#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Awake, again, into this week of making new friends, working on our projects, wanting to get to know everyone even more, even better. When I wake at 6 and slip, seamlessly, from bed into warm pool, a new friend is swimming laps beside me. Soon, I am outdoors, climbing toward the sky up the trails to the lookout in the fresh cool air of autumn, looking down. This week is a peak experience of framing my creative life over the next chapter. Tonight, our group sat around a fire kindled in a comfortable room. One of my favorite ways to spend an evening: we each read something we wanted to share for five minutes. I went first and shared three poems and the photos that inspired them: Monadnock, Pinked, and All These Cures. Others read blog posts or sections of their books or short prose and one woman sang an original song and played guitar. Now, I know each person more and still want to know more, because she and he let me see such an intimate, vulnerable creative side.
One of the poems I shared is the title poem of my fist chapbook, All These Cures. It’s about an imaginary grandmother who came to me many years ago in a guided imagery, and how she cured me, and what she left me:
All These Cures
One day you imagine the grandmother you need
and find her living in a Swedish bakery serving
tea to customers in wooden booths on wooden
floors in her sweet and steamy shop where she
feeds your hunger for cinnamon and vanilla,
your dream of comfort from butter and baking,
the yeasty promise of pastry curling and browning.
You ring the bell and a door swings open on
the ritual you make so she can greet you. If she speaks
Swedish you will never know. Her intuition is precise
and proofed in silence. The blend of tea she serves
you cannot tell. Her cures are brewed in brightly
painted pots, steeped in mystery, poured into China
cups on saucers she sets steaming under your nose.
Her intention is to love you no matter what
and you learn to let that be a nice surprise.
You learn to trust she means what she makes
you feel, warmed and wanted, sweetened
and safely seated, belonging.
Every time you ring the bell a door swings open
and she is there to greet you until the day she doesn’t
because she is dead. You thought she lived
where she would live forever, but your imagination
means more than that. What she leaves you
is the shop, your place in it, and the mystery
of who you must serve in her absence.
©Kelly DuMar, published in “All These Cures”