So, I’m lying in bed last night thinking about pre-sleep stuff. When I go to bed I often do a mental exercise I call Clearing the Deck. I imagine I’m lying on the deck of a boat surrounded by all the the stuff going on in my life—conflicts, tasks, work, plans, happy stuff, events, to-do lists, dramas, successes, all the stuff that runs through your mind before sleep.
I mentally review things that need attention and examine them. Then, I imagine the Big Sweep. I picture a giant broom sweeping it all overboard so for now, I can free of it. Then I picture myself all clear and unburdened and open and light and I make a conscious intention to be receptive to new thoughts that float up.
Last night when I was at this place, I felt a strong presence of my Uncle Dick who died when I was in college, like he was there saying that he’s around. It felt like he’s wanted me to know he's proud of me for my writing and poetry and wanted me to know. I haven’t felt him around in a long time. It felt warming.
Uncle Dick was a wandering, free spirit and totally exotic to me growing up. He brought hummus to our house, which was, well, not meatloaf—WOW hummus!—and drank gin and told jokes so dirty I didn’t get them. He sometimes exclaimed in German he remembered from the war and he let me wear his sailor's hat. Later, when I'd get home from dates way too late, he'd wait up for me to ask all about it and give me a hug before bed. When I was in college we wrote letters and his handwriting was big and pointy like it’d been written with the tip of a conductor’s wand. Then he died.
When I lived in Oregon, my mother sent me a big folder of his poems and letters. I had no idea that he even wrote poetry--I think he kept it all private. It was informal; I remember a love poem he wrote on a scrap of paper while waiting for a lover at the airport.
I suppose I’d made the connection before between Uncle Dick and my poetry—that these are some of the genes that fuel my fire. I’m one of the only ones in my family who doesn’t live within a 10 mile radius of our hometown, who is rather fearless, certainly the only writer. Now I see where I may have gotten these genes. I haven’t thought of his presence in a while, there once I cleared the deck and opened myself up, Uncle Dick floated in to let me know that, as I work on this collection and dive into my work and try to let myself be a channel to a greater thing, he’s around.
I mentally review things that need attention and examine them. Then, I imagine the Big Sweep. I picture a giant broom sweeping it all overboard so for now, I can free of it. Then I picture myself all clear and unburdened and open and light and I make a conscious intention to be receptive to new thoughts that float up.
Last night when I was at this place, I felt a strong presence of my Uncle Dick who died when I was in college, like he was there saying that he’s around. It felt like he’s wanted me to know he's proud of me for my writing and poetry and wanted me to know. I haven’t felt him around in a long time. It felt warming.
Uncle Dick was a wandering, free spirit and totally exotic to me growing up. He brought hummus to our house, which was, well, not meatloaf—WOW hummus!—and drank gin and told jokes so dirty I didn’t get them. He sometimes exclaimed in German he remembered from the war and he let me wear his sailor's hat. Later, when I'd get home from dates way too late, he'd wait up for me to ask all about it and give me a hug before bed. When I was in college we wrote letters and his handwriting was big and pointy like it’d been written with the tip of a conductor’s wand. Then he died.
When I lived in Oregon, my mother sent me a big folder of his poems and letters. I had no idea that he even wrote poetry--I think he kept it all private. It was informal; I remember a love poem he wrote on a scrap of paper while waiting for a lover at the airport.
I suppose I’d made the connection before between Uncle Dick and my poetry—that these are some of the genes that fuel my fire. I’m one of the only ones in my family who doesn’t live within a 10 mile radius of our hometown, who is rather fearless, certainly the only writer. Now I see where I may have gotten these genes. I haven’t thought of his presence in a while, there once I cleared the deck and opened myself up, Uncle Dick floated in to let me know that, as I work on this collection and dive into my work and try to let myself be a channel to a greater thing, he’s around.
2 comments:
Nice post, 'Vu. 'The Big Sweep'. I'll have to remember that one.
Thinking about this post, it reminded me of my forgotten theory on how every family has a 'Family Hipster,' that person who makes a point of coloring outside the lines, goes for long walks in the rain and finds it interesting (and not annoying) when they miss a bus.
Sounds like you've picked up the banner your uncle proudly carried. That's cool!
Also, the drawing on your blog is too funny. The Pope's garage sale -- that's a great concept!
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