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Good News

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 4, 2021 category Uncategorized

There are signs that precede good news.

Today is Easter, and what better way to bring in the day than at the park with Ivy, watching the sun rise over the river. The universe had other ideas.

We arrived too early, for one thing. I walked; Ivy ran. I constructed sentences in my head; she sought out deer scat. I looked to the sky, then to my phone to see the time. The sun should have been up by now. We continued to wait, Ivy chewing sticks, me imagining them in our fire pit.

There are sounds that precede good news. The whistle of a train, the rat-a-tat of a woodpecker, the ringing of a church bell. There are sounds that seem to start too soon: the cry of the robin while the sky is still dark.

The sky began to lighten, and yet there was no breakthrough. I felt anticipation, contemplation, aggravation. I’m not good at waiting. Realizing the clouds were preventing my Easter sunrise, we headed for home, past the blushing tulip tree, the lemon-yellow forsythia, the purple-and-green-tipped hosta. None were in their complete fullness, and yet they shone.

Perhaps the clouds tempered the fullness of my sunrise. Perhaps fullness is not what I anticipated. Good news comes in all forms.

Spring Through the Lens

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 20, 2021 category Uncategorized

My fingers tingle after this morning’s walk in the 31-degree temperature. It’s the first day of spring, and my anticipation of warmer weather did not meet the reality. Ivy and I set off toward the park this morning. I wanted to see the sunrise.

We started through the neighborhood toward River Road. The robins were busy and boisterous. We entered the park detouring into the assisted living facility where I hope Ivy and I will visit one day. The grounds are meticulously kept; the fountain in the retention pond greets us in an array of droplets. There were no ducks there today.

At the end of the walkway, we turn and I give Ivy a treat. We leave the grounds of the facility, past the signs that thank the essential workers for their heroism, and make a left into the park. It is more gritty than the facility. Sticks litter the ground and I anticipate returning to collect them for a fire pit. Trash from weekend soccer games litter the area. Cigarette butts from the heroes are strewn at the grass’s edge.

We are not deterred, and after reminders to Ivy that we don’t eat that, we proceed toward the river. We do not reach the river. There is an interstate highway that separates us, but we still take in its majesty. We observe the red gathering at the water’s edge. There is still time.

I allow Ivy to run freely inside the fenced baseball field. I call her back occasionally and give her a treat. The last time she returns, I attach the leash and we leave the field. It’s almost time for the sunrise.

We walk to the hill, the river to our backs. I keep turning around in order not to miss the orb seemingly rise from the water. It never fails. I always seem to miss that moment. There it was, already partially risen. Still magnificent. I am not disappointed.

Ivy and I position ourselves so that we are looking directly east, directly into the magnificence of the promise that the sun will rise each morning. I am aware of the raucous cries of robins; of the banging of the hungry woodpeckers; of what stands between me and the sun at that moment: the bare branches of trees; the space between two apartment buildings; the cyclone fence of the baseball field. But, none of it deters the glory of the sunrise.

I am reminded of the lens through which I see the world, of the lens through which we all see it. Someone on the other side of the river saw that same sunrise in a different way, and yet it was still the same sunrise.

Upon returning home, I noticed a single impatien popping its head through the soil of last year’s pot on my front stoop. It is still a living promise, though it shares the space with dried-out, (dead, perhaps) plants. It is not always the setting that declares the beauty. Or, perhaps it is.

Accept

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 16, 2021 category Uncategorized

Lent used to signify sacrifice. When I was a girl, I gave up hot chocolate. I longed for Easter morning when I could once again taste the creamy goodness of warmed milk and powdered chocolate. As I grew older I considered doing something nice for those 40 days beginning on Ash Wednesday. Maybe I could write in a gratitude journal or reach out to people I hadn’t spoken with in a while. Maybe give up cursing. Still later, I did nothing, considering the act of intentional sacrifice a waste of time, particularly if one’s heart was not in it.

This year I listened to an interview with Father Richard Rohr. Near the end of the podcast, he was asked what he was giving up for Lent. I listened. Then I played it again. And, again. These are my notes:

“Accept

Accept the little humiliations, the little disappointments that come your way every day.

Accept the little moments of lack of comfort, the times you don’t get your way.

All day, it’s a letting go of the comforts, the consolations, the lack of respect.

Learn to love that; Jesus did.

Accept the limitations (no dessert).

