The Elephant in the Room
I know you won’t believe me, but it’s there;
large as life, it sits there,
this trembling elephant,
big, grey, lumpy
spoiling for a fight
This is not some docile, nurturing cow,
but an old rogue bull,
sated from roaring and rampaging
ripping off thatched roofs
and uprooting trees
It sits without a word – it cannot speak -
and takes up too much space with its huge, wrinkled presence
in the thin confines of this tiny room
I try to stay out of its way,
moving gingerly
speaking quietly
thinking that if I do not acknowledge it, it will go away
but it is just so … there!
The elephant looks at me,
every so often,
from beneath half-lidded, lashless eyes,
watery with unshed tears,
and asks me to remember
how it got here
My sigh is huge,
deep as the elephant’s watering hole,
but stale and fetid
a scum of green algae on the surface
and the edges trodden down and muddy
Every so often, the elephant swings its snake-like trunk
around the room,
waggles its tusks, distracting me,
knocking memories off the shelves
and shattering windows into bits of splintered glass
which fly off through the roofless room
like a flock of little silver birds
© Melanie Turner
August 12, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
Still Breathing
waking up in the middle of the night
to find that I am still breathing …
and grateful for the wordless breath
which rises and falls
beneath the crisp white cotton sheet
I pull the air in,
air still muggy and warm from thunderstorms
earlier in the day
and hold it,
hot in my mouth,
just for a moment,
savoring it
trying to remember when it was, exactly,
that I learned to breathe
exhaling quietly,
quickly pulling another breath in
lest I forget how
I remember how the baby hippo is born,
underwater,
and how, unerringly, he swims up and up,
with determination
without fear
simply knowing this is what he needs to do, until
suddenly breaking the surface
he fills his nascent lungs with air
and it dawns on me that this,
our original gasp of air,
is surely the first miracle
© Melanie Turner
August 3, 2009
to find that I am still breathing …
and grateful for the wordless breath
which rises and falls
beneath the crisp white cotton sheet
I pull the air in,
air still muggy and warm from thunderstorms
earlier in the day
and hold it,
hot in my mouth,
just for a moment,
savoring it
trying to remember when it was, exactly,
that I learned to breathe
exhaling quietly,
quickly pulling another breath in
lest I forget how
I remember how the baby hippo is born,
underwater,
and how, unerringly, he swims up and up,
with determination
without fear
simply knowing this is what he needs to do, until
suddenly breaking the surface
he fills his nascent lungs with air
and it dawns on me that this,
our original gasp of air,
is surely the first miracle
© Melanie Turner
August 3, 2009
Passions, Part 3 (and Final)
Passions, Part 3 (Third and Final)
I am not sure if this “series” has been as much self-introspection as self-immolation. The intent was to present questions, generate ideas, and, hopefully, come up with a dream, a vision, and a light at the beginning of the path. I am looking for something from the universe, I guess: direction, guidance, clarification, and some clue as to what I am supposed to be doing with my life. Oh, and how to keep a roof over my head and food on the table while I’m at it.
Before I begin, however, a small digression. I have mentioned how much I enjoy playing the piano. Usually, I lean towards New Age type instrumentals, because they suit me with their minor key tendencies, flowing harmonies, and graceful movements. But this week, I went back to my “roots”. Physically, I was able to get in a little extra practice this week, so I picked some lightly challenging classical pieces for church today, and I think I pulled it off with just a few missed notes and wrong keys, hopefully not too noticeable. The pieces I picked were: Rondino by Antonio Diabelli for the Prelude, Musetta’s Song (from “La Boheme”) by Giacomo Puccini for the “Dollar” Offering, Für Elise (For Elise) by Beethoven for the Offertory, and Rondo-Valse by Muzio Clementi for the Postlude.
