Senior Year
I feel your impending absence
Like a phantom limb
Not yet severed
I follow you around
With college brochures
Questions
Suggestions
Poems
You must feel you will trip
Over me
Every time you
Turn
While you are still physically here
Your eyes look through me
I feel your intention
Moving
Out the door
Down the road
Across the country
Away
I try
Not to look too long
Listen too hard
Or touch too much
My meditation
To learn to open these hands
Meant to shelter
Which might smother now
Uncurl the clenching
And simply
Let go
And you
Gracefully
Side step my anxious
Following tread
And graciously pretend
Not to feel my tears
In your hair
In the dark
©Edwina Peterson Cross
THE CHILD - CIRCLES
First Flight
The nest outside my window is full.
Last week they were tiny, wet
with fine, fuzzy, down-covered heads
eyeless, mewing for something
not knowing what or why.
Back and forth the mother soared,
life focused, never stopping
filling the need of the open crying mouths
then flying straight for more.
In just one week
they have become
birds.
Speckled breasts and fluffed up wings,
small sharp beaks and bright black eyes
that now know the need;
fill the belly and then
the sky!
They stand in the nest
ruffling feathers,
flexing wings,
experimenting.
On the hard concrete below
one small body has already broken.
Mother bird is flying faster now.
Will she find enough
to give them what they need?
She senses spring
is almost gone.
Time is short.
And mine . . .
eighteen years of nesting
now stands teetering on the edge
testing balance,
stretching wings,
perceiving with anticipation
the sweet currents of the wind.
I cannot soften the concrete below
nor choose the moment of flight.
My thoughts are flying faster now.
Have I given her enough?
Have I given her what she needs?
A breath of summer
rocks the nest.
Time is short.
©Edwina Peterson Cross
The nest outside my window is full.
Last week they were tiny, wet
with fine, fuzzy, down-covered heads
eyeless, mewing for something
not knowing what or why.
Back and forth the mother soared,
life focused, never stopping
filling the need of the open crying mouths
then flying straight for more.
In just one week
they have become
birds.
Speckled breasts and fluffed up wings,
small sharp beaks and bright black eyes
that now know the need;
fill the belly and then
the sky!
They stand in the nest
ruffling feathers,
flexing wings,
experimenting.
On the hard concrete below
one small body has already broken.
Mother bird is flying faster now.
Will she find enough
to give them what they need?
She senses spring
is almost gone.
Time is short.
And mine . . .
eighteen years of nesting
now stands teetering on the edge
testing balance,
stretching wings,
perceiving with anticipation
the sweet currents of the wind.
I cannot soften the concrete below
nor choose the moment of flight.
My thoughts are flying faster now.
Have I given her enough?
Have I given her what she needs?
A breath of summer
rocks the nest.
Time is short.
©Edwina Peterson Cross
THE CHILD - CIRCLES
Empty Nest
The 1982 powder-blue Volkswagen Rabbit was cute and compact; I bent to the back seat to buckle my little girls into car seats twenty thousand times; it drove to grocery stores and preschools; it lived on snow. Reincarnated as a sixteen-year-old’s alter-ego, it spent its second life sprinting from High School Theater to Taco Bell, graciously bestowing rides upon thankful subjects, making memories, night cruising.
The 1993 Dodge Caravan originated navy blue, peeled to sad, pocked gun metal gray. It was square and ugly, but it held three cellos, one bass, two violins, six musicians and could made the 20 minute drive to Youth Orchestra in 13.7 minutes. It carried the entire Odyssey of the Mind team, vast quantities of food administered to starving actors, various and sundry adolescents always coming or going and an incredible amount of garbage. Sometimes, driving down the road in the middle of the night, waves of laughter coming from the back seats, I would look at the faces in the rear view mirror and be struck with terror at the wealth of intelligence and talent cradled in my single vehicle. I’d want to pull over, too frightened to drive. The faces in the mirror have faded and disappeared, one by one, dissolved into the bright future that awaited them and the ugly gun metal Caravan is gone.
My new Honda Accord is silver with black velvet interior. The lines are long and elegant, the engine makes hardly any noise. Inside is the first CD player I have ever owned; I can listen to my own music now instead of the kids radio stations. I put in a thin metal disk and turn the dial all the way up. The sound shakes the inside of the car; I can feel it in my backbone and in my knee against the door. Crosby, Stills and Nash echo inside my skull, in the pit of my stomach. “Teach Your Children Well . . .” I glance in the mirror. My hair needs to be colored; there is a stripe of grey right down the middle. I am alone in the car.
©Edwina Peterson Cross
The 1982 powder-blue Volkswagen Rabbit was cute and compact; I bent to the back seat to buckle my little girls into car seats twenty thousand times; it drove to grocery stores and preschools; it lived on snow. Reincarnated as a sixteen-year-old’s alter-ego, it spent its second life sprinting from High School Theater to Taco Bell, graciously bestowing rides upon thankful subjects, making memories, night cruising.
The 1993 Dodge Caravan originated navy blue, peeled to sad, pocked gun metal gray. It was square and ugly, but it held three cellos, one bass, two violins, six musicians and could made the 20 minute drive to Youth Orchestra in 13.7 minutes. It carried the entire Odyssey of the Mind team, vast quantities of food administered to starving actors, various and sundry adolescents always coming or going and an incredible amount of garbage. Sometimes, driving down the road in the middle of the night, waves of laughter coming from the back seats, I would look at the faces in the rear view mirror and be struck with terror at the wealth of intelligence and talent cradled in my single vehicle. I’d want to pull over, too frightened to drive. The faces in the mirror have faded and disappeared, one by one, dissolved into the bright future that awaited them and the ugly gun metal Caravan is gone.
My new Honda Accord is silver with black velvet interior. The lines are long and elegant, the engine makes hardly any noise. Inside is the first CD player I have ever owned; I can listen to my own music now instead of the kids radio stations. I put in a thin metal disk and turn the dial all the way up. The sound shakes the inside of the car; I can feel it in my backbone and in my knee against the door. Crosby, Stills and Nash echo inside my skull, in the pit of my stomach. “Teach Your Children Well . . .” I glance in the mirror. My hair needs to be colored; there is a stripe of grey right down the middle. I am alone in the car.
©Edwina Peterson Cross
THE CHILD - CIRCLES
The Changling's Children
What is a child born to a changeling
And a man of the mountain and wood?
Creatures of starlight and sandstone
Beings of perilous good
The stars and the moon and the sunshine
Come to dance on the green growing earth
Their fingertips parting the twilight
In a medley of mortal and mirth
They were held for a breath of an instant
Between the two worlds growing strong
Drinking learning like clear mountain water
Tasting words and movement and song
Then the strong roots that bound them secure
Loosed and bloomed hollow to wings
They spun in the sweet mountain breeze
Trailing a rainbow of Fae apron strings
And oh, ‘tis a woe to the changeling
Letting go of the creatures is hard
They heard a renaissance pipe in the greenwood
And flew off in the spell of The Bard
©Edwina Peterson Cross
What is a child born to a changeling
And a man of the mountain and wood?
Creatures of starlight and sandstone
Beings of perilous good
The stars and the moon and the sunshine
Come to dance on the green growing earth
Their fingertips parting the twilight
In a medley of mortal and mirth
They were held for a breath of an instant
Between the two worlds growing strong
Drinking learning like clear mountain water
Tasting words and movement and song
Then the strong roots that bound them secure
Loosed and bloomed hollow to wings
They spun in the sweet mountain breeze
Trailing a rainbow of Fae apron strings
And oh, ‘tis a woe to the changeling
Letting go of the creatures is hard
They heard a renaissance pipe in the greenwood
And flew off in the spell of The Bard
©Edwina Peterson Cross
THE CHILD - CIRCLES
April and Laura on Tree Day
Once their hair hung down to their waists
In swinging twin cascades of gold and chestnut
Sister Light, Sister Dark
Dancing spirits in bright, constant, bubbling motion
Now that hair is short and chicly shaped
Their eyes are shadowed, their lips shined
Their long legs encased in leather
Those spirits move fluid now, eloquent
Cursive, cosmopolitan, smooth, sophisticated
They go out into the night
Like twin stars
Burning sculpted double patterns of light
In a black velvet sky
But, today
They have come up the mountain
To choose a Christmas tree
Eyes bare of makeup glisten in the bright cold air
Stocking caps are pulled down
Over the short tufts of their unwashed hair
The icy white wind paints their cheeks
Bright little girl pink
Smoothing out an urbane curve from eyebrows and lips,
It wipes ten years away from their faces
And they are twelve again
I watch them skip away,
Arms linked Sister dark, Sister light
Twined shadows dancing on the snow
The tall pines echo with their bubbling laughter
And the sun on the snow sparkles, shimmers and shines
Caught in the streaming swirl and sway
Of these strong singing spirits
That time will never
Really Still
© Edwina Peterson Cross
November 28, 2003
THE CHILD - CIRCLES
Heart Pieces
One beside the quiet Avon
One beside the sea
Time has cracked my heart in pieces
And swept them away from me
Life has wrought well of my loss
And all the change it brings
Made each broken heart piece whole
And fitted them with wings
© Edwina Peterson Cross
January 2004
One beside the quiet Avon
One beside the sea
Time has cracked my heart in pieces
And swept them away from me
Life has wrought well of my loss
And all the change it brings
Made each broken heart piece whole
And fitted them with wings
© Edwina Peterson Cross
January 2004
THE CHILD - HOPE & PROMISE
Song of the Lark
~A Circle of Sonnets~
I.
I have heard the last pearl throated thrill
From the sweet dawn promise lark
I know this in the depth of chill
Of the long and sleepless dark
The water is closing over my head
Clammy and dank and pale
The only song on this slender thread
Is the song of the nightingale
But I will not say the drowning dark
Will forever persevere
Nor assume the muteness of the lark
Because I can no longer hear
Above those clouds where surrender lies
The constant sun begins to rise
II.
She will stand at the henge of Salisbury Plain
Looking straight past trashy transient stands
They mean nothing at all to that which remains
In this deep, and enduring land
She drinks it’s power down her bones
Until it crackles through her hair
She thinks of it all as gracious loans
Which she in turn will share
She’ll come home on fire with words
Concepts blooming from her fingers
And then will come the sound of birds
A soul soaring song that lingers
And even if my eyes are dark
I will still paint the sky with the wings of a lark
III.
