In the Early Morning Stillness...

The wavering shadows

cast by my graven images

onto the photo images behind

in the flickering candle light

are soft and deep.

As I add candle by candle

lighting each with a prayer,

and as the dawn grows

and the shadows lighten,

the images light up,

become stronger

and my shadow prayers

disappear into the light.

I extinguish my candles,

one by one,

releasing my prayers,

and the images soften,

the shadows grow,

as the dawn continues to

lighten my corner.

But in the light of

the last single candle

the shadows grow stronger

bringing an attitude of depth

to my prayers

and to my heart.

My corner, seemingly public,

is yet sacred; rarely disturbed or even noticed.

Private and unnoticed

though in the public eye.

My sacred corner.

Doris Tuck

January, 2009

CouchSurfing.org

A surprise email Sunday afternoon,
Can we host Monday night?
Just one night, on to Santa Cruz in the morning.

Well, OK, but it will be a literal couch
As my son is visiting for the week.
Troublemaker, he, points to the “other” bedroom,
Bed loaded with “stuff.”

Siiiiigggggghhhhhhhh
OK.  All right.
Clean off the bed
Give her a room of her own.

Being so comfortable,
Fitting the family so nicely,
Enjoying so many things together,
We encourage, and she nicely asks,
“May I stay another night?”

Four days later, we drop her
At Diridon to catch the
Highway 17 bus to Santa Cruz,
With promises to return in a week.
Make a day trip with me to Yosemite,
Extend her visit in the U.S.
See Tom in Boulder later in the month.

What a lovely idea this was,
Whoever had it.
We learned “brilliant” and “trainers,”
She learned “faucet” and “tennies,”

How can anyone not know what a faucet is, we wonder.

“It’s a tap.  Clearly, it’s a tap.”

Now we have Barcelona,
Probably Morocco,
On our list.

And hope for more couch requests soon
From other surfers
Around the world.

Doris Tuck
August, 2008

I Want To Be Mexican

“I want to go to Italy,”
declares my 9 year old grandson enthusiastically,
as we discussed an upcoming trip,
“because I‘ve always wanted to be Italian.”

I happen upon an article
describing the wonders of Italy and Italians
including all the reasons why God must be Italian,
the author finally declaring, “I Want To Be Italian.”

I have been embraced by Mexicans.
Adopted into the family 30 years ago,
at a time when I was very alone,
included in family functions and holiday parties
that Mexicans celebrate with such enthusiasm and joy.

Now, at the unsuspecting 58th year,
the family honors the main party giver, the oldest daughter.
Mariachis play old favorites that bring laughter
others bring tears, a voice sings soft and sweet,
more tears
then cries out strong, competing with the trumpet.

Younger brother bullies her to the floor for the cumbia
how does he hold that fat cigar
in mouth open wide with laughter,
and they show off their steps.

Showing off seemed to always be
one of their happiest and funnest activities,
as Mama
gone two years now
glowed with pride.

Children run, play, dance among the dancers,
always welcome, always accepted,
always confident of their place in the world,
one week old grandson sleeps
through trumpets, singers, low rumble of many voices.

Shier older brother tries to escape,
but trapped,
like a rat, his face says,
good naturedly surrenders to her chase
takes his place with her in the dance.

Papa is pulled happily onto the floor,
now filled with dancers.
beaming pride for his family,
ever present joy,

And I declare
from my heart,

I want to be Mexican.

Doris Tuck
November, 2003

2001 Was A Rough Year

“Come soon,” she said, “I just want to feel your arms around me.”

The call came Saturday morning while I was having my hair rolled for a perm.  Lung cancer, they would know more Wednesday.  So I called Wednesday.  Hospice.  That was all.  “Check into hospice.”

Her daughter was with her that week, her niece would be with her the following week, I promised to be there the week after and stay with her.  I went in to work Thursday and told my boss I would be taking that week off to stay with my friend who was dying.

