These Things That We Carry

How everyday objects can be a way into writing

Hello, dear readers and writers.

This week I’m including our very first video prompt (for all levels of subscribers), so I got all dressed up for you, and offered the prompt verbally. It’s about everyday objects, and the kind of surprising writing they can evoke. (Check out that video below.)

The writing I did in response to the prompt is a counterpiece for an earlier post from May. I’ve been working out some stuff with my father (posthumously), and I think we’ve made some progress. You can read both pieces and decide what you think.

This is all to say that I believe in the healing power of writing, and how it can transform us while also creating art. That leads nicely into our quote this week by Maxine Hong Kingston, who is discussing the work she did with Vietnam veterans for many years in ongoing writing workshops.

When we were together it was the strength and the support of the community that made it possible for us to heal. . .and also create art.                       

Here’s the video prompt, followed by what I wrote in response, and finally, Pat Schneider’s poem, “The Patience of Ordinary Things,” from her collection Another River: New and Selected Poems (2005). Hope you enjoy it all.

Meanwhile, keep writing. You inspire me.

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What I wrote:

Pop and I are making some headway now. The way in was compassion. And not just the simplistic, "He did his best with what he had," which is true, but let's face it, a bit lame. No, it's deeper than that: he was broken inside from the loss, and something about me was solid, dependable, loyal, like a good Labrador, or a good partner. No wonder my siblings sometimes think of me as motherly: I must have been more like her than I knew.

Anyway, it all began with the cufflinks. They're costume jewelry, from the 1970's, but as Mom always said, if it's made well, it doesn't have to be real gold or real diamonds. It just has to shimmer in the light. I added that last part, but I think her ghost would like it.

The cufflinks are round and a shiny (fake) gold, and they have a pointed blue crystal in the center. They're groovy. I've worn them 1000 times, with some of my vintage ruffled tuxedo shirts, and occasionally, with a few other shirts I have with French cuffs. I have other, nicer pairs of cufflinks, some silver ones I bought at a vintage store, delicately etched, a pair from my friend Dean, cloisonné I think, depicting an image from a van Gogh painting, but Pop's bordering-on-tacky blue and gold cufflinks are hands down my favorite.

I wrote a poem years ago titled, "Things my father taught me." In the wake of what I've been working on lately--forgiving him for asking me to give up my adolescence to become a caretaker for my dying mother--the title feels more expansive now. I could revise the poem and add, "co-dependence" to the list, or "that I should defer my independence," but that sounds rather snarky, doesn't it. (The truth hurts, Pop; the truth hurts.) What he did teach me was to be polite and respectful, to love others fully, as well as how to tie a bow tie and install a new light switch. He also taught me about style, about French cuffs, ironed pleats, and polished shoes. He taught me self-respect, and that a man could admire another man's beauty. He taught how to shave with a manual razor, and how to act in a nice restaurant.

What I want to say is this: I have a lot of stuff. Maybe some clutter. A few tchotchkes. And when I think of moving, and wonder what I'd take with me, the list isn't long:

that floral platter Kate gave me

the tiny glasses with the four-leaf clovers on them

the champagne flutes that I think are from their wedding

Dean's letters

the little wooden boxes from my travels in Mexico and Europe

my baby photo album & the photo album of our first trip to Italy

the picture of Merijane as a child

Pop's cufflinks are on that list too, because, while I may leave the vintage shirts behind, I'll always find a way to wear at least one crisp white cotton shirt with French cuffs. Just like I'll always find my way back to Pop, even after expressing the rage, the disappointment, the misplaced blame. ("How could you?" I want to scream, like some diva in a 1940's melodrama.)

Because when I dig down into our relationship, under that layer of debris, the mess dementia and adolescence left behind, what's left is something warm and filled with light. And it's been there all along.

The Patience of Ordinary Things
by Pat Schneider

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?