How poetry Saved My Street

https://www.moreloveletters.com/diary/howpoetrysavedmystreet

My Best Friend Keeps Me Married!

I’m married to two people. No, it’s not what you think. I’m not pan sexual or in some strange cult or weird three way. I’ve been married to my husband happily, for sixteen years. And I’ve been in a committed relationship to my best friend, Lisa for thirty five.  I can say with the upmost confidence that I wouldn’t stay married to my husband without my best friend.

 Why? Because every married woman needs a place to be free of male dominance. A place where women, can be free of the male gaze and openly gaze at each other. 

Let’s face it! The institution of marriage is so problematic that fewer and fewer of us smart, single women are doing it. But for those of us who do choose to cohabitant with a population who stands when they pee, we need our tampon holding sisters close by.

My own mother knew this. She and my Dad have been married fifty nine years. They are true champions of each other. They launched two successful children while balancing thriving careers and still hold hands when they walk to the car.

How did they do it? I know a lot went into play but like me, my mother had a best friend, Andrea. They spoke daily for fifty years. My mother also religiously vacationed with her for thirty five summers. She and Andrea would go to a cabin with a few other women friends: cook, drink wine, and read novels to which they would discuss during dinner.

I never noticed until now, how it coincided with my Mom’s wedding anniversary. She  would always celebrate with my Dad shorty after her return from her “girls’” trip. Perhaps, she could rank up another year of marriage, because she has just been basking in the after glow of female friendship.

When my Mom lost Andrea to cancer in 2015. She took my hand as I brought her tea in bed. “This is one of the biggest losses of my life.” And your Dad is driving me nuts!” It was Sunday morning at eight o’clock  the  time she spoke to Andrea right before “Meet the Press”  for the last thirty years. 

Of course, her husband was driving her nuts! She didn’t have that shot in the arm from her gal pal to get her though another week of my Dad asking her for toast just as she cleaned up the kitchen.

Here is the deal: there are some things that I will never tell my husband and only tell my best friend. For one: menopause! Frankly, that word should mean: a mini -pause from all the sexist bullshit you have to deal with since puberty. 

When I attempt to talk to my husband about my bodily changes and the lack of thunder down under, his eyes glaze over with attention of someone who has just taken a four hour DMV course.

So I call Lisa. I tell her my sudden weight gain has made buying bras impossible. She tells me that her paints don’t fit. Then we pause for our collective hot flashes and go plan our next brunch date where they serve creme brûlée French toast.

Do we complain about our husbands? Hell yes! Do we love our husbands, hell yes! Do we ever think about leaving them: sometimes. Yet, we would never do it. We love them and enjoy our lives. 

For the record, I am married to a fabulous man.

My husband is my biggest ally, best friend, tenderest critic and has made me a better person. When we wanted to have a baby. We got twins. The first week of their life, they almost died. I relied on him for my very survival  as I was still recovering from a hard labor, painful C-section, and depleting breastmilk. 

If you ever want to see what men are made of, watch them as they try to save their children’s lives. Somehow my husband got two dying infants to the hospital and could remain calm as the doctor told him he wasn’t sure our twins would live. A doctor can’t say that to a mother who has just given birth but he can say it to a father.

Men are trained to do a job, save lives, and go full court press. I love that about men and I love that about my husband in particular. 

My husband is also clueless about the intense arrogance, condescension, and mansplaining he does on a daily basis. And by the way, if you tell him he is “mansplaning: he goes ballistic.  He tries very hard to explain to me why that term doesn’t apply to him.

Is it his fault? 

Yes and no! 

Yes it is fault. Because he like, every Generation X man, assumes that he knows what to do and how to do it better. That his counsel is needed. That he has the bird’s eye view. I, as a woman, may have a certain kind of “women’s wisdom” but the kind of smarts that is really needed inside my husband’s head: is his.

How controlling is he? Controlling!  When I’m quizzing the twins, now eleven, on their spelling test, he tell us, there is a better way to do this. What better way? You mean writing down the words? We did that five minutes ago when you were taking a dump. 

Or the other time more recently, when I did a full day’s work of teaching, edited a new play, did four loads of laundry, fixed the twins breakfast, lunch and dinner and then completely cleaned the kitchen. I had finally gotten on the phone for my daily chat with Lisa and there was a knock on the door. “Had I taken care of the watermelon issue?” What watermelon issue? I didn’t know such a thing existed? Were watermelons being dropped because of some dystopian disaster? 

No, I guess I had some how forgotten in all my free time to put the sliced watermelon back in the fridge.

To which point Lisa and I howled with laughter. She then began to tell me how she had been preparing a paper for a meeting, when her husband interrupted about the urgent issue of ordering paper towels from instacart. 

Ahh, we love these guys. We do! But I truly think the longevity of a heterosexual relationship with a man has a lot to do with having a committed friendship with a woman.

