To a Horse, Dozing in the Sun

for Quinn

A cocoon of September sun

has settled over you.

Late summer’s pale amber

tucks itself around your haunches,

seals your sleep and burnishes the edges

of your eyes.

You do not hear my footsteps on the road,

do not see me standing at the fence, waiting for an opening,

a single spot into which I might slip

but for a moment.

Hay has loosed itself from a round bale and lays at your feet.

Still, you sleep.

Do you dream of ranges,

greener and deeper than this small place?

Have your eyes found the great frontiers that sprawl surely

across a stallion’s soul?

Tomorrow, my son will turn 25.

Soon the fragile surface of our cocoon will burst,

its intimate corners revealed, and memories that were cached

released.

Unleashed for a season, all will be large and possible,

an arena of grand prospects and new light.

And for a time, my son will travel the world

singularly, searching.

But know this:

I will be standing at the fence in the late summer sun,

waiting for that single spot—once closed around mother and son—

into which I might enter again.

With love,  Mom                                                                                                                                                                  

The cinnamon roll with my name on it wanders the world incognito these days. She sports dark glasses, an assortment of fake moustaches, and a heavy spirit. Shunned and shamed for her contributions to artery-clogging and glucose-spiking, she dreams of better days, the golden past of grandma’s kitchens and church potlucks. The days when she reigned supreme, gooey and oozing with caramel and cream cheese, packed with sugar, cinnamon, and butter. Those were the days.

But alas! Her gluten-free and paleo contemporaries have taken center stage. Their understudies are sugar-free, fat-free, preservative-free, and artificial coloring-free young things. They wait in the wings, chanting, “Free at last, Free at last, Thank God almighty, we are free at last.” (Many, many apologies to Martin Luther King Jr.) Packed with free radicals, antioxidants, and who-knows-what, they strut their stuff and bask in their newfound glory. Raw almonds and coconut flour are in, sugar and butter are out. Humiliated and dismissed, the cinnamon roll has gone into hiding.

My grandma made the absolute best cinnamon rolls for which there is no recipe. She said she just added a pinch of this, a handful of that. But oh how her pinching performed! Piping hot from her oven, they slid decadently from the pan onto a serving plate, and from the serving plate right into our mouths. We didn’t wait for them to cool; we risked burning the tops of our mouths. They were just as good frozen and popped into the microwave. Heck, they were just good period.

And in the day, we ate shamelessly, reveling in goo. Our only fear was that there wouldn’t be enough for seconds. Or thirds.

But today, no self-respecting man or woman would be seen reveling in goo (unless you host a program on the Food Network that features an episode on comfort foods of the past). The food pendulum has swung decisively to the left–or right. I’m not really sure which side cinnamon rolls, chicken fried steak, and homemade noodles are on. Let’s just say that the pendulum has swung to the other side. And what a swing this is!

Every restaurant publishes nutritional information on its website and/or menu. The day I scanned the McDonalds’ menu and read that a medium chocolate shake had 800 some calories was one of the worst food days of my life. One shake contains 1/3 of a woman’s daily suggested calories? Say it ain’t so.

The testimonies of those who are eating healthy are certainly meant to inspire and encourage. But couldn’t one eat relatively healthy and still enjoy an occasional cinnamon roll without shame? Couldn’t one rest on the 7th day, refusing to count calories and study nutritional information? Couldn’t one scrape the remaining caramel from the bottom of the pan and lick the spoon before returning to greens and lean meats on Monday? Would the pendulum allow just a small adjustment for cinnamon roll lovers?

It’s not just cinnamon roll lovers who have felt the shame. What about soap opera and romance novel lovers? They don’t dare show their faces in classy crowds. Feigning disdain for such formulaic programs and stories, they smile through their teeth and join in the public shaming of soap opera and romance novel fans. Until they are behind closed doors in their homes where they escape through characters, exotic places, and incredible stories that they know are not realistic, not universally enlightening, and not respectable. Still, they offer momentary escape from all that is real–and often all too painfully enlightening.

