Spontaneous poem written by starting with last line in a poem called “The Weaver” by Pat Schneider.
What she knows she knows
There is life after a death
There can be good days
Happiness
It has to come from within
No one can do it for her
There is no hole or gap
Just light shining consistently
Her name means light
And she lets it show the way
On how to weave a new life
The one she always knew she’d live.
That one wild and precious life.
On Thanksgiving day I read a poem called “thankful” by ullie kaye. There were a few lines that stood out to me, so I’ve decided to put them here with chosen images, so I may remember.
i am thankful for skies that change color
This particular cummings poem is my favorite. It takes me back to the summer of 1998 when I was in grief over the loss of my father. I was still a sponsor for Youth of Unity and went to my final annual conference in Kansas City, Missouri with three of our members. This poem was on the back of the program booklet.
This poem reminds me that even with our small little deaths, there is always new life. It reminds me to look and really see. It reminds me that gratitude is always possible.
In this weird summer of health issues and terrifying incidents and uncertain future, e.e.cummings points the way back to amazement and grace. I am grateful.
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.
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| The front |
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| 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.
*This is one I've used many times based on My Many Colored Days by Dr. Seuss.
* 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
Now that school is ending, I find myself drifting into fearful thoughts. I know it, yet it keeps happening.
I fear the loss of my husband.
I fear the loss of my career.
I fear a future uncertain -- even as early as August.
Just saying this makes my chest tighten up.
Today I read in Parker Palmer's book his essay called "Begin Again." Within his reflection on "beginner's mind," he included a poem written by Wendell Berry for another poet named Hayden Carruth. This part near the end really hit me:
Earlier this week I posted a quote from a Rumi poem which is the title of this blog. I revisited these words this morning as I came to terms with where I am with my students.
Truth be told, it’s been a rough year in a lot of ways. For a while after Jim’s diagnosis, I was pretty numb and just getting through. But as things have become more “normal” with the situation, I turned my attention back to issues at work.
I’m not going to recount everything here, but I came to terms today with some of my own rigidity. Rumi’s quote applies because as I am grounding down, I am missing ways we can fly.
This doesn’t apply to all classes, but a couple in particular. My actions are not helping, even though I thought they would.
Today I realized that something that had been working for me was cast aside: finding joy. I was keeping a journal for that purpose, which I’ve now ignored for weeks. And isn’t like the journal isn’t within reach, like it hasn’t been calling out to me, because it has.
It’s time for that to change.
Here is some joy from this week:
Many students did fantastic presentations, defying my expectations.
As we start the Titanic project, some students are pouring themselves into it with excitement.
A couple of creative writers surprised me with funny and brilliant stories.
I chose the Titanic project so I could enjoy this part of the school year before we conclude with One Book, One School. This is supposed to be the best time, and I have been on my way to ruining it with an inflexible attitude.
Today I say ENOUGH.
You would think after 20 years of teaching this would get easier. But I find every year brings a slightly different cohort of students and I am always flying blind, trying to find the way. With the five weeks left, I just need to let go of whatever preconceptions I still have that I can save the situation. I need to let it be what it is, and love the kids for who they are…flawed and restless, like me.
It’s time to fly into a satisfying conclusion—the one I can create with a joyful spirit.
I have faith it is within reach. And I will write about it here.
P.S. This song seems appropriate in so many ways!
Inspired by these words from Rumi’s poem “Undressing”:
Today I visited a place I simply don’t go to enough: the meditation garden at FloridaSouthwestern College.
The weather was absolutely ideal for this adventure, and I was immediately moved to take a ton of pictures. I was particularly happy when the bench where I decided to sit had beautiful orchids nearby.
I had brought a small journal and had a plan for some nature writing, but something else totally overcame me. Here is what I wrote while I was there:
God I love this place.
When I’m here, I feel like I accomplished so much here on these grounds. Creative writing. Humanities. American Literature. Even science and math. The professors are unforgettable. The support I received: unparalleled.
