Poetry & Pushpins

~ The Writings of S.L. Woodford

Poetry & Pushpins

Monthly Archives: July 2014

The Dark: Children’s Books and Adult Experience

30 Wednesday Jul 2014

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

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books, friendship, New York, writing

For his third birthday, I bought my honorary nephew The Dark, Lemony Snicket’s newest book for children. Before the purchase, one of my dearest friends and I stood by the children’s book island in the middle of the Strand, a famous New York city bookstore. Though the city, with its ever lively pace, still moved around us as shoppers and tourists, we were suspended in the quiet, honest loveliness of the story. Huddled over the book’s crisp, yet textured, drawings of oranges, ambers, blues, and blacks.

We took turns reading each page out loud to one another. The story went something like this: Laszlo was afraid of the Dark, but that was okay because the Dark, who lived in the basement, stayed out of Laszlo’s room. But one night, when his night light burned out, the Dark visited him. This encounter taught Laszlo that: “…without the Dark, everything would be light, and you would never know if you needed a light bulb.”

By the story’s end and with our shoulders touching, my friend and I were both quietly crying.

After reading a few more children’s books to each other, we wandered around the store’s remaining floors (Three to be exact). I suppose the experience was impressive, but my senses dulled towards the towers of books that towered above us. My mind was still with Laszlo, slowly re-feeling its way through his encounter with the Dark. Yes, the book was for my nephew, but the more I thought about it, the story was also for me.

I am not a young child, afraid of the dark in my bedroom—that doesn’t mean my adult life has not had its share of darkness. These past five years have put me in places and experiences where I have seen (with much surprise and sadness) how pain, fear, anger, and loss can wind around a person, hiding them from themselves and disordering and dissembling every important relationship they have. It’s horrible to watch. It’s even more horrible to be on the receiving end of its desperate grip.

God, “…without the Dark, everything would be light, and you would never know if you needed a light bulb,” is such a powerful line for me. When the Dark visited me, its presence hurt. But, its presence also tuned my senses to quickly see and deeply experience life’s blessings and joys—proverbial light bulbs—whenever they enlightened and enlivened my messy little bundle of experience and truth.

Apparently, The Dark helps my honorary nephew fall asleep. That’s what his mother told me yesterday. This knowledge makes me smile. We all have little stories that we tell ourselves, to make us strong, to make us brave, to help us not be afraid of the dark. I’m glad The Dark is such a story for him. And, I hope its wisdom will continue to walk with him and to strengthen him for the rest of his life.

July Birthdays

23 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by poetryandpushpins in Pushpins (Daily Life), Romantic Botany

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botany, Midwest, New Haven

Short, pudgy, with dark hair falling down my back, I am nine and picking blackberries from the thicket in my family’s garden. It is July 11, my birthday, and I am in the backyard alone. The wind carries the voices of adults, murmuring about life’s cares, to me from the porch. I lift my head to the sound of their voices, pushing my bangs away from my eyes with purple-stained fingers.

“Sarah!” Mom calls, “Come back to the porch. The ice cream cake’s ready.”

And back I go, slowly, to a porch full of adults. I hold my hands up to the sun as I move, studying the purple blotches that cover my palms and fingers. In some places the blotches are a matte purple, settled and dried into the lines of my skin. In other places, the blotches are sticky, slick, and almost black. Being the imaginative child I am, I pretend that the blackberry juice is my own blood. I’ve been wounded in some epic struggle and am returning to hearth and home to reap the rewards of adult dotage and sugar-laden, dairy rich desserts.

My stained hands, and the imagination that they triggered, helped me to be grateful for a celebration that, though well intentioned, made me feel my isolation from other children my age more deeply. This combination of solitude and older company marked many of my childhood birthdays. I used to hate being born in July. All of my peers would usually be off on vacation, so I was stuck celebrating with my family.  It also meant that I would never improve my popularity in the classroom. School was out. That meant my mother never had to bake cupcakes for my classmates to honor my special day. Bringing cupcakes to class—especially if they had pink frosting—would have brought me into the folds of my peers. They would have made me appear normal, given me something in common with my classmates. But, my birthday happened at a weird time, further proving that I, a quiet, book-smart girl, was odd. Not someone to be friends with, but someone to tease.

blackberries

Still short, still pudgy (but far more curvy and muscly), with dark hair cropped close to the nape of my neck, I am twenty-nine and sitting in the back garden of my New Haven home. Blackberries won’t be in season for another month in New England. Now, they are whitish-pink, slowly growing into their violet blush. But, there is still a sort of purple stain on my hands—blueberries, pureed for bellinis, the small, spherical culprits. Around me sit and stand friends, of many ages and walks of life, their conversation and laughter anointed with the sweet tang of fruit and Prosecco.

My phone pings. A text from another friend. She sadly cannot make it, but can she take me out to lunch after she returns from vacation? I obviously reply yes.

Now I love having a birthday in July. As in my youth, many people are still on vacation when I celebrate. But, they make it a point to spend time with me after they return, making my birthday into a month of well-wishes, lunches, dinners, and drinks.

I step inside to wash off my purple-blue stained hands. I examine them as I move. In this moment, colored by company and love, the purple-blue splotches seem less like wounds and more like an outpouring of goodness.

Personality Puppetry and Grief

16 Wednesday Jul 2014

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

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friendship, grief, librarians, writing

Recently, I sent a friend a text. The content wasn’t important. Perhaps it was about meeting up or figuring out a decent time to chat amidst our mutually busy lives. But after sending it, I slumped back into my office chair, overcome by tears of relief. For the first time in a year, I saw me in the grammar and vocabulary of the text—neither S.L. Woodford the writer, who tends to favor long, elegant sentences and whimsical witticisms, nor Sarah L. Woodford (Library Director), who strides about her texts and e-mails with jolly precision and no-nonsense professionalism, but simply Sarah, a human being who doesn’t favor any sort of sentence structure and would much rather be spending her time cooking, drinking tea, reading, playing music, gardening, and being part of the joys and difficulties of her friends’ lives.

