Alas, I haven't written a poem in a very long while, though I have paused here from time to time to share a few (scroll down) from my archives.
How I miss writing poems. I miss, particularly, that moment of a poem's conception. The recognition of something--an event, circumstance, or emotion--arching into the abstract, and the poem is the bridge.
Teaching in a classroom of creative geniuses helped my process. Putting music on and pulling my journal out and writing with teenagers compelled the verses. Let us not diminish the luxury of taking an art class: Force me to paint, to draw, to write, to create! And I will!
Why is my current life so barren of poetry, so prosaic, I wonder? Four years ago I had my second child and shortly thereafter left the classroom to become Vice Principal. My life was instantly busier; office replaced classroom; observation gave way to analysis. These days are better chronicled, perhaps, in narrative than verse. Where I am poetry poor, I am now blog bountiful. And yet I hold out hope that my lyrical muse will return.
Without a classroom full of creative writing students generating rhymes and inspiring my own, I rely on the postal service to deliver fresh poetry to my mailbox. Thank goodness for The Sun Magazine and its monthly dose of prose and poems.
The right poem will stir me for days or weeks as I ponder all its allusions and implications. A poem can resonate on a single word, turn of phrase, or sentiment. I could wax poetic (if I were, in fact, writing poetry these days) on poems and how much I love them. I used to entertain my students with my effusive endorsements of the genre, likening poems to furry little animals one can snuggle in one's mind.
Imagine a world without poetry? I won't.
The gifts in the February issue of The Sun include Selected Poems by Brian Doyle. My favorite of the three published is included below, as it so moved me to seek permission from the poet himself (Note: receiving an email response from a Real Live Poet was quite a thrill!).
In his poem Brian Doyle recalls his young son's heart surgery. Our daughter was diagnosed with kidney reflux after suffering a kidney infection when she was three years old. It was two years of diagnostic and outpatient procedures before she had surgery that corrected what can be characterized as a minor structural problem.
Despite the hassle of numerous appointments and the heartbreak of watching one's child in any kind of pain, we left each visit to Children's Hospital grateful for our good fortune and perspective. Someone else's suffering is always worse, it is true, and as Mr. Doyle demonstrates in his poem, you will find your own self facing another mountain to climb just as you've crested the last seemingly steepest one. This is what it is to love, I think: to commit oneself to the "incoherent narrative shape" of life's worries, fears, and surprises "with all possible grace."
I am thankful for Brian Doyle's willingness to share his words. Isn't his last line lovely?
A Note on Vocabulary in the Cardiometabolic Field
Where I am wandering one afternoon thinking of my second son who not once
But twice had a surgeon’s fingers milling through the muscle of his wild heart.
Eleven years ago now. He doesn’t remember those hours, my boy, but I sure do.
His chicken chest gaping open like a mouth. Me eating a word like septectomy
For breakfast, bending it this way and that, trying to find any way to get inside.
Situs solitis & ventricular inversion & tricuspid hypophasia & anastamosis
Ranged across the horizon like the most incredible and unimaginable mountains.
Who ever thought there would be a time when we could remember those times?
But here we are on the other side of the mountains, and of all things to see what
Do we see? Mountains beyond mountains and yet more mountains beyond them.
We have such an itch for pattern and narrative, such a ravenous hunger for order,
But there is no pattern, there is no order, there isn’t really even a hint of coherent
Narrative shape, the fact of the matter is that at best we maunder forward with all
Possible grace in the moments when we are not thrashing and sobbing and crazy.
Believe me, I know about thrashing and sobbing and crazy, he’s a teenager now,
Arrogant as sin one moment and weeping from the bottom of his bones the next,
Making everyone weep with laughter one day and roar with fear and fury another.
Mountains beyond mountains and yet further mountains beyond those mountains.
I used to think if we could just get through this time everything will be peaceful,
At least we won’t be terrified and exhausted, but it turns out there’s lots and lots
Of ways to be terrified and exhausted, who knew? So hold my hand and let’s go
Up this next mountain. Who cares about other mountains? Isn’t this one lovely?
-- Brian Doyle
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query poem. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query poem. Sort by date Show all posts
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Crossing the Line
I was thinking tonight about the poem I wrote for Almost-Not-My-Husband more than ten years ago in a rather desperate attempt to win him back after suffering temporary delusions (you can read about my uncomfortable epiphany--#9--here).
I remember the stereo turned up high with a mix of significant-song CDs on shuffle play as I handwrote my verses on papers and glue-sticked them to a large-ish piece of cardboard. I drove that cardboard plea over to his apartment and propped it against the front door.
I'm still not sure why I constructed a billboard of my ode instead of slipping a folded piece of paper beneath his door, although I suspect that it was clear at the time that this was a Dramatic Moment deserving of bold print and edification. I'm grateful I was gutsy enough to unleash some dramatic flair, because here we are surviving our seventh year of marriage.
I recalled the poem tonight as we sailed our boat in the Wednesday night Beer Can Races. The notion of a starting line in sailboat racing has always fascinated me. Certainly there is a line. You just can't see it in the water, of course, though it's defined like any other line by points. At our Yacht Club, Beer Can Races start between a flag in the water and a black-and-white-striped stanchion on the docks. Determining where a boat is in relation to the line requires looking back and forth between the flag and stanchion. So much depends on your position relative to that line. And your line of sight. Meanwhile, you're constantly in motion.
The start of a sailing race is about getting to the starting line at the start of the race, and not before, and not too late. Boats that are too far ahead turn around in front of yours and everyone angles for a spot between those two points. I guess it would be as if everyone in a running race had to be jogging toward the line--from different directions--intending to cross it right as the gun was fired. It's exciting and chaotic, with potential for near misses and collisions.
Tonight, and when I wrote the poem, I recognized how many starting lines are largely symbolic. A sailboat officially enters the race when it crosses that invisible line, but it's been racing toward the start long before the horn is blown.
The lines in our lives are often blurrier. It's hard to say when, exactly, I stopped being "young," at least in the minds of others. Where my private and my public lives diverge. As always when I return to work after a break, I struggle with the line between Working Mom and Mom. If each of my roles--Mom, Wife, Daughter, Sister, Friend, Neighbor, Vice Principal--are lines of my life, they intersect, run parallel to one another, and sometimes feel perpendicular. I'm pretty sure I'm straddling a line between "getting started" and "all done," particularly when I'm considering how much is enough. And I find it's the seamlessness, when one line merges imperceptibly into the next, that breeds contentment.
Drawing lines in the sand, it turns out, accomplishes only philosophical stands: the temporary definition of a status quo, subject to shifting winds and whims.
And on winds and whims, in my poem I acknowledge that I let myself be blown off course for a time before I recognized where I truly belonged. When the line between beginning and ending came sharply into focus.
Eleven Minutes
The starting line is a blur
of lapping waves and churning water
much like us I’m not sure when exactly
that moment was when we started
but we were ahead
before we knew it.