I was here the morning of 9/11/2001. I worked for Sony and they paid my tuition and books. I paved my way to further my education at Florida Gulf Coast University.
On these grounds is a performing arts center where I’ve seen numerous acts (Bob Dylan, Smokey Robinson, Gladys Knight, Vince Gill, Jason Mraz, Tanya Tucker, and many more), as well as some great musicals — and not to mention the stage is where I received my first college diploma.
I met a good friend here when we were taking a professional certification test here. In fact, I took all my tests here when they were done with pencil and paper, only cost $25, and you had to wait several weeks for results.
The art gallery has had shows that blew me away, especially Jack Kerouc’s original typed version of On the Road.
I used to attend afternoon events with poets, journalists, and professors here with my friend Amy, who teaches for this college. It was the best use of my PTO from work!
This garden was not here when I attended, and it was called Edison Community College at that time. A statue of Thomas Edison is here, and most of the plants came from his estate.
Today I took a mad amount of pictures and when I sat on the bench I felt an unbelievable calm come over me — like I don’t get anywhere else. I think it is because nature, history, music, art, poetry, and education come together here for me like nowhere else on earth.
I couldn’t have landed in a better place during midlife in the year 2000. All my decisions and growth from that time on are rooted here. Some grew elsewhere, but this was the catalyst. For nearly 24 years. That is a whole hunk of my life!
Today it became clear: When I need to find myself, I must remember to look here.
Today’s inspiration comes from chapter 2 of Jean Shinoda Bolen’s book Close to the Bone. The chapter title is “The Ground Gives Way Under Us.” Then I read Nick Flynn’s poem “Marathon,” and I was struck by these words and decided they deserved a spine poem, simply to process what I have been reading and thinking.
…until this cloud is pulled back from the sky, until the ringing is pulled back from the bell…
This morning in my journal I was reflecting on watching a documentary called The Last Repair Shop, a lovely film about a shop that repairs instruments for the Los Angeles Unified School District. It’s one of the last of its kind.
One of the repair people was a woman from Mexico. She talked about coming here for the American Dream, and how hard it was to find. She went through some really tough stuff, and was crying.
I almost turned it off.
But then I heard the voice inside me say: Stay with her. Don’t run from her suffering. Be one with it.
And I’m so grateful I did. The film was uplifting and I couldn’t stop smiling when it was over.
I was glad I took the step to practice once again how to be in the moment even when it’s uncomfortable. It was interesting to see how I processed through it. And it was worth it.
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I read a poem called “The Self We Share” by Rumi, and it fit right in. He speaks of little quarrels people have, but that they forget they are part of something larger. He caught my attention with this line:
The chemo caught up with Jim on Friday afternoon and into Saturday. Gratefully, he seems better today.
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My brother John and his wife Gail had planned to visit in February, but when things happened with Jim’s health, they decided (rightfully) now was not the best time. They went to St. Augustine instead. I told my brother to send pictures, which he finally did yesterday.
Once I saw his photos, I went to look for ours from our first visit there in 1985. I found a picture of me I didn’t even remember existed.
I thought of that picture today when I read a poem called “Hawthorn” by David Whyte. In it, he’s comparing a relationship to a knot in a hawthorn tree.
I particularly loved the last verse. It reminded me of the photo I had discovered, as well as speaking to this time in our life, our marriage, our reason for being. I will end with those words:
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:
Yesterday being the day before spring break, I decided to have my intensive readers do some creative writing. I put two Judith Viorst poems in front of them: “What are You Mad About? What are You Glad About?” and “If I Were in Charge of the World.” All 18 of them dove right in and got to writing their own versions. The boys would speak out loud as they wrote:
“If I was in charge I’d drop 80 polar bears into China…” and other typical 12-year-old boy stuff. They were laughing and giggling like evil geniuses. It was a sight to behold.