Oprah know this too. when she accepted her Cecil de Mill award she thanked her best friend, Gail, right before she thanked her life partner Stedman. I get it. She needs both: her female friend and her male romantic partner. Maybe that is how she has been able to be a super power.

My niece, Lucy, is about to be married. She came to me asking me for advice. “Aunt Jenny, you have such a good relationship. How do I have a successful marriage with my financé?”

 I paused and then thoughtfully said. “Spend a lot of time with your best girl friend!”

“Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.”

— Quote Source

Artists Who Are Mothers/Mothers Who Are Artists

A mother who is a playwright/A playwright who is a mother

By Jennifer Berry

The two most empowering choices I ever made were choosing to be an artist and a mother. Against all odds and by sheer determination, I am both. It is a heavy heaven! I love both these identities. Mothering is vital. Creating art is vital. Children and art are the souls of any culture. 

In between sticky plates, finger-painting collaborations, and a front lawn sprinkler disaster, it has taken me about four hours to get to writing. I finally get time for myself to think about the larger question of who I am and what art I want to give the world. 

Mothers, unlike all the writers I learned about in English class, don’t get to Walden Pond. We have to manage inside the noise. Art and parenting require an intense amount of focus and attention. Most often, my attention is pulled between my two loves. I’ve learned to live with interruptions. 

But full disclosure, PBS is babysitting right now. I will probably be interrupted in thirty minutes in which I will have to start again at another time. However, the interruptions can be motivational. I wrote a children’s book out of one of my daughter’s early morning questions. I got the image I needed for a play by watching my twins play on the carpet while another mother of twins and I picked up massive amounts of Cheerios. So at times it seems hard to separate the two: what is creation? What is parenting? My art and my mothering live side by side. It’s my life and I love it! I wrestle with it. And like my precious twins, there are days when they co-exist beautifully and there are days when each one wants more attention than I can give.

When I first became pregnant eight years ago, everyone said I would stop writing. “You’ll be too tired and drained.” But the opposite happened. I wrote my most personal play shortly after giving birth. While I was tending to newborns and in between nursing breaks, two characters started talking to me. So I nursed my babies, wrote, and then went back to sleep. Because of all the emotions I felt as a new mother, I had a well of creativity that wasn’t open to me before I became a parent. This wellspring has never ceased. 

To put it bluntly, my heart broke open and I wanted more: more for the world, more for my children, more for myself. As my son and daughter discovered things for the first time, like a walk in the woods, I discovered things too. Had I really stopped noticing the texture of green moss and the lacy glisten of a spider web? I had to get down. Down with my twins, down with the weight of the earth, the gravity of duties and notice the joy. By doing that, poetry poured through my pen. When I gave birth, both my art and my life was never the same. I now write from a place of love and non-urgency rather than cynicism.

I cannot imagine not being a mother. I cannot imagine not being a playwright. Mothering and theatre both involve conception, a gestation period, birth, nurturing, and finally letting go what you cannot control. The way mothers and artists function in society is similar. To do both you have to be responsible, hardworking, resourceful, flexible, and disciplined. An artist’s work and a parent’s work are the same. The process goes unnoticed, but the product is outstanding. My son will never remember the hours of physical therapy I did with him every morning so that his body would be properly aligned. Nor will my daughter remember the countless research I did for her food allergies. Yet, the doctor expects them to be in good health, the teachers expect them to be well behaved, and society expects them to be productive. 

Although my twins might be my best creation, they are not my only creation. They are beautiful, smart, sensitive, and bold, but they do not satisfy my artistic ambition. Therefore, I write at stolen moments on borrowed time. What I can get done in fifteen minutes now is what I used to accomplish in two hours. There are plenty of unreturned phone calls, missed opportunities, messes, and mistakes. Nevertheless, there is magic in the mistake. And several happy accidents have led me to finding unexpected resources and friendships. Because I really believe in my work, sometimes I have to say no to my children. My days are both internal and external—working out the plot of a play while waiting in the carpool line. 

Sometimes the days hanging with small children are like going down a river slowly. Most days I love the river. I float gently with my twins avoiding the desire to paddle upstream. Motherhood is just like art—it takes all of your rigor and surrender. For a while I fought it because I wanted to cling to my old life before my kids. The life where most things go as planned and your productivity shows. Things are documented by output and completed tasks. But you can’t measure breast milk. You can’t measure memories. My life is a composition of compromise. There is repetition and rhythm. I find my rhythm and then lose it in the same day. I try for a perfect concerto, but settle for a groove. And guess what? I like having a groove with children on my hips, floating instead of flailing, and noticing things I would never notice if I was by myself. 

Perhaps, mothers with one child can paddle a bit faster with their other hand. But I have both hands full. So I have to float, wait, and enjoy. I have a rich and meaningful life. I’m the luckiest woman alive. I’m a playwright and a Mom! I’m a Mom and a Playwright.

Arms full of double love. My best creations but not my only creations. I am an artist too.