Rest Easy

When I received the touchstone with some of Jim’s ashes in it, I was also given a vial of leftover ashes in case I wanted more things made. Instead, I wanted to to figure out a place to sprinkle those ashes. I decided on Bunche Beach.

It is tradition for me to walk Bunche on Christmas. I’ve done it for years. Last year, I felt strongly it was our last Christmas together, and I asked Jim to join me, even though he was too ill to walk. At the time he was just starting to show signs of what was to come.

This year has been one of turmoil and health issues, and I really am not sure if I’ve been there since last Christmas. There were a lot of changes. I was greeted by this message:

I knew where I wanted to send the ashes, and so made a short walk down the beach. There were more people there than usual—some years I have been the only one there. I wanted to have private space for what I was going to do, and thankfully that worked out.

My idea was to visit a tree I’ve been visiting for over a decade. It has been a place I went to reinforce visions I’ve had for what I want to do and be. It was not a living tree, but one that had a hole where I would drop shells I had spoken my wishes into. 

No surprise that after this hurricane season, the tree was just a leftover stump. But there, in that container, were the shells I left over the years. I sprinkled some ashes into it.

I then turned to the water. If Jim wanted to be anywhere, it would be on the water. I sprinkled the rest of the ashes into a waterway that will carry them into San Carlos Bay and eventually into the Gulf of Mexico.

This is the overview of where I left the ashes.

On the way back, rays came down from the heavens, completing the ritual. 

I didn’t feel the need to shed a tear.

It was perfect. 

Rest easy, My Love.

Another Sunrise

Yesterday I faced some real truth

That I may not be able to stay in this home indefinitely

It is too costly and I will need to let it go

Sooner than I anticipated.

When I woke today I heard you say

It will be all right, It will be all right, It will be all right.

I got up, wrapped myself in your suede jacket

Sat on the lanai on this cool morning

And watched the peach sunrise

Rejoicing in the love we shared

As I watched the light change in the sky

And on the water

And I knew for certain

It will be all right.

Fleeting

 This morning on my way to get a warm-up on my coffee, I noticed the sky.

I took my coffee and granola bar out to the lanai, and sat with the sunrise. It was remarkable. I felt calm and brave. An osprey came and sat on the porch next door, keeping me company.

Then the osprey and the brilliant sky were gone. Another reminder on how fleeting beauty and companionship can be. Best to recognize it when it is here. My total time outside probably wasn’t much more than 5 minutes. This is what was left:

Heart Rising

 Heart rising

Made up my mind today I would not be sad in the darkness

Colored this picture with many beautiful emblems

The ocean. The coral reef.

The heart at the center

The sun and the sky and the birds

Despite the downer the last several weeks have been

I feel my heart rising

I feel brighter days are coming

I’m ready

And need to be patient

Sun Up to Sun Down

 Modeled from David Whyte’s poem “Kayak VI.”

When the mind lets go at last

I just do what needs to be done

After years of keeping my own schedule

I am now on another

And in each wave

The days go quickly

I read and write and sometimes nap

But it never feels like enough

In my arms

I bear the meals and shopping

The cleaning and maintenance

The household concerns

In my voice

I keep the tenderness within measure

Although it isn’t always easy

Demands are increasing

Even here

Going through our days together

Still has its magic, sun up to sun down

Others look to find us

What do they see?

An old married couple

Making the best

Of the life that’s left

From the Ashes

 Woke this morning to the news that my stepson

Was “going to the Lord”

And I had to tell Jim

And held him and cried

And thought FUCK CANCER

And then I talked to my other stepson

Who was on his way to the hospital

And he reported back to us

That Wayne is stable

And there is a sigh of relief

However temporary 

And I drank a record 4 cups of coffee

And documented the sunrise

And read Nikita Gill poetry

Until I found the perfect one for this morning

How we are constantly broken and restored

And boy, I’m feeling that today.

What will you do? What will you say?

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.

Hitting the Reset Button

 It’s a new day.

Yesterday I spent a good hour coming to terms with all the ways I’ve gone wrong this school year. Many things have started to click together, and the things I’m doing wrong rose to the surface.

It started when I randomly clicked on January 2019 in this blog and found a poem I wrote where I mentioned we have to “bend the curriculum to the students,” a quote from Cornelius Minor.

