“Two Protons”

How did Shakespeare do it? He wrote an entire play (maybe more than one) in iambic pentameter – defined as a poem featuring five feet (or “iambs”) per line. An iamb is two or three syllables with emphasis on the second or third syllable, i.e., “two households, both alike in dignity.” A two-syllable word can be a single iamb, i.e. “alike”, because the emphasis is on syllable number two.

I know. If you’re not a poetry geek – and I’m not – who cares? I am, however, a Shakespeare fan and enough of a word geek to look at Will’s genius and see it as something within my ability to emulate. I mean, five beats per line. How hard can it be?

Harder than it looks, that’s for sure! I wasn’t aiming for a full-length play, either; just a poem. A simple verse that doesn’t even rhyme! My natural rhythm is four iambs per line. Creating space for that fifth beat just about did me in. In fact, this grandiose notion occurred almost a year ago. It slipped off my radar when it proved more difficult than I’d expected and less complex things distracted me from the challenge. It resurfaced last week, when I decided to resume drafting blog posts during my lunch break. I blew the dust off my office “blog log”, took it to my not-normal café, ordered a chocolate chai with extra foam, opened the journal’s cover, and a piece of paper – well-scribbled upon – fell onto the table. Oh, ye gods, I thought, my nod to Shakespeare!

Upon revisiting my effort, I decided it wasn’t that bad. It was, in fact, pretty good, and so my chocolate chai sat cooling by my elbow as I spent the next half-hour counting syllables and rearranging iambs into something loosely resembling a Shakespearean-style verse.

And so, with apologies to the Bard and no further ado, I humbly present my minuscule ode to soul sistah Ter, who is always my better half.

Enjoy!

* * *

Two protons, mirrored in identity,

being sprung from a singular atom, when split and parted

do remain connected as if by a force unseen,

unknown yet known by far better than each knows itself.

For home and home exist with these particles.

’Cross stars and space, identical response is prov’n.

Though dust and dark matter conspire to confound, the bond

Ne’er breaks nor weakens. Twin parts of one whole, space is

an illusion, and real for one is as much for the other.

It’s a Tapsalteerie World

My parents would occasionally ask me if I kent what a particular word or phrase means in the Scottish vernacular. Having been raised by a pair of Fife accents, I consider myself fairly familiar with the day to day lingo, and much of what I grew up hearing is now part of my own patter. Hence I was often able to respond with the correct definition. “Peelie-wally”, for instance, was how Mum once described the maraschino cherry in a tin of fruit cocktail, so when they tried it on me some years ago, my answer came easily. “It means puny and pathetic.”

According to my copy of The Pocket Guide to Scottish Words, it actually means “pale and ill-looking”, which is close enough.

A couple of years ago, one of them (I don’t remember which, but they were both present and smiling) asked me, “Do you know of ‘tapsalteerie’?”

I had to stop laughing before I answered. “No, that’s a new one!”

“What do ye think it means?”

I didn’t have to think for long. Sounding it out first, I took a stab with, “Topsy-turvy?”

Bingo! It means upside down, in a muddle, and confusion.

It also describes my world of late. My dear mother was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer shortly after my June 10 post and on the 29^th ... well, the world went tapsalteerie.

It’s righting itself one step at a time – closer to two steps forward and one back, really – but eight weeks on, there is progress... I think. It’s a process, right? The spiritual being having a human experience? Well, shoot. What is more human than birth and death? I’ve just been lucky to avoid dealing directly with the latter until a couple of months ago. I had hoped, perhaps with some hubris, that my belief in the Big Picture would have eased the grief of mortality. Colour me humbled. Despite my unshakeable faith that she is safe, loved, and more available to me now than she ever was in the flesh, the vacuum of Mum’s absence from this world still sucks out loud. I haven’t cried so much since forever.

She left orders that I neither weep nor wail, to which I confess, “So much for that!” None of it at CR, though. This not the place—but if anything I learn as a result of wading through what seems an insurmountable loss can help somebody else, it’s worth sharing. I began this blog four months before my mother knew about it, and while she may have been my greatest fan (not to mention a quarter of my audience), my quest for enlightenment and creative expression must continue for as long as I am here. It’s my journey, after all. I’m so grateful she was with me for the greater part of it. She taught me to be wonderful. She let me be myself, yet she lent me traits so reminiscent of her that the best compliment I can receive is, “You’re just like your mother.” Whether or not she understood or agreed with me, she read every post on this darned blog and took pride in my gift with the written word. She was exactly what I needed. She was the best.

It’s a tapsalteerie world without her, but I’ll get used to it in time.

Thanks, Mum.

With love,