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Cinnamon Toast and Earl Grey Tea (a poem)
Cinnamon toast and Earl Grey tea, a dash
of sugar and milk. Comfort for a cold, rainy Friday in spring.
I look out the window, all is green even the sky.
A mirror of the trees and lawn. Where did the sunshine go? Taking with it my smile.
My contentment is fleeting. The rhubarb and tomatoes
planted yesterday relishing the rain but like me needing the sun.
My sleepy kitten Jaz
won’t stop laying on my writing arm. Why did she choose today
to sit with me, to pull me down? So, as if unable to resist
I trudge upstairs,
still in my scarf and jacket from rainy rides to school, pajamas
covered in peace symbols. I don’t even take off the nine-year old’s sandals as I snuggle deep
in the down covers. Taking Jaz with me we have the illicit nap. Everything feels forbidden
today, sometimes I forget I am grown. I don’t have to feel guilty all the time.
But conscience says I must get something done.
Fridays are for cleaning, so that Everyone
is happy on the weekend. While I scurry around, picking up again to keep it nice;
where children oblivious drop the towel, socks, paper and pen. A water-glass, plastic soldiers, LEGO, whatever, as they tire of it.
Cinnamon toast and earl gray tea, guilty pleasures
on a rainy friday afternoon as my soul searches
and reality catches up with me, again.
I dream of doing a lot of things, dream only dream…..
For a long time I have felt a growing disquiet and troubled feeling about my days. Because of the nature and pattern of them, I could endlessly sit and take in all that’s going on in the greater world. And because of my propensities, my heart hurts anew each time I read something: about the raping of women in Congo, genocide in Rwanda, plight of girls in China and Afghanistan, homeless in America, immigrants, undocumented kids who grew up in the US, poor black kids in my city, incarcerated Black men, young unwed mothers, gays and lesbians I know are not really welcome in my and most evangelical churches, the plight of women in the evangelical church, racism …
… over and over, it hurts to read it all and want to do something. I almost went to New Orleans during Katrina, I almost went to Cambodia, I dream of doing a lot of things, dream only dream…..
I haven’t felt passionate about anything specific in a long time.
In my twenties I worked with high school students at my church. I loved that and gave up a part-time job just to travel with the kids to Florida Keys to camp. I went along on two Global Projects with college students to Kiev and Moscow. I was not very well equipped for either of those opportunities but my heart was in the right place. I loved taking survival backpacking or camping trips in high school. The challenge really motivated me. I like to push myself. I am charged by effort, hard work, sweat on the brow, and I love being in the natural world which fills me up when I stay in it. I love to travel. I love to learn, study, get lost in a topic, get lost in book. I love to take photographs. I am a wordsmith. I write poetry. I blog. I wonder what I should do with it all. I dream of publishing a book of poetry and photography.
I am considering all this, where my leanings are, and asking “What is my one thing?”
So, I’m asking those that know me, would you help me define myself?I haven’t had a clear picture of myself in years.
What is it that I could be doing? I am listening, praying, asking friends.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking for definitive answers about God’s purpose for my life, my time and energies. I can only hope that God will continue to change me so that I might live peacefully with that purpose as it is revealed to me.
I know that the things I have learned over the last ten years about myself, the pain worked through, present opportunities for understanding and have a purpose.
May I face whatever is ahead with courage, honesty, and integrity.
Chime in won’t you. Pop me an email on Facebook or melhhanson@yahoo.com or if you’re comfortable write something here.
Be well,
Melody
P.S. Some of my favorite movies of all time, without thinking hard about it, just off the top of my head: The Mission, The Killing Fields, Broadcast News, The Whale Rider, and more recently: Up. What do they say about me?
When I’m thin, I’ll …
This is me in Honolulu, about five years ago or six or seven … With my good soul mate and friend Junko and her son. I put it here, because I was probably 25 pounds thinner and I thought at that time I was fat. Just goes to show….
I just found myself writing on Facebook: “I am feeling dissatisfied and out of sorts.” I know this is true — it has been so for days. It put me in such a funk last week I thought I was coming down with the Black Dog (you know, depression.)
