When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
Here’s a new one: I feel good. I still hate myself in that essential artificial log glow way. Yes, the house of cards is a mild breeze away. Yes, the thrum of poetry I used to feel could fill a thimble. Yes, my boots are near collapse, my skin flaking. Do you ever as a writer get a break from fucking yourself in the head. Can you remember dancing in a Quebec disco, your body breaking for the first time. A doctor speaking gently? A pregnant woman on the subway so depressed you could weep for the fabric stretched taut across her body. Now, feel this. Your desk is your temple. Your mind is on fire. Forgiveness rests her gentle hand on your warm forehead. This is your time.
What could you fit in a thimble?
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Betsy Lerner 
My self respect, my self control, my self discipline. Basically anything relating to my sense of self.
a multitude of worlds
And this is why I love you, Tetman.
my nest egg
My will is beginning to atrophy. Failure of spirit hits me at odd times. Menopause? Depression? Dunno. My times of feeling good, feeling destined, feeling like the best is yet to come, are slowing to a trickle.
Years from now I want to be the graceful elderly woman impeccably groomed who takes a hand in both of hers at the symphony, Such a pleasure to see you again! But, alas, at this rate I’ll be the frizzy-haired crazy woman on the bus petting her own wrists in somatic self-soothe.
Oh man, I pray every day I end up the frizzy-haired crazy woman. I’m almost there. Can’t imagine being old and impeccably groomed and mannered. Further.
I just want to look like Diane Keaton. What IS that woman’s secret!!?
I have a sterling silver turtle about the size of my palm. It’s got pieces of turquoise around the body and one on top that opens up to reveal a small thimble sized container. To anyone else it would look empty. But it holds every story I’ve written and every one that hasn’t yet found its way on paper. I open it and I’m on fire.
Nothing.
my knowing.
i keep wanting to jump in the “leap and the net will appear” sort of way, but instead, i’m pretty sure i’m scaling up the side of a cold hard mountain, hanging on for dear life. maybe it’s not jumping i should be trying, but falling. (“just let go…”)
i’m going to go watch felix again.
Betsy, you’ve brought celebration to my dark and rain lashed seaside morning. My temple is my shed, a squirrel named Pussy Riot my nutty congregation, and I’m nailing 2000 words a day and close to the end. Bless all writers, squirrels, and agents today.
this life. But it would be a pretty thimble
My royalties.
My sanity.
My capacity for logical thought and disposable income.
I have to say this post is music to my shrinky ears especially, “I still hate myself in that essential artificial log glow way.” I’d pay you to be my therapy patient.
i think you helped my finally find my dream job–a professional therapy patient. i would be sooooooo good at that.
My respect for ideologues.
My desire to help my kids with the choosing and construction of this year’s Halloween costumes. I’d rather stick a fork up my ass.
hahahaha
Go fork yourself.
that’s funny! I mean just really damn funny! Yay!
A nightclub of demons, sending drinks and seductive smiles to the angels waltzing around the pincushion in my sewing basket.
Like it should, my finger fills the thimble. It protects me as I mend the ripped and torn around me. It guards again injury as I take in and let out the seams of my life. It’s a helmet for my middle finger as I salute my writer’s bullshit.
What I could fit in a thimble, probably with room left, is gnawing doubts about my writing. To put it one way, I just got tired of that. To put it another way, it doesn’t help.
I’m still crying over that image of the pregnant woman on the subway. I love it when your poetry shows.
I’m not thinking thimbles. I’m happy. I got my cover for my new book yesterday and I love it!
Nice! Now that’s a good day!
words and numbers that tumble through my bloodstream like molecules of medication.
Ways to get back home.
It must be celestial; I’ve been feeling pretty amazing myself these last few days. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been taking a look around my life and thinking, “You dumb shit, how about you wake up and realize that you have everything you ever wanted. Just because the new things you want aren’t here yet doesn’t mean they will not be in the very near future.” Not to stir up the haters, but I have amazing kids, a husband who is my best friend, a roof over my head and a car that works great. I am transitioning from the professional career I have (that I chose all those years ago) into the writing career that I want. PLUS, it’s fall…and I love fall.
I have no idea how long this strong serotonin wave lasts but I plan on riding it all the way to shore. I might end up marooned on a deserted island with a mouth full of sand, but let’s not worry about that just yet.
The collective intelligence of the tea party movement.
In a thimble. The little rats that rule my brain are racing on this one. They tell me trying to come up with something uber clever and sparkling here for this … well they sigh, they sigh.
Perhaps – if properly flattened and seamed- such a thimble could be transformed into a large-enough balloon that, once filled with helium, could carry me to a better place.
“Do you ever as a writer get a break from fucking yourself in the head” Is that what I’ve been doing?? *Blushes*
As for the thimble thing…my desire to keep a “real” job.
My muse, and her sharp little teeth.
I’ve been lurking for a while, reading these awesome posts. I’m halfway through a manuscript and have been away from it for a while. Now that I have the time to get back to it again, I’m fearful. These posts and comments help. Thank you.
My silly putty confidence.
…the tempest between my confidence and my caution.
This post is a work of art. Is there anywhere we can buy your book of poems, Betsy?