We lay cozy under layered weight--
A cacophony of quilts for winter slumber.
Lifework of my mother’s hands
Gone too many years now.
Pieces cut precisely,
Framing a specific bit of fabric,
Sometimes a visual joke.
Like the owl hidden in flowers
Or her creation of a “pushmi-pullyu”
By reversing the fabric of elephants.
No colors were off the table
No pattern too wild or busy
No fabric too bright or gaudy
For this Beatles-era, hippy artist’s eye.
Each fabric tells a story, mostly ones only I know now:
This one? Oh, that’s from the Satin Moon in SF!
And, this red fabric with tiny yellow chickens?
I wore that dress in Kindergarten after I had Chicken Pox.
Quilt block patterns inspired creativity from names:
Card Trick, Bear Paw, Wild Goose Chase.
As a quilter with catastrophic nearsightedness,
Her arrangements of color and fabric
Pop out as patterns of light/dark
When I remove my glasses I see what she saw.
Shadows made by quilting stitches intensify the effect.
Each stitch done by hand, rocking by the fire.
Or out under the redwoods and willows,
Serenaded by bird song and wind whispers.
Last night, we lay under three quilts…
And I laugh, hearing her chuckle about 3-dog nights.
Poem #4, The Quilter
Revised March 15, 2022
Last night,
you and I lay cozy,
buried under layered weight--
a cacophony of quilts
perfect
for winter slumber.
A labor of art,
crafted in my mother’s hands,
stilled too many years now.
Stitches of quilting, neat
in tiny rows of endless dashes,
methodically done in that pink
brocade, rummage-sale rocker,
wood stove staving off damp chills.
In favorable weather,
she worked outside,
under her ubiquitous red Irish wool hat,
always listening
for a Swainson’s Thrush to signal
the summer evening’s arrival
with lilting trills from atop its swaying willow tree.
Fabric cut precisely
into squares or triangles
to capture treasured bits and scraps:
an illusion of an owl’s face in flowers,
a “pushmi-pullyu” of reversed halves of elephants,
a swatch of 1940s floral curtains from her youth.
Quilt blocks, the medium of
a fabric artist, selected
for a name,
a story engendered,
a pattern prescribed.
Card Trick, Bear Paw,
Wild Goose Chase,
Nine Square, Old Maid,
Tulip in Vase,
she used them all.
Each fabric I see brings a memory,
mostly ones only I can touch now.
This black cotton with colorful fans?
From the Satin Moon fabric shop
on our 1979 Greyhound bus trip to San Francisco.
This red cotton of tiny yellow chickens?
The dress I wore in Kindergarten,
first day back after the Chicken Pox.
And these
rows
of white
giraffes
marching
in columns
down
faded
orange
corduroy?
My bedroom curtain until I turned ten.
This hippy era, Beatles’ inspired artist
never found a fabric too bright or gaudy
or a pattern too wild or busy,
a fortunate byproduct
of catastrophic
nearsightedness.
When I remove my glasses,
I see more of what she saw:
shadows of stitches reveal
new intensity and depth;
colors and textiles pop
in patterns of light and dark.
Last night, you and I lay
under a kaleidoscope
of three quilts…
and I hear my mom,
The Quilter,
tell her joke about
three-dog nights,
her voice an echo
from my Great North Woods childhood.
Poem # 44, Blow on the Sparks
by Emily Gibson, Feb 13, 2022
To be a brightness, an eager sponge soaking up
Everything, with a capital E,
Is to be purely alive.
However, when such a spark--
A bright light with its own orchestra--
Crashes into the expectations and structures
Of conformity, rigidity, cliques, and social pressure,
Of peers and school,
There are 2 choices for the spark:
One is to be snuffed out, and survive as an ember,
Painfully, constantly, singeing the self
On the expectations of others.
The other is to forge a singular path:
Find your people, write your own script
Let your brightness illuminate the world.
Subdue the self,
Or rise above the pressure,
That is the choice,
Though we don't necessarily see
The choice at the time.
I can see my parents,
Intelligent introverts, focused on knowledge,
Literature, music, and philosophy,
Wondering who this being they created was?
This happy, funny, creative, caring,
Nurturing, sensitive soul.
Who was summarily crushed by peers’ expectations to fit in.
It was excruciating to watch, I imagine.
How powerless they were to help, though they tried.
I compare my Kindergarten class photo--
Where I am crawling out of my seat to greet the camera
Grinning, full of myself, confident in my place,
With my 3rd grade photo--
Where I am sad, withdrawn, barely looking at the camera,
A shell of my former self, focused inward.
This poor, raggedy, ratty haired kid
With visible ear wax, thrift-store clothes 5 years out of style,
Cheap tennis shoes from the small town supermarket, housing
Dirty feet in permanently stained, stiff toed tube socks that
Everyone saw when we had tumbling for P.E.
I was oblivious to how I appeared, too busy living,
Until the teasing, taunting and ostracizing began.
Carried out by kids who believed that status and power
Were the most important commerce to pedal in,
Not kindness, sharing, and delight in learning.