Winds blew;
You adjusted sails when
shifts caught us unaware.
No expert sailor
nor navigator,
I steered us to the end*.
*My husband would like me to mention that the ending of this poem left him unsettled. Given the fact that I, in fact, altered course before the finish line, we're now revising the last line of this poem to read, "I steered us around the mark."
I remember the stereo turned up high with a mix of significant-song CDs on shuffle play as I handwrote my verses on papers and glue-sticked them to a large-ish piece of cardboard. I drove that cardboard plea over to his apartment and propped it against the front door.
I'm still not sure why I constructed a billboard of my ode instead of slipping a folded piece of paper beneath his door, although I suspect that it was clear at the time that this was a Dramatic Moment deserving of bold print and edification. I'm grateful I was gutsy enough to unleash some dramatic flair, because here we are surviving our seventh year of marriage.
I recalled the poem tonight as we sailed our boat in the Wednesday night Beer Can Races. The notion of a starting line in sailboat racing has always fascinated me. Certainly there is a line. You just can't see it in the water, of course, though it's defined like any other line by points. At our Yacht Club, Beer Can Races start between a flag in the water and a black-and-white-striped stanchion on the docks. Determining where a boat is in relation to the line requires looking back and forth between the flag and stanchion. So much depends on your position relative to that line. And your line of sight. Meanwhile, you're constantly in motion.
The start of a sailing race is about getting to the starting line at the start of the race, and not before, and not too late. Boats that are too far ahead turn around in front of yours and everyone angles for a spot between those two points. I guess it would be as if everyone in a running race had to be jogging toward the line--from different directions--intending to cross it right as the gun was fired. It's exciting and chaotic, with potential for near misses and collisions.
Tonight, and when I wrote the poem, I recognized how many starting lines are largely symbolic. A sailboat officially enters the race when it crosses that invisible line, but it's been racing toward the start long before the horn is blown.
The lines in our lives are often blurrier. It's hard to say when, exactly, I stopped being "young," at least in the minds of others. Where my private and my public lives diverge. As always when I return to work after a break, I struggle with the line between Working Mom and Mom. If each of my roles--Mom, Wife, Daughter, Sister, Friend, Neighbor, Vice Principal--are lines of my life, they intersect, run parallel to one another, and sometimes feel perpendicular. I'm pretty sure I'm straddling a line between "getting started" and "all done," particularly when I'm considering how much is enough. And I find it's the seamlessness, when one line merges imperceptibly into the next, that breeds contentment.
Drawing lines in the sand, it turns out, accomplishes only philosophical stands: the temporary definition of a status quo, subject to shifting winds and whims.
And on winds and whims, in my poem I acknowledge that I let myself be blown off course for a time before I recognized where I truly belonged. When the line between beginning and ending came sharply into focus.
Eleven Minutes
The starting line is a blur
of lapping waves and churning water
much like us I’m not sure when exactly
that moment was when we started
but we were ahead
before we knew it.
Winds blew;
You adjusted sails when
shifts caught us unaware.
No expert sailor
nor navigator,
I steered us to the end*.
*My husband would like me to mention that the ending of this poem left him unsettled. Given the fact that I, in fact, altered course before the finish line, we're now revising the last line of this poem to read, "I steered us around the mark."
Friday, June 16, 2017
Commencement Speech 2017
Class of 2017
It reads, simply:
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
We talked about how perhaps this was the first
Instagram poem--a simple image, zoom on the rain drops, with a filter that
highlights the white chickens. I’m thinking this particular poem would attract
a lot of likes, as well as what the hecks.
But we discussed that maybe this poem wasn't truly about the dependability of a wheelbarrow, or how important rain water is to a farm, or about chickens laying eggs for breakfast. Maybe this poem was just about a moment. A moment as beautiful and momentous in its own way as a graduation, a birth, a marriage. Made memorable, perhaps, because the poet stopped to notice, downloading the image to memory and then translating it into verse.
It's tempting, students, to proclaim that the last four years were a blur, and for you, parents, to feel like it was only yesterday you were holding their hands to cross the street. But our lives are series of wheelbarrow moments punctuated by momentous events, like tonight. In class that day I asked you to recall a moment in your recent lives upon which so much seemed to depend. One of you described driving over the bridge to school that morning with your sister. It was sunny, and you were having a great conversation, getting along. I think we all found that moment relatable. You'll surely remember tonight, but the sweetest memories are likely similar episodes of connections, deep talks with loved ones, random trips with friends. Most wheelbarrow moments are times we are in the company of people we adore or the wonder of nature.
My toddler actually stops to smell the roses when she and I take the dog for a walk. To her, so much depends on the things she notices and celebrates and points out--spikes on a cactus, a colorful rock, the snail painstakingly crossing the path. She stops to look at me and say, I love spending time with you, Mom. No selfie properly captures that wheelbarrow moment, and there's a chance I could miss it if I’m too busy to go for a walk or looking at my phone. Paying attention to her is what makes it different.
So I’m suggesting we more often swap selfies for "sensies"--times you observe keenly, listen carefully, feel deeply, taste mindfully, and breathe in the smells. Exalt in the moments and the characters sharing them with you—recognize the sonder, if you will. In just a few of my wheelbarrow moments with you, so much depended upon pancakes from a George Foreman grill, 185 doctors walking into a bar, Jamaican curry recipes, seafoam perfectly captured in a painting, and sitting the bench in the faculty basketball game.
Before you fly away from this place you’ve shared, reflect on some of those wonderful moments together.
Thank you, Class of 2017, for all the moments culminating in this graduation.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Is That a Poem in Your Pocket, or...
As you know, I have a penchant for poetry, and I am prepping you for something portentous, pals: tomorrow is Poem in Your Pocket Day, part of National Poetry Month (Hey! How are you celebrating April?? You best be getting your O'Hara, Gioia, Oliver, and Collins on, to name a contemporary few).
The premise of Poem in Your Pocket Day is to pack your pocket with lyrical lines and pass on a little literary love. Don't be afraid of poetry, people! If you need a primer, peek at Poetry 180 (Say, when is Alliteration Day? I am prepared to participate).
Little Sis is on board--she wrote her own haiku to give out to friends and teachers at school.
Big Sis is pondering her poetic participation.
As for me, I have 700 copies of this rhyming refrain to ration tomorrow:
Literary Lint
When you want to give a gift,
And make somebody’s day
Show you care, provide a lift,
You have to find a way.
But you don’t need a wallet
And you don’t need a purse
Here’s how I would call it:
Write a poem, give a verse.
Your pocket’s full of thoughts, you see
Just waiting to be shared
And words are always free
To distribute everywhere
Words don’t need to rhyme
To be deep or true or funny
You only need a little time
For lines worth more than money
It’s “Poem in Your Pocket” Day,
And here is mine for you
In hopes that other people may
Find inspiration too
Let's bomb the world with ballads, buddies!
