Photo courtesy dimitri_c

It pains an old booklover like me to think of somebody burning a book, but if you’ve gotten one for a quarter and it’s falling apart, well, maybe it’s OK as long as you might be planning to pick up a better copy. Here Ron Koertge, who lives in Pasadena, has some fun with the ashes of love poems. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

Burning the Book

The anthology of love poems I bought

for a quarter is brittle, anyway, and comes

apart when I read it.

One at a time, I throw pages on the fire

and watch smoke make its way up

and out.

I’m almost to the index when I hear

a murmuring in the street. My neighbors

are watching it snow.

I put on my blue jacket and join them.

The children stand with their mouths

open.

I can see nouns—longing, rapture, bliss—

land on every tongue, then disappear. 

The Christmas tree was just the beginning. Let me share a few more of Prudy’s recent exploits. There are only a few surfaces left that are safe from her depridations—and that will probably change as she gets older: the top of refrigerator (where we have to keep Scout’s food when she’s not actually eating it), the top of the armoire in my office (where I put fresh flowers if I have them) and so far, our dresser in the bedroom. (I’m pretty sure she could jump up on it—she just hasn’t seen any need to do so yet.)  Everywhere she goes, havoc! She loves to lie on my desk while I’m working, and her favorite way to get there is to run into the office, jump onto my rocking chair and spring onto the desk. With the following results:

She also decides it’s time to play around 11 p.m. and frequently has to be locked into the office for the night. She doesn’t seem to mind this—I hear her rolling her ball around in there, and she doesn’t start crying to get out until morning. However, she takes that time to explore the shelves and knock things over. I’ve found many of the little odds and ends I keep on my desk on the floor in front of it when I let her out in the morning. I use a docking station with my laptop so I have a better keyboard and monitor, and Prudy likes to jump on the shelf below my desk that holds my laptop, shutting the lid and turning it off, usually when I’m right in the middle of typing a sentence.

So far she’s not an especially naughty girl (knock on wood) and I know it’s only a matter of time before she’s a full-grown cat whose main activity is sleeping. I’m enjoying her loving nature, playfulness and curiosity while trying to stay one step ahead of her possible destructiveness (the silk flower arrangement from the dining room table now lives on top of the china cabinet, for example). For once, I’m not wishing away this stage, but appreciating it, pausing many times a day to play with her or pet her. (And I save my documents frequently!)

Often we (I) look forward too much, neglecting the present for the future, believing that it will somehow be better than right now. I look back at my life and see how fast it’s going, and how much time I wasted wishing I would grow up, wishing I had a husband and family, wishing my child would grow up…you see the pattern. I’m learning that appreciating the right now not only improves my experience of the present, but builds a store of warm memories, and hopefully, a happy future.

How do you appreciate the present?

Here’s a lovely poem about snow falling on San Antonio by Mo H. Saidi, an obstetrician and writer who, in addition to his medical training, has a Master’s degree in English and Literature from Harvard. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

The Night of the Snowfall

Snow falls gently in the Hill Country

covering the meadows and the valleys.

The sluggish streaks of smoke climb quietly

from the roofs but fail to reach the lazy clouds.

On Alamo Plaza in the heart of the night

and under the flood of lights, the flakes float

like frozen moths and glow like fireflies.

They drop on the blades of dormant grass.

They alight on the cobblestones and live awhile

in silence, they dissolve before dawn.

The wet limestone walls of the mission

glow proudly after the night of snowfall.

Lately I’ve been living with someone who has nothing good to say about me, who takes every opportunity to put me down and tell me I’m not good enough. In fact, she’s kind of a witch.

She’s my inner critic.

When I put pen to paper, she’s right there with “helpful” comments about how boring and bland my words are, and her most cutting criticism is that I have nothing to say. This criticism becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy and suddenly I don’t have anything to say. No words come. I sit staring at my blank page, bereft of ideas, frustrated that my writing time is slipping away with nothing to show for itself.

My inner critic has nothing constructive to say. She (my inner critic is a she) only tries to shut me down. Nothing I do is ever good enough, and I am not even close to being “good enough.” If she has good intentions, she’s going about it all wrong.

You don’t have to be a writer, artist or “creative” person to suffer from an inner critic. You may have one who trashes your appearance, athletic ability, intelligence, childrearing, housekeeping, or level of hospitality. When an area of life is important to you, you may find you have a small—or large—inner voice criticizing you. Your inner critic may try to keep you from doing what you want, or it may lash out when you’ve been human and made an error.

Frankly, I’m tired of my inner critic’s B.S. I don’t need any inner voices tearing me down. If she has nothing helpful to say, she can just shut up. I don’t let real people talk to me like that—why do I let her get away with it? Here are four things I’m doing to shut up my inner critic:

I hope you don’t have such a vicious voice living inside your head, but if you do, try one or more of the above techniques to silence her. You don’t have to put up with that!

Do you have an inner critic? How do you silence him or her?