Dear Charlie, Tony U, and Tolu
(Somtetimes I write poetry)
Late 2021
Yesterday, driving back home from Chico, I was attracted to the click-click-click of your Emmy’s knitting needles. (In the car she uses those round ones in case of an accident – normal knitting needles are pointy, dangerous in a car.) I noticed that the sweater she was working was not a sweater, but a blanket…and not very pink. I asked, “Why aren’t you knitting a pink sweater?”
She answered, “Oh, I have three months to finish Tolu’s sweater. I have to find pink yarn and it’ll only take a few days to knit.” She went back to watching the mountains rolling by, thinking whatever it is that an Emmy thinks, as her hands magically added rows of yarn to the growing pinkish “sweater”.
And just so you know, Tolu is Fijian for the number three. We don’t know Tolu’s real name yet. Tony, your name was Rua (Fijian for two) until you were born. Now, you are Tony, or as some call you, The Tonester. Charlie, you were not Dua (Fijian for one). We called you Guido – not sure why. Now we call you Charlie.
From time to time, I glanced at your Emmy, watching as she peacefully did her art. Yeah, she was doing art – her art, Emmy art – and she was doing it for the first baby girl to be born in our family in 36 years. The last one being your (Charlie and Tonester) mother.
I thought about it…while the blanket might indeed be called art, it was really the love in that sweet, patient heart that was the deep art.
Your Emmy quietly loves and asks for nothing – nothing at all – in return for that love, that life art that she shares with me, with us. I admire her and those like her. Patient love. Inspiration. I wish I could be more like your Emmy.
Back before I joined the Peace Corps in 1978, before I met your Emmy, I roamed the hills and valleys of southern Ohio, thinking myself more “Thoreau” than “Roberson,” walking hours among the oaks, beeches, hickory of my beloved woods. I carried pen and paper, rested against trunks and boulders, and wrote poetry for hours. Most of the poems were dedicated to lamenting my inability to find companionship or what I might do when/if I ever did find companionship. I was not what one would call a lady’s man. I was lonely. So, I wrote. It helped. I have three “books” of “poetry.” (And yes, they should be quoted.) I read them from time to time and – wow! – they generally run in the outrageously bad category. Still, you should read them someday. It might give you a sense of where I was when I finally found your Emmy.
But I digress…
Watching Emmy patiently knitting and musing at the world as we traveled over the mountains to home, simply being her life art, I was inspired once again to write something, but not quite sure what. Then I thought, maybe I can dust off that poem (or is it free verse?) I wrote a couple of years ago. That poem, yeah, that is about art, isn’t it? That’s not cheating, to get back into writing by dusting off something you have written before…is it?
So, hear you go, a poem, dusted off. There are shades of this one that I like, shades that I struggle with, shades that don’t make much sense, shades of art, and shades of artists. But you know, I think, just like your Emmy, you might be able to knit the lines together and find a little piece of art hidden away in these threads of words.
Stones Unturned ‘longside Our Paths
A journey within ourselves
We quest to discover
To create
That perfect phrase
The final stroke upon a canvas
A note
A piece of self to share
Art
To find those stones unturned ‘longside our paths
Those stones
Each a promise…
Of melody
A song of joy, sorrow, love, hate, beauty
Some of understanding
Those stones unturned ‘longside our paths
We try
As best we can
To cleanse away life’s shepherds’ laws,
Remove
As best we can
The filth that stains our stones
To make them simple
Make them clear
And pure
Those stones unturned ‘longside our paths
We scream
We cry
We fail
We fall
Upon our knees
Lost and broken
Stained with human want
And ask our God
O why can we not cleanse
Those stones unturned ‘longside our paths
We close our eyes
And journey deep
Into the quiet
That lives just beyond the din
And we feel them breathing
Lyrics
Peace, value, passion
Always
Veiled just beyond the din
Those stones unturned ‘longside our paths
And when we’ve lost
No help
No answers to our prayers
We stand abandoned
Alone on that stone-strewn shore
Empty
Hopeless
Fragile
Hearts exposed
Raw and open
It comes to us…
The ocean’s flow
Tides of depth
Of passion born of life
Of love:
A grandma’s weathered hands
Mother’s tears
Father’s gift
Inspiration,
Art
Born of an honest naked heart…
One stone unturned ‘longside our paths
Harvest then
We do
From this shore of understanding
Uncleansed yet pure
A simple piece of self
And offer to our fellows
Here!
My stone unturned ‘longside our path.
A simple piece of self
And when my fellow observes my stone
The art borne of my soul
They see not what I desire:
Splendor within my words
Melody within my song
Paint upon my canvas,
But look beyond into this heart
To a soiled yet loving soul
To a simple piece of self
To a stone once unturned ‘longside their path.
Art tells us where the artist has been, where they might go, why they might continue. The artist’s paths are as much a story of art as are the final strokes of a masterpiece. Within each of us there are unturned stones…and none, my grandchildren, are perfect. Yet I truly believe we are perfect by virtue of the imperfection within us.
My life’s loves, do not fear to be the artist that dwells within,
Baba