It reminded me of something I read on New Year’s Day, an essay by a teacher who talked about storyboarding the curriculum, an idea that set me on fire. After all, I have preached to my students that everything is about story. Why I never applied that to the curriculum is anyone’s guess.

That aside, I realized that I have been unkind at times. Controlling. Have carried negative feelings toward certain learners. Have focused on the wrong things. Have looked for magical answers and then blamed the kids when they didn’t work.

I tired myself out.

Between revisiting We Got This by Cornelius Minor and Dare to Lead by Brene Brown, I found a direction. The new semester is a chance to hit the reset button and start again.

One of the things that stood out in Dare to Lead was Brene’s list of the differences between Armored Leadership and Daring Leadership.

Armored: Leading for compliance and control.

Daring: Cultivating commitment and shared purpose.

This provided my direction.

I also revisited the end of the book where she explains thoroughly that everything is about the stories we tell ourselves. There was that word STORY again.

I’ve concluded that everything is about story or nothing is. I will take the former, and I will make it a part of my classroom culture. There are already a million ideas floating around in my head, and I can’t wait to get started.

After all, today is a new day.

Post-Ian 10.14.22 "At Dawn"

 

I sit quietly

before dawn

clock pendulum swings

I have been remiss

in writing her for days.

Highly unusual.

I find myself stressing

when what I need to do

is meditate

get a grip

focus on JOY

and GOODNESS

and DIVINE ORDER

which is hard in a world

blown to pieces

There is no setting in.

There is only riding the wave.

6:25 a.m. 10.14.22

Inspired by "At Dawn, Sitting at My Father's House" by Elizabeth Cook-Lynn

Post-Ian 10.1.22 "Shine"

While we had no electricity, Jim and I spent many evenings on the lanai, eating dinner, listening to music, talking, watching the sun and clouds and the rising of Jupiter and the outing of the stars. It truly was one of the gifts of this time.

A yummy blackened fish sandwich from RT

Inspired by lines from the poem "Yo Yo Ma at the Inauguration" by Lynn Ungar

This is how we do it,

make the real promise of the day

 

Right now

    feeling that

           promise to

Love deeper, to

        stay in the 

            moment.

 

To be kind.

 

Think.

 

Care.

 

Our community breached

in ways unimaginable.

 

October -- shine on us...please.

 

12:15 pm

10.1.22 

Pink (nonet for a Sunday)

 

To enjoy the pink and blue sunrise

This morning, a ten minute walk

Around the block, muggy day

I was alone out there

Too early for some

Pink found me twice

Hibiscus

Wet with

Dew

62. Perfect Song

 #66Challenge

 

Today I found this line from Joy Harjo in her poetry collection Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings:

What kept me going was that perfect song I kept hearing, just beyond the field of perceptible sound.

 

I related so well, I immediately wrote this:

 

Coming down off the most difficult

and rewarding school year ever,

I read Joy's words and I know

that this is true for me -- that I

kept hearing a "perfect song" off

in the distance, and I knew it

was for me...I knew I would

eventually capture the lyrics enough

to make them come alive inside, 

then through joy and playfulness

and creativity and love, that song

would become a full reality on the 

outside and spur me on in ways I have 

attempted in the past, but never achieved.

 

And now I know the day has come.

And I am grateful for the struggle.

 

Like everything in life: grieve, release, begin anew. 

Lost in the Night, Found in the Morning

This past week I had my students do a little creative activity related to a couple of poems in our textbook. After studying some things about the poems, they had to choose a line from one of them and use it to begin a poem of their own. It was a beautiful surprise to see how many slid right into this activity, and produced lovely little pieces of writing. They only "rules" were it was to be 7-12 lines, and they had to include an image with the poem.

This idea is not a new one -- to use a line from one poem to begin another. Yesterday I decided to call these "caboose" poems.  As a kid, I always loved waving to the man in the caboose at the end of the train. I miss cabooses a lot!  I see the line the poet gave us as the train and we're the caboose, waving to them letting them know they inspired our own writing.

***

One of my morning practices is to read a poem and write one of my own. Today I decided it was time to make a daily practice of "caboose poems" specifically.  Here is my first one; the line is from Joy Harjo's "How to Write a Poem in Time of War."