He wonders what made the earth start
And what is the nature of time
He buys impressionist bizarre art
And he uses interior rhyme
He rewrites Homer after school
Tells me Plato was probably cracked
But Stephen Hawking is pretty cool
Though Nietzsche is kinda abstract
He listens to Beethoven and to Queen
Draws maps of imaginary spheres
I have nested this charming bird fifteen
Inexplicable paradox years
But, somehow, he’ll paint the skies alone
In a wonder of brilliant, bright baritone
IV.
And they are not different or alone
Despite what the media choose
That you are or are not to be shown
On the six and eleven o’clock news
It’s a complex, committed generation
Who have quietly already begun
They were raised on the word “conservation”
They will not fail in what must be done
As for my own inpendening silence
It matters not a shred
For on the stage an Angel stands
And her singing will wake the dead
I do not believe in endings, I do not believe in despair
They opened the cold black coffin, and not a soul was there
©Edwina Peterson Cross
~A Circle of Sonnets~
I.
I have heard the last pearl throated thrill
From the sweet dawn promise lark
I know this in the depth of chill
Of the long and sleepless dark
The water is closing over my head
Clammy and dank and pale
The only song on this slender thread
Is the song of the nightingale
But I will not say the drowning dark
Will forever persevere
Nor assume the muteness of the lark
Because I can no longer hear
Above those clouds where surrender lies
The constant sun begins to rise
II.
She will stand at the henge of Salisbury Plain
Looking straight past trashy transient stands
They mean nothing at all to that which remains
In this deep, and enduring land
She drinks it’s power down her bones
Until it crackles through her hair
She thinks of it all as gracious loans
Which she in turn will share
She’ll come home on fire with words
Concepts blooming from her fingers
And then will come the sound of birds
A soul soaring song that lingers
And even if my eyes are dark
I will still paint the sky with the wings of a lark
III.
He wonders what made the earth start
And what is the nature of time
He buys impressionist bizarre art
And he uses interior rhyme
He rewrites Homer after school
Tells me Plato was probably cracked
But Stephen Hawking is pretty cool
Though Nietzsche is kinda abstract
He listens to Beethoven and to Queen
Draws maps of imaginary spheres
I have nested this charming bird fifteen
Inexplicable paradox years
But, somehow, he’ll paint the skies alone
In a wonder of brilliant, bright baritone
IV.
And they are not different or alone
Despite what the media choose
That you are or are not to be shown
On the six and eleven o’clock news
It’s a complex, committed generation
Who have quietly already begun
They were raised on the word “conservation”
They will not fail in what must be done
As for my own inpendening silence
It matters not a shred
For on the stage an Angel stands
And her singing will wake the dead
I do not believe in endings, I do not believe in despair
They opened the cold black coffin, and not a soul was there
©Edwina Peterson Cross
THE CHILD - HOPE & PROMISE
Taran at Three
Suddenly
The constraints are too much to bear
It is time
He burst the cocoon
Of zippered footed jammies
And flies into tomorrow
The air shining
Cool and bright against his smooth
golden skin
Arms extended into wings of wind
Butterfly
Is too fragile
For this strong spirit
For these sharp starblack eyes
He emerges
An eagle
Rushing to taste
The power of the sky
©Edwina Peterson Cross
Suddenly
The constraints are too much to bear
It is time
He burst the cocoon
Of zippered footed jammies
And flies into tomorrow
The air shining
Cool and bright against his smooth
golden skin
Arms extended into wings of wind
Butterfly
Is too fragile
For this strong spirit
For these sharp starblack eyes
He emerges
An eagle
Rushing to taste
The power of the sky
©Edwina Peterson Cross
THE CHILD - HOPE & PROMISE
Ten Years of April
Your flaxen baby curls
Have turned to cascades of gold dust
Falling like silken water down your back
Chubby toddler legs
Stretch out to streamline
The blooming dance you begin to weave
Should I search your changing face,
Sighing as I see it recast,
Mourning its transformation?
Must I face with fear that new cocoon
That sometimes masks your incandescence?
Shall I weep at the trembling wet butterfly
That will soon emerge
Whispering . . .
“Where has my baby gone?”
Once, when you were only mine
I committed my life
As a pledge to your potential
I cradled your quiescent probabilities
Nurtured the grain of your growing gifts
Then, your eyes were turned to me alone
In undiluted trust
Now, you search
And you scrutinize
You paint
And you ponder
You dance
And you dream
With a growing gift for giving
You aspire to heal each pain filled heart
Conquer prejudice
Blot out injustice
You seek to smother hatred
In a sea of sunshine
And I in humble affirmation
Now give back that trust in full measure
To your seacrystal eyes
Wings of wonder are unfolding
From the promise that lay dormant
In the infant that I loved
My baby is not gone
My child is
Becoming
No
I will not cry
When the chrysalis cracks
For as you lift to dance the air
All the stars in the sky will sing
©Edwina Peterson Cross
March 1992
Your flaxen baby curls
Have turned to cascades of gold dust
Falling like silken water down your back
Chubby toddler legs
Stretch out to streamline
The blooming dance you begin to weave
Should I search your changing face,
Sighing as I see it recast,
Mourning its transformation?
Must I face with fear that new cocoon
That sometimes masks your incandescence?
Shall I weep at the trembling wet butterfly
That will soon emerge
Whispering . . .
“Where has my baby gone?”
Once, when you were only mine
I committed my life
As a pledge to your potential
I cradled your quiescent probabilities
Nurtured the grain of your growing gifts
Then, your eyes were turned to me alone
In undiluted trust
Now, you search
And you scrutinize
You paint
And you ponder
You dance
And you dream
With a growing gift for giving
You aspire to heal each pain filled heart
Conquer prejudice
Blot out injustice
You seek to smother hatred
In a sea of sunshine
And I in humble affirmation
Now give back that trust in full measure
To your seacrystal eyes
Wings of wonder are unfolding
From the promise that lay dormant
In the infant that I loved
My baby is not gone
My child is
Becoming
No
I will not cry
When the chrysalis cracks
For as you lift to dance the air
All the stars in the sky will sing
©Edwina Peterson Cross
March 1992
THE CHILD - HOPE & PROMISE
For Lezlie at Twelve
I brought you into a world
Of riots and drive by shootings
What made me believe
When I had navigated the labyrinth
Of choking, colic and croup
That I was done with terror?
I send you out each day
Book bag across your back
And cello under your arm
I am seeking for amulets and charms
I am weaving prayers through the colorless dawn
Keep her safe
Keep her true
She is so good
She bruises so easily
Oh, You who watch for sparrows falling
and number the hairs of heads
Don't let anyone hurt her
Then I watch you
Lean the golden wood against your body
Pulling rich sweet strands of Mozart from the air
Building a breath of timeless beauty
With your own strong hands
Your eyes lift from the pages of your book
Coming back to this world slowly
Bringing with them
Depth beyond your years
And a wisdom you were born with
In the end
Darkness can only be fought with light
And you
Fragile flame
With a core of blazing steel
Glow brighter every day
Leaving my door each morning
Going out into the world
With knowledge slung across your back
Beauty under your arm
Wisdom and laughter
In your eyes
You are your own talisman
Your shining self
The radiant answer
To my prayer
©Edwina Peterson Cross
November 1991
I brought you into a world
Of riots and drive by shootings
What made me believe
When I had navigated the labyrinth
Of choking, colic and croup
That I was done with terror?
I send you out each day
Book bag across your back
And cello under your arm
I am seeking for amulets and charms
I am weaving prayers through the colorless dawn
Keep her safe
Keep her true
She is so good
She bruises so easily
Oh, You who watch for sparrows falling
and number the hairs of heads
Don't let anyone hurt her
Then I watch you
Lean the golden wood against your body
Pulling rich sweet strands of Mozart from the air
Building a breath of timeless beauty
With your own strong hands
Your eyes lift from the pages of your book
Coming back to this world slowly
Bringing with them
Depth beyond your years
And a wisdom you were born with
In the end
Darkness can only be fought with light
And you
Fragile flame
With a core of blazing steel
Glow brighter every day
Leaving my door each morning
Going out into the world
With knowledge slung across your back
Beauty under your arm
Wisdom and laughter
In your eyes
You are your own talisman
Your shining self
The radiant answer
To my prayer
©Edwina Peterson Cross
November 1991
THE CHILD - HOPE & PROMISE
Reality
(For Lezlie at Seventeen)
I saw you in dreams
a star behind a waterfall
crystalline, shimmering
certain
in the liquid fall of eternity
I heard your laughter
And when the doctors
armed with statistics
spoke of impossibilities
and told me not to hope
my heart quietly whispered
“no”
For your reality echoed
on the curve of every sound
in the taste of all four winds
an essence that was tangible
long before
they laid you in my arms
And you grew clear
unclouded, perceptive
knowing and deep
gazing into the well of being
inevitably, undeniably you saw
yourself
Now, I feel your centered spirit shake
under a weight of strain
engulfed by others egos
betrayed by broken trust
Caught in a vice of time and tension
you struggle just to breathe
Reality has been recast
melted molten with your pain
and poured into a nameless mold
your parched tears sear a sky
Gone inky with the portent
of a full stellar eclipse
And I,
who formed you with an unfaltering faith
in my ethereal, concrete dream
now cannot bear the reality
that would take your golden laughter
that would dim your sure, strong star
I would go before you
clearing your path with a heart of flame
I would burn cities to the ground
shake the battlements of the earth
I would disintegrate into dust
anyone who tried to hurt you
And yet, even through this shroud of sorrow
your soft, sagacious spirit
still signs the air with runes of strength
clear, luminous tracings
Which glitter fearlessly and whisper
“Woman”
I bend in humbled abdication
I must yield the keys of pain
into your narrow, able hands
yes, it takes a cloak of darkness
To reveal the radiance
and the mystery of the stars
So, I will be certain once again
my belief in you
the rock of my reality
I will step back and let you grow
I will listen for your laughter . . . and wait
for the renaissance after the rain
©Edwina Peterson Cross
January 1997
(For Lezlie at Seventeen)
I saw you in dreams
a star behind a waterfall
crystalline, shimmering
certain
in the liquid fall of eternity
I heard your laughter
And when the doctors
armed with statistics
spoke of impossibilities
and told me not to hope
my heart quietly whispered
“no”
For your reality echoed
on the curve of every sound
in the taste of all four winds
an essence that was tangible
long before
they laid you in my arms
And you grew clear
unclouded, perceptive
knowing and deep
gazing into the well of being
inevitably, undeniably you saw
yourself
Now, I feel your centered spirit shake
under a weight of strain
engulfed by others egos
betrayed by broken trust
Caught in a vice of time and tension
you struggle just to breathe
Reality has been recast
melted molten with your pain
and poured into a nameless mold
your parched tears sear a sky
Gone inky with the portent
of a full stellar eclipse
And I,
who formed you with an unfaltering faith
in my ethereal, concrete dream
now cannot bear the reality
that would take your golden laughter
that would dim your sure, strong star
I would go before you
clearing your path with a heart of flame
I would burn cities to the ground
shake the battlements of the earth
I would disintegrate into dust
anyone who tried to hurt you
And yet, even through this shroud of sorrow
your soft, sagacious spirit
still signs the air with runes of strength
clear, luminous tracings
Which glitter fearlessly and whisper
“Woman”
I bend in humbled abdication
I must yield the keys of pain
into your narrow, able hands
yes, it takes a cloak of darkness
To reveal the radiance
and the mystery of the stars
So, I will be certain once again
my belief in you
the rock of my reality
I will step back and let you grow
I will listen for your laughter . . . and wait
for the renaissance after the rain
©Edwina Peterson Cross
January 1997
THE CHILD - NEW BEGINNINGS
JOURNEY
(New Beginnings)
Ultrasound - Seven Weeks
Tiny thing
Little dot on the screen
That the person in white
Says is You
You...