But all this piano talk makes me think of singing. I used to love to sing. Not that I was all that good, but I enjoyed it, and in the privacy of my own home I could belt out Cabaret’s “Maybe This Time” or My Fair Lady’s “I Could Have Danced All Night”. I enjoyed singing in my high school’s choir, participating in school talent shows and the Senior Class musicals (such as Bye-Bye Birdie and The Music Man). My mom even paid for a year’s worth of classical training, not that it did any good. I didn’t have faith in my own ability to think that it was worth pursuing, so I didn’t. But those days of even casual singing are over. Several years ago, I had surgery to have a benign tumor removed. The tumor was wrapped around my vocal chords, and in the process of removing the tumor, a nerve to my vocal chords was severed, and I lost the ability to sing. My vocal range, never really impressive (I was a mediocre second soprano), is now about five notes hovering around middle C.
Theatre is something else I really enjoy both onstage and off, as a participant and as a spectator. I have been involved in community theatre, off and on, for several years, beginning with children’s theatre. Again, I never really had enough confidence in my own ability to really consider a serious pursuit in theatre. Besides, the tall blondes always got the good parts, even when I was twelve.
As an adult, I spent more time backstage than on, and while I really enjoyed the camaraderie of the theatre crowd, again, I never felt like I belonged. These people knew theatre. They understood it. They were quick, clever, witty people.
Again, I wonder when and where these seeds of disconnection and discontent were planted and what encouraged it to grow inside of me. My mother said, more than once, she wished she had never read me fairy tales. Was that it? Did I honestly believe in the “happily ever after” and nothing else would satisfy me? Was I now allowed to dream? Was I told, too often, or even ever, that things were beyond my reach and that I should just settle? I don’t know. I don’t have any concrete memories of growing up, but I do know my parents loved me and did the best they could. (In fact, they are much better parents than I turned out to be). But, most of my childhood memories are not spontaneous; rather, they are triggered by conversations with family or by seeing photographs, so I can’t say with any conviction that my shortcomings are by nurture and environment rather than genetic inheritance. (My younger brother, and only sibling, has been, by far, more successful than me in everything – make of that what you will.)
With theatre, though, once I am caught up in the thrill of the performance, I really enjoy(ed) myself. Whether I was onstage as “Samantha” in Uncommon Women & Others or “Molly” in Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap, or backstage as props, stage manager, lighting, even working the box office didn’t matter.
I have not been involved in any kind of theatre for many, many years. However, since moving to southern Oregon in 2004, I have had the opportunity to see so much wonderful theatre, from the acclaimed Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland to the fantastic shows done by a small, semi-professional company called Camelot. And this summer, my youngest son is participating in his first musical and I am enjoying a bit of the backstage life again, working in the costume room (on papier-mâché masks – I don’t sew!) and in the greenroom helping to supervise costume changes. While it’s not making me any money, it is fun to be out and involved in something again.
Last, but certainly not least, is my love of reading. I have loved to read, according to my mom, since before I could read. She has a photograph of me as an infant, lying on my back in the middle of my parents’ bed, holding an opened paperback book in my hands and staring at it intently.
You would be hard-pressed to find me without a book in my hand even now, sometimes two or three (one for upstairs, one for downstairs, and one for the car!). For several years, my parents owned an independent bookstore, new books in front and used books in back, and it was the most wonderful place in the world. I probably didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have and now, years later, I regret they had to sell it when they did.
Reading is probably my one true passion, but I haven’t figured out yet how to make any money at it.
So there you have it: me in a nutshell. Now, if I could just figure out how to crack that nut and get out of there! But even if I could get out, I have this strange feeling that I’d still be lost in the woods with no idea how to find my way home.
Any guides out there, please feel free to apply!
© Melanie Turner
August 2, 2009
I am not sure if this “series” has been as much self-introspection as self-immolation. The intent was to present questions, generate ideas, and, hopefully, come up with a dream, a vision, and a light at the beginning of the path. I am looking for something from the universe, I guess: direction, guidance, clarification, and some clue as to what I am supposed to be doing with my life. Oh, and how to keep a roof over my head and food on the table while I’m at it.
Before I begin, however, a small digression. I have mentioned how much I enjoy playing the piano. Usually, I lean towards New Age type instrumentals, because they suit me with their minor key tendencies, flowing harmonies, and graceful movements. But this week, I went back to my “roots”. Physically, I was able to get in a little extra practice this week, so I picked some lightly challenging classical pieces for church today, and I think I pulled it off with just a few missed notes and wrong keys, hopefully not too noticeable. The pieces I picked were: Rondino by Antonio Diabelli for the Prelude, Musetta’s Song (from “La Boheme”) by Giacomo Puccini for the “Dollar” Offering, Für Elise (For Elise) by Beethoven for the Offertory, and Rondo-Valse by Muzio Clementi for the Postlude.