But I wonder why. Examining ourselves is hard. And I get the feeling that I do it a lot. But I can easily not engage with things emotionally and stay on the surface of life.
On the level of superficial, surface things, I know why I’m grumpy:
- There are piles of laundry that are never “done.”
- The stuff, everywhere! And I can’t keep up. My kids are clueless, and useless! No matter how many reminders, of the stuff they leave around the house and yard — practically dropping it anywhere they finish with it — it is everywhere.
- There is no open surface in my life – except the kitchen – after I clean it – daily, sometimes twice depending on things in the evening.
- my garage is driving me nuts. my basement is driving me nuts. my bedroom is driving me nuts.
- I can never keep food in the house. My preteens are eating everything that isn’t nailed down. and what we have is never what they want. Now I’m not one to really care about that, them getting what they “like” but it starts to rub me wrong, after a while.
That’s the surface and it’s bad, but then if I go below the surface:
I never see my friends. Rarely have deep conversations with people. Just living on the surface of my friend’s lives and I feel lonely. Did I just write that. I think I’m not sure. Do I feel lonely? I mean, I could choose to pick up the phone. I like isolation I think. But then, internally, I know accountability in friendship is good and deep connections are so life-giving. Yes, connection is important to me and I don’t have it. There is no where in my life, not church, not my kids schools, where else do I go – not the grocery store, that I connect with people. Okay, at Trader Joe’s they are really nice and I always leave there feeling good, because they are quite happy to be talking to you. That is so pathetic.
Another thing. I decided last year, to not buy clothes for myself, for a year. Mostly, cause I’m fairly stupid about spending money and I was wasting away the fortune we did not have on this and that. I mean how many hats does a girl need? And to be honest, since early October I haven’t spent a dime, on myself. I did find myself buying a lot more clothing for Emma. That had to stop cause it definitely defeats the purpose and she’s swimming in clothes. Really though, I haven’t missed shopping.
I worried about what ideas I was giving my daughter about looks. (I blogged about all this in October of last year.)
The other reason that I stopped was because I was tired of thinking and caring so much about image. But that bit hasn’t changed (much) and frankly I’ve let myself go over the last six months. I feel shabby, and dumpy and what was that word that my friend in college used to call me? Frumpy. What a word. I’ve lived up to that of late and I hate myself. And we won’t even go into the weight thing. No, not today. When I say hate I’m talking about the suicide kind of self-hatred, or harming yourself, or anything tragic like an eating disorder. I’m just referring to simple self-esteem. Body image. Naked in the mirror stuff. Can’t find an outfit that feels good to me kind of days.
And then this trip to the Bahamas comes (two and a half weeks and counting) and I start freaking out. For some reason, I have this crazy need to impress and seem cultured and look urban and eclectic and interesting. It matters to me (and that’s a long story from being an MK that I think I’ve written about here before.) So I wasn’t going to buy anything. And then I started obsessing about this awards night banquet that everyone gets all spiffy for and I couldn’t let -it -go.
I looked at my clothes, of which I have an abundance, in sizes 10, 12 and 14 and I don’t have anything for an evening dinner in the Bahamas, not fancy but not too casual. So, I “don’t have anything” and yet I know that if I was saving money for my kid’s transplant or something I could find something to wear in my closet. So it wouldn’t be Tommy Bahama or nicely starched from newness. But it would be just fine. One night. One outfit. Perhaps three total hours of my life. But there’s no transplant needed, and Tom doesn’t care if I buy a dress, he’s getting a new shirt.
So dammit I bought one, online, it probably won’t even look good. Which is okay cause I can return it but every time I think about that stupid trip I get all anxious. Like what’s on the outside is what matters. Tho I don’t believe that, already I’ve fallen back into that kind of thinking. …. If I have a new dress, I will also need new shoes, a necklace, earrings,and a decent bag. Oh, and can’t forget the very important cover up for the cool nights and to cover the flabby size 14 arms….. so I spend the evening last night (while watching Idol among other things) tooling the internet looking for the perfect dress. And even this morning ….