YOU!!!
Who are You?
What do you do...
When a dream comes true?
Third Month
Happy hormones...
These days I spend most of my time
On my knees in the bathroom
Worship posture
To the mighty hormone
Dream maker
Life bringer
I no longer choose food by what will stay down
But by what is better coming up
I must lay down every half hour
And seriously wonder each time
If I will ever rise again
I cry because Beethoven never heard
His own ninth symphony
Because a farmer from Idaho
Won a game show
Because of the sweet dappling sun
Draped against my dogwood tree
Because my father thinks my mother
Is beautiful
I cry often
For no reason at all
These happy hormones
Have shaken me like a snow-globe
But when I am able to be still
I find
Love
Sifting down soft and deep
All around the thought of
You
Seventh Month
Tiny child
Pushing with small strong
Arms or legs insistent against the inside
Of my stretched skin
What are you dreaming of
In your dark still world?
What do you see with your
Newly opened eyes?
Firm, soft pressure against
My hands
Spread like sensors over
Where your self must be...
Keep moving...
Keep pushing...
I send you oxygen from the
Air of this foreign world...
And protein from an egg...
And such strange
Choking love
That somehow you must feel
Radiating in waves
From my wide spread
Waiting hands
Eighth Month
In a tired, happy way
I wait for you
Slow and quiet
Under the grey Maine sky
And for the first time
My mind happily throws away the summer
Smiling a slow, tired smile
At each leaf rusting from green to brown
At the chill that means the winter is coming..
Soft in the wind
Each day shorter
Each day colder
Rolling like a downhill rock
Under the grey Maine sky
Bringing winter into the world
And you into my arms
Ninth Month
And yet
In all my anxiousness
There is something in me
Unwilling to give up this bond
That binds you to me so completely
that holds your new and shinning life
Moving under my hands...
Between my ribs...
Within me..
Inside me...
Part of my heart
And when you can breathe this
Worlds atmosphere alone
Filling your untried lungs with it..
Holding your own head up...
Looking with only slightly blurring eyes
Upon the world of light...
Will you still be the same creature?
Will I really see the tiny
Fists and feet whose touch
I know so well?
Or will you be someone new?
April Star - Six Months Old
You have cherubim cheeks
And a sprite in your eyes
Constant motion packaged
Round and pink
Where are you going in
Such a wiggle hurry
With the call of a baby elephant
My living...
Shooting star?
Impatience - Seven Months Old
Impatience...
Before she was born she wanted to dance
Before she could roll over
She needed to see what was on the other side
Before she could crawl...she rolled
Because she had to get from here to there
Before she can walk
Something tells her to run
She can not talk
And she has so much to say
She is a reaching arm
With her hand stretched out
Impatience...
Keep reaching for the world
Keep stretching for the stars
Valentine - One Year Old
Oh, deep black velvet eyes
That sparkle stars from outside
And glow secret candles from within
Oh, little head
So full of new found thoughts
Covered soft with sunbrown down
Oh, tiny jeans and oatmealed face
Conquering...
Climbing to the top of any accessible anything
Oh, shining new world to understand
Oh, books and more books
Investigating the every of everything
That is touched upon by the eager stars
Of those black velvet eyes
Oh, sweet sprite dancing,
singing,
clapping,
laughing,
Sunshine laughter of a mountain spring
Oh, bumps and bruises
Oh, tears and comforts
Oh, deep black velvet eyes
Oh, little girl
I love you
First Day of Nursery School
I didn't sleep for a week
Worrying about the step we were about to take
My child
The child that I had carried and nurtured, loved to distraction
And spoiled
Stepping out for the first time
Alone
Her soft brown eyes vulnerable, framed by soft brown curls
How could I leave her?
What if someone hurt her?
What if something made her cry
And my ever ready shoulder wasn't there?
"But", I lectured myself
"She must be independent
A strong capable woman someday . . . "
So, on the fateful day off we went
Her new lunch pail clutched in her little fist
And I blinked back tears and shut the door
With her inside
And four hours later
Nearly frantic
I came back for her at last
And she cried . . .
Because she wanted to stay
©Edwina Peterson Cross
New Beginnings - Senryu
See him play with words
When the puzzle pieces fit
Hear, he laughs with joy
Brushes, hairspray, books
Sox and music, one odd shoe
Echoes of my girls
Sweet, calm and still now
Tomorrow’s bright tornado
Sleeping in his bed
Growing up so fast
Balanced on the brink of life
A book in her hand
Hungry for the world
Tiny child with stretching arms
Reaching for the stars
©Edwina Peterson Cross
See him play with words
When the puzzle pieces fit
Hear, he laughs with joy
Brushes, hairspray, books
Sox and music, one odd shoe
Echoes of my girls
Sweet, calm and still now
Tomorrow’s bright tornado
Sleeping in his bed
Growing up so fast
Balanced on the brink of life
A book in her hand
Hungry for the world
Tiny child with stretching arms
Reaching for the stars
©Edwina Peterson Cross
THE CHILD - INNOCENCE
Son Rise
I surface from the depths of sleep
Swimming upwards
Dreams still clinging like water lilies to my liquid thoughts
The night is full of hush
Cathedral silence
Except for the clear singular sound of your call
Firm, insistent summons
Wordless meaning
I flow through the shadows on some sixth sense
Until I find you in the dark
“Shhhh, I’m here . . .”
My arms were made for your roundness
I wrap you into my dreaming
Press your hunger to my heart
And we rock away warm into the rich deep darkness
Whispers of grey
Ebbing night
In the new tracings of light
You are no longer just a soft receiving bundle
But the curve of a cheek
A tiny fist hugged tight around my finger
Round sweet sounds I feel humming through my hands
Clear dark mirrors of my own big eyes
Softened with a secret smile
Just for me
And now your windows are brimming full of morning
Flowing over with a new golden day
This day and all the bright sweet tomorrow’s
Just for you
©Edwina Peterson Cross
October 1989
I surface from the depths of sleep
Swimming upwards
Dreams still clinging like water lilies to my liquid thoughts
The night is full of hush
Cathedral silence
Except for the clear singular sound of your call
Firm, insistent summons
Wordless meaning
I flow through the shadows on some sixth sense
Until I find you in the dark
“Shhhh, I’m here . . .”
My arms were made for your roundness
I wrap you into my dreaming
Press your hunger to my heart
And we rock away warm into the rich deep darkness
Whispers of grey
Ebbing night
In the new tracings of light
You are no longer just a soft receiving bundle
But the curve of a cheek
A tiny fist hugged tight around my finger
Round sweet sounds I feel humming through my hands
Clear dark mirrors of my own big eyes
Softened with a secret smile
Just for me
And now your windows are brimming full of morning
Flowing over with a new golden day
This day and all the bright sweet tomorrow’s
Just for you
©Edwina Peterson Cross
October 1989
THE CHILD - INNOCENCE
Lullaby
I am woven of lullabies
Spun of sleepy magic
In this tawny tired end of day
Heavy with hours
My eyes will close before yours
Still shining black bright with ideas
In this cave of night light glow
How many eons have I sat here?
My cheek pillowed cool against your sheets
My song a current of surprise
In the sweet stillness of the night
True love is frozen in time
They say . . .
And so eternity may well find me
Drowsing in this dim golden half light
Singing of dragons
Holding your hand
© Edwina Peterson Cross
June 1990
THE CHILD - INNOCENCE
Soccer, Five Years Old
He has a hard time understanding
someone asking him to
“get aggressive” and “fight”
He has fought
to learn peace
He has a hard time caring
About the black and white spinning sphere
Or the swarm of kicking legs
There is an airplane in the sky
Weaving a trail of marshmallows
through the blue
A butterfly almost touched
his upturned face
And halfway down the field he wondered
if you could smell the sun
He tried to tell them
But in the rushing confusion
No one listened
His thoughts are spangled dragons
whirling on the wind
His words are honeyed jewels
His face is thoughtful
sad
Does he already know?
This world is not an easy place
for a poet.
©Edwina Peterson Cross
September 1994
He has a hard time understanding
someone asking him to
“get aggressive” and “fight”
He has fought
to learn peace
He has a hard time caring
About the black and white spinning sphere
Or the swarm of kicking legs
There is an airplane in the sky
Weaving a trail of marshmallows
through the blue
A butterfly almost touched
his upturned face
And halfway down the field he wondered
if you could smell the sun
He tried to tell them
But in the rushing confusion
No one listened
His thoughts are spangled dragons
whirling on the wind
His words are honeyed jewels
His face is thoughtful
sad
Does he already know?
This world is not an easy place
for a poet.
©Edwina Peterson Cross
September 1994
THE CHILD - INNOCENCE
Cut Short: An Echo of Columbine
She stares in the mirror at her golden hair
That the stylist has cut too short
And her eyes well with tears
Once again
I am astonished
At the depth of ache in my own heart
At the smallest sign of her pain
Immediately, I want to fix it, make it better
It is almost a pressing need . . .