If you set out to heroically deny yourself that dessert, there is not a place for it.

Hidden heroism is hidden ego.

Instead, ‘I’m very happy.’ Accept.”

So, for Lent, and for every day, my goal is acceptance. I may not achieve that goal—likely, I will not. But, I will see it as an opportunity. And, I will try, fail, and sometimes succeed.

One Year Later

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 8, 2021 category Uncategorized

We’re quickly approaching the one-year-anniversary of our world standing still. A year since the Utah Jazz basketball player, Rudy Gobert, touched the microphones in a mock attempt at humor, then came down with the virus, and the NBA suspended play.

A year since Rockland’s school closed down for “two weeks”. A year since my husband was sent home to work from a makeshift desk in our basement where he could spread out for a couple of weeks, a month, the summer, the rest of 2020. He remains home a year later, and while he still has a job, his company will be selling the building—it turns out they can save money having their employees work from home. And, thus, our down-sized home has become a little closer, a little louder, a little less cozy.

He went into the building to clear out his desk on Friday. He looked at his large desk calendar marked with activity—up until March 20. He said if that calendar were to be found years from now, people would say, “Oh, that’s when the pandemic hit.”

This week, my therapy dog, Ivy, and I will be visiting an elementary school where I once taught, and up until a year ago, still returned after school to tutor students. I haven’t been in the building in nearly a year. I have students I’ve never met in person; I simply know them from the neck up because that’s all I can see of them over Zoom.

Anniversaries can be hard. This one especially. As I consider the loss, I am reminded of what got me through: hikes with Angela and Rockland; Songs from Home videos by Mary Chapin Carpenter; brown butter caramel lattes at the Scission Coffee (now Sleeping Bird Coffee) truck; neighborhood walks with Ivy; take-out from local restaurants in an effort to be supportive, and receiving our food in brown paper bags on which the staff wrote our names and thanked us for remembering them; weekly visits with my mom when it was safe to travel back to New Jersey; puzzles; books; coffee with my son, Joey; flowers; birds.

I look forward to being on the other side of this, to the day when I can invite friends to my table again. And, in the process, I hope to remember the value of the little things that brought me life this year. For my people. And, for their smiles.

I Feel, I Wait

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 20, 2021 category Uncategorized

A gentle sense of malaise has set in over the past few days. At first on the surface, it has now begun to seep like melted snow into thick winter grass. I look for its origin, for in the finding, I can hope to resolve it.

This uneasiness is not easily identified. It is hidden, but its effects are plain. I consider what is around me: the ongoing pandemic, the suffering of a dear friend, the deaths of three significant adults from my childhood and young adult years. Any of these could produce sadness as I mourn with those who mourn.

And, yet. there is something about this feeling that has life of its own, as though it is fueled by the very air around me. I sense it in posts I’ve seen on social media. I hear it in public service announcements. There is a tugging in this season, an awareness that something is just not right.

Yes, this, too, shall pass. But, for now, I will sit with it. And, acknowledge it. And, wait.

The Earring (and why knowing math is helpful)

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 13, 2020 category Uncategorized

Earrings have become a signature look for me. They make a statement without my saying a word. I am particularly fond of large earrings with pops of color, shiny glimmers, sudden movements.

I recently purchased a pair of medium-sized hoops with a small shell dangling from the bottom. And, then I tried putting them on.

Most earrings are post-based; you put the straight end through the front side of the ear lobe and attach the earring back from behind to hold it in place. In others, there is a clasp that unites to keep the earring from slipping back out of the ear. Most are obvious—except for the ones I purchased at a little hippy shop in Ocean City, New Jersey.

They seemed simple enough, attached to the packaging. I got them home and decided to try them on. That’s when the fun stopped. The part of the earring that would normally enter the piercing was pointing toward the ceiling. Hmm. Should I bend it back to have it face my ear lobe? Do I put them on from the back and twist the other part of the earring around in order for the two parts to meet? Neither seemed like a reasonable option. For a moment I considered the fact that I had purchased a bracelet instead of hoop earrings. I tried it around my wrist but thought them too delicate to have been created for that purpose. I concluded that they were made incorrectly and I was going to have to return to that cool little shop and ask for a refund (or at the very least, a tutorial on how to put the darned things in my ears).

