I have made a commitment to three things: finding time for Blue Space (beach, sky), Green Space (earth, woods), and the responses I have to poets & writers. I seek to discover the art of being.
I’m living in a warm place now, whereyou can purchase fresh blueberries allyear long. Labor free. From variouscountries in South America. They’reas sweet as any, and compared with theberries I used to pick in the fieldsoutside Provincetown, they’reenormous. But berries are berries. Theydon’t speak any language I can’tunderstand. Neither do I find ticks orsmall spiders crawling among them. So,generally speaking, I’m very satisfied.
There are limits, however. What theydon’t have is the field. The field theybelonged to and through the years Ibegan to feel I belonged to. Well,there’s life, and then there’s later.Maybe it’s myself that I miss. Thefield, and the sparrow singing at theedge of the woods. And the doe that onemorning came upon me unaware, alltense and gorgeous. She stamped her hoofas you would to any intruder. Then gaveme a long look, as if to say, Okay, youstay in your patch, I’ll stay in mine.Which is what we did. Try packing thatup, South America.
This was taken at Dixie Crossroads in Titusville by Jim’s brother Doug. We had traveled there for a little getaway, to see Doug, and go to the Kennedy Space Center on this date in 2016.
I first fell in love with rock shrimp in 1986. We had traveled to Florida from Ohio for Thanksgiving weekend with Jim’s family. One night, we all drove to Titusville just to go to Dixie Crossroads. Some kind of family tradition.
The last time I ate at the restaurant was when we visited Doug during Thanksgiving week of 2021. He was terminally ill with cirrhosis of the liver. We feasted at Dixie Crossroads, and Doug shared a lot of his shrimp with me. Despite his ill health, he was friendly to the wait staff and kept us all laughing. I remember that dinner better than the others because we knew it was the last time we’d spend time with him.
He passed in January 13, 2022.
There was never a visit to Dixie Crossroads without Doug. I don’t know if I will ever return to that restaurant, but it will forever be held in my heart as a place where family love and laughter prevailed.
I grew up in an era of political violence. I was all of 8-years-old when John Kennedy was assassinated that Friday in Dallas. The entire country was in shock, and I remember well the days that followed, the additional murder of Lee Harvey Oswald, the adult conversations, the televised funeral. Dark, dark days.
It was quiet for a while, but then came Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy in rapid succession. I was a 7th grader then, but it still made no sense.
In between all of that had been the rise of the hippie culture and the Summer of Love (1967). These things caught my attention and has never let me go. It was in the music and culture. It was part of everything. I still believe in the values I grabbed onto at age 12, and I don't see any reason to give them up. They define me now, even at age 68.
Now there has been an act of political violence once again. The target is someone I disagree with on every level. But to me violence is violence and is not warranted. It solves nothing.
I still believe love does solve everything. This is not airy-fairy because love is HARD.
Today I was reminded of a song that was out during the summer of 1969 -- "Get Together' by The Youngbloods. It begins:
Love is but a song we sing
Fear the way we die
You can make the mountains sing
Or make the angels cry...
[Listen to full song here.The boy on the bicycle in the video reminds me so much of my little brother it was freaky!]
After the era of violence and unrest in the 1960s, we ended up with a "reset" of sorts. The Youngbloods' song was the anthem for what we needed to do. That summer we had the long-awaited moon landing and three days of peace and love at Woodstock. I was entering high school.
Everything felt possible.
This country needs a reset. The sooner the better. We have never been so far off. We are running on fear and threats of violence and whats-in-it-for-me.
Worst of all, some people are united by hate. How is that a way to live? How does that contribute anything positive to the American Experiment?
In the second verse of the song, we hear:
Some may come and some may go
We will surely pass
When the one* that left us here
Comes for us at last
We are but a moment's sunlight
Fading in the grass
Life is fleeting. I'm feeling that more than ever these days. When will we get it together? Time is so short.
It is worth our time and effort to make a change.
The final verse says:
Listen
You hold the key to love and fear
All in your trembling hand
Just one key unlocks them both
It's there at your command
I believe love is possible.
I believe peace is possible.
I believe living the values of America is possible.
I believe the power is within us
At our command.
And I will never stop believing.
*The writer of the song, Chester Powell, had written the word WIND, not ONE. It was a Buddhist concept of the opposing states we live in: pleasure/pain, loss/gain, praise/blame, disrepute/fame. However, Jesse Colin Young, the leader of the Youngbloods, was Christian so he changed the lyric. You see opposing concepts in love/fear in the song.
In my summer of purging, I came across the Dragonfly notebook. This was an idea from my friend Wendy. All the students had a composition book to decorate with a variety of pictures I provided, or they found themselves. Then we covered them with contact paper. These books were sturdy and provided writing practice and lessons. I first used this in the 2014-15 school year, when my teaching load was much lighter than it would eventually become—47 students total, all struggling readers. This notebook was how I demonstrated writing poetry and short answer responses. And it went beyond that first year, as there are things dated all the way to 2017. It was my “go-to” when I wanted kids to see how I puzzled through writing or breaking down text, and sometimes it was when we did things together.