Drain the dismay,
Smooth away the hurt,
But I can only offer words
“It’s cute honey. It just looks different to you,
that’s all. It will grow.”
And at this exact moment
Another beautiful young woman
Just your age
A beautiful young woman
Who, like you, played the lead in her school play
Lies dead on the floor of that school
All of her possibilities
Cut short
By insanity
And at this moment
A mother waits
Watching a door
For a face that will not appear
Listening for a voice
That will not speak again
Heart break
Is not a metaphor
How in the name of heaven
Can this fragile vessel
a human heart,
Hold this kind of pain?
And now she sleeps
Her lips slightly parted
Her eyelashes dark trembling birds
Against her creamy skin
She smells of perfume, powder
Innocence
Her short golden hair fans against the pillow
And she dreams . . . .
And she breathes . . .
And it will grow
©Edwina Peterson Cross
(April 20, 1999)
She stares in the mirror at her golden hair
That the stylist has cut too short
And her eyes well with tears
Once again
I am astonished
At the depth of ache in my own heart
At the smallest sign of her pain
Immediately, I want to fix it, make it better
It is almost a pressing need . . .
Drain the dismay,
Smooth away the hurt,
But I can only offer words
“It’s cute honey. It just looks different to you,
that’s all. It will grow.”
And at this exact moment
Another beautiful young woman
Just your age
A beautiful young woman
Who, like you, played the lead in her school play
Lies dead on the floor of that school
All of her possibilities
Cut short
By insanity
And at this moment
A mother waits
Watching a door
For a face that will not appear
Listening for a voice
That will not speak again
Heart break
Is not a metaphor
How in the name of heaven
Can this fragile vessel
a human heart,
Hold this kind of pain?
And now she sleeps
Her lips slightly parted
Her eyelashes dark trembling birds
Against her creamy skin
She smells of perfume, powder
Innocence
Her short golden hair fans against the pillow
And she dreams . . . .
And she breathes . . .
And it will grow
©Edwina Peterson Cross
(April 20, 1999)
Seeking Self
Seek the grail in a circle of stones
Seek the future in a spill of bones
Seek the riddle in the pine wood’s bark
Seek the spirit in a light-bound lark
Seek the Westwind in the mountain’s throat
Seek the flower in the wild red oat
Seek for feeling in the dawns cold dew
Seek for meaning in the sunset’s hue
Seek for blessing in the sun warmed vine
Seek for laughter in the moon chilled wine
Seek for beauty in the wreathing of birds
Seek for joy in the dancing of words
Seek for flavor in the journeying breeze
Seek for soul in the jazz of the bees
Seek for magic deep inside your eyes
Seek for silence in the moonhushed skies
Seek for radiance in a starwashed stream
Seek for understanding, deep inside the dream
Seek for seekings sake a image existential
Seek for self creative, unlimited potential
Seek for self, in a transcendental chance
Seek for creation, in the self’s eternal dance
©Edwina Peterson Cross
Seek the grail in a circle of stones
Seek the future in a spill of bones
Seek the riddle in the pine wood’s bark
Seek the spirit in a light-bound lark
Seek the Westwind in the mountain’s throat
Seek the flower in the wild red oat
Seek for feeling in the dawns cold dew
Seek for meaning in the sunset’s hue
Seek for blessing in the sun warmed vine
Seek for laughter in the moon chilled wine
Seek for beauty in the wreathing of birds
Seek for joy in the dancing of words
Seek for flavor in the journeying breeze
Seek for soul in the jazz of the bees
Seek for magic deep inside your eyes
Seek for silence in the moonhushed skies
Seek for radiance in a starwashed stream
Seek for understanding, deep inside the dream
Seek for seekings sake a image existential
Seek for self creative, unlimited potential
Seek for self, in a transcendental chance
Seek for creation, in the self’s eternal dance
©Edwina Peterson Cross
THE SELF
These Have I Loved
These have I loved . . .
The sweet silver shiver
of wind chimes in a mountain breeze
The soft caressing spill
of a Celtic harp
Shakespeare . . .
Sagebrush . . .
Bathtubs . . .
Books . . .
Merlin and Mozart
Honeysuckle moonlight
My husband's hands
Midnight Rocking, a babies petal soft hunger
pressed strong and sure against my heart
Lezlie's vibrant, nourishing laughter
April's giving, sunshine glow
The thoughts that shine in Taran's starblack eyes
Aspen leaves trembling in a dryad prayer
And
Mountains
The lights of Ashland . . .
stars poured on a darkened hillside
in a west wind sweet as wine
One soulblue night when time stood still
and a creamdeep moon painted ribbons of silk
across the Bay of Naples
Narnia . . . Middlearth . . . Prydain . . . Hed
all those worlds of wonder where I wander free
These have I loved . . .
The abundance of lushly twining ivy
The therapeutic kaleidoscope of laughter
The secrets of Swans
Lily of the Valley in springtime shade
The smell of the desert after rain
Hot tea and labyrinthine teatalk . . .
Labyrinths which stretch across dimensions
weave throughout the truth of life
spiral around the meaning of being
only to suddenly spring back laughing
at irrelevance or irreverence
Labyrinths always leading me back
to the center
of myself
Songs from the Greenwood
Renaissance remembrance
Roller coasters
Pad Thai
Every single blessed pause
in the pain
My totem, the Otter
Reminding me of the important things in life:
merriment, revelry,
festivity, freedom, fun
the strong, solemn necessity of
Play
The lucent cyberpathway which leads to
Lemuria
land of El Duende, of moonlit mists and clear healing waters
where my muse dances with joy under synchronic stars
and kindred souls from all corners of this spinning, sapphire sphere
look up from their writing
and smile
These have I loved . . .
Enchantment
Mystery
Magic
Night
The fire that kindled the alabaster light
And loved the rosebud into beautiful blossom
The body wisdom
Nourishment, passion, depth and joy
that is
The Dance
Cut crystals slicing light to rainbows
Waterfalls and fountains . . .
air rejoicing in water
water exulting in air
Vacations
Traditions
Celebrations
Home
My sisters, my brother
woven from my fabric
extensions of my heart
My father's briefcase
My mothers voice
A big soft house upon a hill
smelling of leather, learning
and love baked bread
Candle light
Firelight
Light of creation in a child's eyes
Gordon Lightfoot
Coca-Cola
Pink
And words
Words that I sculpt and sing and shape
Making them dance
In the cold still night
© Edwina Peterson Cross
Stonehenge
I walk today where I have wished my entire life to walk. I come here in my fiftieth turning, at the cusp of Aries and Taurus. I do not find here what I expected. Not at all.
I expected power. I expected to feel something akin to the spirit medicine I have felt in a younger, wilder land; power that hurls down narrow canyons on sage brush wind; an earth force that pulls the lightening from the sky, energy beating the air; thunder in the ground. No. Not at all. That kind of raw power is not what I find in these great stones, nor in the earth that cradles them. The ground here is silent . . . yet it sings. The air is silent and hugely hollow, yet it is full of massive memory and replete with forever. The only sound is the worshipful piping of the birds. There is power here; vast, deep, immense, but it is not as I thought it would be.
This is the power of endurance, of long remembrance, of sacredness undiminished by time or circumstance. The stones stood. The stones fell. The ground remains sacred; a sanctity of depth and time I have never felt anywhere before.
I knew the stones would be roped off and thought I would not be able to even come close, but the path passes very near; near enough that I can feel the power of the stones in wide waves that sing through my body and radiate under my feet. I hold both hands out open. I am glad the stones are roped off, empty in the hushed hollow air.
Between the stones, I see only grass and birds; the air, the rolling grey sky. Then suddenly in the narrow opening between two stones, I see horns; the perfectly formed figure of a stag - on two legs. Is it only a tree? Only a tree? What folly of words is that? It is The Wood. I turn in a wide circle, gazing at the fringe of woodland that still circles here. It has been cut, it has been pushed back, it has been cultivated, shaped; theoretically tamed, but like much else, it is still here. They are still here. I incline my head to the figure framed between the stones. I am deeply glad.
So I close my eyes, then bring them slowly, barely open; there, through my lashes, I see crowds of ghosts, weaving in and out; in procession, in dance, in worship, in celebration; they spill like sand through hundreds of years. In the watery sunshine of this clear grey day, I see them dancing in the moonlight, chanting at the dark of the moon, still as the stones themselves as the sharp bright arrow of yet another Solstice dawn pierces the end of night.
The ghosts of the past melt one by one, until none are left and it is only me, standing alone with the tall, silent stones, the grass, the birds, the air, the sky, and the vast flowing waves of sacred power. My body is not alone, the world’s winds blow my skirt in spinning spirals and gust over my husband, gathering the silent stones into his camera for me to keep; he has brought me here. The world’s wind catches in my daughter’s fiery hair; the child of my body who understands the composition of my heart; she has opened this gateway, made this possible. She reaches out to hold my empty corporal hand. There are others walking the wide circle around the stones; people whose voices have become hushed, stilled; who walk slowly, aim cameras and gaze.
But the spirit wind cresting the wide green hill finds me standing quite alone, above the singing ground, beneath the wide grey sky. These stones spoke to me as a child; I heard them call from across the sea when I was very small; on a page cut from National Geographic they looked down from above my bed, whispering. Here in a stillness of green and grey is a dream - the dream of a gold eyed child; a child who sought mystery, who hungered for magic. I have come fifty years and across the sea to find that the mystical enchantment is something I understand to the center of my bones.
I feel the power. I have come in need. I ask without even forming words.
The world’s wind ruffles my hair; my husband and daughter have moved on and I stand here, in both worlds, alone. Alone where I was meant to come; and the spirit wind blows cleanly through me and leaves me clear.
Clear. Straight. Strong. Alone. Exalting.
And then I walk on.
I walk and I keep walking.
I walk today where I have wished my entire life to walk. I come here in my fiftieth turning, at the cusp of Aries and Taurus. I do not find here what I expected. Not at all.
I expected power. I expected to feel something akin to the spirit medicine I have felt in a younger, wilder land; power that hurls down narrow canyons on sage brush wind; an earth force that pulls the lightening from the sky, energy beating the air; thunder in the ground. No. Not at all. That kind of raw power is not what I find in these great stones, nor in the earth that cradles them. The ground here is silent . . . yet it sings. The air is silent and hugely hollow, yet it is full of massive memory and replete with forever. The only sound is the worshipful piping of the birds. There is power here; vast, deep, immense, but it is not as I thought it would be.