The premise of Poem in Your Pocket Day is to pack your pocket with lyrical lines and pass on a little literary love. Don't be afraid of poetry, people! If you need a primer, peek at Poetry 180 (Say, when is Alliteration Day? I am prepared to participate).
Little Sis is on board--she wrote her own haiku to give out to friends and teachers at school.
Big Sis is pondering her poetic participation.
As for me, I have 700 copies of this rhyming refrain to ration tomorrow:
Literary Lint
When you want to give a gift,
And make somebody’s day
Show you care, provide a lift,
You have to find a way.
But you don’t need a wallet
And you don’t need a purse
Here’s how I would call it:
Write a poem, give a verse.
Your pocket’s full of thoughts, you see
Just waiting to be shared
And words are always free
To distribute everywhere
Words don’t need to rhyme
To be deep or true or funny
You only need a little time
For lines worth more than money
It’s “Poem in Your Pocket” Day,
And here is mine for you
In hopes that other people may
Find inspiration too
Let's bomb the world with ballads, buddies!
Monday, May 18, 2009
Afternoon Whiskers
Today is my grandfather's birthday, always the day after my littlest sister's birthday. Easy to remember. So is my grandpa.
Today my mother is with my grandmother, who is in the hospital having surgery. While I am not happy Grandma is enduring painful medical procedures, I am glad my mother is there with her today, May 18th.
My grandfather was an amazing man. A unique man, a Renaissance Man. He was an educator, a boater and a sailmaker, a photographer, a literature lover, a carpenter, a tinkerer, a scientist, a philosopher, a kind and funny person, and a most unbelievable grandfather. It's one thing to be the kind of grandpa whose granddaughter--as a child--thinks he is magical, wise, and loving. But for me to recognize as an adult--nearly 23 years after his death--how lucky I was to have known him, and for his lessons to continue to inspire, is another thing. I wish my husband, a sailor, had the chance to meet him. I am fortunate my own daughters have magical, wise, and kind grandfathers.
My grandfather taught me to tell time on my first watch, a light blue Snoopy watch.
He collected model trains and devoted a room in the basement to his train set and the town it inhabited. I remember that room festooned with witty signs I better understood later on, like "I never make mistakes. I thought I did once, but I was wrong."
He taught me that I had eleven fingers by counting down on one hand: "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...plus (other hand) five fingers...equals eleven!"
He came to visit us in Coronado when I was in middle school and set to work fixing our bicycles. I remember hanging out with him in the yard while he worked on one in particular, and explained to me that the circumference of the bike's wheel changed, in effect, with each gear change relative to a rotation of the pedal. I didn't understand what he meant until physics class in 11th grade. And even then, wow.
He taught me about the profundity of brevity. He cited the shortest bible verse: "Jesus wept." He pointed out that the bible writers didn't explain that "Jesus sat on a rock and cried," but communicated so much more in only two words. He connected that verse to one of his favorite works by famously succinct author Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea.
Grandpa made me a red-velvet lined, almond-wood jewelry box as a gift one year. It's one of my most treasured possessions. On my right hand I wear a jade ring with two tiny diamonds that he gave my grandma.
Grandpa died as I was entering my 10th grade year of high school. One of the few but greatest regrets of my life is not being present for his memorial service. At the time, I was selfishly concerned with missing my debut into sophomore year.
In my freshman English class in college, British Lit, we were charged with writing a poem in pentameter. I wrote this poem about my grandfather:
Afternoon Whiskers
for my mother, my aunts, and my grandmother
Pausing by the edge of the pier, and a
shrilling gull aches my ear; the bow line thrown
slaps my skin and leaves a salty white blur.
And I, once driven by reminders in
touch, scent, and sound, have him here with me by
sticky hair, wet wood, the squeak of rubber.
I am back: in his lap, and he teaches
verses and symphonies and boats
while his afternoon whiskers sand my cheek.
The day they went (Now I picture black things…
black suits and cars and dresses, umbrellas)
and I didn’t, they read that sea poem,
without me. So now the San Juans lull me
and my guilt and my family and my
life he does not know but once lived so well.
Today my mother is with my grandmother, who is in the hospital having surgery. While I am not happy Grandma is enduring painful medical procedures, I am glad my mother is there with her today, May 18th.
My grandfather was an amazing man. A unique man, a Renaissance Man. He was an educator, a boater and a sailmaker, a photographer, a literature lover, a carpenter, a tinkerer, a scientist, a philosopher, a kind and funny person, and a most unbelievable grandfather. It's one thing to be the kind of grandpa whose granddaughter--as a child--thinks he is magical, wise, and loving. But for me to recognize as an adult--nearly 23 years after his death--how lucky I was to have known him, and for his lessons to continue to inspire, is another thing. I wish my husband, a sailor, had the chance to meet him. I am fortunate my own daughters have magical, wise, and kind grandfathers.
My grandfather taught me to tell time on my first watch, a light blue Snoopy watch.
He collected model trains and devoted a room in the basement to his train set and the town it inhabited. I remember that room festooned with witty signs I better understood later on, like "I never make mistakes. I thought I did once, but I was wrong."
He taught me that I had eleven fingers by counting down on one hand: "Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...plus (other hand) five fingers...equals eleven!"
He came to visit us in Coronado when I was in middle school and set to work fixing our bicycles. I remember hanging out with him in the yard while he worked on one in particular, and explained to me that the circumference of the bike's wheel changed, in effect, with each gear change relative to a rotation of the pedal. I didn't understand what he meant until physics class in 11th grade. And even then, wow.
He taught me about the profundity of brevity. He cited the shortest bible verse: "Jesus wept." He pointed out that the bible writers didn't explain that "Jesus sat on a rock and cried," but communicated so much more in only two words. He connected that verse to one of his favorite works by famously succinct author Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea.
Grandpa made me a red-velvet lined, almond-wood jewelry box as a gift one year. It's one of my most treasured possessions. On my right hand I wear a jade ring with two tiny diamonds that he gave my grandma.
Grandpa died as I was entering my 10th grade year of high school. One of the few but greatest regrets of my life is not being present for his memorial service. At the time, I was selfishly concerned with missing my debut into sophomore year.
In my freshman English class in college, British Lit, we were charged with writing a poem in pentameter. I wrote this poem about my grandfather:
Afternoon Whiskers
for my mother, my aunts, and my grandmother
Pausing by the edge of the pier, and a
shrilling gull aches my ear; the bow line thrown
slaps my skin and leaves a salty white blur.
And I, once driven by reminders in
touch, scent, and sound, have him here with me by
sticky hair, wet wood, the squeak of rubber.
I am back: in his lap, and he teaches
verses and symphonies and boats
while his afternoon whiskers sand my cheek.
The day they went (Now I picture black things…
black suits and cars and dresses, umbrellas)
and I didn’t, they read that sea poem,
without me. So now the San Juans lull me
and my guilt and my family and my
life he does not know but once lived so well.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Plenty of Poetry
I've been *enjoying* 3:00 AM insomnia for the past few months. Sure, call it my body's way of preparing for a baby who is likely not as predictable as whatever internal alarm clock nudges me from slumber at an eerily consistent hour I can't even celebrate as close to early-morning workout time.