Only as I sobbed did I realize how much I’ve hidden behind both my librarian and writer personae this year. Given the pain that the death of my mother spewed into my life, it makes sense why it happened. Grief casts such a sharp, white pain onto your life, that it’s easier to hold up the simple shapes of your personality, like puppets, and let their shadows dance in the harsh light. The shadows you cast can make you appear whole even when you are not. S.L. Woodford and Sarah L. Woodford were structured, predictable roles. I knew the expectations and assumptions that came with playing them. But being Sarah was much more unpredictable. Grief threw some of my deepest held personality traits into upheaval and direct contradiction. I’m rather self-sufficient and usually a resource for others; I had to learn how to ask others for help this year. I’m also someone who primarily finds comfort and love in thoughtful words—yet, words seemed so empty and distant this year. I just longed to be held, to be shielded. Grief made me cry in ladies’ toilets, run out of concerts, and carry around packets upon packets of tissues. It made me irrationally terrified of beginning new relationships (because even good things end, and it’s hard and sucky and awful). And if there was any possibility of rejection, of silence, or of misunderstanding, at the hands of my fellow human beings, I kept my distance. I had quite enough big, complicated emotions to deal with already. I didn’t need anything new.

And if I couldn’t predict who I was or how I would act, why would I subject others to my inconsistencies and deep pain? S.L. Woodford and Sarah L. Woodford were much safer and steadier creatures to know. Sarah needed a year of hermitage.

Grief casts such a sharp, white pain onto your life, that it’s easier to hold up the simple shapes of your personality, like puppets, and let their shadows dance in the harsh light. The shadows you cast can make you appear whole even when you are not.

But there I was, in 160 characters or less, joyfully reaching out to my friend. And through the tears, I was happy and awed. Happy, that the desire to connect was still within me. Awed, that the will to earnestly step into the life of another (but only if you’re wanted :)) was at last returning.

Creativity and Laundry Procrastination

09 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by poetryandpushpins in Fashion, Pushpins (Daily Life)

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laundry adventures, the creative process, vintage fashion

There it is: a jumble of colors, shapes, and textures splayed out upon my floor. The farthest reaches of the piles snake out in crumpled desperation, reaching out to me, reaching out to my bedroom’s four walls.

I stare at them, as a slightly sick feeling quietly gargles in my stomach. I’ve sorted my dirty laundry, it’s now in piles (chaotic, fibrous piles of doom) on my bedroom floor. All I have to do now is take it downstairs, put it in a washing machine, and be at the mercy of the laundry cycle for the rest of the day.

And interspersed between the washing and drying will be folding. A shit ton of folding. I don’t like folding things. That is why the vast majority of my wardrobe already lives on hangers.

I swallow. Wait. I still have underwear. I still have stockings and leggings. Do I really need to do laundry now? Is this a chore I must get done today?

Carefully, I step around the cloth blob that is now my bedroom floor and open my closet door. There is that blue sundress from high school I never wear. Perhaps I could pair it with a short-sleeved red blazer that has been gathering dust this season. The colors will contrast in interesting ways. And here is that leopard print wrap dress from Ann Taylor that makes me feel like a loud, Las Vegas brod who frequently hangs out with the Rat Pack, smoking cigars and drinking scotch. I’lI play up that aesthetic by adding bright accessories—a turquoise belt and a fuchsia camisole underneath. Or, what about my bright green and blue argyle cardigan? An amazing statement piece that I never wear enough. It would look stunning over my forest green dress—add an oxblood colored belt and heels, and I’d be set.

I step away from my closet and promptly return the clothing piles on my floor to the hamper. Clearly, I have enough outfits in my closet to last me a few more days. And I’m excited about them! They will be new combinations, adding life and creativity to my wardrobe.

That sick feeling in my stomach is gone, replaced by the warm, fluttering feeling I get when I’m making something new. Perhaps I take laundry procrastination to new heights (remember, I still have underwear, stockings, and leggings), but at least there is art and creativity up there.

Freestyle Disco and Drinking Games: Jane Austen on YouTube

02 Wednesday Jul 2014

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

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books, England, Jane Austen, writing

Oh my gosh you guys, after four months riddled with various high pressure deadlines, I have a break. An actual break. And nothing says taking a break from high pressure deadlines quite like silly YouTube Videos about Jane Austen and her books (well, at least for me). So, for your viewing pleasure, and my easy access, here are some of my favorites:

1.) The Peloton—The Jane Austen One

Ah, polite  Nineteenth-Century conversation:  where everyone beautifully says nothing.

 

2.) Jane Austen’s Fight Club

Because sometimes, you just have to knock a teacup out of some heiress’s hand.

 

3.) The Mitchell and Webb Look—Posh Dancing

Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for yelling at Miss Bingley what I’ve been longing to yell at her every time I read Pride and Prejudice. You are also very good at freestyle disco.

 

4.) The Jane Austen Drinking Game (Live)—Mostly Water Theatre

“LOSS OF COUNTENANCE. THAT’S TWO DRINKS!!!!”

 

5.) Pride and Prejudice: The Art of Argument According to Jane Austen | Ignite Phoenix #15

Oooo!!!! Rhetoric skillz. Mr. Darcy has those. (n.b. This video is more informative than silly—but, is informative in a very charming way.)

 

6.) Jane Austen Old Spice Parody

A video that proves once and for all Henry Tilney’s superiority to all other Austen heroes. Sadly, Mr. Darcy and Captain Wentworth are not him.

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