This is the power of endurance, of long remembrance, of sacredness undiminished by time or circumstance. The stones stood. The stones fell. The ground remains sacred; a sanctity of depth and time I have never felt anywhere before.
I knew the stones would be roped off and thought I would not be able to even come close, but the path passes very near; near enough that I can feel the power of the stones in wide waves that sing through my body and radiate under my feet. I hold both hands out open. I am glad the stones are roped off, empty in the hushed hollow air.
Between the stones, I see only grass and birds; the air, the rolling grey sky. Then suddenly in the narrow opening between two stones, I see horns; the perfectly formed figure of a stag - on two legs. Is it only a tree? Only a tree? What folly of words is that? It is The Wood. I turn in a wide circle, gazing at the fringe of woodland that still circles here. It has been cut, it has been pushed back, it has been cultivated, shaped; theoretically tamed, but like much else, it is still here. They are still here. I incline my head to the figure framed between the stones. I am deeply glad.
So I close my eyes, then bring them slowly, barely open; there, through my lashes, I see crowds of ghosts, weaving in and out; in procession, in dance, in worship, in celebration; they spill like sand through hundreds of years. In the watery sunshine of this clear grey day, I see them dancing in the moonlight, chanting at the dark of the moon, still as the stones themselves as the sharp bright arrow of yet another Solstice dawn pierces the end of night.
The ghosts of the past melt one by one, until none are left and it is only me, standing alone with the tall, silent stones, the grass, the birds, the air, the sky, and the vast flowing waves of sacred power. My body is not alone, the world’s winds blow my skirt in spinning spirals and gust over my husband, gathering the silent stones into his camera for me to keep; he has brought me here. The world’s wind catches in my daughter’s fiery hair; the child of my body who understands the composition of my heart; she has opened this gateway, made this possible. She reaches out to hold my empty corporal hand. There are others walking the wide circle around the stones; people whose voices have become hushed, stilled; who walk slowly, aim cameras and gaze.
But the spirit wind cresting the wide green hill finds me standing quite alone, above the singing ground, beneath the wide grey sky. These stones spoke to me as a child; I heard them call from across the sea when I was very small; on a page cut from National Geographic they looked down from above my bed, whispering. Here in a stillness of green and grey is a dream - the dream of a gold eyed child; a child who sought mystery, who hungered for magic. I have come fifty years and across the sea to find that the mystical enchantment is something I understand to the center of my bones.
I feel the power. I have come in need. I ask without even forming words.
The world’s wind ruffles my hair; my husband and daughter have moved on and I stand here, in both worlds, alone. Alone where I was meant to come; and the spirit wind blows cleanly through me and leaves me clear.
Clear. Straight. Strong. Alone. Exalting.
And then I walk on.
I walk and I keep walking.
THE SELF
TEN TIMES TEN
LISTS, Lists, lists . . .what do lists tell you about people? What they wanted to get at the store? What they needed to do today? Take ten lists of ten and see what you can find out. One hundred items making SELF:
10 places to scatter my ashes:
1. Off the balcony, across the “O” in the Shakespearian Theater in Cedar City, Utah
2. In Logan, Utah: on the track in front of the bleachers at Logan High School
3. Across my mother’s back yard, probably in the mint.
4. In the aspen grove behind my house in Leadville, Colorado
5. At temple of Sinawava, in Zion National Park
6. Beside our fence in Jackson, Wyoming at the foot of the Tetons
7. At new Mountain Avenue Theater Complex, at Ashland High, at the base of the fly tower.
8. Across the bricks at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival
9. Inside my Aspen grove in my back yard in Ashland
10. Off the cliffs of Sorrento into the Bay of Naples.
10 Favorite songs
1. Jesu , Joy of Man’s Desiring - J.S. Bach
2. If I had a Million Dollars - The Bare Naked Ladies
3. Morning - Edvard Grieg
4. The Minstrel of the Dawn - Gordon Lightfoot
5. Perhaps Love - John Denver and Placido Domingo
6. The Dark Night of the Soul - Loreena McKennitt
7. Christian Island - Gordon Lightfoot
8. A Summer Song - Chad and Jeremy
9. Here, There and Everywhere - The Beatles
10. "Hosanna" from Requiem - Andrew Lloyd Webber
Ten Daughters
1. Lezlie - A Shakespearian Scholar
2. April - An Artist, An Actor
3. Laura - An Independent Firm Contractor
4. Laurence - A Writer, An Actor
5. Sarah - An Ecologist and Geologist
6. Kate - A Writer, An Imaginer
7. Ellen - An Actor and teacher
8. Rachel - A Midwife and Douala
9. Jocelyn - A Medical Student
10. Becca - A Social Worker and Nurse Practitioner
Ten Things I Love That Define Me
1. Otters
2. Ivy
3. Aspen Trees
4. Shakespeare
5. Celtic Harp
6. Poetry
7. The Dance
8. Traditions
9. Mountains
10. Pink
Ten Places/Things of Magic
1. Standing in the dark, in the wings of the theatre, while the overture plays, waiting for the curtain to go up. Your heart gets in your throat and beats double time to the music. It is an anticipatory, expectant, absolutely lovely feeling. Something similar, though not quite the same, can be felt from the audience by a mother in red shoes, waiting for a daughter behind the footlights. You get the same beating in your throat, but when the dancing starts, you have to stay in your chair.
2. The Temple of Sinawava, Zion Canyon, Zion National Park, Utah. Big medicine comes down the narrow canyon on the night wind. My sister, my nieces, my daughters and I lie on the soft, fine sand by the river’s edge, looking up at the glory washed cliffs and a golden moon tinted sky studded with sharp, bright stars. The whipping spirit wind blows over us easily, accepting us as it does the rocks and the river. We belong.
3. Three Ultra Sound screens; one in Bangor Maine, one in North Attleboro, Massachusetts, one in Woodbridge, Virginia. Each discloses a tiny creature, who when measured in the apparatus cross hairs, is revealed to be just the right size, placed firmly in the correct position; with a minute jumping bleep, bleep, bleep . . . the magic flicker of a beating human heart.
4. From the cliffs of Sorrento, Italy, a ripe, full moon paints a butter soft ribbon of gold across the bay of Naples. I stayed up all night and watched it go from one side of the bay to the other. It is said that it was from here that the sirens called to Odysseus, but I was silent all night and so was the moon.
5. At the top of Independence Pass in Colorado one is about as close to the sky as one can get on earth. Between Leadville and Aspen, at 16,000 ft, the pass is only open a few months a year. From the summit, you can see for miles in every direction, the air is thin and rarefied, the ground is covered with snow and grassland tundra, and for a few weeks every summer, thousands of tiny wild flowers. When the sun goes down the sky looks as though it has caught fire and all of creation is burning: crimson, tangerine, carmine, peach, rose, gold, vermilion, maroon, apricot, and cardinal red. When I was nineteen, my cousin and I stayed up at the summit until all the tourists had disappeared; then we waited for sunset. We cranked up the stereo on the car . . .an 8 track tape of Cat Stevens singing “Oh Very Young,” as I recall . . . and danced up and down the paths in the blaze of the sunset. Upon arriving in Aspen, sometime during the next few days, we heard, for the first time, John Denver sing “Rocky Mountain High” with the words: “Colorado Rocky Mountain High, I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky,” and we looked at each other and said, “exactly.”
6. My mother’s house is a most magic place, this is agreed by everyone who has ever been there. It is filled with the magic of childhood; the enchantment of books; the sorcery of beauty and wrapped all around with sapient spells of love. There is also this eternal mystery about it, this something that no one has ever quite figured out, something mystic, something deliciously mysterious and magical. Every child that walks in there feels it and somehow thinks, “I just might be the one to figure it out . . . whatever it is . . .” But of course, no one ever does.
7. The front room - any of many different front rooms - very early Christmas morning. The stockings are filled and Santa has left the children’s presents laid out on their chairs, presented just perfectly. I am savoring three expressions of surprise and delight that will come with the sunrise, squeals, gasps. Once again, I have managed to get each one just what they asked for as well as something for each one that is totally unexpected . The lights of the Christmas tree are soft and a little blurry; I’m very tired and quietly, bone-deep happy.
8. “Inside this Wooden O.” The smaller one in Cedar City, Utah, where I was born. The bigger one in Ashland, Oregon, which is now my home. Both are modeled on the original in London. So much magic has passed through these that it is sunk deeply into the wood, yet if you touch that wood, during the day, you will not feel the magic shuddering under your fingers. It sleeps until it is time for it to come alive. When the trumpets sound, when the lights go up, it will wake and begin to glow. Then it will simmer and sing for a few precious hours while the stars wheel over head, in a night breeze that smells there of sage, here of pine.
9. High Country Crocus. At the top of the world everything is white for many months out of the year. There is snow on the ground from September to June and by May one begins to wonder if anything living and green will ever grow again. But it does, like magic, like a promise, as soon as a little piece of grass is visible in the dripping from the eves, the crocus will start to sprout. I used to say that the reason they were called crocus is because they came up right under the eves, opened their little yellow beaks and said “croak us!” and all the snow slid off the roof and croaked them. And that was usually exactly what happened. Still. They were the first green things to be seen bravely peaking their heads above ground after months and months of unbroken whiteness. The magic of returning life, the magic of spring. Unchanging. Unfailing. My little snow angles, after months of living in white would come shrieking, “Green! Green! There is Green coming through the snow!”
10. Words. With a yellow legal pad in front of me, or the back of a piece of scratch paper, or my fingers on the keys of my faithful Adler typewriter, or the keyboard of a computer . . . I write a sentence that is almost. It kind of goes around a corner, but doesn’t quite make it. It is halting, it is frozen, it is wobbly, faltering, broken, fragmented. Then I look at it again, I think it, I taste it, I wiggle it, I smooth it, I do who knows what to it, I change a few words, I move a comma, a erase something, I add something, I move something and suddenly it flows, it fits, it harmonizes, it tallies, it lines up, it WORKS. Eureka! Banzai! Hallelujah! Magic.
