The Tanka Process

spring rain
I start a warm fire
for my mother
who sits in darkness
shivering for my father


rainy spring day
what else but this fire
to warm
my poor mother alone
and shivering for my father


rainy spring day
what else but this fire
to warm
my poor mother
alone and chilled without my father


rainy spring day
what else but this fire
to warm
my mother alone
and chilled without my father

1. First, I begin with the subject, this vivid moment in my day: it is a rainy Monday and I am caught between taking care of both my parents, one in a hospital 30 miles away, 86 years old, with a fractured neck and fractured hip; the other housebound, 82 years old, alone all day and missing my father. I do various tasks for my mother before I'm off to visit my father, but lighting a wood fire in the fireplace seems to have the greatest significance, like I am bringing light and warmth to her dark and lonely day.

2. A few things about my first draft don't quite work for me, mostly its stark wording, so I change the format to read as a question. This works to show my personal role in trying to change my mother's mood. I have emptied her trash, brought her water and washed a few dishes, but none of those things really transform this gloomy, lonely morning for her the way the fire does.

3. The third draft only makes a slight change. I have not been happy with the word "shivering" since I began. I replace it with "chilled" because it conveys more emotion and mood--of the day, the situation, my mother's physical state and my emotional state. For me, it becomes the key word in the poem, the word that binds and connects to all other elements. When a word like this comes into play in any tanka, it strengthens the poem and brings it from good to better. I also change "for" to "without" to indicate the absence of my father for both of us. The only decision I struggle with is whether or not the word "alone" should drop down to the last line.

4. In the next draft, I streamline. I don't need to label my mother "poor"-that just strikes me as pathetic, and the poem speaks for itself, no need to conjure up sympathy. I also decide "alone" is best to use on the same line as "my mother" to describe her state. Quite clearly she is not "alone" if I am there, yet this is her mood. I also like putting "chilled without my father" on a separate line to indicate more than just my mother is "chilled" without him--it sets the mood of the entire poem.

My tanka don't always come to life in just four drafts; sometimes there are six or even more. This tanka seemed fairly easy to me, maybe because it was written so close to the actual moment, and seemed already to have a life of its own. Sometimes it happens this way.

Good Harbor Beach, Summer 1961

driving home
from the hospital
this same vision
of my father on a white sand beach
young and handsome in the summer sun

My father is in the hospital again. He fell in the bathroom early Thursday morning,was knocked unconscious and taken by ambulance. He fractured both his neck and his pelvic bone. So here we go again. David asked me this morning how I slept last night, and I was ashamed to answer "good"; maybe it was because of all the emotions or just knowing that my father was in good hands, or maybe because for the first time in more than the two weeks since he came home from rehab, I didn't have to sleep with an ear pressed to the floor. Whatever it was, I felt quite guilty to have slept at all when my father is laying once again in the hospital in pain. I started crying and wondering where we went wrong, how this could have happened and what I could have done to prevent it.

This poem comes from this re-occuring vision of my father on Good Harbor beach, in his swim trunks, head full of dark curly hair, tanned and wearing sun glasses. It is this picture of youth and vitality that keeps coming to me, this memory of a time when life seemed simple and safe and really perfect in many ways. I am just so sad to see my father lose his youth and with it so many other things we take for granted; like our smooth skin, our dark hair, our spry legs, our clarity of mind, and that feeling that we have so many endless sunny days ahead of us. In this vision of my father, he is younger than I am today. Ah, this letting go of people and of ourselves is such an ongoing process. But I'm trying hard to keep myself in the moment where joy is always stirring.

waiting for my father
to find words that never come
about a dream
the empty bird feeder swinging
in the manic March wind

The mind doesn't just go all at once the doctor explained; it comes and goes, up and down, he said making a wavy line with his finger in mid air. After spending the whole day with my father, I thought he was off to bed, when he turned around, came back to his chair without his walker, sat down and asked, "tell me, what do I do when I have a dream?" A dream? Do you mean a bad dream? "Like the other night," he started to explain, "I had this dream . . ." and that was all he could say. For 10 minutes or so, I watched him struggle to tell me about this phantom dream that he was asking me to help him with, but I couldn't help him, except to say, "we all have crazy dreams now and again, Papa, but they're only dreams." I could see it come to him a few times, then disappear quicker than he could get the words off his lips, and the frustration was unbearable. Here was my father, the man who had protected me my entire life, the man who I went to when I had a bad dream, looking to me to help him. I sent him off to bed, helpless, hoping he could forget about it and find peace, then came upstairs to pour a glass of wine and cry. Some times this is the only thing to do.

reprieve
between the seaweed
covered rocks
in the rivulets of ocean there
beneath this new spring sun

Small signs of spring are everywhere and they lend such grace to these difficult days, serving as a clear reminder to me that beauty is still found everywhere in everything no matter what. My father is home, but my life is now consumed with his care. His cognitive abilities have declined to the point that simple tasks are difficult, like tying shoes and buttoning buttons and sometimes with finding the right words. I spend a lot of my time preparing meals, cleaning, shopping, doing laundry, giving meds and calling doctors but I find the most energy is spent in keeping both my parents spirits up. I choose my words carefully; I teeter between helping him so he doesn't struggle and retreating so he doesn't feel helpless; I explain things in simple terms; I talk about the bigger world; to my mom I teach patience and acceptance and most of all, I just love love love. Today I walked around with that Ziggy Marley song in my head, "Love is my Religion" and it really has become the case. With love, nothing seems a chore or an inconvenience. However, I have really come to savor those moments I steal for myself, like walking to the beach with the dog, noticing every small turn of the tide. And here, among the rocks, I soak up the beauty, I store the happiness, and I bring it home to my parents to brighten these days in their lives.

after visiting papa
this eighth day in rehab
snow spinning circles
on my windshield
all the years coming to this

My father had a fall two weeks ago, and thankfully, nothing was broken; he just has a very bad bruise. These past two weeks have been exhausting, emotional, hilarious, humbling and very enlightening. One of life's great learning experiences I guess you could say.

It has been especially difficult because my mother is unable to visit with him, so I have taken on that primary role, not only visiting with him every day, but talking with therapists and nurses, signing papers, doing laundry, changing batteries in hearing aides etc etc etc. But the best part is just sitting and talking with him. My father is an incredibly gentle and kind man who has had an incredible life. He has stories and songs and memories, of childhood and coming here from Nova Scotia, of the war in Japan, becoming an American citizen on Espirito Santo in the Pacific, of meeting my mother, of singing to me when I was a baby, his favorite old movies and so many more.

I have also learned so much about myself by talking with and watching my father and how he has coped with this disruption in his life. He is patient and accepting and filled with gratitude for everyone taking care of him--the people at the rehab just adore him. And he has so much compassion! This morning, his therapist had a scratchy throat so he shared his Riccola honey-lemon throat drops with her. Everyday, there is another story. Some of them are funny, some endearing, but always, they are something to pay attention to.

So, I am trying to emulate my dear father (who just turned 86) and accept what each day brings. Learning to avoid resistance really is the key to happiness. When we learn to just accept the day given to us, and that which we cannot change or control, we let go of the anxieties and open ourselves to joy.

And so we go ahead, my father and I, one day at a time, enjoying what it brings, good or bad, and finding joy in the little things that make up a day in a life. And what I have found is that every stage of life has its amazing gifts, for us living them, and for those living them with us.

Oh, and in case I didn't mention it, I am suddenly very grateful to have not found a job.