The girls were different. They focused in quietly, each taking a slightly different approach. The first one to walk up to me with a finished product was a girl that has a lot of behavior issues. She isn’t even allowed to leave the classroom without an escort. I have no idea what all her infractions are, and I have seen the good and the bad sides of her.
On this day, she had been rather quiet and self-contained: none of the snark I sometimes get with her. She walked up to me and quietly handed me her poem. (I have typed out below for easier reading.)
Maybe it was the space I was in, but I could not contain my tears. I was extremely moved by her insights and honesty. Her ability to balance the positive and the negative, and recognize what is driving her. I also am impressed by her ability to put it on the page in a way that adds meaning and purpose. I told her again she is a writer, and that she needs to be writing more. She agreed.
I don’t have but a handful of weeks left with her, but I’m hoping to find ways to keep some creative writing as a regular part of the class. This day showed me once again—young people need expression. And we need to provide a container for that to happen.
Big thanks to Annmarie for passing along Mary Oliver’s essay collection Upstream. I’m loving it.
Then today I read Mary Oliver’s essay “My Friend Walt Whitman” and when I got to the final paragraph, something opened up. I picked up my David Whyte collection and read “Cuzco.” The light shined down on the pages and I knew that I had been seeking something when in essence, I needed to let the words find me.
I have combined the final paragraph of the essay and parts of David’s poem into a double found poem. The bold parts are David’s words, the italicized Mary’s.
I learned of the passing of the singer Melanie Safka from my sister via text. It was after a long day in the emergency room with my husband. He was admitted and I came home and put on my vinyl of her album “Gather Me.”
In the winter months of 1972, when I was a junior in high school, Melanie was a constant voice for me, along with Joni Mitchell. At the time, they were the same in stature for me—women singing their truth in their own unique voice. Young women who followed my generation did not know how revolutionary this was. But I knew, coming from a time when most songs by women were just about how they saw themselves through the male gaze. Joni, Melanie, and others broke that apart, giving voice to feelings we didn’t know how to express. Joni and Carole King and Carly Simon went on to continued fame and undying respect, where Melanie fell into the background.
But for 16-year-old me, she gave me something undefinable, something different than the others. My hair was like hers, so I think physically I matched her.
I hadn’t listened to Melanie in decades when I pulled out the vinyl a year or two ago and discovered I still remember every word. The album is full of static because I had such a crappy record player at the time. But I don’t care. It’s Melanie.
So rest well, sweet angel. You made a difference to this girl.
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| I purchased this at JC Penney on February 12, 1972 |
Words inside the album, the poem that inspired the title “Gather Me.”
Today I read a poem by David Whyte called “Horse in Landscape: Franz Marc.” I looked up the painting so I could understand the poem better.
He describes much of what you see here, and then he writes:
What will you do
and what will you say
in the times
when you are left alone
to meet, like this,
the quiet fury of the world.
I thought he was referring to the landscape. Then I realized, no, he meant the horse — the horse represented the “quiet fury.”
I am not sure about the quiet fury of the world, but I know my quiet fury. I faced it again yesterday when discussing Jim’s health. The frustration and loss sometimes overwhelms me and yes, I am angry. I feel that tightening in my chest and what I say is…
There is a plan — I just don’t know it yet.
And what do I do?
TRUST.
I have lived long enough to know these are the only worthy responses. I know acceptance is everything. Surrendering to what IS and not what I think it should be is essential.
And make no mistake—-this very much feels like I’m alone. It is my choices in life brought me here. And God did not bring me this far to see me fall.
So, I face the fury of my own future as I stand in a colorful landscape of love and awareness and nature. I allow myself…
To be lifted
To have the sun in my heart
To find joy
Over and over and over again, this is my response.
This is what I do. This is what I say.
For a while I have been finding it difficult to get myself to this blog. I will write entire things out in my journal that I think I want ...