I talked to her again on the weekend, “Come soon,” she said.

“I’ll be there this weekend, I’ll spend the week with you.”

“I just want to feel your arms around me.”

My daughter, the nurse, said, “Mom, if she said to come soon, you had better go.”

“I am going next week, I’m taking the week off to spend with her,” I defended myself.

I got the call Wednesday, went to memorial services that weekend, the weekend I should be visiting with her.

Eight days later another call.  Sealray, my buddy from work, had lost her battle with sickle cell, dialysis, seizures, and numerous related problems.

How many times I had expected this to be the final episode, only to find her sitting at her desk the next week, independent and pissy as ever.

Very rarely would she let me help out, much more rarely she actually asked me to drive her to the hospital for transfusion type and crossmatch at lunch time, then after work to pick it up and take it and her to dialysis.  I would wait with her there until Roger got off work and came to pick me up, leaving her car there for her to drive home after she had dialysis and transfusion and would be in good shape again.

It was hard to finally believe, having expected so often, that she was really gone.  Her cousin said that evening at the house he had commented to his wife that morning after they left her at the hospital,

“You watch.  She’ll be back here Sunday morning telling us what she won't do.

Yup.  That’s Sealray.

A month later and my sweet love, Jake, is out in the back field trying to dig himself a hole in which to die and Tom must call the vet for medication to take his life, as his beautiful brown eyes looked up at him, begging to be released.

Somehow you find a way to hang tough for death; it is expected.  But when the dog died, somehow, there was permission to let it all go.  That was the hardest.

It was a hard spring.

How far away the fall yet seemed, and how little I could imagine what it would bring.

Doris Tuck
October, 2008

My sweet love

Doris Tuck
October, 2008

Yoga Again @ 72

Minding advancing age,
Ten pound weights here, twenty there, sixty two for the legs,
Treadmill twenty minutes, recumbent twenty.

Occasional stretches,
Triangle pose, Warrior, another angle stretchy thing,
Downward dog.

Ten years since any serious bodily abuse
The ol’ gray mare, she ain’t what she used to be.
Well,
Maybe she never was.

At 72, she’s a lot less so.

Wrists whine, back grumbles,
Shoulder outright bitches.
Tomorrow will be worse.

Assuming the work continues,
A couple weeks, body stronger, complaining less,
Beginning to forgive itself.

And I begin to remember
Other results, back then,
When I was faithful.
The change in attitude, confidence level,

The inner view of the inner.
Especially,
The inner view of the outer,

As they all begin to find
The beauty the body was meant to be.

Even at 72.

Doris Tuck
May, 2008

When Your Earlobes Begin to Wrinkle...

Kicky,
Even beautiful,
Earrings don’t much matter anymore.

Arm skin dangles
Into interesting architecture.
Legs stay mostly covered.

Seventy two years of scars, liver spots,
Angry red bruises from scraping refrigerator shelf
Add decoration.

Not in a good way.

Regret for shortened,
Ever shortening,
Future.

However,
I like myself better now.
Feel more comfortable

In this saggy, baggy body
That loses strength
As it loses skin tone.

Perhaps an acceptable trade off.

This viewpoint does not always hold,
But mostly I accept it as what is,
Whether I agree at the moment or not.

Mostly still kicking, trying, doing my best
—most days—
To make the most

Of what is,
Enjoy what is left.
Life is still good.

Life still is.

Doris Tuck
June, 2008

Hey Betty

You did good.

Started the day cheery,

Washed & dressed, returned to rest,

Then, before breakfast,

You just left.

We began semi related,

Never really knowing each other

Until after the in-law connection

Was broken

And we became friends.

Mostly by telephone, that’s true,

With an occasional personal visit

Where we quickly and easily

Fell into a happy

And close connection.

No children “of your own”

You somehow drew to yourself

Those of others (including two of mine),

Who found themselves

Alone and confused.