No wonder I feel dissatisfied and grumpy. As a friend just said, (on Facebook not in person, I told you I have no face-to-face friendships any more.) I need to check this more closely.
Identity. Self-esteem. Body image. Eureka! I have ignored the root of my problems with shopping. Wow! I can’t believe I’ve been able to stick my head in the proverbial sand about this!
We all do it. I know we do. Except for those few say 20% of exercising folk, most of us ignore our bodies a good part of the time. Just living with regret, or wishing it were different, or saying when I lose those ten pounds, I will …
Absolutely what I’ve done!
“I will like myself when I’m thin. I know I’m thin inside there somewhere. I was thin(ner) for most of my life and that person is still in there. When I’m thin, I’ll … pursue showing my photography. And take more risks like searching for a publisher for my poetry. And ….blah, blah frikin’ blah…”
Well, isn’t that interesting.
P.S. If you’re one of those actually thin people or in your early thirties (or younger) and you don’t know what I’m talking about — related to your body, just wait. Call me when it hits. I will so be there for you to cry on my shoulder. By then, I’ll be thin. Surely.
This Strange Desire: On Materialism and Image: How it all started, the year without new clothes.
days without god (a poem)
she walked away from hope,
traveled the road of unkept promises.
and god was far away.
days without number
she ran down that road,
of fleeting pleasures
and god turned away
unable to see
unable to be with her.
tho she can never deny going,
after a time, she turned
and walked back.
she was broken and bleeding.
the moment she turned back
she felt the presence
and then, god forgave.
melody harrison hanson 3-aug-2007
this poem is a metaphor for the choices, paths we choose without acknowledging God.
You Change My Dreams (a poem)
All of my life, and even in my dreams
I find myself searching.
Dream after dream – night after night – year after year I find I am
often longing. Longing for love.
Today, as I heard myself once again asking why,
I see that you can fill that life long yearning.
You are the seeker. The changer.
The one who transforms.
You fill me with hope. You are
The healer.
You long for me. You change my dreams.
May you find me
day after day – night after night – year after year – even in my dreams
full of longing for you. May it be so.
Written 3/21/2010 in response to/during a sermon by Chris Dolson on Luke 19 “Jesus Inspires Change”
The Fury of Parenthood (a poem)
The Fury of Parenthood
It should not be
in me.
The fury. And in the end,
I think.
I am most angry
that I am all grown up.
When did that happen?
I cook, I clean, I care, I take on
every kind of responsibility. Make
choices based on their survival and
their happiness.
Forgetting at times that
I am their whole world.
When did that happen?
And if I am not happy
neither are they. Well enough,
isn’t good enough. They need my joy.
And so, I remember
love is here. Even in my fury.
I find I am Mother.
I am provider. I am.
Written a few weeks ago, sitting in church.
Parenting Tips 101
Some things
no one tells you
about being a
parent …
or that you won’t
believe until you have had your own …
- That you can get pregnant while nursing. Dylan was conceived when Emma was five months old. Yeah, I know harsh.
- That you will find yourself picking LEGOs out of the grimy dirt, when you sweep, every single day for up to ten years but who’s counting?
- That going out with friends would become a rare treat. And most of the time it will be sans your partner/spouse.
- When you do finally go out together with friends you will talk about your kids all night, even when you resolve not to do so, and you’re thinking you’ve got to stop, and you don’t even want to talk about them. You will.
- You will never again go out to a coffee shop or bookstore just for fun with your partner/spouse, if anything it will be a drive by for coffee or books.
- Your life will be filled with at least 30% more picking up and your house will never be clean or organized.
- When your kids are young you will arrange “play dates” so that you can spend time with adults and when they are older you will arrange play dates so you can be away from your kids.
- You will soon consider Phineas and Ferb and Sponge Bob high brow television.
- You will find some children’s movies that you like, eventually, if you watch enough of them.
- There are no absolutes in parenting, because every child is different as well as every parent.
- That having no television at all in your life really is a good idea. People say it but few really do it, but if you start from the beginning it is totally okay. Your kids will be better off.
- That emotional hormones happen to boys as well as girls in the 10-13 years (I haven’t gotten farther yet) and it is okay to let boys cry. They will be better men for it.