I found some poems in the book that I decided to share here. I consider this notebook a keeper, since it has a lot of easy and powerful ideas I don’t always remember to use. Below you will find some poems that were in the book, things I modeled or perhaps the class wrote together, I'm not sure. Anyway, I found them delightful, and hope you will as well.
The front
The back
*First is the poem that puzzles me as to its origin. It seems to be following a specific pattern, but I have no clue what I was modeling it after.
Inspiration surprises me
Inspiration surprises me
I am a shining star
My creativity is a guiding light
My creativity is a guiding light
in which I walk
seeking expression
like a Mozart or Van Gogh
How the paths
of the local parks
nourish, nourish
and the silent trees
nod.
Inspiration rises
between me and things
sparkling
sparkling
strong inspiration acted upon
is beautiful as sunrise
and swift with ideas
Strong inspiration dazzles
Strong inspiration dazzles
opening the mind
and heart.
*This is one I've used many times based on My Many Colored Days by Dr. Seuss.
On gold days
I feel confident
like an automobile
racing down a winding road
on the edge of a mountain.
On red days
I'm energized
like a kid bouncing
on a pogo stick
down the stairs
On purple days
I am happy
like clouds floating lazily
in the Florida sky.
* The list poem is always popular. This one made me giggle, then sigh.
List of What I Have to Say to 2nd Period Over and Over
Gerry, do you have a belt?
Terrance, you are not leaving the room
Andrew, sit down
Jamel, get your book
Jose, get back to your seat
Listen to Mrs. Buckner
Ty'ree, open your book
Christian, thank you for being on task
Yes, Zoey, you can write poetry
Yes, David, you can read poetry
I'm so glad you're here.
*And finally, a found poem from when we read The Great Wide Sea.
This is my brother-in-law Paul, who hopped in the car and drove two days to be here after my auto accident. He is currently installing two grab bars in our water closet to help keep us more secure.
Paul likes to swim in the morning, so he has been using our community pool. The first day he went, there was one other older lady up there during the time he was there.
The next day, Paul noted there were three ladies.
By yesterday, there was a cache of six to seven. Word had spread of this new, good-looking guy swimming laps in the pool. Can’t you just see the text messages flying in the hands of these ladies cell phones?
I’d love to tell these women that they’re looking at one of the funniest, hard-working, loyal, energetic, and giving individuals on the planet. I just told him I could never ever repay him for what he has done for us this week. He has made us laugh, been there every second needed, prepped food, and did housework and maintenance. All while doing his regular paid job, which included plenty of zoom meetings.
Paul is a marvel in my eyes. I will be sad when he leaves tomorrow.
But meanwhile, to the neighborhood ladies getting an eyeful…
I read David Kirby’s poem “Pictures at an Exhibition,” which has this great ending line:
Where would museums be if every picture was the same.
With all the possibilities evident in that line, I am sidestepping it for a memory his poem conjured up. In a section of his poem, Kirby was talking about the guards in museums in various way, and it caused me to remember my grandfather did that job as a retiree. He would take the bus downtown and stand around the paintings at the Columbus Museum of Art in his guard uniform. What a splendid way to spend the day, right?
His museum was the first I ever visited when I was 11-years-old. I remember some pieces of the day. It was winter. I was wearing a plaid skirt and a headband. I was wowed by art.
This is another gratitude I have for my family. Art and music and literature were important endeavors in their own right. That is something I learned on that winter day in 1967, and it definitely had an effect. I have visited many museums since.
I returned to the Columbus Museum sometime in the 1980s with my sister-in-law and niece for a special exhibit, although I don’t recall the particulars. And now I’m wondering why all my visits to Columbus since my sister has moved there has not included a trip downtown.
I poked around on the CMA website and searched through women artists. I found this piece of art to add to this blog. I wanted to connect something I might see there today.
Besides the guard, that is. That will always be my grandfather.
Today while reading Anne Lamott, I was reminded of the ladder I used to fear. It was a wooden one my dad would set up to get into the attic in our house in Cleveland. The bottom half of the ladder were regular flat steps. But the top half were round rungs. Stepping on them terrified me. I know eventually I braved the scary steps and visited the attic, but I think it took a number of years.
When we moved to the suburbs, everything in the attic went into a basement. My encounter with ladders after that was minimal.
At school I have a 3 step ladder is use on occasion. As I’ve gotten older, I usually wait until a neighboring teacher is nearby. I let her know I’m going to be on my ladder, just in case.
Aging makes you see everything differently.
In our condo, we have very high ceilings. Once a year, Jim would extend our ladder so he could replace batteries in the smoke detectors. He no longer can do that, so we hired someone to handle it this year. I wasn’t about to do it!
Last time I spent a good deal of time on ladders was after Hurricane Ian. I got up there and cleaned all the ceiling fans. I’ve been thinking it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to do that again. But we’ll see. I will have to really be in the mood for the acrobatics involved.