Or maybe just broke.

You found a way to help

Those who would be helped,

Forming many lasting

And mutually satisfying

Friendships as you went,

You cheerfully told

Scammers and one-sided takers

To go to hell, and then,

Just as cheerfully,

Left them to it.

You were a good friend

To all who paused on your path,

Those consigned to the nether regions

As well as those who continued to

Share your path.

There is no doubt

You will continue

Your usual helpful style

As you meet old and new friends

On your new journey.

I don’t doubt it will include some

Probably surprised to find no

Hell, but another go-round

With Betty,

Set on setting them straight.

Blessings on your new journey, my friend,

And keep up the good work.

Doris Tuck
May, 2007

Smelling the Stories Along the Way

She seems to take note when I put on my tennies
And when I pull out my big white sweater
She is definitely interested.

But when Roger picks up the leash
With the collar that looks like a
Medieval torture device, excitement reigns.
She stands docile for this thing to be put around her neck.

A distance of six or seven blocks,
A good 45 minutes,
As she carefully inspects each bush and weed,
Sniffing the many stories
Left by each passing peeing pooch.

The only excitement greater
Than the stories in the weeds
Is a pair of noisy ducks that appear suddenly,
And splash into the creek beside us,

I nearly lose control of my charge
As she careens down the bank
And has a tough time clambering back up the steep slope
When she hits the end of the leash with a jolt.

But mostly she walks—well, runs—with good discipline,
A clear feel for the limit of the automatic leash,
But risks strangulation from that collar
When we spy an intriguing
Distraction that needs a shorter leash.

While she seems to be quite comfortable
With people, she does not like other dogs,
And takes especial offense
At a passing pit, which responds in kind.

A tense moment as the pit people
Mouthe to us to please hold our dog.
They hurry through the gate we just left,
Our mild Maggie no less ferocious than the pit.

Out of range, we continue our storybook journey peacefully
As she sniffs her way home,
One happy, tired pup,
And her barely exercised people.

Doris Tuck
March, 2007

One Tough Kitty

You wouldn’t believe,
To look at this soft furball,
The adventures he has had.

He crossed the Atlantic
Alone with a drunken master
In a 35 foot power boat,

Made numerous flights across country
Carried up and down halls and ramps
In a closed box barely his size,

Being allowed out only as far as
Sitting in the lid,
From which he dared not budge.

But from which he could watch the world
And bask in the people’s admiration
Of his amazing obedience.

The love of this softer-than-soft cat,
Bearing the name of a much loved dog,
Was jealously guarded

By his occasionally tyrannical master.
Room, Duke!  And he obediently stalks away,
Chattering obscenities over his shoulder along the way.

His toughness, softness, obedience
Faded behind the force
Of his loyalty.

I don’t know what
22 years, 4 months, and 27 days
Makes in cat years,

But he managed to hang tough
Until a family arrived
For him and for his master,

To hold that master together
When release finally came
To the tired little body of this loyal friend,

He even saved Christmas, and Christmases to come,
Rallying for a few days,
So happiness could live yet awhile.

But he had to let go, it was time,
So they sang to him, of love and “soft kitty,”
As he slowly withdrew,

Which also brought them needed release
From deep cares of their own
As they helped this soft soul leave in love.

Now he moves into his new journey
Knowing his family,
Who needed him as he needed them...

And his master,
Who needed them as he needed him...
Are now safely a unit.

As they circle together
To hide and protect
The empty space of his leaving,

They build a new love into their circle
Open a new space
For the new being soon to arrive.

He came in loyalty,
Lived in obedience
Left in love.

Blessings on your new journey, Duke.

Doris Tuck
January, 2006

Sorting the Memories

They come and they go, these old memories.
Some in fear and confusion,
Some in joy. 

And then the occasional jab
the inner sword that cuts deep.
Does its drive come from within me
Or from “out there” somewhere in
to me

And is it pain or relief
it tries to bring?
If I look at it
Will I be able to stand the pain
long enough to receive relief?