- That your car windows will never, ever be without smudges so just let it go. Seriously I have tried to let it go, I really have, but I still hate smudges in my car.
- that your kids will be okay, no really they will no matter what you do (within reason.)
- It is never, never worth it to give in to a tantrum you will pay ten times over for your moment of weakness, times how many kids you have.
- Children are born selfish and it is a parents job to teach them they are not the center of the universe.
- They will eat their buggers, you can’t stop ’em. And it’s better than the alternative which is putting it somewhere.
- that these things really, really are true …
Please add to this list, parents!
He Flew Away :: A fairytale.
This is an old, old story.
There once was a girl who fell in love,
in a moment; in a flash of conversation over the phone.
She fell down, down, down
into his deep, deep voice.
He was full of funny anecdotes. He was charming and open
and he kept calling
that girl. She fell hard
for the man and his airplanes,
his funny stories and his strange lonely life. And sometimes
when he wasn’t afraid, he told her why he was so very sad
and he held on to her so, so tight.
Why didn’t she know, oh why couldn’t she tell, then,
that the man would never let her in?
That she would be alone, in the end
strangled by his fear and her memories.
There once was a man that met a girl over the phone.
She made him smile and feel warm inside. He was happy for a while.
And she waited patiently as he travelled the world.
Years of going away and coming back. This girl, he knew
she was something else but he just couldn’t be sure.
Was it his daddy’s millions that she loved or was it him?
One day the man fell into a million pieces and called the girl.
Come, he cried, everything hurts and the walls are collapsing around me.
He wanted her.
And the girl, she came flying. Her love made her try, try, try to glue him back together. She gave it everything.
With her arms wrapped around, sitting there on a playground, a rush of love flooded
Through her. She knew, for her, he was everything.
So she sat with the man and emotions swirled around, they talked and cried together.
And that girl, she just might have been
what his frightened heart needed, over time. But the man
closed up and went away more often.
Over time, he stopped calling. Stopped needing
the girl. Stopped wanting.
And though she saved her heart for him, he finally flew away and didn’t return. And so, she
stood there frozen in time waiting, ever waiting.
But he never came. There was nothing she could do.
This girl was something but he just couldn’t be sure.
Was it his daddy’s millions that she loved or him?
Not that time, but a hundred times
Again and again, he called her, she came to him, she held him, they laughed together,
And she cried all the way home.
Away the man flew perhaps for the last time.
Off she drove tears streaming.
How could she not have known, as he flew away over and over again —
That he would never let her in.
And one day, many years later, he would find a lady to trust.
And the girl became a woman and still there was nothing she could do.
For ages the girl wondered .
What might have happened if he had given up his daddy’s millions
and stayed in her arms?
Well this tale happened
a long time ago.
Meanwhile the woman who had been
that girl stopped waiting.
After years and years of longing and wondering,
she finally walked the other direction.
She shut her broken heart away
Full knowing. She just might have been what he needed. And still,
there was nothing to be done.
Today the woman remembers, still unable to know what might have been.
But she has stopped wondering.
In the real world, she found real love. Not a dreamy or fairy tale .
And her story
Is only now being written of a girl, who became a woman and learned
She could love and be loved in return. And that is worth knowing, worth remembering
worth writing down because she didn’t stay broken forever.
She learned to love again.
I don’t know. (a poem)
I don’t know, oh, there is so much I don’t know.
I don’t know if I will ever feel good, really good.
But I know I’m whistling while I work, unbidden and that’s some small joy.
I don’t know the lyrics to most songs,
but I know I love to sing.
I want the music on all the time. No matter whether it’s ska, indie, classical, rap, reggae, world or even opera.
It’s what makes me feel safe, the sounds.
And books they make me feel alright.
I know I like order, but I”m messy. I’ve never learned routines.
I don’t know if I’d change if I knew how. But I know I like order.
I don’t know if the money will last the month. Or what we’re having for dinner.
But I know we are here together.
I know, you’ll come home tonight and every night. And I know you will always have me.