But all this piano talk makes me think of singing. I used to love to sing. Not that I was all that good, but I enjoyed it, and in the privacy of my own home I could belt out Cabaret’s “Maybe This Time” or My Fair Lady’s “I Could Have Danced All Night”. I enjoyed singing in my high school’s choir, participating in school talent shows and the Senior Class musicals (such as Bye-Bye Birdie and The Music Man). My mom even paid for a year’s worth of classical training, not that it did any good. I didn’t have faith in my own ability to think that it was worth pursuing, so I didn’t. But those days of even casual singing are over. Several years ago, I had surgery to have a benign tumor removed. The tumor was wrapped around my vocal chords, and in the process of removing the tumor, a nerve to my vocal chords was severed, and I lost the ability to sing. My vocal range, never really impressive (I was a mediocre second soprano), is now about five notes hovering around middle C.
Theatre is something else I really enjoy both onstage and off, as a participant and as a spectator. I have been involved in community theatre, off and on, for several years, beginning with children’s theatre. Again, I never really had enough confidence in my own ability to really consider a serious pursuit in theatre. Besides, the tall blondes always got the good parts, even when I was twelve.
As an adult, I spent more time backstage than on, and while I really enjoyed the camaraderie of the theatre crowd, again, I never felt like I belonged. These people knew theatre. They understood it. They were quick, clever, witty people.
Again, I wonder when and where these seeds of disconnection and discontent were planted and what encouraged it to grow inside of me. My mother said, more than once, she wished she had never read me fairy tales. Was that it? Did I honestly believe in the “happily ever after” and nothing else would satisfy me? Was I now allowed to dream? Was I told, too often, or even ever, that things were beyond my reach and that I should just settle? I don’t know. I don’t have any concrete memories of growing up, but I do know my parents loved me and did the best they could. (In fact, they are much better parents than I turned out to be). But, most of my childhood memories are not spontaneous; rather, they are triggered by conversations with family or by seeing photographs, so I can’t say with any conviction that my shortcomings are by nurture and environment rather than genetic inheritance. (My younger brother, and only sibling, has been, by far, more successful than me in everything – make of that what you will.)
With theatre, though, once I am caught up in the thrill of the performance, I really enjoy(ed) myself. Whether I was onstage as “Samantha” in Uncommon Women & Others or “Molly” in Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap, or backstage as props, stage manager, lighting, even working the box office didn’t matter.
I have not been involved in any kind of theatre for many, many years. However, since moving to southern Oregon in 2004, I have had the opportunity to see so much wonderful theatre, from the acclaimed Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland to the fantastic shows done by a small, semi-professional company called Camelot. And this summer, my youngest son is participating in his first musical and I am enjoying a bit of the backstage life again, working in the costume room (on papier-mâché masks – I don’t sew!) and in the greenroom helping to supervise costume changes. While it’s not making me any money, it is fun to be out and involved in something again.
Last, but certainly not least, is my love of reading. I have loved to read, according to my mom, since before I could read. She has a photograph of me as an infant, lying on my back in the middle of my parents’ bed, holding an opened paperback book in my hands and staring at it intently.
You would be hard-pressed to find me without a book in my hand even now, sometimes two or three (one for upstairs, one for downstairs, and one for the car!). For several years, my parents owned an independent bookstore, new books in front and used books in back, and it was the most wonderful place in the world. I probably didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have and now, years later, I regret they had to sell it when they did.
Reading is probably my one true passion, but I haven’t figured out yet how to make any money at it.
So there you have it: me in a nutshell. Now, if I could just figure out how to crack that nut and get out of there! But even if I could get out, I have this strange feeling that I’d still be lost in the woods with no idea how to find my way home.
Any guides out there, please feel free to apply!
