Poetry & Pushpins

~ The Writings of S.L. Woodford

Poetry & Pushpins

Monthly Archives: June 2014

Breaking up with England’s National Football Team

25 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by poetryandpushpins in Pushpins (Daily Life), The Creative Life

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England, World Cup

The sun is out, cheerfully glittering through the large bay window of the coffee shop. I sit next to this translucent pane, but I cannot rely on its warmth. Even though I sit in its beams, I am enveloped in a coldness. My skin chills because of the air conditioning and my heart freezes in anticipation of what I must do. I take a sip from my teacup, full of green tea—yet, the warm, antioxidant-rich liquid does nothing to melt my current mood.

My phone lights up. A new text message flashes across the screen:

WHERE R U?

AT THE COFFEE SHOP. (I reply)

DID YOU DO IT?

NO. HE’S NOT HERE YET. 😦

OH. OKAY. YOU’LL BE AWESOME.

THANKS πŸ™‚

DOES THIS MEAN THAT I WILL FINALLY GET TO SEE YOU LATER?

OF COURSE!!!!

OH WIE IST DAS SCHΓ–N πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚

And now, I’m blushing. It would seem that both on and off the football pitch, Germany never fails to be accurate, direct, and poetic. Qualities I am growing fonder of daily.

“Who are you talking to, love?”

I swiftly turn off my phone and look up into the Personification of England’s National Football Team’s face. Even after 200 years, one can still admire his square jaw and ruddy good looks—all framed by a mighty display of mutton chops: wide, hairy, and uber-Victorian. He’s the sort man who looks like he will take one for his team, his nation, with as little complaint as possible. But, there are shadows under his eyes and his square jaw, usually so set, seems to tremble.

“A friend of mine.”

I get up to give him a hug. We embrace, he goes in for a kiss, and I dutifully offer him my cheek. He studies me, his brow creased in puzzlement and slight worry.

“How are you, Darling?”

“Oh, well enough. I’ve had a good day so far. And you?”

England sits down opposite me, with a heavy sigh. Though he appears to look all Stoic and Manly in a public school sort of way, he is not above feckless self-pity these days. “Well, I’ve been much better. The World Cup has been very disappointing for me. I didn’t even make it to the Round of 16.”

“Yes, I know that. I’ve been following your matches.”

“…And what did you think? About the matches?”

“Well, I—”

“Oh, I know what you thought. We didn’t deserve to lose as we did. We played technically sound games, but just didn’t get the breaks that we needed. We invented and regulated this damn sport, so we do know a thing or two about how it should be played!”

I look down into my teacup, remembering how England had a hard time keeping up with agile Italy or containing goal-keen Uruguay.

“Well, I—”

“Anyway, I do beg your pardon. You wanted to speak with me and here I am moaning. I was rather surprised that you wanted to meet up on a non-match day. It seems odd for us to hang out in a coffee shop rather than a pub.”

I grip my teacup a little tighter. “About that…England, you and I have been together for the past twenty years. And I’m grateful for that time. But, I think it’s time for me to start supporting other football teams. I just wanted to let you know my intentions.”

England is silent, sullenly staring at the table. I wait as England considers the full implications of my words, silently hating myself for having to do this to a once great Personification of a Football Team.

England looks at me from across the tables. His eye circles seem darker now. “Why? As you said, you’ve been with me for the past twenty years. We’re practically a tradition.”

“And you do like your tradition, don’t you England?” I let go of my teacup, it teeters shrilly in its saucer.

“Why yes I do. Don’t you, Sarah?”

My head snaps down.

“Sarah?”

I must be careful with my words.

“All throughout the 1990s, yes, I did like a bit of good old English football, huffing and puffing against the odds and the rest of the world. But, I’m changing England. I need a different sort of football these days. Something more creative, more technical, more cosmopolitan.”

“Why?”

“There seems to be a beautiful sort of balance to that sort of play–simultaneously studied and creative. It brings me joy. It’s the place where sport becomes Art.”

“I’m studied and creative.”

“No my dear, you are not. You are conservative, unimaginative, and slow to read the set plays of your opponents. And instead of doing anything constructive about your incompetence, like finding better ways to play football, you whine about it.”