Couldn’t one who loves a respectable film or novel also occasionally partake in a popular one? Would the social pendulum allow just a small adjustment for soap opera/romance novel lovers? (And lest we become too smug, we shouldn’t kid ourselves. What are Game of Thrones and House of Cards but  dressed-up soap operas?)

Truthfully, I think we like pendulum swings. Decisive swings make things neater. What once was good is now not-so-good. What once was true and right is now not-so-true-and-right. It’s that simple. When we subscribe to the swing, we abdicate choice in favor of giving ourselves to new and better things and causes. Whether it’s love of cinnamon rolls, soap operas, dead white European male authors, or laminate counter tops, when the pendulum swings, it’s out with old loves and in with new ones.

American blues singer Robert Johnson said that History has always been a series of pendulum swings, but the individual doesn’t have to get caught in that. Writer and philosopher G.K. Chesterton wrote:

The whole curse of the last century has been what is called the Swing of the Pendulum; that is, the idea that man must go alternately from one extreme to the other. It is a shameful and even shocking fancy; it is the denial of the whole dignity of mankind. When Man is alive, he stands still. It is only when he is dead that he swings. 

These are serious words for the likes of a cinnamon roll blog. Still, the greater issue of the Swing of the Pendulum is, indeed, a serious one that, like Chesterton and Johnson, I believe is a shameful and even shocking fancy and the individual doesn’t have to get caught in that. 

Most of us live somewhere in the middle of most pendulum swings. And if we are honest, we should own this more generously with less shaming and shunning of those who have not made the most recent swings.

This kind of generosity would bring the cinnamon roll–and those who love them–into the light. We could once again share company with others who lick frosting from their fingers. We could throw calorie counts to the wind and choose a breakfast of cinnamon rolls over egg whites. If only for a moment, we could eat, view, read, and embrace what we love without fear of social and political shame.

This would be cause for genuine rejoicing. And these days, those of us who have been dreaming of a great cinnamon roll could really use some.

Titillation: to excite or arouse agreeably

I’m losing them, I’m losing them! This was my head-speak daily–actually hourly–as a teacher and professional development provider. Ever aware of my audience’s attentiveness–or most frequently, inattentiveness–I became a master of pacing, taking my audience on a veritable roller coaster ride of highs and lows, sustaining the highs until common sense and some degree of professionalism dictated that I’d ridden this course as long as I possibly could. And then, I would transition quickly into the real stuff of the day: what was to be learned.

Once in a college Introduction to Literature course, I had my students performing like trained dogs. I’d launch into a personal anecdote–humorous or dramatic–and their eager heads came up, their eyes salivating as they focused on me, their young adult bodies learning forward in their seats as an expectant hush came over the room. And then, when I’d milked the anecdote for all its metaphorical worth, I transitioned to imagery or conflict or whatever the literary content of the day was, and their heads went down. There was a palpable energy loss as students shuffled papers, unzipped backpacks, and tapped away on their not-too-conspicuous phones. And just like that, I’d lost them. Until the next anecdote, which brought their heads up and gifted me with a few more precious moments to make a point, albeit through a story.

Adult audiences were no different. In fact, their inattentiveness was more blatant, an in-your-face message that I was wasting their time. Some shopped or checked football scores online, their computers or phones covering the handouts I’d just given them. Some talked to their table mates, wholly oblivious to the fact that they were not using their “inside voices.” And some slept, their drool making rivulets down their chins and onto their necks.

One of my father’s former colleagues once remarked (pardon the irreverence) that his students “would not pay a dime to watch Jesus Christ tap dance naked.” Strong but sadly truthful words, indeed. And given the fact that I was neither savior nor tap dancer, I didn’t stand a chance.

Boring, they said (or BORING they texted). This is a boring subject, a boring book, a boring video clip, a boring article, a boring lesson. .  . We just aren’t interested; this doesn’t excite us. If I had a dollar for every time I heard these words, I’d be a wealthy woman today.