© Melanie Turner
August 2, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Passions, Part 2
Passion, Part 2
I have often wondered whether there isn’t something missing inside of me, some inherent genetic defect, or mis-wired DNA which gives me the dream but not the drive, the hope but not the ambition. Do I just have some kind of latent laziness gene?
It is all well and good to say that anyone can achieve anything, but I don’t think that’s necessarily true anymore. Some people are more predisposed to success and achievement. I want, but I’m not willing. Why is that? Where does the willingness – and passion – to work for something, toward something, to the exclusion of all else, come from? And can I find it at this stage of the game? Even if I were to identify that undying passion, if I don’t have the wherewithal (ability, resources, money) to pursue it … how do I make my dreams come true if I don’t have the first idea what the first step should be?
I used to like my job, but I can’t say I was ever passionate about it. I mean, who ever heard of anyone being passionate about insurance? But I took pride in doing my job well, becoming as knowledgeable as I could about all aspects of my job, and being someone my boss could depend upon: having a good work ethic, a good reputation, worked well with others (the ubiquitous team player), and a loyal company employee. Fortunately, I never worked for anyone where my personal ethics were called into question. Still, when the company’s final numbers were crunched, none of this meant a thing.
I had set a modest goal income-wise. I wanted to be making $50,000 by the time I turned 50. I really didn’t think that was asking for much, but I felt that if my income “equaled” my “age”, I would have achieved some kind of success career-wise. I came close, within a couple of hundred dollars, when I was unexpectedly laid off at the age of 52. Now, my income – from unemployment – is less than half my previous take-home pay. And no health insurance to boot. (Fortunately, general good health has prevailed in the past 11 months – knock on wood!)
But like so many others, our savings account has been rapidly depleted, vacation plans have been cancelled, and belt-tightening has become the rule of thumb. I have had to swallow my pride on more than one occasion to ask for help from friends, food banks, and local charitable organizations.
The fact that I haven’t been able to find another job in almost a year hasn’t done much for my feelings of self-worth. I would love to find a job which would fulfill my passions – if I knew what that was. I keep looking, sending out resumes and hoping.
Still, this doesn’t solve the dilemma of identifying that passion which we all should have, right?
Years ago, I got hooked on making jewelry after taking a class at a local bead store. At one time, I even tried to start up my own home business making earrings, bracelets, necklaces. I spent so much time – and money – at bead stores, bead shows, on eBay, stocking up on inventory which now sits in a closet because I don’t have the space to work. Really. Our house is so small we don’t even have room for a kitchen table. Plus, the fine detail work of stringing beads and fixing fasteners takes a toll on my fingers and wrists. I suppose I should just try to sell the entire inventory I have accumulated over the years, taking up space I really don’t have anyway.
I think I love horseback-riding. I know I like horses. I never rode as a child, mostly, I guess, because my mother told me she was afraid of horses, and the opportunity never presented itself. The closest I came to riding as a child was being posed on the back of a horse, at roughly age three, with my younger brother, for a press photo for our local rodeo and stampede.
A few years ago, when we still lived in California, I actually owned a horse for a brief time. She was an older, docile horse, a retired trail horse used to riding a circuit. I would ride her around the corral, and she’d stop at the gate, without fail, after every turn around. Every once in awhile I’d ride her down the street a couple of blocks or across the back field, but there really wasn’t a place to ride her openly or freely.
A couple of years ago, my husband found a horse for me to ride. We drove up to his friend’s place on the hill to where the horse was kept. I had to stand on a table to mount her, because she was so tall, and there was no saddle, so I rode bareback. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have had a problem with this, but the trail was up and down a hilly path, and every time I clenched my knees to keep from sliding off her back, she’d take that as a signal to stop. It was not a very pleasant ride, and I have not been on a horse since. I’ve thought about going to one of those horse trail places, but the cost – especially since I’m still unemployed – is prohibitive. Besides, I am a little afraid that I’d fall off or get thrown because I don’t really know what I’m doing. So, I don’t.
Is it just plain old-fashioned “fear of failure”, that catch-all for those of us who can’t seem to make a success of anything? Instead of whining about it, why can’t I just pick myself up by my bootstraps and make a go of it? What is stopping me?
