"Morning Musings"

         It occurred to me recently that I need to live my life the way I write about it. When I sit down to blog, I have a general idea of what’s on my mind, but I never generate an outline or a formal form of preplanning. Instead, I let fancy and serendipity take control. I “wing it.”

         In my life, though, I’ve always tried to map out the route to every goal. I’ve planned my agendas with the optimistic misconception that I won’t hit a roadblock or setback that screws everything up. But chaos and life go hand-in-hand. No matter how many lists, outlines, or plans I plot, the unexpected and unpredictable plops dead center and forces quick thinking and alternate courses.

         And isn’t that the fun of life? That spontaneous event that forces us to diverge onto a new track? I wonder about all of the wondrous people and places I’d never encounter if every plan panned out safe and predictable.

The road not taken? Hmmmmm. . . maybe

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Jane Eyre—Rewrite?”

         I fell in love with Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre when Mrs. Smith, my sophomore English teacher, assigned the novel to the girls in our class (the boys read Shane). I soaked in every detail of Jane and Rochester’s romance. The twists of fate that landed Rochester in to a foolish and destructive marriage with a madwoman appealed to my teenaged heart. I identified with young Jane’s rebellious indignation. A part of me felt sorrow that discipline and firm instruction at Lowood School distilled the spunk out of youthful Jane and left her a primly proper governess who bordered on being boring. Although I understood the contrast between Jane’s purity and good heart to the madwoman in the attic, I pondered the depth of Rochester’s devotion to Jane.

         I found myself mentally rewriting a few scenes in the book, even from the very first reading. I made Jane less subservient and less timid. By the time I started teaching the novel, I imagined wonderful scenes between Rochester and Jane that—ahem, fleshed out their relationship beyond Jane pining from the security of a curtained window seat.

         In my revision, Jane doesn’t run away from Thornfield Hall at all. She never stumbles into the Rivers’ household to receive the coldly practical proposal from St. John. Instead, I visualized a wonderfully sensual scene where the prudishly proper Jane pulls Rochester into her bedroom after discovering the truth about the real Mrs. Rochester. In my version, she lives in sinful lust with the man she loves.

         I know, of course, that Jean Rhys’ The Wide Sargasso Sea delves into the passionate and youthful Rochester, but I’ve often wondered if other fans of Jane Eyre imagine different scenes and events, or if it’s just me.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Thousand Sleepless Nights”

    http://daniellefreelances.wordpress.com/2009/02/15/being-the-single-mother/   

In the dark of night,   

she rocks and hums   

her hand rubbing circles upon her baby’s back   

he hiccoughs   

tucks his small feet against her warmth   

slips into slumber   

she rocks and hums until dawn   

In the dark of night,   

she paces and frets   

her lips pressed to his forehead   

measuring his heat   

as he cries, “Mommy, make it better!”   

she stretches out next to him   

wrapping him in her love   

as she wills away his pain   

In the dark of night,   

she listens and waits   

her body tense and alert   

until the clicking of key in lock   

the signal that he’s safe   

his voice floats on moonlight, “I’m home”   

In the dark of night,   

she sits and cries   

as he unburdens his fears   

her arms ache to hold him, rock him again   

she longs to take away his pain, shelter him from harm   

In the dark of night,   

she rocks and weeps   

her hand rubbing circles over her heartbreak   

her fingers long to stroke his hair, touch his cheek   

her kiss longs to linger on his brow just one more time   

her despair flows   

endless and evermore   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Love”

Sunlight’s hot silkiness   

            dancing gracefully   

                        to wind chimes   

Bodies entwining   

            hands clenching    

                        fingers stroking   

Like cool water and soft tears       

                        Laziness   

                                    Laughter   

Finishing sentences   

            reading thoughts   

between long kisses and whispered sighs   

Copyright 1996 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Rusted Tub”





The Burren Perfumery, County Clare, Ireland--September 2010



         The Burren Perfumery snuggles at the end of a winding road used more by cattle than cars. Even at the end of the flowering season, its gardens hold delightful surprises for the idle traveler. Somehow, among the endless expanse of rock, nature takes root with riotous blossoms, feathery ferns, and ivy clinging to mortar and bark.   

          A narrow footpath takes the wanderer into sunshine standing shoulder high. To the right, the soft morning shadows shelter fern precariously clinging to stone.

           Meandering leads to an old rusted bathtub filled with blossoms and promises. I wonder about bathing in flowers and moonbeams in this mystical land.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Family’s Spin”

Smiles—   

masks worn to hide empty souls   

Hugs—   

embraces feigning loving devotion   

Laughter—   

covers of shrill condemnation and lies   

Closeness—   

disguises of endless discord   

Piety—   

prayers smugly offered for self-adulation   

 Family—   

actors preforming prescribed scripts   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“EIGHT”

Eight   

            Look at the word   

                        How do you say this word anyway?   

                                    Look at the number—   

                                                8   

                                      8   

A Mobius strip   

            Unending   

M. C. Escher

Two circles stacked   

            One   

            on   

            top   

            of   

            the   

            other   

A number of depth   

            Purple rooms   

            Playing poker   

                        Growing   

                                    lectures   

                                    radishes   

                                    corn   

                                    up   

“Mom, why can’t Paula take me swimming?”   

            Life   

                        in full color   

                                    first fetal photos   

                                                explained in one afternoon   

Eight   

            With Uncle Red   

                        and root beer   

            And collections   

                        of dogs   

                        of teapots   

                        of memories   

Layers of happiness   

            enfolded in blood   

Dad’s cheerful letters   

            from a distant war   

                        News flashes   

                                    Bombs   

                                                Destruction   

            Charlie’s lip   

                       torn away   

a bloody hand print on my thigh   

                                                8   

                        unending    

                        Wrapping back onto itself   

                                    joy and fear entwined   

Copyright 1994 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman