A few years back, a friend invited me into his Haiku circle. During the last 10-12 years or so, he has built a group of writers who are invited weekly to submit a haiku, and through it, I’ve “met” people I’ll probably never meet. You learn about people though as you read their seventeen syllables–their joys, trials, disappointments, wry observations, dreams. No one but Paul, the moderator, seems to craft a haiku each and every week, but I always enjoy my Friday invitations (sometimes more than the resultant haiku themselves in fact) and reading Paul’s Haiku Unity Clearinghouse (PHUC –wink-wink-nudge-nudge get it??) the following week.
I’m contemplating this week’s seventeen, but can’t winnow down to one topic. I have a friend who became a widow one year ago this week; she’s in her 30s and has triplets. I can’t breathe sometimes when I wonder how she has made it. She has strength of character and a heart that beats for four; she’s smart and beautiful and hard-working, and I admire her so. I thought I might write seventeen syllables about her, but how can I possibly capture her tale in so few words? I wanted to leave her some type of message on THE BIG DAY, but elected not to. I know she had a billion messages on THAT DAY, but I bet she got fewer on the day after. Maybe I’ll write about her, but 5-7-5 seems insufficient.
My kid has another neurology appointment this week, and I’m terrified. This begins the differential diagnosis protocol, and a part of me wishes desperately to continue blissfully unaware. PS–it’s not blissful and I’m pretty aware. Just sayin’. . . Knowing what to expect though means there’s something I will need to expect, and my mother’s heart still
expects wants my kid to grow out of it. I have created this forum to bitch about MD though, and clearly I could not restrain myself to seventeen syllables. I’m already at 323 words. 325.
It’s Easter tomorrow, and though we are not religious, I do enjoy the fellowship the spirit of rebirth and the Easter Bunny bring. My husband and I plan to burst the big kid’s bubble and tell him that the EB is not real next week. The notion of a mysterious critter sneaking in under cover of darkness leaving treats for good little girls and boys is magical and sweet. I feel somewhat murderous in intentionally shattering that notion. Will I feel worse for him when my kid’s friends torture him mercilessly when they find out he still believes though? That is the conundrum. Conundrum has three syllables and would fit beautifully in a haiku. So maybe this is my theme.
The snow has finally (probably) melted for good, so I began running again this week, The best way I know to describe my relationship with running came from my friend Sally, the wife of my haiku moderator as it happens, and a dear friend. I know for a fact I couldn’t dream of capturing my gratitude at meeting her and gaining a life-long friend early in my 40s in 5-7-5 formatting, so that’s off the table today too. The first time I began running (the first time since high school that is), she told me, “I hate running, but I love having run.” Word. Here are seventeen syllables that capture my love-hate relationship:
Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate
Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate
Hate. Love. I did it.