England is again silent. Surely my pointed comments further bruised his already tender ego. I longingly think of my darkened phone, wondering what time it is, hoping that this interview will soon be over, but knowing that is wishful thinking. Like one of England’s games, it will drag on and on with excruciating pain. But, for one last time, I shall let that happen. We two have been with each other for the past twenty years, after all. I watched as he muscled through the nineties with versatile talents like Michael Owen, Owen Hargreaves, and David Beckham. So talented and mesmerizing to watch, but prone to injury, mediocrity, and red cards on the world wide stage. I was with him through the disappointments and the further disappointments and the further, further disappointments, never thinking I was wrong, or, that I was improperly investing my football watching time.

“Sarah, is it the U.S.A.?”

“What?”

“Are you leaving me for the U.S.A.?”

“No…”

“Oh, I know. It’s Germany. I’ve long suspected that you have a secret love for beautifully bearded German men.”

“Wait. What? No. I don’t pick a team to cheer for due to the presence of facial hair. If we were using that logic, I’d be all over Spain.”

“Are you?”

“No! Did you see their first game? It was terrible.”

“I bet it’s Germany. You’re leaving me for Germany.”

Ugh. I should’ve known he’d get like this. I want to be honest, but I don’t want to deal with his emotions.

“And if I were?” I ask in what I hope is a fairly neutral tone.

“I’d feel a bit betrayed. Germany’s lame. We beat them in them during the War, you know.” England brightens,Β  “Wait. I know how I can fix this whole bloody awful mess. Do you want to see a picture of me in my RAF uniform? I looked so handsome in my RAF uniform, much more handsome than any beautifully bearded German man running around a football pitch. I bet if you see me in my RAF uniform again you’d remember the good times and reconsider.”

“No.”

“I could bring back Michael Owen. Or, fish out my trousers and better manscape my mutton chops…”

“That’s okay.”

“How about my tweed blazer and pipe? I know you like it when I’m scholarly.”

“Oh God, no.”

I reach out and grab England’s hand. It’s hard to look into his pleading eyes. But I must have done with this. I have an evening and another football team to think about.

“My dear, dear Personification of a National Football Team, there is nothing to negotiate here. I must leave you. I am thankful that you invented this fine sport but, like mutton chops and RAF uniforms, that was a long time ago. Football is changing, and you not wanting to be part of that change makes you look isolationist, arrogantly entitled, and silly. I can’t cheer for that. For Pete’s sake, even the U.S.A. swallowed their pride and got a little more European. This is the first World Cup where we haven’t looked like horrible, self-aggrandizing jerks!”

“So you and me, it’s really over then?”

“I’m afraid so. I want to cheer for a team whose willing to play with the rest of the world.”

I stand up and begin to walk towards the door. I hesitate, turn around, and earnestly kiss England on the top of the head. I’ll miss him and the tradition he represents, but I definitely won’t miss the guaranteed disappointment and ill-humor supporting him brings.

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Image found at: http://thedailydutch.co.uk/?p=184

Letters and E-mails

18 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by poetryandpushpins in Pushpins (Daily Life), The Creative Life

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friendship, writing

photo(The front of one of the lovely cards my West Coast friend sent me.)

A few weeks ago, I received a package from a friend living on the West Coast. Inside the package were twelve sealed letters, ready for me to open over the course of a month. And open them I did. Each one contained the hand writing and colloquialisms of my friend. Each envelope filled with the personal, the emotive, the empowering, and the Romantic—exactly like my lively friend who loves people, psychology, social-justice, and Mary Ann Evans.

A few days later, my phone chimed, alerting me that an unopened e-mail waited in my inbox. And open it I did. A note from another friend living in the D.C. area, sent from her iPhone as she paused in the midst of classes and hospital work to see how I was doing. Each sentence on the screen glowed with precision and warmth—exactly like my gentle friend who studies and works in the fast-paced world of medicine.

Though I am a 21st-Century woman, reading these correspondences made me feel like an ancient Roman. In the Roman world of sprawling empire, letters tied people together. A letter was always a practical form of connection, but the Romans turned this mode of communication into a work of art and a piece of philosophy. To the Roman mind, a letter was a physical extension of the sender to the receiver. When you read a sender’s words, they became present to you—as if you sat in the same room with each other. This made correspondence, especially among close friends, a sacred and intimate act. Open a letter, and you open a passageway to your friend. Distance be damned.

I agree with the Romans when I read letters and e-mails. I love to experience my friends through the things that they write, because as a writer, the main way I engage with the world and others is through words:Β  sometimes spoken, sometimes written. Typed words and uttered phrases conjure up for me my life’s beloveds, even when they are far away. But though I depend on words, I know that without action, without some sort of real presence, some sort of real love, those same words can become cavernous and distancing. I am grateful that I have friends who know the weight of words. When miles space apart friendships, letters and e-mails typed on iPhones become an action, a sort of real presence, a manifestation of real love. Allowing you to once more hold your friends in your hands.