I tried to fit in because the loneliness
Of not belonging pierced like a knife.
In 5th grade, not having lip gloss became the epitome
Of my worthlessness.
I pretended a roll-on perfume,
Acquired in a Christmas charity package,
Was my lip-gloss. I snuck it out
And performed the ritual application
But it dried out my lips and tasted bitter
And didn’t fool anyone.
Especially not the girls with 20 massive Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers
Lined up in the pencil tray in their lift-top desks,
On full display every time they searched for a book or paper.
Over time and repetition, I grew to feel deserving of
Their seemingly endless onslaught of words
Which hurt more than sticks ever could, somehow.
Coming in from recess, where most torment occurred,
When it had been all too much to take,
I lay on my desk in my helplessness,
Arms covering my face, body wracked with
Enormous, gut-wrenching sobs, inconsolable,
The grief untempered by my teacher’s reassurances
Or advice to ignore them so they’d stop.
About once a semester,
I was sent to the office so a teacher
Could lecture the class on not being so mean.
Things bettered for a while, before devolving again
To where I became the root of their evil entertainment.
Why me?
I was transparent, showed my feelings, was
Easy to get to.
I always eventually took their bait,
Their olive branch of friendliness that wasn’t real
And cut my hands when they ripped it away laughing
Like Lucy’s football.
Every time, I tried trusting again,
Because I believed in the goodness
Of everyone.
I was ever hopeful of belonging, of people realizing it was
All a big mistake,
And I really did belong and really did have value
Beyond my clothes and whether or not I had showered.
Eventually, I shut down, and stopped trying.
Human cruelty knew no bounds.
But nature was safe. And horses. And bicycles.
I grew comfortable with being mostly alone.
My family still saw my spark, blew on it to keep it alive.
I studied, observed, created. I grew my talents.
I wrote and read, and wrote and read more. Absorbing.
Until, in college, I discovered I was actually
Brilliant and full of light.
It surprised me.
My purpose became making things better for kids in schools.
As a teacher, I had something to offer. Especially to those
Who were different, with their own back-up bands, like me.
I could help them be who they were
With no apologies.
I created classroom communities where
Everyone belonged
Had a voice
Had personal power.
I sought out fellow sparks,
And blew on them, to show them how they still shined.
As an adult, I used to look at photos of my 4-5-6 year old self,
And not recognize me.
“Who IS that child?” I would think.
I identified more with the sad, lost, ugly misfit
I became in later years.
Now, I see that bright child in me;
I identify with that force of light far more.
I was lost for so long, but never again.
Now, I feel sorry for those who felt threatened
By my spark. They feared getting burned,
Not realizing I would only share my warmth.
I hope they found themselves,
I hope they forgave themselves
And taught their own children more kindness,
Blowing on their sparks so they would shine.
Poem #44, Blow on the Sparks
Revised March 15, 2022
To be a brightness,
an eager sponge soaking up Everything,
with a capital E,
broadcasting light
in tune with its own musical score,
is to be purely alive.
However, when such a spark
crashes into the structures
of peers and school,
of conformity, rigidity, and cliques,
two options present.
Be snuffed out.
Survive as an ember,
painfully, constantly, singeing the self
on the expectations of others.
Or, forge a singular path.
Find your people,
write your own script,
let your spark illuminate the world.
Subdue the self,
or rise above the pressure,
that is the choice,
offered up each time.
My parents,
intelligent introverts focused on learning,
must have puzzled
over this happy, creative, caring,
sensitive soul they created.
Though they tried to help,
they were powerless
when classmates summarily
crushed my spirit.
.
Compare my Kindergarten class photo--
a girl crawling out of her seat to greet the camera,
grinning, full of herself, confident in her place--
With my 3rd grade photo
capturing a sad, withdrawn kid, camera shy,
a shell of that Kindergarten self,
focused inward now.
A poor, raggedy, ratty-haired kid
with visible ear wax,
thrift-store clothes 5 years out of style,
dirty feet in permanently stained, stiff-toed
tube socks everyone smelled
when my $5 tennis shoes came off
for tumbling in P.E.
I was oblivious to this appearance,
until the teasing,
taunting, and ostracizing started,
from kids who thought status and power
were the critical social commerce,
not kindness, sharing, or delight in learning.
I tried to fit in. Loneliness settled.
Not belonging burned
as pelting rain on frigid skin.
In 5th grade, a lack of lip gloss epitomized
social worthlessness.
Seeking acceptance, a roll-on perfume
from a Christmas charity package
became my substitute.
That first day, I removed the cap,
performed the ritual application,
and glowed from being “in” at last.
But it dried out my lips.
It tasted bitter.
And it fooled no one.
Especially not the girls with 20 massive Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers
lined up in the pencil tray in their lift-top desks,
on full display every time they searched--
far more often than necessary--
for a book or paper.
Notably, that perfume-as-lip-gloss
stayed in my pencil tray
‘til long after the bottle dried up.
Over time and repetition,
I grew deserving of their words
which hurt more than sticks ever could.