(to be continued yet again)
I have often wondered whether there isn’t something missing inside of me, some inherent genetic defect, or mis-wired DNA which gives me the dream but not the drive, the hope but not the ambition. Do I just have some kind of latent laziness gene?
It is all well and good to say that anyone can achieve anything, but I don’t think that’s necessarily true anymore. Some people are more predisposed to success and achievement. I want, but I’m not willing. Why is that? Where does the willingness – and passion – to work for something, toward something, to the exclusion of all else, come from? And can I find it at this stage of the game? Even if I were to identify that undying passion, if I don’t have the wherewithal (ability, resources, money) to pursue it … how do I make my dreams come true if I don’t have the first idea what the first step should be?
I used to like my job, but I can’t say I was ever passionate about it. I mean, who ever heard of anyone being passionate about insurance? But I took pride in doing my job well, becoming as knowledgeable as I could about all aspects of my job, and being someone my boss could depend upon: having a good work ethic, a good reputation, worked well with others (the ubiquitous team player), and a loyal company employee. Fortunately, I never worked for anyone where my personal ethics were called into question. Still, when the company’s final numbers were crunched, none of this meant a thing.
I had set a modest goal income-wise. I wanted to be making $50,000 by the time I turned 50. I really didn’t think that was asking for much, but I felt that if my income “equaled” my “age”, I would have achieved some kind of success career-wise. I came close, within a couple of hundred dollars, when I was unexpectedly laid off at the age of 52. Now, my income – from unemployment – is less than half my previous take-home pay. And no health insurance to boot. (Fortunately, general good health has prevailed in the past 11 months – knock on wood!)
But like so many others, our savings account has been rapidly depleted, vacation plans have been cancelled, and belt-tightening has become the rule of thumb. I have had to swallow my pride on more than one occasion to ask for help from friends, food banks, and local charitable organizations.
The fact that I haven’t been able to find another job in almost a year hasn’t done much for my feelings of self-worth. I would love to find a job which would fulfill my passions – if I knew what that was. I keep looking, sending out resumes and hoping.
Still, this doesn’t solve the dilemma of identifying that passion which we all should have, right?
Years ago, I got hooked on making jewelry after taking a class at a local bead store. At one time, I even tried to start up my own home business making earrings, bracelets, necklaces. I spent so much time – and money – at bead stores, bead shows, on eBay, stocking up on inventory which now sits in a closet because I don’t have the space to work. Really. Our house is so small we don’t even have room for a kitchen table. Plus, the fine detail work of stringing beads and fixing fasteners takes a toll on my fingers and wrists. I suppose I should just try to sell the entire inventory I have accumulated over the years, taking up space I really don’t have anyway.
I think I love horseback-riding. I know I like horses. I never rode as a child, mostly, I guess, because my mother told me she was afraid of horses, and the opportunity never presented itself. The closest I came to riding as a child was being posed on the back of a horse, at roughly age three, with my younger brother, for a press photo for our local rodeo and stampede.
A few years ago, when we still lived in California, I actually owned a horse for a brief time. She was an older, docile horse, a retired trail horse used to riding a circuit. I would ride her around the corral, and she’d stop at the gate, without fail, after every turn around. Every once in awhile I’d ride her down the street a couple of blocks or across the back field, but there really wasn’t a place to ride her openly or freely.
A couple of years ago, my husband found a horse for me to ride. We drove up to his friend’s place on the hill to where the horse was kept. I had to stand on a table to mount her, because she was so tall, and there was no saddle, so I rode bareback. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have had a problem with this, but the trail was up and down a hilly path, and every time I clenched my knees to keep from sliding off her back, she’d take that as a signal to stop. It was not a very pleasant ride, and I have not been on a horse since. I’ve thought about going to one of those horse trail places, but the cost – especially since I’m still unemployed – is prohibitive. Besides, I am a little afraid that I’d fall off or get thrown because I don’t really know what I’m doing. So, I don’t.
Is it just plain old-fashioned “fear of failure”, that catch-all for those of us who can’t seem to make a success of anything? Instead of whining about it, why can’t I just pick myself up by my bootstraps and make a go of it? What is stopping me?