Or does it come to remind me
Of all the pain I have caused
and tell me I do not deserve to live?
Does it come to tell me
I am not worthy of this life,
Of this body 
so temporary, so worn, but still useful to me?

Or are these thoughts, billowing up behind the memories,
My own fears
that I cling to in sorrow and distress,
Seeking for myself punishment and incessant regret
rather than forgiveness?

What if I let the darkness in
And what if it turns out to be
light that I was not able to see?
Light that softens the darkness
in which I try to hide?

What if there is forgiveness
forgetfulness
Peace?

What if I managed to sort it all out
And somehow it all made some sort of sense?

What if the light softened the resentment
And lightened the darkness?

And what if I hung in there
With focus and forgiveness
Until peace comes?

Can I hang on to these memories until then?

Can I live with what’s left of them
and bring them round to peace?

Doris Lea Tuck
October, 2004

Just After Midnight...

“Happy Anniversary, Dear,”
He said from his recliner
Next to hers
Where they now sleep the nights in better comfort.

“I would give you a kiss,
but I can’t reach you.”

“That’s OK,” she says,
“We can do it in the morning.”

But morning finds him unable to
Bend down that far
And her incapable of stretching high enough
To reach her tall husband.

Time, the great healer,
Has wrought much healing
In their lives, over the years,
But it has also worn out the joints
In the process.

Hips make walking excruciating,
Even with two canes,
Arterial blockage makes hip surgery impossible
Until better flow established
In the heart.

Her remarkable recovery from the stroke 15 years ago
And the winning of a computer fewer years ago,
Let her continue her entertainment of entering contests,
But the unresolved mobility damage and extra weight
Make walking equally difficult, if less painful.

Maxine sure got it right.
But while these two ain’t sissies,
The choice between the pain and
Lunch out with friends
Is as easy as it is disappointing.

Sixty years.
Damn, you’re good,
Never mind Maxine’s maxim.
Fix the piping, repair the joints,
And burn up that keyboard.

And may you win more stuff
Than you know what to do with.

Oh, you’ve already done that.
Well, let the kids worry about all that
When you’re gone.

Doris Tuck
February 16, 2007

Thank You to the Man...

...who may have saved me from
A backwards tumble
Back down the Mist Trail
When he gave my backpack a boost
As I stumbled for good purchase
On the steep and slippery steps.
One of several close calls
When footing was precarious
And knee strength questionable.

Now here I sit
At the top of Vernal Falls instead of wedged
Between granite rocks below,
Very likely downside up.
Maybe found downriver next spring
After winter snows and spring thaws
Washed my bones free
From some temporarily safe
Resting place.

Atop the falls
The roar of the water
Coming downriver
And crashing over the precipice
Drowns out all but the
Very nearest conversations.

Lee from England
Takes my photo at the top
And promises to email.
I admire the colorful
Orange and black tennies
On an Italian teenager
And am referred to Foot Locker in San Francisco
Then recommended to visit the Dolomites
When next in Italy.

I assure Martha that
This is my ending point
So she heads on up the mountain
While I chat with Lee.

Now, after an hour of rest,
Chats, and snacks,
Maybe I’ll continue on up.

Just for a bit.
See how far I get.

Doris Tuck
June, 2008

Fear

You can fantasize all sorts of outrageous situations
where you will stand strong and face danger,
usually in a situation where that is your only choice.

But when fear creeps up behind you
and slips its tiny, cancerous tendrils into the edges of your awareness,

Justification of cowardice, which you call the only sensible response,
seems so reasonable.

Yet when moments of strength called truth
flash into your awareness

The often unnamed stubbornness
which serves as support for the strength you have not named

Brings to your awareness the power of your being.

And you stand a little taller.