I generally get up between 5:30 and 6:00, so it's sobering to think of how many hours I have after 3:00 each morning to accomplish something, and how little I actually do, as I snuggle my iPad and scroll through blogs and read articles and play a few rounds of Words with Friends (lather, rinse, repeat...).
Today, though, I used the United States Postal Service website to forward our mail to our new house and signed up for a poem a day via email on the Poetry Foundation's website. I was so grateful to myself when Marianne Boruch's "Pencil" arrived in my inbox later this morning; I had to share it with an art teacher colleague.
In the afternoon I spotted another teacher/friend scurrying away from the office who called out, "I just left you a poem!"
Seriously? Yes.
There was a photocopy of Billy Collins' "The Effort" waiting for me on my keyboard.
Today felt like a wonderful profusion of poetry, especially since I unearthed a poem I wrote when I was pregnant with Big Sis to publish here today:
Flutter
Something new is overtaking me
The wonder of you inside
My body a housing,
encasing hope, fantasy,
and infinite possibilities:
The unwitting agent
of change in the world, a new prophet
for the world's devout, I carry you
gently,
little moth.
I generally get up between 5:30 and 6:00, so it's sobering to think of how many hours I have after 3:00 each morning to accomplish something, and how little I actually do, as I snuggle my iPad and scroll through blogs and read articles and play a few rounds of Words with Friends (lather, rinse, repeat...).
Today, though, I used the United States Postal Service website to forward our mail to our new house and signed up for a poem a day via email on the Poetry Foundation's website. I was so grateful to myself when Marianne Boruch's "Pencil" arrived in my inbox later this morning; I had to share it with an art teacher colleague.
In the afternoon I spotted another teacher/friend scurrying away from the office who called out, "I just left you a poem!"
Seriously? Yes.
There was a photocopy of Billy Collins' "The Effort" waiting for me on my keyboard.
Today felt like a wonderful profusion of poetry, especially since I unearthed a poem I wrote when I was pregnant with Big Sis to publish here today:
Flutter
Something new is overtaking me
The wonder of you inside
My body a housing,
encasing hope, fantasy,
and infinite possibilities:
The unwitting agent
of change in the world, a new prophet
for the world's devout, I carry you
gently,
little moth.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Before There Were Blogs
Note: I am entering Mabel’s Labels BlogHer ‘10 Contest with the following post based on the hypothetical situation that...electrical storms are going to wipe out the Internet (perhaps forever). You have one day left to write about your passions: what do you want to say to the blogosphere in 300 words or less?
Once upon a time, before there were blogs, there were young writers composing stories, poems, and essays in a high school creative writing class. Quiet poets gained volume in verse; classroom characters practiced defining themselves in fiction.
Their teacher, moved by her students’ unique perspectives and vibrant voices, asked them to reflect on “How to Live.” And so they wrote: about stargazing, about deep breaths, about sweat and tears, about adventures, about love.
She pushed them to be brave with their powerful words, to open their ideas to others, to publish, to expose their works to scrutiny. “Take your words to the streets,” she assigned them, “and chronicle the reactions.” One student read her writing aloud in a park. Another writer left his inspirational lines in chalk on the sidewalk. A poet taped her verses to a bus stop bench.
On Monday morning the creative writing teacher received a phone call from a woman living in the community. She had gone out for a walk on Sunday morning. She explained to the teacher that her husband had recently died; she described her emptiness and an overwhelming sense that things were never going to be better. She confessed to being in a dark place, thinking dark thoughts.
Then she sat down for a spell at a bus stop bench and noticed a poem taped to the seat. The poem entreated her to look up. To feel grateful. To discover the beauty all around her. To hope.
Her spirits lifted, the woman wanted the poet to know that her lines had a profound impact on someone.
In the absence of blogs, this teacher argues, we still have lipstick on mirrors, letters in the mail, signs in windows, and poems in unlikely places. We only need the courage to share.
Once upon a time, before there were blogs, there were young writers composing stories, poems, and essays in a high school creative writing class. Quiet poets gained volume in verse; classroom characters practiced defining themselves in fiction.
Their teacher, moved by her students’ unique perspectives and vibrant voices, asked them to reflect on “How to Live.” And so they wrote: about stargazing, about deep breaths, about sweat and tears, about adventures, about love.
She pushed them to be brave with their powerful words, to open their ideas to others, to publish, to expose their works to scrutiny. “Take your words to the streets,” she assigned them, “and chronicle the reactions.” One student read her writing aloud in a park. Another writer left his inspirational lines in chalk on the sidewalk. A poet taped her verses to a bus stop bench.
On Monday morning the creative writing teacher received a phone call from a woman living in the community. She had gone out for a walk on Sunday morning. She explained to the teacher that her husband had recently died; she described her emptiness and an overwhelming sense that things were never going to be better. She confessed to being in a dark place, thinking dark thoughts.
Then she sat down for a spell at a bus stop bench and noticed a poem taped to the seat. The poem entreated her to look up. To feel grateful. To discover the beauty all around her. To hope.
Her spirits lifted, the woman wanted the poet to know that her lines had a profound impact on someone.
In the absence of blogs, this teacher argues, we still have lipstick on mirrors, letters in the mail, signs in windows, and poems in unlikely places. We only need the courage to share.
Monday, October 18, 2010
What's a Meta For?
Did I tell you I am treating myself to a writing retreat this weekend? I cannot wait. Actually, I can; I have some things I need to get done first, but come Friday morning I am flying away to be inspired. Just the anticipation of being inspired has me inspired.
Have I mentioned I am excited?
It's kind of an early fortieth birthday present to myself.
Poet Ellen Bass will be there leading workshops on writing poetry. I am particularly interested in the workshop on metaphors, as I have found apt analogies to be the seeds of most poems I've sprouted.
In honor of the fact that I have not written a poem in far too long, and in hopes that I will return from my weekend with words and ideas spilling from my well, I share an old poem.
I wrote it at a time when I recognized it was time to let go of a tired relationship.
Here's to metaphors!
Heels of Sand
Impotent waves fan over my feet
stretching and hovering across
unspoiled earth.
A pause—
pregnant with promise
awaiting the moment the sea grasps again
and firmament slips,
a dizzy inadvertent sliding
of all that’s solid.
I teeter on heels of sand,
stubbornly, and steadfast;
until I fall, and
you ebb
away
Have I mentioned I am excited?
It's kind of an early fortieth birthday present to myself.
Poet Ellen Bass will be there leading workshops on writing poetry. I am particularly interested in the workshop on metaphors, as I have found apt analogies to be the seeds of most poems I've sprouted.
In honor of the fact that I have not written a poem in far too long, and in hopes that I will return from my weekend with words and ideas spilling from my well, I share an old poem.