Ten things I wouldn’t have missed on a bet
1. Breast feeding
2. Roller coasters
3. Waterfalls, fountains, rainbows
4. My husband’s hands
5. Narnia, Middle Earth, Prydain, Hed
6. The smell of the desert after a rain
7. My children’s laughter
8. The secrets of swans
9. Gordon Lightfoot, Loreena McKennit
10. The light that lit the alabaster and loved a rose bud into blossom
Ten Delicious Words
1. Soothing
2. Lengthen
3. Liquid
4. Lyric
5. Mellow
6. Moon
7. Cello
8. Whisper
9. Soft
10. Bliss
Ten Favorite Movies (only cheating slightly)
1. Franco Zeferelli’s Romeo and Juliet
2. A Midsummer Night’s Dream - (Rupert Everett in Glitter, Stanley Tucci as Puck)
3. Kenneth Branagh’s Much Ado About Nothing
4. Franco Zeferelli’s . . .OK it’s a tie between The Taming of the Shrew and Hamlet
5. The Turning Point
6. Ferris Buhlers Day Off - Better Off Dead (A Person should not have to choose)
7. A Chorus Line - The Company (Again . . .)
8. Noises Off
9. For Rosanna
10. Elizabeth
Ten Favorite Books (Cheating Quite a Lot)
1.The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
2. The Lord of the Rings (Trilogy) J.R.R. Tolkien
3. The Chronicles of Narnia (Seven) C.S, Lewis
4. The Riddle Master of Hed Trilogy Patricia McKillip
5. The Pridain Chronicles Lloyd Alexander
6. The Woodwife by Terri Wilding
7. Eloise by Kay Thompson
8. Six By Seuess by you know who
9. Women Who Run With the Wolves Clarissa Pinkola Estes
10. Motherhood: Journey Into Love Edwina Peterson Cross (well?!)
Ten Favorite Quotations:
1. “Follow your bliss” Joseph Campbell
2. “Some day, after we have mastered the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall harness the energies of love. The, for the second time in the history of the world, man will have discovered fire” Teilhard de Chardin
3. “Go Slowly, Breathe and Smile” Thich Nhat Hanh
4. “There was a star danced, and under that was I born” William Shakespeare.
5. "Being with real people who warm us, who endorse and exalt our creativity, is essential to the flow of creative life. Otherwise we freeze. Nurture is a chorus of voices both from within and without that notices the state of a woman's being, takes care to encourage it, and if necessary, gives comfort as well. I'm not certain how many friends one needs, but definitely one or two who think your gift, whatever it may be, is pan de cielo, the bread of heaven. Every woman is entitled to an Allelujia Chorus" Clarissa Pinkola Estes
6. "Alles Verganglich ist nur ein Gleichnis" - "Everything that is is but a metaphor." Goethe
7. “There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.”
Red (Walter Wellesley) Smith
8. If my virtue be a dancers virtue
And If I have often sprung with both feet
into golden-emerald rapture
And if it be my alpha and Omega
that everything heavy shall become light
Every body a dancer
and every spirit a bird:
Verily, that is my Alpha and Omega
- Nietzsche
9. “Oh it is easy for the one who stands outside the prison wall of pain to exhort and teach the one who suffers.” The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying.
10. “Go that way real fast, if something gets in your way . . . turn.” Savage Steve Holland.
LISTS, Lists, lists . . .what do lists tell you about people? What they wanted to get at the store? What they needed to do today? Take ten lists of ten and see what you can find out. One hundred items making SELF:
10 places to scatter my ashes:
1. Off the balcony, across the “O” in the Shakespearian Theater in Cedar City, Utah
2. In Logan, Utah: on the track in front of the bleachers at Logan High School
3. Across my mother’s back yard, probably in the mint.
4. In the aspen grove behind my house in Leadville, Colorado
5. At temple of Sinawava, in Zion National Park
6. Beside our fence in Jackson, Wyoming at the foot of the Tetons
7. At new Mountain Avenue Theater Complex, at Ashland High, at the base of the fly tower.
8. Across the bricks at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival
9. Inside my Aspen grove in my back yard in Ashland
10. Off the cliffs of Sorrento into the Bay of Naples.
10 Favorite songs
1. Jesu , Joy of Man’s Desiring - J.S. Bach
2. If I had a Million Dollars - The Bare Naked Ladies
3. Morning - Edvard Grieg
4. The Minstrel of the Dawn - Gordon Lightfoot
5. Perhaps Love - John Denver and Placido Domingo
6. The Dark Night of the Soul - Loreena McKennitt
7. Christian Island - Gordon Lightfoot
8. A Summer Song - Chad and Jeremy
9. Here, There and Everywhere - The Beatles
10. "Hosanna" from Requiem - Andrew Lloyd Webber
Ten Daughters
1. Lezlie - A Shakespearian Scholar
2. April - An Artist, An Actor
3. Laura - An Independent Firm Contractor
4. Laurence - A Writer, An Actor
5. Sarah - An Ecologist and Geologist
6. Kate - A Writer, An Imaginer
7. Ellen - An Actor and teacher
8. Rachel - A Midwife and Douala
9. Jocelyn - A Medical Student
10. Becca - A Social Worker and Nurse Practitioner
Ten Things I Love That Define Me
1. Otters
2. Ivy
3. Aspen Trees
4. Shakespeare
5. Celtic Harp
6. Poetry
7. The Dance
8. Traditions
9. Mountains
10. Pink
Ten Places/Things of Magic
1. Standing in the dark, in the wings of the theatre, while the overture plays, waiting for the curtain to go up. Your heart gets in your throat and beats double time to the music. It is an anticipatory, expectant, absolutely lovely feeling. Something similar, though not quite the same, can be felt from the audience by a mother in red shoes, waiting for a daughter behind the footlights. You get the same beating in your throat, but when the dancing starts, you have to stay in your chair.
2. The Temple of Sinawava, Zion Canyon, Zion National Park, Utah. Big medicine comes down the narrow canyon on the night wind. My sister, my nieces, my daughters and I lie on the soft, fine sand by the river’s edge, looking up at the glory washed cliffs and a golden moon tinted sky studded with sharp, bright stars. The whipping spirit wind blows over us easily, accepting us as it does the rocks and the river. We belong.
3. Three Ultra Sound screens; one in Bangor Maine, one in North Attleboro, Massachusetts, one in Woodbridge, Virginia. Each discloses a tiny creature, who when measured in the apparatus cross hairs, is revealed to be just the right size, placed firmly in the correct position; with a minute jumping bleep, bleep, bleep . . . the magic flicker of a beating human heart.
4. From the cliffs of Sorrento, Italy, a ripe, full moon paints a butter soft ribbon of gold across the bay of Naples. I stayed up all night and watched it go from one side of the bay to the other. It is said that it was from here that the sirens called to Odysseus, but I was silent all night and so was the moon.
5. At the top of Independence Pass in Colorado one is about as close to the sky as one can get on earth. Between Leadville and Aspen, at 16,000 ft, the pass is only open a few months a year. From the summit, you can see for miles in every direction, the air is thin and rarefied, the ground is covered with snow and grassland tundra, and for a few weeks every summer, thousands of tiny wild flowers. When the sun goes down the sky looks as though it has caught fire and all of creation is burning: crimson, tangerine, carmine, peach, rose, gold, vermilion, maroon, apricot, and cardinal red. When I was nineteen, my cousin and I stayed up at the summit until all the tourists had disappeared; then we waited for sunset. We cranked up the stereo on the car . . .an 8 track tape of Cat Stevens singing “Oh Very Young,” as I recall . . . and danced up and down the paths in the blaze of the sunset. Upon arriving in Aspen, sometime during the next few days, we heard, for the first time, John Denver sing “Rocky Mountain High” with the words: “Colorado Rocky Mountain High, I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky,” and we looked at each other and said, “exactly.”
6. My mother’s house is a most magic place, this is agreed by everyone who has ever been there. It is filled with the magic of childhood; the enchantment of books; the sorcery of beauty and wrapped all around with sapient spells of love. There is also this eternal mystery about it, this something that no one has ever quite figured out, something mystic, something deliciously mysterious and magical. Every child that walks in there feels it and somehow thinks, “I just might be the one to figure it out . . . whatever it is . . .” But of course, no one ever does.
7. The front room - any of many different front rooms - very early Christmas morning. The stockings are filled and Santa has left the children’s presents laid out on their chairs, presented just perfectly. I am savoring three expressions of surprise and delight that will come with the sunrise, squeals, gasps. Once again, I have managed to get each one just what they asked for as well as something for each one that is totally unexpected . The lights of the Christmas tree are soft and a little blurry; I’m very tired and quietly, bone-deep happy.
8. “Inside this Wooden O.” The smaller one in Cedar City, Utah, where I was born. The bigger one in Ashland, Oregon, which is now my home. Both are modeled on the original in London. So much magic has passed through these that it is sunk deeply into the wood, yet if you touch that wood, during the day, you will not feel the magic shuddering under your fingers. It sleeps until it is time for it to come alive. When the trumpets sound, when the lights go up, it will wake and begin to glow. Then it will simmer and sing for a few precious hours while the stars wheel over head, in a night breeze that smells there of sage, here of pine.
9. High Country Crocus. At the top of the world everything is white for many months out of the year. There is snow on the ground from September to June and by May one begins to wonder if anything living and green will ever grow again. But it does, like magic, like a promise, as soon as a little piece of grass is visible in the dripping from the eves, the crocus will start to sprout. I used to say that the reason they were called crocus is because they came up right under the eves, opened their little yellow beaks and said “croak us!” and all the snow slid off the roof and croaked them. And that was usually exactly what happened. Still. They were the first green things to be seen bravely peaking their heads above ground after months and months of unbroken whiteness. The magic of returning life, the magic of spring. Unchanging. Unfailing. My little snow angles, after months of living in white would come shrieking, “Green! Green! There is Green coming through the snow!”
10. Words. With a yellow legal pad in front of me, or the back of a piece of scratch paper, or my fingers on the keys of my faithful Adler typewriter, or the keyboard of a computer . . . I write a sentence that is almost. It kind of goes around a corner, but doesn’t quite make it. It is halting, it is frozen, it is wobbly, faltering, broken, fragmented. Then I look at it again, I think it, I taste it, I wiggle it, I smooth it, I do who knows what to it, I change a few words, I move a comma, a erase something, I add something, I move something and suddenly it flows, it fits, it harmonizes, it tallies, it lines up, it WORKS. Eureka! Banzai! Hallelujah! Magic.