 

Smoky sweet sunrises

where I love to be

in the morning

with music, prayer,

thoughts and words

and coffee and plans

Where I set myself

strong and vow to

do no wrong

(and fail...sometimes)

The wildlife calls

as does the sky

reminding me

I am here

while the clouds

paint and illuminate

while the sun 

does its sun thing

I am finding the me

lost in the night

of dreaming

58. The Rising Sun

#64Challenge

Today I am inspired by these words from Owen Sheers' poem "Tree."

...silhoutted against a reddening sky

that could be the setting or the rising of the sun

I wrote this in anticipation of learning who our new principal would be.

Today I want to feel the sun rising

on a new day for CLMS.

I know Kelly is part of the setting

sun, as she rides off into her

retirement, well-earned.

I need to believe in a rising sun

today. Everything has already 

changed. It's okay if there is

more.

Yet, I will remember a tree takes

a long time to grow, its roots

to establish, the sun and rain

in due time. Nothing will be

immediate. I will allow the

branches to establish themselves,

so they may 

grow strong.

"There's a Rainbow in the Sky"

Many, many inspirations today.

Began with this photo:

Continued with Joy Harjo's poem "In Praise of Earth," these lines in particular:

And this Earth keeps faithfully to her journey, carrying us around the Sun,

All of us in our rags and riches, our rages and promises, small talk and suffering...

I wrote:

Everything has become fodder for

writing, a spark point. There is 

a multi-dimensional aspect and

depth to uncover in everything I read.

In a time of great disparity, suffering,

loneliness, and rage,

my mind pierces the possible.

I am highly aware

that the promised moment

from many years ago

has come, when I saw, 

during a shamanic journey,

the rainbow, heard the words

 "You're the great integrator."

And today I was taken by the breathtaking

photo of a rainbow over Chicago.

I've received the sign of hope and renewal.

The painting in the sky.

This is for me.

I accept the challenge.

Then, this poem I read every day took on deeper meaning:

Cut brambles long enough,

Sprout after sprout,

And the lotus will bloom

Of its own accord:

Already waiting in the clearing,

The single image of light.

The day you see this,

That day you will become it.

~Sun Bu-er~

I saw the rainbow.

The image of light.

And it was me.

"My life is full of color here

My mind is clear."

Walking in a Different Direction Part Two: Lakes Park

Today I finally did it. I pulled myself out of the house, into the absolutely perfect Florida May weather, and took a walk at Lakes Park. I know I have not been there in a long time, and I went with the purpose to do my usual loop through the woods.

Lone Palm Morning

I expected the usual Sunday crowd, but the people were few and far between. The pavilions and play areas are roped off, the exercise equipment fenced off, and the picnic tables overturned.


When I got there I changed my idea of where I wanted to walk. I decided to walk around the lake, rather than go into the wooded area. Very quickly I realized something -- when I have walked around the lake, I tend to start in the same place and walk in the opposite direction than I was walking this morning. And as I wrote about a few weeks ago, I was seeing a lot of things I haven't noticed before, getting glimpses of photo opportunities I rarely see.

Ibis Island

Walking Toward the Rising Sun

I had made up my mind just to walk and listen and watch. What I witnessed was a wildlife that is getting used to fewer humans. I could feel the lack of human dominance I usually associate with the park. (And that is with good reason: it's a wonderful park!)

One instance of this was a Little Green Heron that looked like it was going to walk across the path I was walking. I never see Herons doing that there, let alone the elusive Little Green. I trained my camera on him, but he stopped and eventually flew off.

Anhinga Rock

I took a few more pictures, then headed home with my sun roof open. The radio played a song that made me cry: Jerry Salley's "I Want to Thank You." It made me think about all the people in my life who encourage my faith and belief in myself and the goodness of the world.  It was a perfect way to begin my day.

Great Blue Heron Detail

Great Blue Heron Wide View

What I See

Finally got my creative writing class outside yesterday to observe and write about nature and anything else that was in front of us.  We did the 360 degree poem, where we moved like a clock and wrote a list of what we saw. Then we fashioned poems.

Here is mine.