(to be continued yet again)
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Passions, Part 1
Am I an expert at anything? Nothing that I can think of really. I used to call myself, jokingly, a Jill-of-all-trades, but I never excelled at any one thing in particular.
What am I passionate about? I have spent a lifetime trying to figure this out. There are a lot of things I really enjoy doing, but nothing really lights my bonfire, if you know what I mean.
I enjoy baking and cooking, trying out new recipes, creating my own – even though I am an extremely picky eater. I used to enter recipe contests, and even won a couple. In fact, I won the very first contest I ever entered for Kraft Marshmallows, creating a $1,000 cheesecake with a home-made lemon curd topping. Another cheesecake, pumpkin this time, with a spun sugar garnish, brought me a third prize in a Decadent Dessert category.
But the past couple of years, the physical ailments associated with the fibromyalgia – joint pains, lower back pain, headaches, and so on – have taken away some of the joy of cooking.
I love playing the piano. I think I started lessons when I was about five and continued on for many years. But I wasn’t a serious student and didn’t want to take the time to learn the technical side. In fact, I usually only practiced to get out of other household chores such as washing the dishes.
I also struggled with memorization, disliked recitals, and never participated in any of the state competitions with my peers. I did go back for further lessons, in my twenties, and enjoyed the opportunity to learn more involved, intricate pieces. I remember my teacher, Mr. Pisani, saying, after one vigorous session with Beethoven’s Appassionata (Sonata in F minor, Opus 57) that people would have a hard time imagining this “mild-mannered secretary” (as I was then) playing with such intensity and depth.
Looking back at some of the pieces I played, oh so long ago, I wonder how I ever did it. The same pains which inhibit my ability to stand in the kitchen for long periods of time also inhibit my ability to sit at the keyboard and play. And my brain just doesn’t seem to compute music the same way. My fingers definitely don’t move as swiftly over the keys as they once did and complicated fingering patterns and rhythms sometimes leave me befuddled. Integrating the right hand with the left can also be quite a challenge now. I am, however, grateful to my church for allowing me to play during services on a regular basis, because it gives me an incentive to learn new and, oftentimes, more demanding pieces.
I love to write. Mostly poetry, introspective and self-aggrandizing, out of my recurring depression. I like to think of myself as an elegant writer, but don’t really think that my writing is anything special, certainly not up there with the likes of Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Dorothy Parker, or contemporary poet Billy Collins, Ted Kooser, Louise Glück.
Even the poets who inhabit our local open mics intimidate me. Most have self-published chapbooks, springing from their innate self-confidence, or have been published by small, private presses. These are, for the most part, people who graduated with degrees in English Lit or similar majors, many obtaining Masters degrees, who became teachers, counselors, lawyers. I don’t feel that I belong in their world, and it holds me back. So mostly, I write for myself, and for the occasional kudo and pat on the back. I will say that a “well done” from my dad means more to me than anything and quite often brings me to tears.
I used to think I could write novels, or at least, I thought I wanted to. I guess, maybe, I still do. I just don’t think I have any interesting stories inside of me that are dying to get out. I have tried everything from mysteries to science fiction/fantasy, historical romance to spy thrillers – you name it. I have stacks and stacks and stacks of paper and notebooks to prove it. I have yet to finish one.
I take that back. In the sixth grade, I wrote a serialized mystery about a girl and a horse, and read a chapter over the school’s intercom every Friday. That, and the short stories I turned in for creating writing assignments from Junior High through community college were the only things I ever finished.
I guess I just don’t have the drive that other writers have. The need is there, but not the passion. At this point in my life, I’m not sure there’s enough spark left inside of me to light a passion, even if I could figure out what it was.
(to be continued)
© Melanie Turner
July 30, 2009
What am I passionate about? I have spent a lifetime trying to figure this out. There are a lot of things I really enjoy doing, but nothing really lights my bonfire, if you know what I mean.
I enjoy baking and cooking, trying out new recipes, creating my own – even though I am an extremely picky eater. I used to enter recipe contests, and even won a couple. In fact, I won the very first contest I ever entered for Kraft Marshmallows, creating a $1,000 cheesecake with a home-made lemon curd topping. Another cheesecake, pumpkin this time, with a spun sugar garnish, brought me a third prize in a Decadent Dessert category.
