to her family. I am locked in an insane marathon of awesome gift-giving that we unleash on each other. Gifting is a great spiritual secret, I think. It is the nature of the earth and of the commong grace of life to give, don't you think? I was once giving a talk at Kim Stafford's fine writing program in Portland, and I said the universe was sending us birthday presents every hour of the day. Miracles and portents, signs and goodies. But we are simply too busy with trivia and worry and doubt and rage and fretting and American Idol and money panics and fear to ever even see 99% of our presents, much less stop and open them. Oh yeah--I was feeling cosmic! I was preaching! And Kim, who was paying me a lot of $$$ to talk to the gathered writers, stopped me and said to them, "Did you hear what Luis said? He said the world is trying to give you gifts. So get a pencil and a notebook and get out of here and go into the world and see what gift is awaiting you and write about it." And they left! I had only spoken for about fifteen minutes. "Ah," said Kim, "but they were the right fifteen minutes." You can't trust those Staffords--they're writing crazy.

So, you know, how do I gift Cinderella this time? After all the pain and worry of this long awful week in hospitals. How do I honor Mother's Day? Anybody can get flowers. Anybody can get chocloates (hope she's not reading this in Seattle--I did, I did get her chocolates!). I often write a poem, or make her a whole book of poems. So I was thinking this--and all of you who have been following the blog these last couple of weeks know what I've been up to--anyb husband can buy some flowers, but no husband would plant an entire flower garden! Won't she be surprised! I can tell she will be, because the neighborhood hot-moms came over to gawk at it.

I have "enjoyed" many days of sore muscles.

So, happy Mother's Day all you moms: wish I could plant you a garden too. But I give you this sweet and very sexy mom-type poem from Karl Shapiro. It's not really a writing meditation, but it is. I've said it before--it's all writing. The world, all of it, the sun and the trees, the flowers and the floods, the bees and the mockingbirds and the poets and the bikers and the mothers and the armadillos and the dandelions and the Rockies and the gators and Beau Jocque and the Zydeco High Rollers, it's all written. God is a poet. Here is my poem to you, Cinderella, and to you my sweet moms--I hope your Day is full of chocolate.

* * *

And where are the poems that got lost in the shuffle of spring?
Where is the poem about the eleventh of March, when we raised the battleflag of dawn?
Where is the poem about the coral necklace that whipped your naked breasts in leaps of love?
The poem concerning the ancient lover we followed through your beautiful sleeping head?
The fire-fountain of your earthquake thighs and your electric mouth?
Where is the poem about the little one who says my name and watches us almost kissing in the sea?
The vellum stretchmarks of your learned belly,
Your rosy-fingered nightgown of nylon and popcorn,
Your razor that caresses your calves like my hands?
Where are the poems that are already obsolete, leaves of last month, a very historical month?
Maybe I'll write them, maybe I won't, no matter,
And this is the end for which we are together.

--Karl Shapiro
from "Aubade"

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