Doris Tuck
2002

This poem was written in 2008 for Almaden Cycle Touring Club as they helped to build some 2000 new bicycles for Turning Wheels for Kids to give to needy kids in Santa Clara Valley.

Turning Wheels

I wonder if
Any of the kids who received a bike
Felt as blessed
As those 300 plus
Who assembled those 1000 plus
Bikes on this weekend before Christmas.

Turning Over…

…a brand new bike
To a kid who may not know
   where he will sleep tonight,
Or who will be near her
    for comfort or support.

Turning Minds…

…to bring a community together
Bringing new attitudes
   to mature minds,
Bringing new maturity
   to attitudes in adjustment,
Bringing smile with a special glow
   to those 300 plus
Who received a greater blessing 

  than the 1000 kids who got bikes.

Turning Kids’…

…surprise to disbelief
   and back to surprise
As they forget the amazement
   of the wonderful gift
And turn to ride!
    And ride!!
       And ride!!

Turning Wheels…

…cranking down the road…

But what is this?
A new rider caught sans helmet?

Ah, well…
Another attitude to adjust,
A new responsibility to teach,
Increasing the value of the gift.

Turning Days…

…turn to
   pride in a job well done
   relief that the ambitious project is over
Then turn to
   the emptiness at the end of busyness,
As they turn and realize
   they are ready to do it again.

Turning Around…

…perhaps, the young life
Whose direction
    is not yet set,
Whose confidence level
   is still fragile.
But whose joy
   is unabashed
In hir new state of bicycle ownership.

Habiba Smiles

Always a warm smile
A gentle and loving touch
if you look like you need one.
She was my friend,
and she was truly

Beloved.

Sitting at the computer
In the morning when I arrive,
Tap on the window as I pass,
  good morning wave,
She looks up and smiles.

After workout we meet again
in line for Senior yoga.
Good morning hug, a little chat,
Enjoy each other’s energy.

Passing the computers another day,
No Habiba.
Did she perhaps need a ride,
I should have called.

Another morning,
no Habiba.
Oh, dear, maybe sick.

I finally ask.

Not sick,
She has left us.
She is gone,
and I feel sad.

She was my friend.
I miss her morning smiles.

Beloved smiles.

Doris Tuck
April, 2012

These next two poems are about our journey with Herbie through his medical procedures to prolong and improve his life.

Unexplored Territory

It’s been an interesting several years,
watching the deterioration
Often with sorrowful sadness,
Just as often with sorrowful disgust.

I see him not butter the bread,
but eat three helpings of potatoes;
Not eat meat,
but eat until the serving bowls are empty.

Except for the salad bowl,
which “does not fill me up”
While I look at the belly,
stretched tight and growing.

I watched him try to energize interest
in the exercise so energetically preached by Roger,
The attempts to ride a bicycle a few blocks
and the excuses that he could not ride as the dog might trip him.

I watched the movements slow,
the arrival of the cane,
finding him standing at our door,
panting,
from the walk across the street from his car.

And I watched the belly grow
and I watched the movement slow
and I watched the plates empty
and I heard the speech lose interest.

We waited for the arrival
of the computer he wants Kate to fix.
We hear the voice answering the phone out of sleep,
so weak and far away,
in the middle of the day...
in the afternoon...
in the evening...

and he never arrived with the computer.

For three days.

We waited doubtfully for him to arrive
alive
at the appointed time of the procedure
that might restore some life to his damaged heart.

Or end life in his heart.

We wait, and worry, and listen to the sleepy voice
from oh, so far away, not wanting to waken.

And the days ticked down—only 5 or 6 of them
but each with a voice more feeble than the previous.
And we questioned, without voicing except in our hearts,
his arrival at that appointed time
alive.

Then phone calls from his daughter-in-law and his wife,
claiming success.

And we were glad,
but still we wondered...

Then the message the next morning
in a strong and cheerful voice
“Only the good die young,
I’m still here.”

