“Defense Mechanisms”

Defend and Protect at all costs    

bury unpleasant thoughts and feelings under, down, below    

refuse to accept reality    

deny, deny, deny    

change existence and rewrite your life    

fabricate your lies until they morph into your new reality    

regress or act out    

childishly punch the wall of your frustration    

disconnect from your follies    

forget, forget, forget    

place each dissonant thought into a strongbox    

locked away even from yourself    

project your pettiness and bitterness onto the wholesome    

react in opposition with your infantile impulses    

blockade your imperfections behind fantasy    

beat your spouse, kick the dog—never harm yourself    

Defend and Protect at all costs    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Autopilot”

         A few days ago, I drove from our home to the Forum to make a Best Buy run. I swung by Paul’s house to bring him along for some window shopping. Before I knew it, I pulled the hybrid into the parking lot at the shopping center, shut off the ignition, and hopped blithely out of the car. After a few steps, I paused. I turned back to look at the car, at the traffic backed upon on the highway, and felt a shudder tremble through me because I couldn’t remember driving the familiar route. So engrossed in conversation, so focused upon my final destination, I had absolutely no recall of maneuvering from point A to point B. I hate it when I put myself on autopilot and always feel fortunate that I arrive at my destination safely.

         All of us slip into this nearly hypnotic state occasionally. In my favorite “husband story” I enjoy recounting David’s diligence as a young father. He changed an equal number of diapers, got up every other night for night changes and feedings, and tirelessly rocked Paul through numerous ear infections for two years. David quickly developed an evening routine to help smooth out our mornings. Every night, he boiled the baby bottles and carefully measured and mixed the formula. This drill became one he did effortlessly day after day. Each morning, I’d prepare Paul’s baby bag for his day with our sitter. I’d load in his favorite toys, extra clothing, a ton of diapers (we used fabric), and of course the bottles prepared the previous night. Imagine my irritation one morning when I discovered no bottles in the fridge! My tone of voice went beyond vexed and into total frustration because I relied upon David to do his chores the previous evening. As I ranted and raved, he defended himself, insisting that he had prepared the bottles. To this day I remember his total look of bafflement when he searched the fridge for formula. He began randomly opening various cabinets, and eventually discovered the bottles lined in precise rows in the pantry!

         I haven’t the ability to hide my tendency to move onto autopilot. The entire neighborhood knows that I slip into this gray and fuzzy area. Fortunately, my neighbors graciously close and lock the car doors that I leave wide open. Sometimes they even bring in that last bag of potatoes left sitting in the back. Recently, I put the dogs out back in order to take Mom out the front. I have to prop open the front door to wheel her down the ramp. I loaded Mom into the car, swung her wheelchair into the back of the station wagon, double checked her seatbelt, and proceeded to drive away. When we returned two hours later, I stood in shocked amazement to find the front door propped wide open. I’d forgotten to even close it!

         I’d like to rationalize and say that I have such an active life that I go into my autopilot mode as compensation. I’d like to offer excuses for my absentmindedness that would make me seem less flighty. I spend quite a bit of time thinking, thinking, thinking—about the next story, a previous story, a new “what if” scenario, a poetic line, a flitting piece of imagination that grabs my attention and won’t let hold. Creative minds just forget little details like putting away baby bottles or closing doors. However, I’m certain the reasons I go on autopilot run to the mundane—fatigue, inattentiveness, or age. I wonder, though, how many other people suffer from this same quirk?  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Cottage"

Cottage on Inisheer, one of the Aran Islands, Ireland September 2010   

Whitewashed walls tinged rose by sunrise’s blush   

sashes—a splash of sky   

new thatch mixes with dew’s perfume   

while flowers and ferns embroider the path of home       

Door opens with smiles and cheer       

Enter!       

Enter!       

Peat banked in the hearth       

black pot nestles in amber embers simmering Guinness stew         

Lace daintily drips from the table        

—tatted by Grams’ steady hands       

Oatcakes totter on a platter       

sheep’s cheese, churned butter, honey, cream       

and tea brewed black—a midnight sky swirling with galaxies        

From the loft flows the fiddle’s enchantment        

a boy’s toe tapping, keeping the beat        

drowning out the past’s lament        

tears of yesteryear hidden in another song        

Cottage at Bunratty Castle

Share a pint   

Share a verse   

Share our life     

Welcome home!   

Welcome home.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Cottage at Bunratty Castle

During our entire trip through
 Ireland, a place I'd never visited before, I felt as though I was returning home.

Cottage on Inisheer

"The Mother"

"Nature Unveiled" by David Chapman   

Spirit of the earth   

nurture and comfort me   

cradle me within your open arms   

succor my hunger with your hope   

slake my thirsty psyche with new visions of our past   

celebrate the sun’s journey   

sing of the moon’s wax and wane   

pull me into your sacred circle   

ease my isolation by weaving me with gossamer     

to your core   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Rope of Love”

My hands grasp it   
               rough and coarse   
               prickling against my fingers   
I test its strength   
               tugging hard   
               yanking it this way and that   
Tentatively, I test my weight   
               Will it bear me?   
               Will it hold me up?   
               Will it carry me   
                     across the chasms   
                     over the ridges   
                     through thundering rivers?   
I examine it carefully   
               searching for flaws   
               weaknesses in its entwined strands   
Winding upon itself      
               enwrapping my fingers   
               enveloping my hand   
I trust it   
               swinging over the unknown   
               over the pit of my insecurities   
It gouges my hands   
               rubs me raw and blistered   
               as I swing   
It bears me   
               holds me   
                    carries me   
               even as it hurts me   
I don’t let go   
               and the pain lessens   
               my feet touch the ground   
I unwind it from my hand   
               my shaking fingers   
               smoothing against its heat   
I untie it   
               bind it loosely around me   
               feel its weight   
Its rough and coarse hairs   
               tickle my cheek   
               and I smile   
                     in safety   
                     in security   
                     in satisfaction   

Copyright 1995 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman