My Beshert, or the Curse of the Stolen Potatoes (an excerpt) 

By Joy Cutler

It started on my 38^th birthday. It’s raining buckets. It’s raining cats and dogs. It’s raining so hard that it’s raining buckets of cats and dogs. It’s also the day I have an appointment with a nephrologist to find out when I have to start dialysis. I might be the most pissed off person in New York City.

Coming out of the subway station I battle with my umbrella, the rain and wind join forces to attack my defenseless body, which is no way to treat the BIRTHDAY GIRL! Fuckshitgoddamnit!! My crappy black umbrella turns inside out, flips over and tries to escape down W. 66^th St like a crow with a broken wing. When I catch up with it I wrestle it down to the ground and smack its pointy end on the sidewalk to teach it a lesson. Thwack! By the time I find the dialysis clinic I’m a sopping wet mess. The clinic is in the same building as the Alvin Ailey Dance Company’s rehearsal studios. As I soggily squelch my way towards the dialysis entrance I see gorgeous, young dancers smoking cigarettes while standing under a bouquet of colorful well-behaved umbrellas, their hands held in elegant poses as they talk. A dancer pliés as she smokes, her fuchsia umbrella bobbing up and down. Another dancer grabs his right foot and in one quick movement, swoosh!, lifts his leg above his head holding the pose as he exhales. They’re so damn perfect. I hope they all get emphysema.

(shouts) ”Don’t you know you’re mortal, you stupid idiots?”

No, I am not in a good mood.

I push the elevator button. When the elevator arrives an older guy in workman overalls gets on with me. He watches as I push “B” for the basement.

“Dialysis?”

I can’t believe he’d ask me something so personal, but I tell him the truth, “Not yet.”

The elevator lets out an arthritic groan and continues its painfully slow descent. Silence. My elevator companion pipes up.

“Hey, I just did a plumbing job at Charlton Heston’s apartment. And you know what? He’s a very nice person.”

In a voice as flat as a flattened flatworm I say, “That’s fantastic news. (big sigh) It’s my birthday today.”

I don’t know why I tell him that.

The elevator lets out a terrifying belch and stops. The door opens. I can see tired-looking dialysis patients lying on recliners with what looks like red tubing between each person’s arm and the churning squat machine next to them. Oh. Right. The tubing isn’t red, that’s their blood flowing towards the machine. Gross.

My elevator companion waves as I step out. “Happy birthday! And good luck!”

If the door hadn’t closed right then I’d have grabbed the screwdriver off his tool belt and thrown it at his head. Happy birthday my ass. This has to be the worst birthday of my entire life. Even though my kidneys are trying really hard to keep up with all their jobs, I’m exhausted. Lab tests confirm what my body knows already– walking more than a few blocks makes it hard to breathe, I’ve got anemia because my bone marrow stopped making enough red blood cells, my brain feels fogged in, it’s hard to sleep, my blood pressure is elevated and I hardly pee anymore which is just plain weird. I would love to hate this disease for doing this to my faithful kidneys, but I just can’t. Alport Syndrome is a part of who I am and I can’t hate it without hating myself too and I have enough crap to deal with without that. Right now I want to turn around, go home and watch Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood where no one has dying kidneys. I want Fred Rogers to wrap me up in his cardigan and sing to me and I don’t even like Mr. Rogers. My mother’s right – this is all her fault.

Reflective writing prompt: Write about your beshert.

Fred and Lucille Clifton

_________

the death of fred clifton – Lucille Clifton

11/10/84

age 49

i seemed to be drawn

to the center of myself

leaving the edges of me

in the hands of my wife

and i saw with the most amazing

clarity

so that i had not eyes but

sight,

and, rising and turning,

through my skin,

there was all around not the

shapes of things

but oh, at last, the things

themselves.

Reflective writing prompt: Write about a time of clarity

Forsaken Sea – Sekou Sundiata

Always go in low tide

                        High tide comes

Always go in low tide

                        High tide comes

We always go it seems

We always go to the ocean

We always go to the ocean at low tide.

We could walk

We could walk deep

We could walk deep into the sea and never be

in over our heads.

We do not believe

We do not believe

We do not believe

that drowning is for us.

High tide comes out of the water the same way

for the last billion years.

There is nothing new.

We know when to swim, and when to wait.