A damage deeper than bruises.
How many times I collapsed
after recess, helpless to understand,
arms covering my face
with a grief untenable, untempered.
Well-meaning classmates advised:
“Ignore them, they’ll leave you alone.”
Didn’t they know?
I medaled in the event of ignoring,
top of the podium,
blue ribbon, trophy and all.
But they
never
stopped.
Occasionally, a gifted reprieve,
a mysterious errand to the office
as a teacher sternly lectured the class
on kindness and acceptance.
Any improvement lived
a short existence.
Eventually, peers’ boredom
and the beacon over my head
overwhelmed any adults’ words.
Why me?
I was transparent,
showed my feelings,
was easy to get to.
And, characteristically, I took their bait,
every time.
Their olive branch of feigned friendliness
turned sharp with thorns
the moment they ripped it away,
like Lucy’s football.
Every time,
I trusted, again,
believed, again,
in their potential for
goodness.
Ever hopeful of belonging,
of waking up to find it all
a big mistake,
that I really did belong,
really did have value
beyond my clothes
and whether or not I showered that week.
By middle school, I stopped trying.
Lesson learned:
human cruelty is boundless.
But nature was safe. And horses. And bicycles.
“Alone” became comfortable.
My spark survived, my family blew on its embers.
I studied, observed, created. I grew my talents.
I wrote and read, and wrote and read more. Absorbing.
Until, in college, I discovered
I was actually
brilliant,
full of light.
It surprised me.
My purpose ignited.
Oh, what I could offer
those who were different,
with their own back-up bands, like me!
I could help them be,
with no apologies.
Strategically, I created classrooms,
communities,
where everyone
belonged,
used their voice,
had personal power.
I found sparks
reminiscent of my younger self.
I blew on them,
showed them they still shined,
they always shined,
and the world needed them to keep on shining.
As a young adult,
I looked at photos of my 4-5-6 year old self.
“Who IS that child?” I thought,
still identified with the downcast, ugly misfit
version of myself.
I was lost for so long, but never again.
Now I confirm that force of light.
I see that bright child in me.
I think those who felt
threatened by my spark
feared getting burned.
They didn’t realize I wanted
only to share my warmth.
I hope they found themselves,
I hope they forgave themselves,
I hope they blew on the sparks
of their own children so they would shine.
The world needs them to shine, too.
Poem #18 Sifting the Rubble (originally titled Lifequakes)
by Emily Gibson, Jan 18, 2022
When your fabric of life
is rent and ripped
by a pile-up of transitions
no one could ever expect,
What is left? Where is “you”?
Such a lifequake severs us
into “before” and “after”.
will you recognize “you”
after
the after?
how far is too far
to drift from your
true north?
does our true north shift, over a lifetime
like the earth’s?
the opportunity to reset
and find again what matters
to repair and adust your sails
is a gift best opened
as soon as it arrives.
no x-ray can see inside,
no shaking or bouncing will reveal
contents in advance of opening
Whatever it is,
Let it help you remember who you are
what you, as a child,
dreamed of becoming.
Reach out, take your hand
and find the way to your after.
when the clutter is stripped
away. when
the shoulds and musts,
the becauses and have-tos
evaporate
in the face of something more urgent
Unavoidable
Impossible to ignore,
we have the chance to
hear a voice
perhaps silenced long ago
subsumed in figuring out
survival, life.
lifequakes can give voice
to that silenced.
even if the before was
a wonderful life.
even if we think we’ve made our dreams come true
remember another dream
create another wonderful
listen to hear your voice
unsilenced, undoubted.
Poem #18, Sifting the Rubble
Revision, March 15, 2022
Last year, the fabric of my life
disintegrated,
torn asunder in a pileup
of transitions I wouldn’t wish
on my darkest enemy:
illness, job loss, massive stress,
pandemic, despot, social unrest.
Such a lifequake's rift splits us in
two: before and after.
Where are we in the rubble?
Is it possible to dig out?
How does one begin?
I took a chance at reset.
Repaired my sails,
adjusted course,
sorted the wreckage,
and found what mattered,
mired on shoals of shoulds and musts,
like roots choked in sodden tidal muds.
When “back to normal”
seemed in reach,
aftershocks tossed
expectations
down from shelves
to shatter on a tile floor,
until “normal”
could never be recognized again.
A lifequake does not visit
only those who stray
from paths of right and true.
Nay, it turns it all to debris, anyway,
even wonderful lives lived well.
It’s a matter of course,
not deserved.
Yet, in the pile of chaff
made of your life
there trembles
a hidden
opportunity, waiting
to be sieved and winnowed.
A gift you can open
like a time capsule
from your buried self.
My lifequake’s tremors let up,
the seismograph stilled.
I sifted
through the rubble.
Across the quieted calm,
I heard
a voice muted,
hushed for years
while I lived a full-to-the-brim,
purposeful existence.
I remembered
my dream.
I answered
the call of a poet.
Now, in the after,
my whole voice is
unsilenced,
unquavering.
It resonates
on this side of the rift.