But of course, I wasn’t awarded a dollar for each time my audiences weren’t titillated. Instead, I suffered silently, mentally searching my teacher/presenter bag of tricks to find something, anything that might arouse a few minutes of honest-to-goodness eye contact. In truth, nothing I could do or say could ever compare with social media, texting, online gaming or shopping or–when technology failed–sidebar conversations. NOTHING. (If my students can voice their disdain in bolded caps, well so can I!)

I remember the concern when Sesame Street hit the airwaves with flashing numbers and letters, bright colors and music–all choreographed to keep pace with the most active preschooler. People feared that so much stimuli at such a pace might destroy, or at least damage, children’s attention spans. They were skeptical as to whether kids could actually learn or would actually attend to such a television program. Well, history is in the books: kids did learn, and they did attend. But best of all, they were royally entertained by the likes of Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch.

For years, I became painfully aware that I was trying to replicate the Sesame Street strategy with bigger kids. An engaging anecdote here, a little school stuff there, a dramatic video clip here, a little more school stuff there, a quick analysis of last night’s volleyball game here, a little more school stuff there. You get the picture. Somehow, what worked with preschoolers didn’t quite translate to the secondary and post-secondary crowd. Nine times out of ten, I lost them in the school stuff. Sometimes, I lost them for good (at least for the class period), and other times, I lost them for precious minutes of instructional time that we could never get back. In either case, the Sesame Street strategy was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausting. I often found myself flailing my arms as if my frenetic actions could break my students’ inertia. I took to adopting different voices for different characters, and–in a particularly low moment–I actually retrieved the action figures from the back seat where my seven-year-old son had left them and used them in a reenactment of Macbeth, Act II. Titillating? More like mildly amusing, so they said.

In truth, I was not only losing battles, but I was losing the whole darn war. The audacity of someone like me who thought she could compete with memes, sound bites, Facebook posts, and texts that came in–and kept coming in–faster than I could say “Mark Twain.” The sheer gall of a teacher who clung passionately to the belief that one day the content itself–not my vain attempts to sell it–would hold students rapt for a blessed 45 minutes. But hope springs eternal. Doesn’t it?

Although I believe there is value in student and adult collaboration and understand that it elicits problem solving and critical thinking, at best, and prevents sleeping, at least, I am also painfully aware that teachers and presenters have to use it or risk utter loss. People expect it and loathe a teacher or presenter who is the “sage on the stage” who forces them to “sit and get”. They will tell you that there is nothing less exciting than listening. And listening for more than 20 minutes? That’s simply unacceptable and clearly inadvisable.

The insatiable demand for titillation has brought us to this regrettable state where wit trumps wisdom, and brevity topples complexity. And yet we send thinking people into classrooms and boardrooms and set them up to flounder as audiences turn up their noses, pull out their phones, and mentally check out. The best ones will turn inward, scourging themselves with doubt as penance for their inability to excite the masses.

I can offer no magic bullet here. Heaven knows, I’ve pulled out all the stops, tried everything I thought might possibly have a chance of garnering and holding attention. Still, at the end of my career, I was struggling more than I had as a beginning teacher. I had more tricks, more stamina, and more years of learning under my belt, but none of this offered any lasting solution. If I got a few good minutes, I came to realize–sadly–that this may be as good as it gets.

But I can’t help worrying about those who have come to expect titillation as standard fare. And I can’t help worrying even more about the rest of us who will be under these folks’ watch and care someday. I’d like to think that my future doctors will actually read, listen, and learn from colleagues whose wisdom and experience are invaluable –and not get their expertise from a YouTube video or two. And although I cringe every time President Trump tweets, I am painfully aware of the fact that he does so because many people will actually read up to 140 characters. But I hope that my future lawmakers will expand their horizons, turning from tweets to white papers, from sound bites to genuine debate. Above all, I hope that audiences who will listen and read attentively will reach critical mass, outnumbering those who have no time or stomach for this.

But who am I kidding? This would probably take a revolution of sorts. A whole lot of people would have to come together, throw down their proverbial gauntlets, link arms and proclaim, “We are here to educate, to inform, to challenge you to think. That’s it. So if you expect a dog and pony show, there’s the door. Use it.”