We know when to swim, and when to wait.

The waves come in and go back out

                        For the last billion years

                        The ocean still emotional

                        Singing in our ears

                         Always go in

                        Always go in low tide, high tide comes

                        Always go in low tide, high tide comes

 High tide comes out of the water the same way for the last billion years.

There is nothing new.

We know when to swim and when to wait.

In the car

In the car the road

In the car the road murmurs beneath the wheels

The ocean, so emotional, in our ears.

We seek without looking

The smallest token, passes and settles

into what music is about, music is about.

You could say

You could say we are dancing

And from this one thing we know 10 things

From this one thing we know 10 things

We always go in low tide

When high tide comes

We always go to the ocean

We always go to the ocean at low tide.

We see without looking at the music the water makes

                                                We know when to swim and we know when to wait

                                                We always go in low tide, high tide comes

                                                Always go at low tide, high tide comes

                                                We do not believe

We do not believe

We do not believe

We do not believe

That drowning is for us.

High tide comes out of the water

The same way for the last billion years.

Yes, you could say, you could say we are dancing

And from this one thing, we know 10 things.

We always go in low tide

High tide comes.

Reflective writing prompt: We do not believe…..

Winter Solstice by Hilda Morley

 A cold night crosses

our path

The world appears

very large, very

round now       extending

far as the moon does

It is from

the moon this cold travels

It is

the light of the moon that causes

this night reflecting distance in its own

light so coldly

(from one side of

the earth to the other)

It is the length of this coldness

It is the long distance

between two points which are

not in a line        now

not a

straightness       (however

straight) but a curve only,

silver that is a rock reflecting

not metal

but a rock accepting

distance

(a scream in silence

where between the two

points what touches

is a curve around the world

(the dance unmoving).

new york, 1969

Reflective writing prompt: Write about the light of the moon.

Life While-You-Wait by Wislawa Symborska

Life While-You-Wait.

Performance without rehearsal.

Body without alterations.

Head without premeditation.

I know nothing of the role I play.

I only know it’s mine. I can’t exchange it.

I have to guess on the spot

just what this play’s all about.

Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,

I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.

I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.

I trip at every step over my own ignorance.

I can’t conceal my hayseed manners.

My instincts are for happy histrionics.

Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliates me more. Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and impulses you can’t take back,

stars you’ll never get counted,

your character like a raincoat you button on the run —

the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.

If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,

or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!

But here comes Friday with a script I haven’t seen.

Is it fair, I ask

(my voice a little hoarse, since I couldn’t even clear my throat offstage).

You’d be wrong to think that it’s just a slapdash quiz taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.

I’m standing on the set and I see how strong it is.

The props are surprisingly precise.

The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer. The farthest galaxies have been turned on.

Oh no, there’s no question, this must be the premiere.

And whatever I do

will become forever what I’ve done.

Reflective writing prompt: Write about waiting, or, Write about a time you had to improvise

When Giving is All We Have – Alberto Rios

                                                    One river gives

                                                    Its journey to the next.

We give because someone gave to us.

We give because nobody gave to us.

We give because giving has changed us.

We give because giving could have changed us.

We have been better for it.

We have been wounded by it-

Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,

Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails.

Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,

But we read this book, anyway, over and again:

Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand,

Mine to yours, yours to mine.

You gave me blue and I gave you yellow.

Together we are simple green. You gave me

What you did not have, and I gave you

What I had to give-together, we made

Something greater from the difference.

Reflective Writing Prompt: We give because…

Uncertain times indeed! A time when institutions seem to be wearing out but with nothing new to replace them. We’ve been here before.

_________

You’re invited to read and respond to these two offerings from 1919 and Ecclesiastes 1. You will find “there is nothing new under the sun.”

Kintsugi – “Golden Repair” (Japanese)

Reflective Writing Prompt:
Write about being healed, or, write about a time you practiced Kintsugi in your life.

Truth and Reconciliation
– by Ronna Bloom

Our country chose a middle way
of individual amnesty for truth.
– Archbishop Desmond Tutu

This man knows something
about healing. That the heart
must be torn open again
in front of compassionate witnesses.
That the accused must also step up
and reveal themself.
That no matter how high-pitched
the shrieks, how barren
the voice, everything must be
heard, everything must be
held, in the same room.

Reflective writing prompt:
Write about a middle way.