What I See

First, it's my class
White shoes
Striped shirt
Morgan smiling
Ashlyn writing

Then, a few scrawny palm trees
then more skinny palms
Palm tops that look like Easter lilies
A bushy palm
Sunlight shining through the fronds.

Then, the feathery cloud floating in a sea of blue sky
The ibis poking along the fence line.
The wood stork soaring overhead.

Then, my class again.
They write.
The cool breeze ruffles our pages on an inviting March morning.
My spirit smooth and silky.

10:30 am  3/14/19

Having Lived in the Same Place for Over a Decade, We've Learned a Few Things

This is is inspired by Twyla M Hansen's poem "Having Lived in the Same Place for Decades, We have Perhaps Learned a Few Things."  Hers was about the people. Mine is not.

Having lived in the same place

for over a decade, we've learned

a few things.

Like how the suns shifts on the

horizon in the morning, the moon, 

too, and colors that will paint the

sky at different seasons of the year,

reflected on the lake.

We've learned to watch for turtle

heads peaking up out of the water,

and smile when they pull themselves

out to sun together on the shore.

We've learned the mating habits of

ducks and moorhens, the time of

day the osprey fish, and what

lizards and ladderbacks will visit

the sable palm outside our lanai.

We know by the clouds when it's

raining in the Everglades, and when

the sunset is happening in full force

in the western sky, out of view,

the east glowing a brilliant light.

We count the water birds' hatchlings

and watch their parents teach them.

We hear the same parents grieve

with loss when their children

are scooped up by hawk or eagle.

We know Great Blue Heron with

a huge black spot on his back,

and Little Blue who is darker than most.

We listen to the egrets screech

to claim their territory and

we know when the summer water

grasses will turn gray and die.

We see the rise and fall of the water

level from rainy season to winter, when

the skies are clear blue and cloudless,

and the green grass barely holds on.

We know when the moorhens and 

frogs will sing at night, and when 

they will be silent.

Someday we will be gone from this

place. We rest assured knowing

the cycles of nature will live on.

On our lanai, Christmas Eve 2010

Red Sky Talking

I read Nick Flynn's poem "dear lady of 

perpetual something" twice through,

but was still uncertain of the point,

when I realized there was a glow

coming through the blinds. I grabbed

my phone and photographed the sky 

and the lake, in a glory of reds and 

purples, and sent it on entitled

"red sky at morning."

By the time I got back to my chair

and took up the pen, the glow was gone.

I caught a moment.

I've been feeling lazy and sluggish,

not wanting to do my job,

wondering how I will keep going.

The glow tells me to be in the 

moment, stop looking ahead, you've

been doing too much of that and

look how it's dragging you down.

Catch the moment.

Get your energy back.

"the voice of this Calling"

 We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

--T.S. Eliot --

Somehow I knew this weekend was it.  I have been tinkering with this idea of a memoir, often knowing I was writing it in real time, but not knowing the exact starting or ending point. But this week it somehow became clear that I am now at the end point. I have my parameters.  A question I've been living has been answered.

My plan was to take myself on an Artist Date out to Bowman's Beach, somewhere I haven't been in a long time, and just to listen deeply for my next instructions.  But I got lazy and just went to Bunche, as the weekend had been flying by and I didn't feel like committing the time to driving out to Sanibel.

Bunche's tide was out farther than I've seen it in years, and solid enough to walk on.  I enjoyed the cool weather, the lack of people, the expanse of space across the mud flats to walk, the sun on the water, the gentleness of the waves, the quietness of my mind.  I kept waiting for something profound to emerge, but...nothing.

I found a little piece of worm rock and held it in my hand. Then I tossed it into the water with a blessing for new beginnings.

When I got back to the car, I wrote this:

Walked the sand flats

as tide was way out.

It's the ending.

It's the beginning.

For a couple of years I've 

pondered my true

identity, the true me.

Through illness and returning to

places I love and

pursuing music and

better teaching and

better writing and

deep gratitude.

It's an ending.

It's a beginning.

I know my borders,

the boundaries of me,

what works, 

what still needs to work.

It's an ending.

It's a beginning. 

I have arrived at this place --

blue and green and all colors in between --

and I know it again for 

the first time.

Title and Eliot quote from his poem "Little Giddings"