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Laura Stamps,
Poet
THESE
LEAVES OF AUTUMN
Third week of November,
temperatures loom in the
eighties, and the rock rose
swells as if it were June,
its raspberry smile a sweet
canticle to the sulpher
butterfly jiggling from
one blossom to the next.
This late in the season the
contrast between canary
wings, fuchsia flowers,
and the lemon-razzle of the
sun shines as a painter's
treat and a visual hosanna.
Islands of cleanliness pepper
my days. Years ago, when
I surrendered to the stampede
of a busy art career, six cats,
and a messy husband, I knew
my home could never maintain
complete perfection, that
satisfaction would arrive on
islands of cleanliness. My
crowded painting schedule
prevents me from taking a
day to clean the house, yet
I always find a few hours
sprinkled throughout each week,
like kernels of grass seed, to
tackle dusting, mopping, or
vacuuming. Thus I clean the
entire house every month, yet
never at the same time. So
I've learned to be content with
small areas of order, my islands
of cleanliness. Bless the cats,
precious as black pansies, but
they delight in creating clutter.
And then there's Reese, a man
who attracts disorder, genetically
wired in such a way that he
cannot throw a shred of junk
in the trash. Instead, he creates
piles from old papers, empty
boxes, and magazines, which
rise like muddled towers, until
I must intercede to prevent his
dusty accumulations from
choking the house or tumbling
over on the cats. Diane performs
this duty for me at the store,
thinning his stacks of paper,
returning inventory to its proper
place, and slipping out to toss
bags of trash in the dumpster
when Reese takes a lunch
break. Otherwise, if he sees
her cleaning, he shrieks and
plucks some useless scrap
from the wastebasket as if
rescuing a priceless diamond.
At Dayflower Natural Foods,
Diane performs the duties
of an angel in disguise.
As I drive away from the house,
a stray tomcat appears in the side-
yard, staring at me through eyes
wild with longing, his thin body
wrapped in a shabby coat of
cream and gray. If he'll stay
awhile, I'll place a bowl of food
by the back porch when I return.
Reese likes to tell his customers
how his wife never met a stray
cat she didn't yearn to adopt.
And it's true. The balmy
chambers of my heart, the ones
layered with feline fur, purr for
every stray I see, the way some
women melt when a baby gurgles.
A knot of prickled leaves taps
my car. Every year at this time
the frantic activity of leaves
startles me. I forget how they
leap from the trees, an endless
shower of crimson, tangerine, and
buttercup, jumping in the streets
on thousands of invisible feet.
Autumn leaves and their crinkled
cartwheels remind me of my
parents and their destiny. In
1954, Mary Catherine Castelli
walked the halls of Berkeley as
an art student, enamored with
college life, ceramics, and
the underground culture of
San Francisco. Angelina
discouraged the choice of any
college located on the opposite
coast from Virginia, but she
knew she couldn't stop her
daughter, who had inherited her
father's stubborn personality.
In California my mother found
the freedom of expression she
craved, and quickly channeled
her artistic nature into pottery
classes. Even as a student, her
pieces sold regularly at a local
gallery, and she began to build
a loyal following for her unique
and eccentric clay creations.
She met my father one night when
she and her girlfriends clustered
like cabbage butterflies at a new
coffeehouse hosting poetry readings.
That evening Clayton Saunders read
from his first chapbook, These Leaves
of Autumn, published by Green
Dog
Imprints, an alternative press which
fizzled away months later. New to
the poetry scene, Mary Catherine
was intrigued with this poet whose
work walked the same streets as
the Beats, yet flowed in the slurred
sugar of a Southern drawl. Born
in Augusta, Georgia, surrounded
by aquamarine lakes and lush
pine forests, Clayton dreamed of
escaping this quaint but small city.
After graduating from the University
of Georgia with a degree in English,
he decided travel offered the
best career opportunities for a
promising poet. He felt he needed
to experience more of life than
the state of Georgia could provide.
So he packed a duffel bag, grabbed
his portable typewriter, and rambled
across the country in an old van
that dribbled oil wherever it stopped.
A year later, the van coughed its
last oily wheeze in San Francisco.
Clayton rented an inexpensive
apartment above a Greek restaurant,
where he worked as a dishwasher
during the day and wrote poetry at
night. After his poems appeared
in a few small press journals, a
friend encouraged him to read at
several open venues around the
city, places easy to reach on foot
or with his secondhand bicycle.