I wrote it at a time when I recognized it was time to let go of a tired relationship.
Here's to metaphors!
Heels of Sand
Impotent waves fan over my feet
stretching and hovering across
unspoiled earth.
A pause—
pregnant with promise
awaiting the moment the sea grasps again
and firmament slips,
a dizzy inadvertent sliding
of all that’s solid.
I teeter on heels of sand,
stubbornly, and steadfast;
until I fall, and
you ebb
away
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Styrofoam Peanuts to My Soul
I once created a "found" poem of lines written by my high school students in their letters of introduction to me at the beginning of the school year. I discovered the poem today as I perused files on my hard drive.
It's a glimpse into the young people I learned with almost ten years ago. Each line is by a different author.
Struggling with his death shaped me into an entirely different person.
When I get older my goal is to become a lawyer so I can knock some sense into people discriminating…
There is only one other place that comes close to the place I call home, and that is camp.
My fear is being in front of a big audience, but sooner or later that fear starts to burn off.
I have found a new love for waterfowl.
I probably turned out so open-minded and know so much more about what is actually out there due to what I experienced with my brother.
Sometimes I can have a major attitude problem and just want to be left alone.
Hobbies would be playing air guitar and acoustic guitar.
Ever since I can remember I have had the habit of opening the fridge without needing anything from it.
I don’t want to be around pot smokers or people that drink.
We moved down here on the boat we live on.
I have had a paper route before and it was one of those things that taught me about responsibility.
I don’t have much insecurity, but I absolutely hate it when people talk about me.
I also wish people could fly; that would be cool.
Now I volunteer at special needs camps and the Special Olympics.
I am a walk through a silent graveyard.
I pretty much hold my tongue for no one and my language would put a sailor to shame.
I like to paintball, surf, body board, body surf, jet ski, and swim.
I grew up with a family of many different races, so I don’t accept crude jokes or name calling.
My biggest fear is the consequences of trouble. I’m not exactly scared of doing the trouble; I’m scared of what it might end up becoming in the long run.
I like to draw and do so frequently… Doodling is just something my hand does on its own.
I pulled off my first political maneuver; we were both elected, and my interest in politics was solidified.
I have a birthmark on my stomach and my sister says it looks like a heart.
I am terrible at finding things that I have lost, even if it is right under my nose.
I believe in honest work, I am a good friend, and I am a perfectionist!
I don’t have a million friends, but the ones that I have are trustworthy and kind.
Whenever I see a bee or a fly I freak out.
I have built so many weird creations in my backyard it could have a history of its own.
I love to skateboard because I find it difficult to learn new tricks.
My general nature is doubtful…when there are thousands of pieces of evidence saying yes I still think no and I can’t help it.
I didn’t realize birds were so much fun.
When I go to sleep I need walls of pillows around me, my room to be freezing cold, and a movie on my TV.
I’m scared of heights, just because I always think of what will happen if I fall.
I’m also a big video gamer (it’s kind of nerdy).
I procrastinate sometimes and I am trying to overcome lying for my benefit.
The thing that I fear most is dying.
I have only one fear in my life, disregarding kidney stones.
I have broken my arm, popped my elbow out of place, torn my hip flexor, had a bone bruise in my knee, and many bumps and bruises.
I’m not embarrassed to speak my mind, or to raise my hand when no one else will.
I am very lucky to have my parents together and happy.
A couple of things that interest me are piracy and 18th century European fashion.
My favorite colors are blue and red.
It’s strange to me how just by hearing a sound one can feel sadness or happiness.
I realize it’s a very exciting thing to bring a new life into this world but part of me is considering adoption.
I also believe that many of the world’s religions that are seemingly in conflict actually exist side by side and fit together in a grand puzzle.
I am hoping to come close to or break the school record this year.
I have a great love for my friends; they are the Styrofoam peanuts to the poorly packaged cardboard box of my soul.
The single largest reason I am so ready to go to college is to get away from the hate and constant pressure that is put on me.
I spread my message to the chauvinists that women have rights and you best respect them…
I’ve taken up sailing and once my dad gets home I’ll have my rock-climbing partner back…
I learned that immigrating into a different country was not as easy as it seemed.
I don’t have a very loud voice, and I really don’t like raising my voice to be heard.
Confused, perplexed, ready, willing, eager, enthusiastic, prepared. Through all my parents’ biases I have learned to have almost none.
I have more respect for officers of any kind because it is hard to enforce rules, especially to your peers.
My father, who was experimenting with Zen Buddhism, wanted me to have a truly meaningful name.
I kind of think of myself as a walking contradiction.
I am still completely addicted to chess.
I fall asleep with music on, cuddled up with my cat.
I really enjoy gardening, fishing, studying, raising, catching, watching all life, especially bugs.
I am weird, but I am who I am.
Most people in school that lack responsibilities don’t think about how much they get from others.
This girl wants to know.
First, be goofy, funny, loud, and have fun.
I am easily intimidated.
I want to make an impact.
Nothing stays the same and that’s okay.
I’m not the type of girl that beats around the bush.
My best friends are drug free and so am I.
I am a writing fiend.
I love spending time with my parents.
I have ADD but have learned to control it.
A miracle is not water turned to wine; a miracle is when a kid says no to drugs.
I would say that I’m navy blue.
She does not allow animal-tested products in her house.
I’m also in a band with my friends.
I hope to be a movie star.
It's a glimpse into the young people I learned with almost ten years ago. Each line is by a different author.
Struggling with his death shaped me into an entirely different person.
When I get older my goal is to become a lawyer so I can knock some sense into people discriminating…
There is only one other place that comes close to the place I call home, and that is camp.
My fear is being in front of a big audience, but sooner or later that fear starts to burn off.
I have found a new love for waterfowl.
I probably turned out so open-minded and know so much more about what is actually out there due to what I experienced with my brother.
Sometimes I can have a major attitude problem and just want to be left alone.
Hobbies would be playing air guitar and acoustic guitar.
Ever since I can remember I have had the habit of opening the fridge without needing anything from it.
I don’t want to be around pot smokers or people that drink.
We moved down here on the boat we live on.
I have had a paper route before and it was one of those things that taught me about responsibility.
I don’t have much insecurity, but I absolutely hate it when people talk about me.
I also wish people could fly; that would be cool.
Now I volunteer at special needs camps and the Special Olympics.
I am a walk through a silent graveyard.
I pretty much hold my tongue for no one and my language would put a sailor to shame.
I like to paintball, surf, body board, body surf, jet ski, and swim.
I grew up with a family of many different races, so I don’t accept crude jokes or name calling.
My biggest fear is the consequences of trouble. I’m not exactly scared of doing the trouble; I’m scared of what it might end up becoming in the long run.
I like to draw and do so frequently… Doodling is just something my hand does on its own.
I pulled off my first political maneuver; we were both elected, and my interest in politics was solidified.
I have a birthmark on my stomach and my sister says it looks like a heart.
