Game On!

Inspired by a snorkeling adventure on a recent trip to the Galapagos Islands.


Game On!


Mask, fins and snorkel in place,
we drop from the dinghy into the sea.
The young sea lions check us out,
seem to shrug, return to tossing
sticks and Sally Lightfoot crabs.
One of us dives down. Game on!
They swim towards and around us,
make us their slalom course,
somersault, blow bubbles,
ert-ert underwater,
roll, belly so close I could touch,
come face to my face, both our eyes wide,
then turn just in time.
The patriarch patrols slowly by,
we hover, arms in, signal no threat,
snorkel giggles erupt
as a pup grabs a swim fin.


Sophia Brothers Peterman


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Neighbors

Our community, our nation, our world. This poem is my offering, my response. #TakeAKnee #AwakenLove #WhoIsMyNeighbor

(P.S. For those who know me, my job is now OK.)
 

Neighbors

 

I am not colorblind.

My skin is pink olive, my eyes hazel,

my hair mop-top gray.

The woman next door

is not colorblind, too.

Her skin is walnut, her eyes brown,

her hair spiral black.

We chat at the fence,

some planks yellow-treated straight,

others weather-warped smoke,

the Airedale and Boston terrier

nose-to-nose through the cracks.

Her father is disappearing

into his stroke. My job

is being phased out.

Hand is given to hand

to hold on.

 

Sophia Brothers Peterman

 

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Monday Musing: Book of Hours 10/19/2015

Time. So precious. It seems to fly by without recognition of how it was spent. In medieval Europe, a Book of Hours was used by Christian laypeople for private devotional use throughout the day. Christine Valters Paintner, in The Artist’s Rule, suggests we create our own Book of Hours to express the beauty of the various parts of the day. It was a good practice, this consideration of the underlying rhythm of my daily life. My Book of Hours took the form of reminder and blessing. I keep it on my desk at home and at work. What would your Book of Hours contain–your significant times of the day and what you would like to remember each day at those times?
 

A Book of Hours
We Have All the Time in the World

 

Upon Arising

Eyes opening, dreams
fade to recall life awake.
Stretch, embrace the gift.

 

At the Start of the Day

Clean, awake, well-fed,
the sorting of seeds begins
today and for life.

 

High Noon

Hunger gnawing, it’s
hard to stop. Getting quiet
is sustenance, too.

 

Tea Time

Shifting light hints at
what was and won’t be today.
Nourish, comfort, close.

 

Rush Hour

Fatigued, famished, a
shift to different chores. Prepare,
give thanks, and break bread.

 

Upon Retiring

One last thing squeezed in,
then surrender to sleep, no
more to do than be.

 

Sophia Brothers Peterman

 
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Monday Musing: Memory 10/12/2015

I used to think that memory was a permanent record of fact. Yes, some could trick one into revising one’s memories to better suit them, but that was to be avoided. These unchanging memories had a fixed influence on current life, justifying why a happy life was not attainable. After all, what has happened has happened. Right?

 

A Rilke poem, “Memory Is Not Enough”, got me thinking. Perhaps memory is our interpretation of what has happened in the past—story rather than fact. Past events could not be changed. But is it possible for our interpretation of those events, and thus the way it influences our current lives, to be more fluid? Perhaps the transformation of memory is desirable. It is hard to turn loose those stories that justify our misery, frustration, discontent. But I am finding that as I open to other ways of explaining my past, a lightness and softness is appearing and possibility is beginning to show its face.

 

Memory

 

Memory is story explaining events.

Mine was cast in concrete. Arms enfolding

gray roughness, I sank into dark, water depths,

steadfast desire for a different past

keeping me submerged and stuck in the muck.

 

I loosen my grip on the rigid tale.

It begins to shapeshift, draw breath, expand,

become supple and light, the new version

a saga of strength, the old downward push

on top of my head now pulling me up.

 

Sophia Brothers Peterman

 
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Monday Musing: Mystery Market Man 9/21/2015

I caught myself doing it. There was a tall, handsome man of about my age who would occasionally come to the weekly organic Morningside Market. His gestures, expressions, and bearing were fodder for building a story of where he lived, the work he did, his take on current events, how he related to others, what he held close to his heart. One day our paths got close enough that I thought I might meet him. I am embarrassed to say that I hesitated. I had concocted such a great story about him—did I really want to know the real man? That would take effort and was sure to be different and much more complicated than my illusions of him.