I continued to ponder when something came over me. Was it possible there was another way, a way I had not considered? I stared at that delicate earring with the post pointing straight up. And, then it hit me. What if I rotated the earring a quarter turn so that the pointed end was facing my ear? Eureka! I turned. I stuck. I turned it again so the point was now facing up once again, and attached the loop over top to keep the earring secure. The little shell naturally moved to the bottom where it was free to dangle, and all was right with the world.

It may have seemed obvious to someone else, but not to me, I had never considered another way of looking at this problem. Naturally, my thoughts went back to math and the students I’ve been teaching the last few years. The method by which they learn is not focused on the answer as much as the process. They are asked to consider new methods of solving; taught to manipulate, rotate, and come to reasonable conclusions.

One of my students answered a word problem that involved the elapsed time between 7:15 and 8:05. She and I both came to the same conclusion: the elapsed time was 50 minutes. But, we solved the problem in two separate ways. I knew there was 45 minutes between 7:15 and 8:00, and added on 5 more minutes to get 50; she knew there was an hour between 7:15 and 8:15 (60 minutes) and subtracted 10 minutes (to get to 8:05) and got an answer of 50 minutes.

The lesson? There is more than one way to solve a problem—be it for determining elapsed time or getting earrings in one’s ears.

Boomer Buying Coffee

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jun 15, 2020 category Uncategorized

The sky was gray, the streets crowded, and the wind biting. She shifted her briefcase from one shoulder to the other in an effort to distribute the weight perpetrated by her math books and student folders; two white boards and dry-erase markers; a Square by Square Creative Pattern Game; and a pencil case neatly-filled with an eraser, pencil sharpener, yellow highlighter, and four No. 2 pencils. She had 45 minutes before her next tutoring session and scouted the block looking for a suitable place to set down her bag and rest. She scanned the storefronts and after dodging people who didn’t know enough to look where they were going, she chose to duck into a cafe for a warm drink and perhaps, if she were lucky, a creamy cheese danish.

She wrestled with the heavy wooden door, pushing instead of pulling, and finally entered what appeared to be a conglomeration of airport waiting lounge and modern furniture store showroom. The noticeably warmer temperature fogged her glasses causing her to put down her briefcase to search her pocketbook for an optical lens cleaning cloth—a harsh napkin wouldn’t do. Once she’d wiped her glasses enough to view her surroundings, she surveyed the room looking for where she could place her order.

She attempted to locate a cashier but saw nothing resembling a register behind which to find one. There was what appeared to be a wooden bar which made her wonder if she’d walked into a tavern. Nevertheless, she observed patrons sipping out of white ceramic cups and knew she must be in the right place.

The noise belied the mood the music attempted to portray. Lightly-plucked guitar strings and James Taylor-sounding lyrics were overcome by whistling machines, clanking cups, and banging silver baskets with long black handles. Hoards of young adults occupied long tables, little white buttons in their ears, staring at computers and cellular phones. Some spoke with loud voices in order to be heard. Others, quiet in their thoughts, leaned into comfortable couches, legs crossed, heads tilted. She suddenly felt old and conspicuous, tucking strands of unruly salt and pepper hair behind her ears.

“What can I get started for you?”

She didn’t hear the woman calling to her from behind the large silver machine across which letters spelled out “La Marzocco”. She had, instead, been staring at a mural occupying the back wall, reminiscent of graffiti she’d seen painted on train cars in other parts of the city, though here, matched with the wood and steel decor, created a particularly soothing ambiance. Struck by the dichotomy of attempted mood and boisterous reality, she sensed a clash of generations similar to “Game of Thrones” meets “I Dream of Jeannie”.

“M’am?”

She realized someone was addressing her; standing on tiptoes, she leaned across the stainless steel counter in order to see a young lady staring back. Her dark hair fell just below her ears, and her bangs, cut straight across her forehead, left lots of room for eyebrows. She was wearing a read knit top with sleeves rolled up just below her elbows. Her black pants were tight-fitting, cuffed enough to show a thick sock above black ankle-high boots. Her red lipstick set off a mouthful of very white teeth.

“Hello. I’m so sorry, I was distracted. May I have a cup of coffee, please?”

Wiping the wand of her machine with one hand, the young woman handed her a menu with the other. Ringed with brown stains, it had apparently been glued to a thin cutting board.

Espresso.

Pour Over.

Gesha Village, Surma Plot, Lot 68, Ethiopia.