I am terrible at finding things that I have lost, even if it is right under my nose.
I believe in honest work, I am a good friend, and I am a perfectionist!
I don’t have a million friends, but the ones that I have are trustworthy and kind.
Whenever I see a bee or a fly I freak out.
I have built so many weird creations in my backyard it could have a history of its own.
I love to skateboard because I find it difficult to learn new tricks.
My general nature is doubtful…when there are thousands of pieces of evidence saying yes I still think no and I can’t help it.
I didn’t realize birds were so much fun.
When I go to sleep I need walls of pillows around me, my room to be freezing cold, and a movie on my TV.
I’m scared of heights, just because I always think of what will happen if I fall.
I’m also a big video gamer (it’s kind of nerdy).
I procrastinate sometimes and I am trying to overcome lying for my benefit.
The thing that I fear most is dying.
I have only one fear in my life, disregarding kidney stones.
I have broken my arm, popped my elbow out of place, torn my hip flexor, had a bone bruise in my knee, and many bumps and bruises.
I’m not embarrassed to speak my mind, or to raise my hand when no one else will.
I am very lucky to have my parents together and happy.
A couple of things that interest me are piracy and 18th century European fashion.
My favorite colors are blue and red.
It’s strange to me how just by hearing a sound one can feel sadness or happiness.
I realize it’s a very exciting thing to bring a new life into this world but part of me is considering adoption.
I also believe that many of the world’s religions that are seemingly in conflict actually exist side by side and fit together in a grand puzzle.
I am hoping to come close to or break the school record this year.
I have a great love for my friends; they are the Styrofoam peanuts to the poorly packaged cardboard box of my soul.
The single largest reason I am so ready to go to college is to get away from the hate and constant pressure that is put on me.
I spread my message to the chauvinists that women have rights and you best respect them…
I’ve taken up sailing and once my dad gets home I’ll have my rock-climbing partner back…
I learned that immigrating into a different country was not as easy as it seemed.
I don’t have a very loud voice, and I really don’t like raising my voice to be heard.
Confused, perplexed, ready, willing, eager, enthusiastic, prepared. Through all my parents’ biases I have learned to have almost none.
I have more respect for officers of any kind because it is hard to enforce rules, especially to your peers.
My father, who was experimenting with Zen Buddhism, wanted me to have a truly meaningful name.
I kind of think of myself as a walking contradiction.
I am still completely addicted to chess.
I fall asleep with music on, cuddled up with my cat.
I really enjoy gardening, fishing, studying, raising, catching, watching all life, especially bugs.
I am weird, but I am who I am.
Most people in school that lack responsibilities don’t think about how much they get from others.
This girl wants to know.
First, be goofy, funny, loud, and have fun.
I am easily intimidated.
I want to make an impact.
Nothing stays the same and that’s okay.
I’m not the type of girl that beats around the bush.
My best friends are drug free and so am I.
I am a writing fiend.
I love spending time with my parents.
I have ADD but have learned to control it.
A miracle is not water turned to wine; a miracle is when a kid says no to drugs.
I would say that I’m navy blue.
She does not allow animal-tested products in her house.
I’m also in a band with my friends.
I hope to be a movie star.
Monday, January 8, 2018
13 Ways of Looking at 16
In advance of their daughter's sixteenth birthday, friends of ours asked family members and friends to write her letters including memories, advice, and inspiration. Here's my contribution (and my favorite is #VII):
Dear Tess,
Wallace Stevens wrote his poem, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” and it occurs to me that it’s like a little Instagram account (whereas William Carlos Williams’ poem “Red Wheelbarrow” is like one Insta post, and “This is Just to Say,” also by Williams, is more like an apologetic message on a friend’s FB wall—oh hey, we could compare poems to social media moments! But I digress). So here’s a moment in time, your sixteenth birthday, for which we are creating snapshots, reflections, messages on your “wall,” so to speak. I am offering you “Thirteen Ways of Looking at Sixteen.”
So much love,
Fer
Thirteen Ways of Looking at Sixteen
I
Among the people at dinner that night,
The most memorable ideas, references, and insights
Issued from the sixteen-year-old.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a sixteen-year-old
In which resides child, teen, adult.
III
She, sixteen, danced in the sand, arms thrown wildly to wind and sky.
It was one movement in the choreography of her life.
IV
A man and a woman
had one.
A man and a woman and a sixteen-year-old
Are one.
V
They are all evidence of her,
Words, actions, body
And her slept-in bed, clothing, and acquisitions:
The sixteen-year-old’s being
As well as her props.
VI
Music from the turntable filled the room
With sounds like.
The limbs of the sixteen-year-old
Crossed and curled and extended along the couch.
Her mood
Represented in her postures:
Shifting landscape.
VII
O old folks of society,
Why do you imagine hoodlums?
Do you not see how the sixteen-year-old
Walks the world in feet
That become yours?
VIII
I know great minds
And inventions, accomplishments, triumphs, and talents realized over lifetimes;
But I feel, too,
That sixteen-year-olds influence
What I know and believe and love.
IX
When the sixteen-year-old drove out of sight,
It marked one edge
Of the polygon of independence.
X
At the sight of sixteen-year-olds
Delighting in their own company,
Even the most cynical observers
Gaze with longing and approval.
XI
I dreamed I was late to class
And dashing without progress.
Many times, fear grips my slumber,
When I am convinced
I’ve forgotten my chemistry homework
At sixteen.
XII
Time is flowing.
The sixteen-year-old is thriving.
XIII
She was young and she was old.
She was child and she was adult.
The sixteen-year-old was
Nevertheless always Tess.
Wallace Stevens wrote his poem, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” and it occurs to me that it’s like a little Instagram account (whereas William Carlos Williams’ poem “Red Wheelbarrow” is like one Insta post, and “This is Just to Say,” also by Williams, is more like an apologetic message on a friend’s FB wall—oh hey, we could compare poems to social media moments! But I digress). So here’s a moment in time, your sixteenth birthday, for which we are creating snapshots, reflections, messages on your “wall,” so to speak. I am offering you “Thirteen Ways of Looking at Sixteen.”
So much love,
Fer
Thirteen Ways of Looking at Sixteen
I
Among the people at dinner that night,
The most memorable ideas, references, and insights
Issued from the sixteen-year-old.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a sixteen-year-old
In which resides child, teen, adult.
III
She, sixteen, danced in the sand, arms thrown wildly to wind and sky.
It was one movement in the choreography of her life.
IV
A man and a woman
had one.
A man and a woman and a sixteen-year-old
Are one.
V
They are all evidence of her,
Words, actions, body
And her slept-in bed, clothing, and acquisitions:
The sixteen-year-old’s being
As well as her props.
VI
Music from the turntable filled the room
With sounds like.
The limbs of the sixteen-year-old
Crossed and curled and extended along the couch.
Her mood
Represented in her postures:
Shifting landscape.
VII
O old folks of society,
Why do you imagine hoodlums?