Because Mary Catherine clapped
so enthusiastically after Clayton's
reading, he stopped by the
girls' table to give her a signed
copy of his chapbook, an act of
gratitude toward a young woman
who glowed like a fiery daisy in
a field of indifference that night.
They soon bloomed as a couple, and
my mother graduated the following
year with a B.F.A. in Art, a husband,
and a baby on the way. Having no
income to support a growing family,
my parents moved back to Reston,
where Angelina warmly embraced
her youngest daughter, eager to play
the doting grandmother in a cavernous
old home that had languished for
too long without a child's laughter.
We lived with Angelina until my
tenth birthday. My father taught
poetry workshops, and my mother
sold her pottery at local art fairs
and galleries. For two weeks each
summer we would drive throughout
the Southeast in one of grandfather's
cars, exploring interesting towns
and cities. We moved the year we
discovered Asheville, North Carolina,
and its flourishing arts community
nestled among the enchanting
Blue Ridge. Afterwards, both found
employment at a private high school:
my mother taught art, and my father
lectured on literature, content to
have found their right place in the
world at last. Even though they
retired several years ago, their tiny
house, perched on the side of a
mountain, bursts with students, local
artists, and writers, a gathering place
for those who enjoy intellectual and
artistic conversations, while sipping
steaming mugs of my father's herbal
tea. Books stacked to the ceiling
pad each room, while potted plants
and suncatchers blink in the windows,
and the whirling sound of my mother's
pottery wheel combs the air. It's no
wonder the artistic and poetic talents
of both parents have found a home
in my paintings. I was born to it.
* * * * *
You'll never find lasting happiness
by striving for externals.
That's
what I heard today when listening
to my Spirit.
The smile of the
heavenlies seems
to lie in the
simplest everyday
activities and
objects, as if
opening the spent
blossom of a marigold
to discover
an extravagant
garden housed
in hundreds of
seeds. The key
contains a deceptively
simple
challenge: to
peer beyond externals
to the divinity
smoldering within,
and to maintain
this focus despite
life's chaotic
pace. Who can
measure the pleasure
I receive,
as I rest on the
green sea of a
quilt, my youngest
cat sleeping
in my arms? When
I slow my
mind to concentrate
on the ebony
spindle of his
coat and listen to
his hushed breath,
I step into the
holiness of the
moment. Like a
marigold, it holds
a bouquet of
contentment. How
many years
have I brushed
away these simple
acts of daily
life and labeled
them trivial?
Kandinsky knew
this mystical
secret. In order to
capture the heavenly
he knew
to concentrate
on the details
of life, peeling
each one like an
orange to swill
its true essence.
Colors and shapes
flowed as
symbols for the
divinity within,
signposts we miss
when strangled
in the grip of
a hurried lifestyle.
All my life I’ve
searched for soul
satisfaction in
career achievement
and material gain,
only to find
it today in the
divine moment:
this kitten limp
in my arms,
crows cackling
in the grass,
and the sky's
blue eye as calm
and comforting
as the afterlife.
I've heard no
comments
from Reese about
my growing
allegiance to
the heavenlies, but
I know he's pleased.
When I
mentioned the
prayers I wrote
for Angelina's
rosary, he smiled
and winked at
me, his eyes
twinkling. He
looked the same
the first time
he saw the angel
collage in the
studio. Always
quiet man, my
husband tucks
his opinions deep
in the mossy
leaves of his
heart. But I can
tell he's not
shaken by my
spiritual conversion.
Some
men might feel
threatened or
betrayed. Not
Reese, a man
born in Tallahassee,
Florida,
the cusp of the
Bible Belt.
Every Middleton
belongs to the
Southern Baptist
denomination,
and his mother
worked in the
office of the
family church for
over thirty years.
Though he
left Florida and
the Baptists long
ago, he remains
a quietly spiritual
person. In fact
I believe he
tolerated the
intellectualism of
my family just
to please me.
A truly benevolent
soul, Reese
treads a patient
path, his life
padded with plenty
of room
for an unpredictable
wife, her
entourage of stray
cats, and the
subtle presence
of the divine.
©Copyright 2006 by
Laura Stamps
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