An hour later
not satisfied with the message machine,
a second call
“I need to go up and check the boat.”

And while cheerfulness is not his style,
for him,
to us,
his voice was cheery.

Another hour,
a third call,
And I apologize,

No flowers in ICU, no contraband food,
How about a book?

And the simple response,
“Just come.”

And we did.
And we are glad that he has been given time,
energy,
and breath,
to continue his journey with us yet awhile.

And life is good.

And someone told me,
just this morning,
that joy is unexplored territory.

And though I know she meant writing about it,
We have taken a little journey through it today.

April 13, 2003
Doris Lea Tuck

Continuing the Watch

Sunday midmorning, surprise call,
Meet for lunch after church,
Much laughter, so fun.

But doubts never far
From mind and heart, Fear
Always hovering nearby.

Where will it end?
When will there be healing?
Or, finally, release?

Is a solemn send-off
And a feeling of failure
To be the outcome

Of this long journey,
Shared by family and friends,
Watched with love and doubts?

But fear is not helpful.
Prayers at least lend
Positive energy.

Friday Evening

And so we dodged the proverbial bullet.
At least in part.
We’ve yet to know what’s left to find

In this mind, this brain
That’s had so many assaults
And insults to its dignity.

And yet, there is hope.
And so we pray.
And we worry.

And we hope.

Sunday Evening

It would seem the prayers,
To the Christian God,
And the God that was before

To the Goddess I know,
Through the Pagan spells,
The Earth-based Respect for all life,
Have had the desired effect.

The mind is there,
Working nicely, thank you.
And with that matter settled,

The body will heal
And he’ll be, once more, on his way
Continuing the journey

Of this life, where e’er it leads,
With heart and mind intact.
Not bad.  Not bad at all.

As we follow our hearts
Into gratitude.
What e’er the tradition,

What e’er Your name,
Who e’er You be...
Father-Mother God,

Dear Goddess,
Saints and Sages of all time...
Thank you.

Doris Tuck
January, 2006

Almost a Hug

For all mothers and grandmothers and others who love an autistic child

Beautiful, that little face
with no voice.
But the mind is working,
The face shows that,
Thinking and considering.

Clearly, not within her comfort zone.

Not an easy decision.
Not an easy process.

She appears to ignore,
But the face belies,

And when I am not noticing,
She comes near.
I notice that.

But it’s not near enough
to be commitment.

As she circles the room,
slowly,
circling back,
gradually coming nearer…

Then she is next to me,
Leaning in,
She is right here, with me.

As my arms reach
She flees.

But she came near,
She leaned in…

I was honored.

Doris Tuck
September, 2013

She’s in the Army Now

Leaving behind husband
and daughters
to try to bring more life
to her life and to theirs

She has marched into
cold morning at 4am
suffered bruises and blisters
and being forever hungry

But the pride out shines
and out performs
all of the struggles
and physical problems

She’s in the Army Now

Older by far at 31
than her platoon mates
she finds herself Platoon Mom
and enjoying it

Even though annoyance might stir
at some of the immature games
she remembers playing with
as a teen

Yet she holds her beloved position
with grace and candor
maybe at times just a little bit
of snarky impatience.

She’s in the Army Now

And loving it

PFC Dersham, Tamsin

Doris Tuck
February, 2014

For Wayne

Another one of “our kids” gone.

It hurts.

But watching the suffering
and even more,
the indignities of his situation,
hurt, too.

We can only be glad
for his release and rest.

We have known for long
that it would come to this.
But it seems not yet time.
Going before
all the parents in your life
seems not right.

Especially for all those parents left behind.

Many blessings on your new journey.

Love from one of your “other moms”

And as Deana whispered on the phone
into your silent ear…

“See you there.”

So gentle a boy

Grew into

So gentle a man

Easy to tease and forgiving easily

Comfortable companion to a hurting friend

My first date, my first Love

I will miss you till I see you again