I don’t know if my sister will talk to me or if I’ll ever meet my nephew.
I don’t know what family means any more. No patriarch, no matriarch.
I don’t know what will happen to us all, what I am supposed to do about it. I just don’t know that at all.
I don’t know my parent’s history, only the results on our lives.
I don’t know why my dad was so angry,
but I know I stopped it at the door of my home.
I know I have that control and yet I know I’m not the One in control.
I don’t know if what I believe is true, the Truth.
But I know it gets me through.
I don’t know who I’d be without that belief and so I choose to believe.
I don’t know why I had children, but I know that I wouldn’t have found myself without them.
I know I am becoming the mother they need and I am so grateful that I am entrusted with their minds and hearts.
I don’t know what I can give them, but if it were just one thing
I would give each one
confidence.
I wake up most every day scared.
I want them to face the world bravely. That I know.
Most days I don’t know what I don’ t
Know. But today, I am sure that these things are true.
I love and I am loved.
I am a mother and that is the most serious thing I will ever do.
I am profoundly aware of how my parents made me who I am.
I am undaunted.
In the end I don’t have to know as long as I keep whistling and choosing to believe.
When my heart hurts, I wait. (a poem)
I could be doing many things right now, my mother taught me that.
I should always comes to mind first. I could, gives breathing room. She had a lifetime of shoulds. She lived for every one. And lost herself. And so, she sits now with her regrets.
I could be cleaning, calling a friend, or washing up. I could be playing the piano, or laughing with ‘Mel & Floyd’ on the radio. Even singing. Or I could be digging outside. But here I sit, with sleepy Jaz by my side. I linger with my heavy thoughts and the radio that is playing Chaka Khan. Now she is wild and so funky. So unlike me.
As the kitten stretches in the sunshine. I sit and wait for the words. For I have poem inside and when that happens, I have learned I can wait. It is not time wasted. Rather, a moment of anticipation. So I go to the screen; the sacred chamber that collects my words and blows them softly way from me. I sit, pondering hard things.
I could be a better lover.
I am earnest and devout, but I lack fire.
I could be a better mom. I sometimes cave. If you’re a parent, you know what I mean.
I could definitely be a better friend.
And should,yes should, take better care of each precious one.
You and I spoke late into the night of our love, desire and longings. Of heartache. Of your loyalty. Of my addictions. And of God. And, of other secret things. And in the moments, when my heart hurt so much as if I was being crushed from the inside out I could only hold on to our love. And know that for all the shoulds that sit there between us; unrequited. Honest disappointments. Pure pain. Still. It’s you and me. And I know, even though our journey together is imperfect I am glad to walk this life’s path with you.
There, it came. The swirling thoughts are out. Not always what I want to say. Not always something I would choose to admit. But always when and what is needed. I suppose the thing I most love about you, is the that though we are imperfect I can wake after such a hard conversation with hope.
April 15, 2010
Marriage. It’s an amazing thing and yet so difficult. I don’t talk about my marriage much but I know that just like all the other things that I write about (childhood psychological abuse, addiction & recovery, motherhood, creativity, insecurities, spirituality & faith, disbelief) everyone has relationships and many people have hard marriages. Mine isn’t difficult, funny enough. Mine is amazing. But we have our things and from time to time they raise their head up and demand attention. I don’t think we should be afraid to talk about it. Like everything it is delicate and precious.
in this, and the next life (a poem)
Unholy.
Like unrequited first love,
my heart discovers your incantations and magic
last night. It seems this story has been written
a thousand times. A girl
watches, listens, dreams.
She is silent, unmoved at the start and almost determined
not to feel. And then she is profoundly shaken, breathless.
Listening as if never having heard music
before. You cast a spell. A choir of guitars,
exquisite. Cutting
deep. Your sweaty hope. Dreams vividly etched in the lines
in your face. You may see
ancient sorrows but she sees only
sweetness and she falls
for you, for your voodoo songs. You are
the weary traveller casting spells on the unwary girl.
You are
ahead of me
on the path to this, and the next life. You
have my heart
now, beating erratically in your songs. Carry it well.
Logic & Imagination 