The Inner Thoughts of Inner Thighs: Adding to an Exercise Regiment

11 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by poetryandpushpins in Pushpins (Daily Life)

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empathy, running

My inner thighs hate me right now. I am making them do exercises they are not used to. And they let me know their disdain for me and my recent life choices through short, spasmodic, daily yelps of pain. They especially like to scold me when I make them walk down stairs or start a run.

After years in the shadows, my inner thighs now have the spotlight. I no longer play rugby—so, there are no bruises of both interesting shape and color to distract me, to give me a deep sense of accomplishment and a great sense of gratitude that I made it through another match without breaking anything or loosing teeth. It’s just my inner thighs now, grumbling at my new exercise regiment.

“Why couldn’t you stick with your daily 5k?” they moan, “We were used to that. It was easy. We didn’t have to work. We didn’t have to see our limits. We don’t like seeing our limits, it makes us feel weak…”

Yet, I don’t mind their complaints. Their grumblings remind me that I am stretching my body, investing in it to live a longer and more healthy life. Soon, their whining will dissipate, for deep down, they know this mild pain is good for them. Their weakness today will become their strength tomorrow. And by this week’s end they won’t mind at all. In fact, they’ll be quite surprised at how fun it is to bend and stretch in these new and wild ways.

…Until I add a few more reps next week.

Pillows and Dragons

04 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by poetryandpushpins in Literature, Pushpins (Daily Life)

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books, grief

Though the sun is out and I am not yet physically tired, I am in my pajamas, under my bed’s covers. The sunbeams that sprint across my bedroom floor are excitable and bright—so different from my current mood. I roll onto my stomach, smashing my face into my pillow’s dark silence. Thankful that my bed is warm and my blankets are soft.

What a two weeks I have had.

Actually, what a year I have had.

I never thought that managing the grief surrounding my mother’s death would be so hard, so time consuming, so revealing of my internal strengths and weaknesses. Both friends and acquaintances are quick to assure me that I’ve handled this year with patience and poise—I’m glad of their assurances and relieved that those in my community have experienced my grieving process in such a manner. For me, there isn’t a choice between being gracious as I process my big emotions through writing, and being a noticeable mass of sorrow and pain as I air my emotions out in public. I’ll always choose the former, if I can help it, for the latter is hardly a constructive way for me to live life.

In those moments when I feel deep pain and loss, I need control. The librarian in me needs to define and arrange those emotions and the writer in me needs to make sense of them. Manners and writing both have rules and expectations that are easy to follow, easy to understand. It is their structure that gives me assurance that not everything has to change in the midst of emotional upheaval.

But, it’s all so exhausting—maintaining order, wrestling with chaos.

Today is not the first afternoon that I’ve sought the solace of my pillow while daylight giddily tripped across my bedroom floor. This ritual of pajamas and blankets and bed I have practiced all year. Perhaps I should be more vexed when I am facedown in my pillow on a sunny afternoon:Β  Yet, I cannot be. I need my pillow to remind me that yes, this year has been an emotional hell, so I’d better get some rest. I have to continue fighting the good fight when I get up again.

coloring-pages-dragons-4From: karenswhimsy.com

Any other day, I would savor the sun and its glowing warmth. I cannot take it today. I roll onto my left side, away from the sun and towards my bedroom wall. It meets my eyes with a tiny patch of paint bubbles, speckling its surface. I absently study it and think of heroes and knights craning their necks to read their destinies in the stars. Though these warriors answer to varying names like King Arthur, St. George, and Ivanhoe, we tend to tell their stories in the similar ways: The hero sets off on on a hard (but epic) mission, solves the riddles, slays the dragon / monster / enemy, saves the princess / noblewoman, marries said princess / noblewoman, and then proceeds to party hard with his bros—drinking horns and boar’s heads abounding in his castle’s great hall. And that is where the story ends. We walk with the knight through his struggles and leave him as his narrative reaches an euphoric pitch.

But what happens next?

What does the hero do when his bros are gone and his beloved is embroidering something in the solarium?

I’d like to think that he stays in bed, buries his face in his pillow, and thanks God for the momentary reprieve from life’s quests, riddles, and dragons. And in the silence, he finds the strength to get up again

 

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