But the past couple of years, the physical ailments associated with the fibromyalgia – joint pains, lower back pain, headaches, and so on – have taken away some of the joy of cooking.
I love playing the piano. I think I started lessons when I was about five and continued on for many years. But I wasn’t a serious student and didn’t want to take the time to learn the technical side. In fact, I usually only practiced to get out of other household chores such as washing the dishes.
I also struggled with memorization, disliked recitals, and never participated in any of the state competitions with my peers. I did go back for further lessons, in my twenties, and enjoyed the opportunity to learn more involved, intricate pieces. I remember my teacher, Mr. Pisani, saying, after one vigorous session with Beethoven’s Appassionata (Sonata in F minor, Opus 57) that people would have a hard time imagining this “mild-mannered secretary” (as I was then) playing with such intensity and depth.
Looking back at some of the pieces I played, oh so long ago, I wonder how I ever did it. The same pains which inhibit my ability to stand in the kitchen for long periods of time also inhibit my ability to sit at the keyboard and play. And my brain just doesn’t seem to compute music the same way. My fingers definitely don’t move as swiftly over the keys as they once did and complicated fingering patterns and rhythms sometimes leave me befuddled. Integrating the right hand with the left can also be quite a challenge now. I am, however, grateful to my church for allowing me to play during services on a regular basis, because it gives me an incentive to learn new and, oftentimes, more demanding pieces.
I love to write. Mostly poetry, introspective and self-aggrandizing, out of my recurring depression. I like to think of myself as an elegant writer, but don’t really think that my writing is anything special, certainly not up there with the likes of Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Dorothy Parker, or contemporary poet Billy Collins, Ted Kooser, Louise Glück.
Even the poets who inhabit our local open mics intimidate me. Most have self-published chapbooks, springing from their innate self-confidence, or have been published by small, private presses. These are, for the most part, people who graduated with degrees in English Lit or similar majors, many obtaining Masters degrees, who became teachers, counselors, lawyers. I don’t feel that I belong in their world, and it holds me back. So mostly, I write for myself, and for the occasional kudo and pat on the back. I will say that a “well done” from my dad means more to me than anything and quite often brings me to tears.
I used to think I could write novels, or at least, I thought I wanted to. I guess, maybe, I still do. I just don’t think I have any interesting stories inside of me that are dying to get out. I have tried everything from mysteries to science fiction/fantasy, historical romance to spy thrillers – you name it. I have stacks and stacks and stacks of paper and notebooks to prove it. I have yet to finish one.
I take that back. In the sixth grade, I wrote a serialized mystery about a girl and a horse, and read a chapter over the school’s intercom every Friday. That, and the short stories I turned in for creating writing assignments from Junior High through community college were the only things I ever finished.
I guess I just don’t have the drive that other writers have. The need is there, but not the passion. At this point in my life, I’m not sure there’s enough spark left inside of me to light a passion, even if I could figure out what it was.
(to be continued)
© Melanie Turner
July 30, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
What's in a Name?
I have been told, at least once that I recall, that I was named for my paternal grandparents: Mallie and Lannes (nicknamed Lanny) rather than Gone With the Wind’s iconic Melanie, although that is how my name is spelled, as opposed to Mallanny. (Lately, though, I have given some brief consideration to having it legally changed – just to be different.)
Funny that, because growing up “Melanie” was an uncommon name and I wanted nothing more than to be a Debbie or a Susie or even a Judy. Any name that would not call attention to my individuality and that would help me “blend in” with the other kids. I did NOT want to be different, but it seemed that no matter what I did, I was, and I never had a secure feeling of belonging anywhere. It wasn’t until high school that I ran across another Melanie – two of them, in fact – but it was still an uncommon name,
I originally picked up a copy of Lareina Rule’s Name Your Baby when I was in either junior high or high school, to help me come up with creative names for characters in my short stories and “novels”.