Do you not see how the sixteen-year-old
Walks the world in feet
That become yours?
VIII
I know great minds
And inventions, accomplishments, triumphs, and talents realized over lifetimes;
But I feel, too,
That sixteen-year-olds influence
What I know and believe and love.
IX
When the sixteen-year-old drove out of sight,
It marked one edge
Of the polygon of independence.
X
At the sight of sixteen-year-olds
Delighting in their own company,
Even the most cynical observers
Gaze with longing and approval.
XI
I dreamed I was late to class
And dashing without progress.
Many times, fear grips my slumber,
When I am convinced
I’ve forgotten my chemistry homework
At sixteen.
XII
Time is flowing.
The sixteen-year-old is thriving.
XIII
She was young and she was old.
She was child and she was adult.
The sixteen-year-old was
Nevertheless always Tess.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Like a Drawer in a Dresser
Last night I watched a 20/20 episode chronicling three teens' battles with heroin addiction. I was reminded that not all my former students have found their way. One of the benefits of having worked in the same schools for more than a decade now, though, is that I have been around to see some phoenixes rise from their ashes.
A woman I now call friend had an inauspicious start as my middle school student. I helped her out of some tough spots in high school, and wrote this poem about her several years ago. We met for dinner in September and over Indian food reflected on how our lives have changed since the day our paths crossed. My life has intersected with the lives of many incredible and resilient people, and she is one of them.
(Note: this poem is a pantoum, a form in which lines are repeated in a pattern)
For You, M.
I forgot to tell you yesterday how it felt
When you went wheeling, wailing by
Slid into the ambulance like a drawer in a dresser
I cried; my body felt weightless and light
When you went wheeling, wailing by
I didn’t look; I didn’t think it was anyone I knew; later
I cried; my body felt weightless and light
The first time I remember forgetting myself
I didn’t look; I didn’t think it was anyone I knew; later
I wondered how I could ignore your desperation
The first time I remember forgetting myself
Concentrating on you concentrating on pain
I wondered how I could ignore your desperation
And how you could ignore my outstretched arms
Concentrating on you concentrating on pain
I watch you forgetting yourself
And how you could ignore my outstretched arms
Is a question not worth asking, as
I watch you forgetting yourself
Trembling, shaking, cold and anxious
Is a question not worth asking, as
Other things are more important
Trembling, shaking, cold, and anxious
I want to wrap my happiness and comfort around you
Other things are more important
Slid into the ambulance like a drawer in a dresser
I want to wrap my happiness and comfort around you
I forgot to tell you yesterday how it felt
A woman I now call friend had an inauspicious start as my middle school student. I helped her out of some tough spots in high school, and wrote this poem about her several years ago. We met for dinner in September and over Indian food reflected on how our lives have changed since the day our paths crossed. My life has intersected with the lives of many incredible and resilient people, and she is one of them.
(Note: this poem is a pantoum, a form in which lines are repeated in a pattern)
For You, M.
I forgot to tell you yesterday how it felt
When you went wheeling, wailing by
Slid into the ambulance like a drawer in a dresser
I cried; my body felt weightless and light
When you went wheeling, wailing by
I didn’t look; I didn’t think it was anyone I knew; later
I cried; my body felt weightless and light
The first time I remember forgetting myself
I didn’t look; I didn’t think it was anyone I knew; later
I wondered how I could ignore your desperation
The first time I remember forgetting myself
Concentrating on you concentrating on pain
I wondered how I could ignore your desperation
And how you could ignore my outstretched arms
Concentrating on you concentrating on pain
I watch you forgetting yourself
And how you could ignore my outstretched arms
Is a question not worth asking, as
I watch you forgetting yourself
Trembling, shaking, cold and anxious
Is a question not worth asking, as
Other things are more important
Trembling, shaking, cold, and anxious
I want to wrap my happiness and comfort around you
Other things are more important
Slid into the ambulance like a drawer in a dresser
I want to wrap my happiness and comfort around you
I forgot to tell you yesterday how it felt
Sunday, January 11, 2009
For the Rusty Scupper
My littlest sister got married this weekend to a wonderful man and the wedding was full of high points, among them:
1. My middle sister's graceful, professional, and loving job presiding over the ceremony.
2. Five cousins starring as flower girls and ring bearers. Despite early threats to not wear certain dresses and refusal to carry flowers, generally hitting it out of the park. My youngest daughter peering up at a bridesmaid mid-ceremony and asking, "Are you going to a wedding today?"
3. My father delivering his welcome address to the guests in French in honor of the groom's Belgian family. He practiced for days speaking a language he has never actually learned.
4. The cousins playing racecars on the dance floor while dinner was served.
5. My girls dancing with the crowd for hours, busting twirls and knee slides a la AC/DC.
6. My newest brother-in-law delivering a moving speech and great toasts from his brothers and several of the couple's friends.
7. A gorgeous moon rising over the bay as the sun set.
I was invited to read a poem in the ceremony and chose one of my favorites from French surrealist poet Paul Eluard. The groom's cousin read the original poem in French, followed by my reading of the English translation which I further doctored to include details of my sister and her groom's lives together (rather shamelessly, I've ripped this guy off before in honor of my husband).
I Love You (January 10, 2009)
I love you for all the places we haven’t been
I love you for all the times we’re not alone
For the scent of Thai food and the smell of rosemary garlic bread
For the Rusty Scupper and for the first and the only
For paintings waiting to be conceived
I love you to be
I love you for you
Who calms me if not you yourself-I soothe myself so little
Without you I see nothing but an empty entryway
Between those long distance phone calls and today
There have been all those slow dances
I have not been able to cross the threshold of my fears
I’ve had to learn life step by step
How one discovers
I love you for all the mornings, which are ours
For truth
I love you against everything that is only maybe
For your spirit, which is yours alone
You believe that you are now but you’re just always
You are my dawn and my sunset at the peak
When I lift my head to see
1. My middle sister's graceful, professional, and loving job presiding over the ceremony.
2. Five cousins starring as flower girls and ring bearers. Despite early threats to not wear certain dresses and refusal to carry flowers, generally hitting it out of the park. My youngest daughter peering up at a bridesmaid mid-ceremony and asking, "Are you going to a wedding today?"
3. My father delivering his welcome address to the guests in French in honor of the groom's Belgian family. He practiced for days speaking a language he has never actually learned.
4. The cousins playing racecars on the dance floor while dinner was served.
5. My girls dancing with the crowd for hours, busting twirls and knee slides a la AC/DC.
6. My newest brother-in-law delivering a moving speech and great toasts from his brothers and several of the couple's friends.
7. A gorgeous moon rising over the bay as the sun set.
I was invited to read a poem in the ceremony and chose one of my favorites from French surrealist poet Paul Eluard. The groom's cousin read the original poem in French, followed by my reading of the English translation which I further doctored to include details of my sister and her groom's lives together (rather shamelessly, I've ripped this guy off before in honor of my husband).