 

How could I do that? I have been on the receiving end, when another wanted to create the story which I was expected to live. Then that person would get upset when I did not follow the script. It is a violence against someone, to be expected to stay completely within the lines drawn by another. So, Mystery Market Man, despite my poem below, I will strive to lay down my expectations and illusions if offered another chance to get to know you.

 

Mystery Market Man

 

I exit the bakery,

shifting canvas bags

with produce still moist

from the fields,

croissants set on top,

zinnias and sunflowers in hand.

 

Across the street,

you are waiting

to buy heirloom tomatoes

at a market stall shaded

by a white nylon tent,

your Airedale terrier

sitting next to your leg.

 

You smile at me.

I grin back

and head to my car.

 

I have seen you here

on Saturdays past,

watched you and your dog

fold into your

black convertible Porche,

heard you chatting up

permed, blue-haired women,

glanced over to see you

looking at me.

 

I’d like to meet you

or maybe not.

 

Sophia Brothers Peterman

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Monday Musing: The Art of Relaxation 9/14/2015

The assignment was to write on the topic of the art of relaxation and to make it witty. What does that mean anyway, “the art of …”? My favorite Google result for that question was “The Art of Manliness.” You should check it out. So “the art of” seemed to mean a certain something extra, with panache, style, or soul. The difference between a technically perfect ice skating routine and one that takes your breath away.

 

How did that relate to relaxation? The top hits to “the art of relaxation” mentioned hammocks, ocean breezes, and Mexican beaches. Sigh. I am a sucker for ocean breezes. But what of the other 51 weeks of the year? How can I learn to live in the art of relaxation—ocean breeze or no?

 

Relaxed alertness (as described by Ron Meyer, Hiroshi Ikeda, and Mark Reeder in their book, Center: The Power of Aikido) has become my teacher. Take that blow—that long line at the grocery store, that snarky comment, that unexpected car repair bill. Do not try to resist. Let it pass through you while remaining centered in your goodness and what really matters. Let that adverse energy pass through to the ground where it can rebound to join your own strength—giving patience in that long line, a good-natured and humorous response, insight into how this month’s finances might be adapted to stay within budget. Hard to remember, but I am finding that it is worth giving a try.

 

The Art of Relaxation

 

My shoulder is tense,

lifelong shield against

disappointment

and disapproval.

I say, Relax!

She ignores me.

We fight a lot

like that.

 

So I try a new angle.

Shoulder, I start,

you are so

Middle Ages.

Shields are passé.

Relaxed alertness

is where it’s at.

That got her attention,

she hates to be

out of date.

 

Relax your muscles,

receive the blow,

don’t ward it off.

Let it pass

through your center

to the ground,

rebounding and fusing

with your own strength

to answer back.

Are you brave enough

to test it out?

She considers

and tentatively,

tentatively,

lowers her guard.

A new way to lead.

 

Sophia Brothers Peterman

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Monday Musing: Hopeful Things 9/7/2015

Recently I was invited to a dinner given by Rob Radtke and Mike Smith of the Episcopal Relief & Development Fund.  Our group of 15 was asked the question, “As a person of faith, what gives you hope?”  Then each was to share his or her response during dinner, á la the style of a Jeffersonian dinner.  Such a question!  How to answer in a few minutes?

 

I turned to poetry, where just a few words can express so very much.  I had been reading The Pillow Book, written in 1002 by Sei Shōnagon, a lady-in-waiting for the Japanese empress Teishi.   Her delightful lists described that which defies description, such as “Rare Things” and “Disturbing Things.”  I decided to follow her format.  My list would be “Hopeful Things.”

 

It was an incredible practice, this listing of things that give hope.  I highly recommend it.  And if you find yourself facing a list of hopeful things that is blank, may the sun rising the next day be a start.

 

Hopeful Things

The chime of the alarm announcing a new day which might be the first one for being on time the rest of my life.

 

The voting rights and affordable care acts, Title IX, and recognition of the marriage of gays.

 

The bunch of organic arugula, buttery, green heaven with a pepper bite, which helps support Nicolas, who just bought the land upon which it was grown.

 

The fall of apartheid and the Berlin wall.