Ten things I wouldn’t have missed on a bet
1. Breast feeding
2. Roller coasters
3. Waterfalls, fountains, rainbows
4. My husband’s hands
5. Narnia, Middle Earth, Prydain, Hed
6. The smell of the desert after a rain
7. My children’s laughter
8. The secrets of swans
9. Gordon Lightfoot, Loreena McKennit
10. The light that lit the alabaster and loved a rose bud into blossom
Ten Delicious Words
1. Soothing
2. Lengthen
3. Liquid
4. Lyric
5. Mellow
6. Moon
7. Cello
8. Whisper
9. Soft
10. Bliss
Ten Favorite Movies (only cheating slightly)
1. Franco Zeferelli’s Romeo and Juliet
2. A Midsummer Night’s Dream - (Rupert Everett in Glitter, Stanley Tucci as Puck)
3. Kenneth Branagh’s Much Ado About Nothing
4. Franco Zeferelli’s . . .OK it’s a tie between The Taming of the Shrew and Hamlet
5. The Turning Point
6. Ferris Buhlers Day Off - Better Off Dead (A Person should not have to choose)
7. A Chorus Line - The Company (Again . . .)
8. Noises Off
9. For Rosanna
10. Elizabeth
Ten Favorite Books (Cheating Quite a Lot)
1.The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
2. The Lord of the Rings (Trilogy) J.R.R. Tolkien
3. The Chronicles of Narnia (Seven) C.S, Lewis
4. The Riddle Master of Hed Trilogy Patricia McKillip
5. The Pridain Chronicles Lloyd Alexander
6. The Woodwife by Terri Wilding
7. Eloise by Kay Thompson
8. Six By Seuess by you know who
9. Women Who Run With the Wolves Clarissa Pinkola Estes
10. Motherhood: Journey Into Love Edwina Peterson Cross (well?!)
Ten Favorite Quotations:
1. “Follow your bliss” Joseph Campbell
2. “Some day, after we have mastered the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall harness the energies of love. The, for the second time in the history of the world, man will have discovered fire” Teilhard de Chardin
3. “Go Slowly, Breathe and Smile” Thich Nhat Hanh
4. “There was a star danced, and under that was I born” William Shakespeare.
5. "Being with real people who warm us, who endorse and exalt our creativity, is essential to the flow of creative life. Otherwise we freeze. Nurture is a chorus of voices both from within and without that notices the state of a woman's being, takes care to encourage it, and if necessary, gives comfort as well. I'm not certain how many friends one needs, but definitely one or two who think your gift, whatever it may be, is pan de cielo, the bread of heaven. Every woman is entitled to an Allelujia Chorus" Clarissa Pinkola Estes
6. "Alles Verganglich ist nur ein Gleichnis" - "Everything that is is but a metaphor." Goethe
7. “There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.”
Red (Walter Wellesley) Smith
8. If my virtue be a dancers virtue
And If I have often sprung with both feet
into golden-emerald rapture
And if it be my alpha and Omega
that everything heavy shall become light
Every body a dancer
and every spirit a bird:
Verily, that is my Alpha and Omega
- Nietzsche
9. “Oh it is easy for the one who stands outside the prison wall of pain to exhort and teach the one who suffers.” The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying.
10. “Go that way real fast, if something gets in your way . . . turn.” Savage Steve Holland.
THE SELF
The View From My Desk
Perspective altered
Prospect canted
Outlook shifting
Vista transfigured and strange
She sees things, this poet,
Beveled, oblique
Neither parallel nor perpendicular
But peculiar
A world built of bubbled words
Coagulating iridescence, expanding opalescence
Deliciously joining to form astonishing wholes
Dissolving and changing, transforming and becoming
Thoughts fall on paintings piled on poems piled on notes on scraps of paper piled on photographs piled on envelopes and empty teacups, piled on music piled on notebooks piled on piles of paper and glitter pens piled on reference books piled on novels and candles piled on piles of paper piled on poetry piled on paintings . . . there is no use looking at the desk
The universe is happening on the monitor screen
© Edwina Peterson Cross
Perspective altered
Prospect canted
Outlook shifting
Vista transfigured and strange
She sees things, this poet,
Beveled, oblique
Neither parallel nor perpendicular
But peculiar
A world built of bubbled words
Coagulating iridescence, expanding opalescence
Deliciously joining to form astonishing wholes
Dissolving and changing, transforming and becoming
Thoughts fall on paintings piled on poems piled on notes on scraps of paper piled on photographs piled on envelopes and empty teacups, piled on music piled on notebooks piled on piles of paper and glitter pens piled on reference books piled on novels and candles piled on piles of paper piled on poetry piled on paintings . . . there is no use looking at the desk
The universe is happening on the monitor screen
© Edwina Peterson Cross
THE SELF - NAMES
What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet . . .” Romeo and Juliet: II, ii
I am not my name
Names are other people’s perceptions
My essence is my own
I am a metaphor
that I found in the mirror
“Name” is a dress I wear, a different one today than
yesterday. Hang them carefully in the closet,
Silk. Satin. Velvet. Linen. Leather. Lace.
Cambric. Cotton. Satin. Suede
I will wear one again
Tomorrow
Take down the soft and scented folds
Lift my arms and slide it over my head
Become
I am . . .
I am my Grandy’s Girl With the Golden Eyes
I am my Mother’s Pooh and Schmoo
I am my Daddy’s Button Nose,
His Dansk Pige,
Sovanoka, his little owl
With eyes full of moon
I am Edwina Peterson - on blue paper, certificate of live birth, tiny blue ink foot print; daughter of Edwin Loose Peterson (37) and Zetta Benson (37); I am Cedar City, Iron County, Utah, USA; early on September Morn, Tuesday, Full of Grace. Third girl, I am named for my father, who could see only that there was a silver sliver of new moon in the desert sky and that my eyes were “so big.”
I am Little Sister to Leita and Lizette, Big Sister to Eddie, who was very soon bigger. I am Granddaughter, Daughter, Sister, Cousin, Playmate, Friend, Barefoot Dancing Child of the Wild Summer, Priestess of the Redgold Rites of Autumn, Enchantress of Snow-fire Yule Dreams; the Eternal Spring Maiden, forever born in the scent of new cut grass and blooming lilacs. I am Lily of the Valley, held like digitalis between the teeth, to jump-start a sensitive, perceptive heart. I walk the edge of the wheel, carefully balanced, with my arms held out to my sides.
I am Wina. I am Pooh. I am Pooey, Poobaugh, Pooeth and any number of other variations. I am Logan, Utah, Cache Valley, ‘neath the crest of Wasatch Mountains. I am an Edith Bowenite; child of humanitarian, experimental learning. I am Laughter. I am Play. I am Hopscotch and Jump Rope and intricate games of Make Believe. I am Going, Going . . . Gone to Narnia, to Middle Earth, with my eyes unfocused, into a swirl of words. I am Questioner, Wonderer, Dreamer. I am looking out the window thinking of rhymes when I am called on.
I am Winnie. I am a Dancer. I am DANCER. I am a Cheerleader. I am a Frenetic Roller-Coaster Search for the Marrow of Life. I am a Logan High School Grizzly, in love with a tradition of Red and Gold. I am a third generation Utah State University Aggie. I am a Kappa Delta. I am Fred, Win, Eddy, Sis, Winnifred, Twinkle Toes; the One in the Center Who Kicks Above Her Head; the Girl Who Writes Poetry. I am Big Eyes, Long Blonde Hair and a Short, Short Skirt. I am Eternally Sweaty in a black leotard and pink leg warmers. I am a Joyous Performer. I am a surprising good Teacher of Dance. I am a Hot 1967 Gold Firebird. I am Counselor, Confidant, Best Friend. I am a light filled Princess to a boy lost on the dark side of the moon.
I am Winnie Cross. I am Wife. I am half of a whole. I am Lover, I am Listener, I am Support, I am Sounding Board, I am Fluid, I am Malleable, I am Mobile, I am Migratory.
I am teacher, I am TEACHER! I am Facilitator, Advocate, Surrogate Parent, Referee, Nurse, Psychologist, Lesson Planner. I am Information Source, Concept Contributor, Idea Donor, Knowledge Grantor. I am Teacher of Reading, Giver of Language, Maker of Magic. I am Graduate Student, PhD candidate, I am Teacher of Teachers, I am Mentor, I am Instructor, I am Associate Professor, I am Dance Teacher, I am Movement Specialist, I am Children’s Lit Specialist, I am Deaf Ed. and Sign Language Specialist. I am very, very Tired.
I am the oppressive word “Infertility.” I am the ugly word “Barren.” I am a Twenty-eight Day Heartbreak. I am Impossible Statistics. I am NOT a Believer.
I am Mother.
I am Mother.
I am Mother.
I am Joy-filled Statistics Squasher.
I am Mama, Mummy, Mommie, Mom, sometimes even Bomb to a boy with a stuffed up nose. I am a Weaver of Names . . . I run threads through my fingers, warp the loom and with careful, glistening thread, produce: Lezlie Celia. April Laurel. Taran Robert. Gifted with miracles, I produce a person to wear each one.
I am Hestia, keeping the Hearth, Demeter in Summer, full of plenty; I am Milk Provider, Diaper Changer, Back Patter, Floor Walker, Constant Cuddler, Midnight-Rocker, Lullabye Singer, Love Pourer. Soon I become Kisser of Hurts, Taker of Temperatures, Fixer of Toys, Puller Out'er of Slivers, Putter On'er of Shoes, Chauffeur, Cook, Dishwasher, House keeper, Coach, Cheerleader, Planner. On a non-stop, twenty-four hour shift, I become Teacher-in-Earnest, Full Time Concept Contributor, Information Source, Idea Donor, Knowledge Grantor, Giver of Language, Maker of Magic. The wheel turns and I become Homework Helper, Night-Waiter, Stage Parent, Counselor, Confidant, Advisor, Friend. I am Maker of Connections and Builder of Circuits, they click and hum and the love I have been pouring for years comes flowing back to me. Too soon, I am watching tail lights disappear and becoming E-mail Mother, Care Package Maker, 2 a.m. Telephone Queen, Demeter in Winter with Persephone gone.
And so. I remind myself that I am many things and I open my closet to look for names. Yes! I will wear these! I am Weaver of Words; Minstrel of a Later Day; Bard of Imagery and Imagination. I am Dancer of Dreams; Illusionist of Air Castles; Reaper of Rainbows; Pilot of Myth; Scribe of Memory; Aspirant of Inspiration; Inventor; Imaginer; Stareyed Child of the Muse. Yes, here is a dress that fits. I am a Poet. I am Edwina Peterson Cross.