Finca Porvenir, Colombia.

Jeronimo Chambe Taype, Peru.

Single origins.

Blends.

Farms.

Farmers.

Delicate acidity.

Where was the coffee?

The menu read like a movie poster for a foreign film. She pointed to one name in an effort to appear knowledgeable.

“Oh, good choice. That’s literally my favorite. It’s a single origin from Peru with pecan, cherry, and hibiscus notes.”

Notes?

“Do you like bright notes, or do you prefer something more nutty or chocolately?”

She listened to the young woman, her eyes enlarging behind her heavy-framed glasses.

Chocolate!

“Yes, that.”

A line had begun to grow behind and around her. Young men in dark jeans and flannel shirts. Work boots. Beards everywhere. A bike helmet. Backpacks.

“May I have that with cream, no sugar.”

“Sure, we have half & half, whole milk, and a number of alternative options.”

“Alternative options?”

“Non-dairy: almond, soy, cashew, goat, oat…”

“Uh, half & half will be fine.”

“Will you be enjoying that here or taking it to go?”

Definitely to go.

“To go, please.”

The young lady ground the beans and poured them into a white filter placed inside a glass carafe set atop a thin black scale, and ever-so-slowly added water from the narrow spout of a kettle. She stopped, then started, methodically and meticulously preparing the drink until the golden brown liquid began to funnel into the bottom.

She was taken with the care the young woman took in preparing the coffee. After removing the funnel which now contained wet grounds, she held the carafe at eye-level and gently agitated it like the barrel of a washing machine. She poured the liquid into a white paper cup, leaving room for cream.

Looking at her watch, she realized she needed to leave in order to get to her next student on time. She quickly pulled a five-dollar-bill from her wallet and prepared to hand it to the young lady.

The server slid the cup across the counter and announced, “Here you are, ma’am. That’ll be $8.50.”

Yikes. And, please don’t call me ma’am!

My Challenge

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jun 7, 2020 category Uncategorized

I am challenged today
by the struggle to make room
for the man who died by the knee
and by the one whose knee caused his death.

I am challenged today
by the beauty of the protests, the signs of lament,
the cries of long, long years
and by broken glass and tear gas and wounded innocents.

I am challenged today
by months of isolation and fear,
distancing and lack of connection
and by disregard for the vulnerable who must
sit by and watch the beaches fill and the streets come alive.

I am challenged today
by the voices that share the events of this world,
the dualistic me-vs-them in each scenario
and by the ones who kneel in quiet contemplation,
praying for peace and unity and change.

I am challenged today
by the noise, the clatter, the bumps
and bruises
and by the sound of birds and the gentle sway of the
trees as they continue to grow despite it all.

I am challenged today
by the attempt to make room
for both the loud and the soft,
the thump and the gentle touch
and that to feel my heart still, I must
also feel the agony of discontent.

Sounds of a Pandemic

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 24, 2020 category Uncategorized

Sounds of a pandemic

dogs barking
sirens blaring
starlings squawking
dishes clanking

refrigerator humming
neighbors conversing
hammers banging
vacuums whirring

lawn mowers
leaf blowers
chain saws
large cars

one stops
another starts
harmonious chaos
no slowing

clamor
clatter
uproar
racket

pause, I pray
silence, come

heart racing
no escaping

people walking
dogs barking

Conversations

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 9, 2020 category Uncategorized

Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of Roger’s death. I use the word “death” intentionally because it highlights the significance of his loss.

This week, my nearly-five-year-old grandson asked, “So, why did Roger die again?” I explained that he had cancer, but quickly moved to, “He was old. His body was tired. So, he died and went to heaven.”

He responded about his nine-year-old dog: “Her body will get tired and die, too. And, she’ll go straight up to heaven.”

Yes, she will. Hopefully not for a while, but yes, your dog will die.

In the next breath, he showed me his toys; he ran, laughed, moved, ran some more.

We filled his bubble-gun and he quickly emptied it. I taught him to play hop-scotch and he changed all the rules. We played baseball, had snacks, and sat in the sun on the driveway, watching the chickadee fly in and out of the bird house by his front window.

The boy has the innate ability to be in the moment, think big thoughts, and appreciate the world as it is. He speaks about his five-year-old birthday, what we’ll do, who will attend. Aware of the current condition, he adds, “after the virus.”

I learn that more than one thing can be true at the same time.