According to Rule’s book, the name “Melanie” is derived from the Greek Melanos and means “black or dark”. It was an epithet for “Demeter”, the Greek goddess of agriculture. I have found other sources of baby names which give the meaning as: dark-clothed, dark-skinned, and dark-haired.
It’s been a little harder to find the meaning of my middle name: Mallie, but thanks to the Internet, I have found one or two alternative meanings. According to babynamer.com, the name’s source is Miryam, a Hebrew name meaning "Wished-for child” and it is a nickname for Mary, which means “bitter or bitterness”. Babynamesworld.com also gives the name a Hebrew origin with the meaning unclear, but perhaps “bitter”, and again, a pet name for Mary. Thinkbabynames.com says that Mallie is a variant of either Mary or Melinda and means “star of the sea” or “sweet”. (Our Lady, Star of the Sea is an ancient title for the Blessed Virgin Mary, mother of Jesus Christ, and according to Rule’s book, Melinda, or Malinda, from the Greek Meilichos, means “mild, gentle one.”)
The meaning of my name, especially my first name, has always resonated with me, because I have always felt a “blackness” or “darkness” inside of me. I am sure these feelings originated during those angst-ridden teenage years when I first began writing all that dark, bleak poetry which caused my mother to worry so much about me. But I have often wondered whether the “naming” of a child, intentional or not, is a harbinger of that child’s emotional proclivities and eventual success in life.
I have tried to be careful in the naming of my own children – all sons – although probably not as successful as I (or they) would have liked. Without telling you what their given names are, in order of birth, my sons’ first and middle names mean:
“Ruler of the people” and “well-born, noble”
“From the crossroads” and “tile maker”
“Gentle, loveable” and “supplanter”
“Believer in Christ, anointed one” and “warlike one” (Oops! That’s oxymoronic!)
“A fuller of cloth, or cloth-thickener” and “handsome, cheerful, harmonious one”
Would that some of these names, at least, bear fruit.
Which leads me back to my “namesake”, the Goddess Demeter.
Oddly, I have always identified more readily with Demeter’s daughter, the abducted Persephone than with the distraught mother Demeter, wreaking havoc on an innocent world, although as I stop to think about it now, I am perhaps more like Demeter than I wish to admit, sinking into the oblivion of despair during the “winters” of my life and wreaking a kind of emotional havoc on the innocents in my own world, leaving them to fend for themselves while I frantically search for my own Persephone and my own hopeful Spring. This is not a pleasant thought.
In Classic Greek mythology, Persephone was the daughter of Demeter and Zeus who were also, I understand, sister and brother. Wandering about with her friends one day, she is lured to a particular spot by the beautiful and fragrant narcissus. The ground beneath her breaks open and she falls into the underground world of the dead. I imagine her fall was somewhat similar to
Poor confused Persephone, both Goddess of Spring and Queen of the Underworld. Was she a victim of a Greek-like Stockholm syndrome, identifying with her abductor (in cahoots with her own father)? For I am sure that Hades could be quite charming and beguiling, despite his reputation. I confess I see him more as Sade’s “smooth operator”, the irresistible “bad boy” replete with bespoke black leather outfits and the captivating good looks of a romance novel hero (rather than the bumbling blue-skinned villain portrayed in Disney’s Hercules).
By whatever machinations the Greek gods conducted their affairs, Hades is convinced to release Persephone, but not before persuading, or tricking, her into consuming three (some say four, six, seven) pomegranate seeds. (Is it any coincidence that the name “pomegranate” is derived from the Latin pomum “apple” and granatus “seeded?)
Because of this, Persephone is doomed to return – winter after winter – to the netherworld to spend three months (some sources say both autumn and winter) of the year with her dark consort, and the earth suffers in her absences until she again returns, faithfully, every spring.
It is a mother’s grief and despair which catapults the world into cold and darkness, and a mother’s boundless joy which brings the earth into hope and renewal: green emerging from the frozen ground, the return of bees and birds and butterflies, and unrestrained colors bursting forth from endless fields of flowers.
What’s in a name? Who’s to say? As I journey through my own seasons, as Persephone, or Demeter, from winter to spring and back again, I begin to understand life’s continuous cycle, this natural process, perhaps beginning in despair, but always leading back to hope.
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