If I see this revolution in my lifetime, I will die a happier woman.

A corridor is a funnel that narrows and tightens until–what? A door? Another passageway? That’s the ecstasy and the agony of a corridor. It is both exhilarating and terrifying, pleasurable and horrible.

In his non-fiction book about horror, Danse Macabre, Stephen King writes:

Nothing is so frightening as what’s behind the closed door. The audience holds its breath along with the protagonist as she/he (more often she) approaches that door. The protagonist throws it open, and there is a ten-foot-tall bug. The audience screams, but this particular scream has an oddly relieved sound to it. ‘A bug ten feet tall is pretty horrible’, the audience thinks, ‘but I can deal with a ten-foot-tall bug. I was afraid it might be a hundred feet tall’.

The artistic work of horror is almost always a disappointment. It is the classic no-win situation. You can scare people with the unknown for a long, long time but sooner or later, as in poker, you have to turn your cards up. You have to open the door and show the audience what’s behind it.

There are corridors that lead to closed doors behind which unspeakable horror and grief may reside. And with each wary step forward, we grow new disaster. We give it a makeover with new and more terrifying faces and voices, and then we give the makeover a makeover. If the loss of my current job would be devastating, the prospect that I would go jobless for months is even more devastating. If a bug ten feet tall is pretty horrible, a bug a hundred feet tall would be even more horrible. And when the doors at the end of the corridors are opened, revealing something bad–but not too bad–we may be relieved. But we are also bone-tired from trepidation, from harrowing minutes or hours, searing days or months spent in the corridor.

The Sanctuary of a Corridor is a transitional place, a place suspended in time, a nether world through which the impending door is but a faint, dark outline in the distance. And terrible or wonderful as this transition may be, we live large here. If nightmares grow arms and legs of epic proportions, so may dreams.

Lauren Oliver of NPR describes John Crowley’s novel, Little, Big as a strange novel which might be best regarded through the metaphor of its central setting: Edgewood, the house in which many generations (and permutations) of the Drinkwater family live. Edgewood is designed by the patriarch, a renowned architect, to be many houses within a single structure. It unfolds, as the viewer circles around it, to reveal many different facades — Victorian, modern, gothic — like a complex piece of origami.

Edgewood is a house of corridors that unfold like a complex piece of origami. Here is a place where one might dream her way through a nether world of possibilities. Crowley writes:

She had always lived her best life in dreams. She knew no greater pleasure than that moment of passage into the other place, when her limbs grew warm and heavy and the sparkling darkness behind her lids became ordered and doors opened; when conscious thought grew owl’s wings and talons and became other than conscious.

This is the stuff that the best corridors are made of: consciousness that grew owl’s wings and talons, moments when the sparkling darkness behind [one’s] lids became ordered and doors opened. I can say with certainty that I, too, have lived my best life in dreams. In dreams, I have said and done what I could not (or would not) in consciousness. I have lived larger than my humble existence in a perpetual state of possibilities.

In the corridor, as the director of my own feature film, I can cut scenes that fail to inspire, re-shoot those that deserve closer, tighter frames, and filter light in such a glorious way that I appear, scene after scene, with softer edges, back-lit and haloed. Corridors permit such creative license, for in a suspended state, anything and everything is possible.

In this state, I have walked down corridors to interviews. With each step, I created scenes in which titles and salaries grew exponentially as I moved towards the door. In this state, I have walked down corridors to obstetricians’ offices. With each step, I created scenes in which the babies I held were beautiful boys, then beautiful girls, then armfuls of beautiful boys and girls. And in this state, I have walked down corridors to doors through which I would never enter again. With each step, I relived the best of the years inside those buildings, embellishing them with richer notes and hues.

In the end, the Sanctuary of a Corridor is a necessary journey for many of us, the time we can spend anticipating, mulling, wondering, and dreaming. Destinations with all their inevitability will always be there, waiting with resolute doors that will open into what they must. For those who live their best lives in dreams, doors that stay closed–if only for a moment longer–offer a few more yards of corridor in the sparkling darkness behind one’s lids.