 

Sarah, her lifelong desire for a child buried deep under the reality of her elder age.  Then three messengers tell her that she will conceive and are actually right.

 

On a lone sidewalk, I move toward a scowling, young, black man, baggy trousers nearly falling from his slim hips.  I offer a smiling nod to his loves and dreams and bask in the warmth of the grin he returns.

 

I walk the dog on an early January morning, shivering under three layers of clothing, and remember that, come July, I will be wearing only shorts and a tank top.

 

My high school daughter is at the grocery store for jambalaya ingredients for a group class project.  She directs the two guys, one Japanese-American and the other Pakistani, to find items on the list from the fourth member’s old family recipe of African American descent.   She gets to the last item, “Minute Rice,” and the two guys just stare back, “We’re Asian.  We don’t do Minute Rice.”

 

I walk the dog on an early July morning, sweating despite bared extremities, and remember that, come January, I will be wearing a down coat over two pairs of yoga pants.

 

The Pascal mystery as told in terms of cancer but applicable in a broader sense.  The diagnosis, Good Friday, a death to life as once lived followed by Saturday’s dark tomb of not knowing what will come next.  But don’t forget Sunday, when life, in a form unimaginable before, blooms into existence.

 

Our US of A president, lanky in black suit with prominent ears under cropped graying hair, begins, in the midst of a tragic eulogy, to sing “Amazing Grace” acapella, slightly off key.

 

The only thing constant is change, and intention has great power in guiding its course.

 

Sophia Brothers Peterman

 

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Monday Musing: Critique 3/16/2015

Yesterday I went to a poetry writing group. We each bring a poem and listen as the others provide suggestions and feedback, writing comments on copies of the poem. I have not yet reviewed the copies of my poem handed back to me. What to do with the critique? I learn, I improve, I become paralyzed–my poem becoming unrecognizable in the edits of others. This poem was born of sitting with this questioning and paralysis. In the end, the only thing that matters is to be true to the voice of one’s soul.

 

 Critical Wind

 

I grow,

hawthorn seedling in

crowd of tall grass,

desperate for light.

Winds of critique

level the throng.

Resist, and

risk destructive snap?

Or bend, and

risk stoop permanent?

Desperate,

hawthorn seedling in

crowd of tall grass,

I spill toward the light.

 

Sophia Brothers Peterman 2015

 

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Monday Musing 11/10/2014

Fay asked me to name three gifts of nature for which I am most grateful. Sunlight, warmth, and wind rose to the top of the list. All are forms of energy. All are gifts, but in excess, may be harm. I spent the week of my October retreat in their presence, basking in their gifts, aware of their harm in excess. This poem was born from that.

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An October Day in Scott, GA

Sunlight.
Pink and blue
antennae
emerge from the night,
blades of grass
now
translucent green,
so much
easier to
see and be seen.

Warmth.
Bare-naked toes
play
on the porch,
saline dots form
a perspiration
mustache,
shoulders and neck
let down
their guard.

Wind.
Hair rearranged
on arms
and on head,
shirt pressed
against
shoulders and ribs,
low-level roar
forecasting
change.

Sophia Brothers Peterman © 2014

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I Want to Live Like a Poet

It was a long shot, yet the mere suggestion of it grabbed me like a stern officer controlling a crowd.  And so I did not sleep that night until my application to the summer poetry session of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop was in the mail.  Alas, a very kind rejection letter was returned.  Pause, a deep breath in and out.  Come what may, my commitment had already been made: I want to live like a poet.
 
For Lent this year, which is spilling over into Eastertide and perhaps beyond, I have been following The Artist’s Rule by Christine Valters Paintner.  And each morning I walk with a contemplation from Hafiz, a 14th century Sufi poet, and journal about that which speaks, touches, and challenges, part of a practice to write three pages each day.  It has been heartbreaking, freeing, and rich, with more ahead, I am sure.  Out of all this, I publicly announce my resolve: I want to live like a poet.  Stay tuned.

I Want to Live Like a Poet

I want to live like a poet.

My life,

a few precise words

reflecting manifold truths.

My living,

the edge of what is

honest and true in the heart.

My being,

a rhythmic cadence

ever propelling toward growth.

My voice,

soul sound with a giggle

and a wet kiss for all.

 

Sophia Brothers Peterman ©2013

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