This image popped up on my coloring app, and I knew I had to color it, and report the memory it inspired.
Jim and I took a trip out west in April 1986. We flew to Albuquerque, spent a couple of days there and in other parts of New Mexico and Utah, drove to Gallup and stayed overnight, and then hit the road to Flagstaff. We were taking I-40 across, which is the old U.S. Route 66.
Growing up in Ohio, my world was always green, unless it was winter, and then it was white. After a few days out west, the amount of brown totally displaced me. There was so little green, and the large, vast landscapes were beautiful, but foreign. I felt out of sorts and sad. I realized I was homesick.
At that time I recalled that when our family traveled, my dad never wanted to go into random restaurants. We had to go to trusted chains where we knew what we were getting. I realized that while in New Mexico we had tried a lot of different cuisine, and I was ready for something familiar. I knew that could set me right.
In some unknown Arizona town we found a Denny’s. I have no idea what I ate there, but I do know it set me right. We continued our trip to the Petrified Forest and beyond, and the rest of the trip was full of amazing discoveries and delicious local food.
I have read everything Nick Flynn has written: his poetry, his memoirs, even a guide to teaching poetry.
Throughout all of this reading, this poem is the one that still strikes me the most:
When I began teaching it was Language Arts and Reading to 6th graders. The first time I approached teaching poetry, I had a boy ask me: Why should I care about poetry?
Despite my love for reading and writing poetry, I did not have an immediate answer for the boy. I think I fumbled through with some lame reasons. Whatever I said, I could tell he wasn’t convinced.
Thinking about it, I decided to honor his question by keeping it in front of us. I wrote it on a small poster board and hung it in the front of the room, right where we would see it all the time. I left it there for each student to decide for themselves: Why should I care? What does it matter?
I’d like to think that over the course of the rest of the year, we identified ways it mattered…but I have no clear recollection. What I do know is I took the question of an 11-year-old seriously.
Flynn says it is an unanswerable question, and I concur. I don’t have an answer for anyone else but myself. And even then, it is impossible to articulate. As I write this, I only know the feeling I have inside about it. When it comes to this question, no amount of words can do it justice.
A lot has been going on in my heart and mind, and things have calmed down for me considerably. Every day a new layer is added, and I want to write about it, but the amount of information and inspiration tends to get jumbled. Yet, I feel it is important for me to document.
It all started when something I wrote in 2015 showed up in my Facebook memories. It's called "For All My Midlife Friends" and if you intend on reading the rest of this blog post, you should read this first.
Coming across this blog post, one I have long forgotten, made me see it will require an update. But thinking about the huge challenges I now face, I don't even know where to start
Here is what I wrote in my journal on Friday morning. I plan on continuing this thread over the next few days, so I hope you will hang in with me. I can always use that support!
From my journal:
Saying yes to going to college and becoming a teacher was scary and exciting.
But saying yes to not being fully in school and all that goes with Jim's health issues is not easy.
I want to say NO NO NO.
Let me work. Let him breathe.
But I cannot. And it hurts when I do because then I have to surrender to reality again.
IT SUCKS.
But saying yes right now feels like a failure.
Why? How long have I known surrendering to what is works better than fighting against it?
Revisiting the poem this blog post was written about "Calling" by Nancy Shaffer.
It's about saying yes to your calling.
And haven't I've known since January that I do, indeed, have a new calling?
Here's the rub--when I heard a calling to be a teacher, there were steps to take. And I had help.
Right now, I can only take one step at a time. There is no planning ahead. The uncertainty kills me.
I told my school my intent is to return next year. Then I wrote:
Reality: I don't know what will happen.
Living the in-between is tough. Having zero control is tough. Not being able to look ahead and say, "Next year, I'll do such and such."
And I don't have a helper.
I am alone in this.
I have to be the one here, watching things.
I hear that the nurse visits might stop. We need them!
Okay...phew. Shed some tears. Feel better....stronger.
Like I can do this.
*
While I was writing this in my journal, I was listening to the new Kacey Musgraves album Deeper Well. The lyrics of "The Architect" seem to fit well for what is happening now. Seriously, I'd love to speak to the architect!
I finished reading Mary Oliver’s essay about Ralph Waldo Emerson today. Like her, I have specific connections to him.
In my classroom I have this poster, the one the kids call “the eye chart.”
Every year I wait until someone notices it and tries to read what it says. Sometimes it takes weeks. Sometimes months. But it is always a fun moment when they do.
In case you’re having trouble, it says When it’s dark enough you can see the stars.
But that is not my only connection.
In the fall of 2010, I was teaching the Transcendentalists to my Junior English Honors class. I typically got up at 4:15 a.m. so I could leave for work around 6 a.m. One October morning, I woke and knew right away I had to take a walk around the block, which was not my usual routine. I clearly recall looking up at the starry night sky and recalling these words by Emerson we had just discussed:
Since that day, I cannot look at a starry sky without thinking of Emerson and his revelation that this celestial glory should be acknowledged and celebrated. If we don’t, who will?