I am Writer. I am Editor. I am Poet. By virtue of virtual wizardry, I am newborn Painter.
I am Artist.
I am surprised.
I am Crone. New come to my shawl, I am Gathering. I am Learning. I am Experiencing. I am Emerging. I am East, South, West, North I am Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter I am Child, Maiden, Mother, Crone.
I am Woman
I am Student, I am Searcher, I am Seeker, I am Learner, I am Minor-Goggle-Master in awe of the amount of information, knowledge and wisdom in the world.
I am a Hollow Vessel waiting for words; a Sifter of Sand, a Finder of Diamonds. I am a Dedicate of William Shakespeare, a Disciple of Joseph Campbell, an Heir of Isadora Duncan and Edna St. Vincent Millay, a Believer in J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Lloyd Alexander, Terri Windling and Patricia McKillip, a Devotee of Clarissa Pinkola Estes; an Emissary of Virginia Woolf; an unabashed fan of Dr. Seuss. I am part of hundreds of others, their myriad of names sing through my blood until my veins are flowing with ink. In a luscious forty-six year long feast, I am what I have read.
I am Otter. I am otterandivy. I am Oread. I am Dryad. I am the Aspen Tree and the winding life-green Ivy. I am Swan. I am learning to walk with the bear.
I am Julia, the Explorer; Elysia the Muse; Amelia Emily the Editor; Fernando the slightly stoned Warrior. I am, alas, also Hugh, the Oppressive Judge. I am an inch high mud colored dragon; a bitter woman who finds lilacs in the desert; an unscrupulous Master of Mirrors; a unearthly Blue Girl singing by the sea; a curly haired child tumbling into the Castalian Spring; a women who can’t stop mourning and cutting her hair; a Circle of Dryads dancing in the wood; a Warrior battling with words. There are endless empty hangers in this closet, I can be anyone I want to be.
I am Edwina. I am Wina. I am Pooh. I am Winnie. I am Mom. I am Winnie Cross. I am Mommie. I am Edwina Peterson Cross. Antique-lace, polished-cotton, soft-flannel, supple-suede, rose-petals, unbleached cambric, spun-silk, milk-satin, richest-velvet. Hang them in the closet, choose a new one tomorrow.
and I
Without “I am”
Go to dance naked Under the moon
~Edwina Peterson Cross~ (or someone)
I am not my name
Names are other people’s perceptions
My essence is my own
I am a metaphor
that I found in the mirror
“Name” is a dress I wear, a different one today than
yesterday. Hang them carefully in the closet,
Silk. Satin. Velvet. Linen. Leather. Lace.
Cambric. Cotton. Satin. Suede
I will wear one again
Tomorrow
Take down the soft and scented folds
Lift my arms and slide it over my head
Become
I am . . .
I am my Grandy’s Girl With the Golden Eyes
I am my Mother’s Pooh and Schmoo
I am my Daddy’s Button Nose,
His Dansk Pige,
Sovanoka, his little owl
With eyes full of moon
I am Edwina Peterson - on blue paper, certificate of live birth, tiny blue ink foot print; daughter of Edwin Loose Peterson (37) and Zetta Benson (37); I am Cedar City, Iron County, Utah, USA; early on September Morn, Tuesday, Full of Grace. Third girl, I am named for my father, who could see only that there was a silver sliver of new moon in the desert sky and that my eyes were “so big.”
I am Little Sister to Leita and Lizette, Big Sister to Eddie, who was very soon bigger. I am Granddaughter, Daughter, Sister, Cousin, Playmate, Friend, Barefoot Dancing Child of the Wild Summer, Priestess of the Redgold Rites of Autumn, Enchantress of Snow-fire Yule Dreams; the Eternal Spring Maiden, forever born in the scent of new cut grass and blooming lilacs. I am Lily of the Valley, held like digitalis between the teeth, to jump-start a sensitive, perceptive heart. I walk the edge of the wheel, carefully balanced, with my arms held out to my sides.
I am Wina. I am Pooh. I am Pooey, Poobaugh, Pooeth and any number of other variations. I am Logan, Utah, Cache Valley, ‘neath the crest of Wasatch Mountains. I am an Edith Bowenite; child of humanitarian, experimental learning. I am Laughter. I am Play. I am Hopscotch and Jump Rope and intricate games of Make Believe. I am Going, Going . . . Gone to Narnia, to Middle Earth, with my eyes unfocused, into a swirl of words. I am Questioner, Wonderer, Dreamer. I am looking out the window thinking of rhymes when I am called on.
I am Winnie. I am a Dancer. I am DANCER. I am a Cheerleader. I am a Frenetic Roller-Coaster Search for the Marrow of Life. I am a Logan High School Grizzly, in love with a tradition of Red and Gold. I am a third generation Utah State University Aggie. I am a Kappa Delta. I am Fred, Win, Eddy, Sis, Winnifred, Twinkle Toes; the One in the Center Who Kicks Above Her Head; the Girl Who Writes Poetry. I am Big Eyes, Long Blonde Hair and a Short, Short Skirt. I am Eternally Sweaty in a black leotard and pink leg warmers. I am a Joyous Performer. I am a surprising good Teacher of Dance. I am a Hot 1967 Gold Firebird. I am Counselor, Confidant, Best Friend. I am a light filled Princess to a boy lost on the dark side of the moon.
I am Winnie Cross. I am Wife. I am half of a whole. I am Lover, I am Listener, I am Support, I am Sounding Board, I am Fluid, I am Malleable, I am Mobile, I am Migratory.
I am teacher, I am TEACHER! I am Facilitator, Advocate, Surrogate Parent, Referee, Nurse, Psychologist, Lesson Planner. I am Information Source, Concept Contributor, Idea Donor, Knowledge Grantor. I am Teacher of Reading, Giver of Language, Maker of Magic. I am Graduate Student, PhD candidate, I am Teacher of Teachers, I am Mentor, I am Instructor, I am Associate Professor, I am Dance Teacher, I am Movement Specialist, I am Children’s Lit Specialist, I am Deaf Ed. and Sign Language Specialist. I am very, very Tired.
I am the oppressive word “Infertility.” I am the ugly word “Barren.” I am a Twenty-eight Day Heartbreak. I am Impossible Statistics. I am NOT a Believer.
I am Mother.
I am Mother.
I am Mother.
I am Joy-filled Statistics Squasher.
I am Mama, Mummy, Mommie, Mom, sometimes even Bomb to a boy with a stuffed up nose. I am a Weaver of Names . . . I run threads through my fingers, warp the loom and with careful, glistening thread, produce: Lezlie Celia. April Laurel. Taran Robert. Gifted with miracles, I produce a person to wear each one.
I am Hestia, keeping the Hearth, Demeter in Summer, full of plenty; I am Milk Provider, Diaper Changer, Back Patter, Floor Walker, Constant Cuddler, Midnight-Rocker, Lullabye Singer, Love Pourer. Soon I become Kisser of Hurts, Taker of Temperatures, Fixer of Toys, Puller Out'er of Slivers, Putter On'er of Shoes, Chauffeur, Cook, Dishwasher, House keeper, Coach, Cheerleader, Planner. On a non-stop, twenty-four hour shift, I become Teacher-in-Earnest, Full Time Concept Contributor, Information Source, Idea Donor, Knowledge Grantor, Giver of Language, Maker of Magic. The wheel turns and I become Homework Helper, Night-Waiter, Stage Parent, Counselor, Confidant, Advisor, Friend. I am Maker of Connections and Builder of Circuits, they click and hum and the love I have been pouring for years comes flowing back to me. Too soon, I am watching tail lights disappear and becoming E-mail Mother, Care Package Maker, 2 a.m. Telephone Queen, Demeter in Winter with Persephone gone.
And so. I remind myself that I am many things and I open my closet to look for names. Yes! I will wear these! I am Weaver of Words; Minstrel of a Later Day; Bard of Imagery and Imagination. I am Dancer of Dreams; Illusionist of Air Castles; Reaper of Rainbows; Pilot of Myth; Scribe of Memory; Aspirant of Inspiration; Inventor; Imaginer; Stareyed Child of the Muse. Yes, here is a dress that fits. I am a Poet. I am Edwina Peterson Cross.
I am Writer. I am Editor. I am Poet. By virtue of virtual wizardry, I am newborn Painter.
I am Artist.
I am surprised.
I am Crone. New come to my shawl, I am Gathering. I am Learning. I am Experiencing. I am Emerging. I am East, South, West, North I am Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter I am Child, Maiden, Mother, Crone.
I am Woman
I am Student, I am Searcher, I am Seeker, I am Learner, I am Minor-Goggle-Master in awe of the amount of information, knowledge and wisdom in the world.
I am a Hollow Vessel waiting for words; a Sifter of Sand, a Finder of Diamonds. I am a Dedicate of William Shakespeare, a Disciple of Joseph Campbell, an Heir of Isadora Duncan and Edna St. Vincent Millay, a Believer in J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Lloyd Alexander, Terri Windling and Patricia McKillip, a Devotee of Clarissa Pinkola Estes; an Emissary of Virginia Woolf; an unabashed fan of Dr. Seuss. I am part of hundreds of others, their myriad of names sing through my blood until my veins are flowing with ink. In a luscious forty-six year long feast, I am what I have read.
I am Otter. I am otterandivy. I am Oread. I am Dryad. I am the Aspen Tree and the winding life-green Ivy. I am Swan. I am learning to walk with the bear.
I am Julia, the Explorer; Elysia the Muse; Amelia Emily the Editor; Fernando the slightly stoned Warrior. I am, alas, also Hugh, the Oppressive Judge. I am an inch high mud colored dragon; a bitter woman who finds lilacs in the desert; an unscrupulous Master of Mirrors; a unearthly Blue Girl singing by the sea; a curly haired child tumbling into the Castalian Spring; a women who can’t stop mourning and cutting her hair; a Circle of Dryads dancing in the wood; a Warrior battling with words. There are endless empty hangers in this closet, I can be anyone I want to be.
I am Edwina. I am Wina. I am Pooh. I am Winnie. I am Mom. I am Winnie Cross. I am Mommie. I am Edwina Peterson Cross. Antique-lace, polished-cotton, soft-flannel, supple-suede, rose-petals, unbleached cambric, spun-silk, milk-satin, richest-velvet. Hang them in the closet, choose a new one tomorrow.
and I
Without “I am”
Go to dance naked Under the moon
~Edwina Peterson Cross~ (or someone)