I Love You (January 10, 2009)
I love you for all the places we haven’t been
I love you for all the times we’re not alone
For the scent of Thai food and the smell of rosemary garlic bread
For the Rusty Scupper and for the first and the only
For paintings waiting to be conceived
I love you to be
I love you for you
Who calms me if not you yourself-I soothe myself so little
Without you I see nothing but an empty entryway
Between those long distance phone calls and today
There have been all those slow dances
I have not been able to cross the threshold of my fears
I’ve had to learn life step by step
How one discovers
I love you for all the mornings, which are ours
For truth
I love you against everything that is only maybe
For your spirit, which is yours alone
You believe that you are now but you’re just always
You are my dawn and my sunset at the peak
When I lift my head to see
Friday, August 8, 2008
Romantic Wedding Poems
My brother's wedding is this weekend, and I am honored to be a reader in the ceremony. They let me choose--or write--the literary selection, and I believe I found a unique and beautiful poem to share (I'll post it after the wedding).
Last night at the rehearsal, I suggested that I wanted to practice reciting the poem. But in keeping with my penchant for writing silly limericks on a whim, I delivered the following five-line masterpiece:
Last night at the rehearsal, I suggested that I wanted to practice reciting the poem. But in keeping with my penchant for writing silly limericks on a whim, I delivered the following five-line masterpiece:
This weekend the couple will wed,
First rehearsal, and then we get fed.
Some vows they will take,
We'll dance and eat cake...
And the last part? (It happens in bed!)
I am not sure my mother loved it.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Lazarus
I'm not really sure how to write about suicide. I've written a poem about it. And I've thought about suicide. Not seriously, but enough to add my fear of my own self and of finality to the hundred reasons why I will never keep a gun in the house. It's a pretty legitimate fear, I think: the fear of my own potential to harm myself or others. I believe I understand myself well, but when someone I know kills himself unexpectedly, I wonder. I wonder about the dark corners and alleyways the brain can wander into, all by itself. With no one but itself to talk to.
Right before heading in to teach a guest lesson to some 11th grade English classes today, I got the call from my husband that a former student had taken his life.
He was just home from serving in Iraq. We were excited he was safe, successful, that he had come so far, through hardships he faced earlier in his life. By all accounts he was happy, optimistic.
But what do we know?
My lesson was on Sylvia Plath, on her poetry, in particular "Lady Lazarus," in which Plath chronicles her three attempts at suicide. "Dying is an art," she writes, "I do it exceptionally well." Yet Plath, of course, lived to write this poem, barely: on her fourth attempt to take her own life, she succeeded. I dissected the piece with our students, admonishing them to characterize Plath as "mentally ill" versus "crazy." Depression, I reminded them, isn't crazy. Attempting to kill oneself three times may be. I honestly don't know.
Depression isn't glamorous; nor is suicide. And my audience was teenagers. I felt conscious of my language, of judgments I might imply. Sylvia Plath didn't enjoy the life she artfully documented. She was unequipped to fully cherish her children, acknowledge her own creative genius, keep on keeping on. Persevere, I wanted to implore these kids. Reach out.
It gets better, those who understand have been pleading.
Suicide, people say, is selfish, and horrible, and an untenable reality to leave loved ones. Several years ago a single mother killed herself in the midst of her daughter's senior year in my class, leaving a beautiful and creative young woman behind. What was she to do, we wondered? How could she balance her mother's supposed love for her with her mother's need to leave her behind?
Right before heading in to teach a guest lesson to some 11th grade English classes today, I got the call from my husband that a former student had taken his life.
He was just home from serving in Iraq. We were excited he was safe, successful, that he had come so far, through hardships he faced earlier in his life. By all accounts he was happy, optimistic.
But what do we know?
My lesson was on Sylvia Plath, on her poetry, in particular "Lady Lazarus," in which Plath chronicles her three attempts at suicide. "Dying is an art," she writes, "I do it exceptionally well." Yet Plath, of course, lived to write this poem, barely: on her fourth attempt to take her own life, she succeeded. I dissected the piece with our students, admonishing them to characterize Plath as "mentally ill" versus "crazy." Depression, I reminded them, isn't crazy. Attempting to kill oneself three times may be. I honestly don't know.
Depression isn't glamorous; nor is suicide. And my audience was teenagers. I felt conscious of my language, of judgments I might imply. Sylvia Plath didn't enjoy the life she artfully documented. She was unequipped to fully cherish her children, acknowledge her own creative genius, keep on keeping on. Persevere, I wanted to implore these kids. Reach out.
It gets better, those who understand have been pleading.
Suicide, people say, is selfish, and horrible, and an untenable reality to leave loved ones. Several years ago a single mother killed herself in the midst of her daughter's senior year in my class, leaving a beautiful and creative young woman behind. What was she to do, we wondered? How could she balance her mother's supposed love for her with her mother's need to leave her behind?
I've concluded I cannot judge a parent whose pain is so deep she's willing to hurt her children. I can't fathom that pain, can't excuse it nor condemn it.
A high school classmate, a college classmate, my brother's best friend, my cousin: all ended their own lives.
Today, as when my cousin died, the details left me wondering. Maybe, I think, he didn't mean it. Maybe it was an accident--a gesture or a stunt, gone awry.
Now: the despair and confusion. Next, the sewing together of signs, the guilt, the should-haves and might-have-beens, the frustration and anger over losing a young, promising life.
How do we support the living under such circumstances? Already, on Facebook, I see his classmates and friends remembering, reaching out, resolving to stay connected with one another.
We resolve to talk about sadness and despondence. To listen. To trust our instincts, to risk being a nag when we're being shut out. To recognize signs in ourselves, to replace the burned-out bulbs or check the wiring.
We resolve to not allow the manner of death to overshadow the manner of his living. We resurrect the beauty.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
List: Advice for New Teachers
It's been a week now since I made the decision to take on the role of principal at our high school, and the past few weeks have been a whirlwind of mixed emotions. The end of June, with students and most staff gone from our site, is a surreal time anyway, with a few of us rattling around the office finishing up projects, hiring new staff, and planning for next year. I'm straddling two roles for now, anticipating the official change in my title on July 1. I am hoping to be through most of the mental transition by then.
Last Wednesday, on the day I met with the superintendent to confirm my decision, I was scheduled to take some new San Diego Teach for America teachers to dinner as part of a TFA mentoring program for new corps members. The fact that I would be encouraging some of the newest members of our profession at the same time I accepted a new role myself made the evening more poignant. I was reminded to listen to myself, too, as I spoke to the nervous, excited, curious teachers before me.
Some encouraging thoughts for new educators:
1. Be Real: One of the new teachers asked me if she should admit to her students that she was nervous--or if that would undermine her authority in the classroom. Every teacher brings his/her personality, with areas of strength and vulnerability, into the classroom. I learned early on in teaching, and again when I left the classroom to become assistant principal, that I could only be myself, and to capitalize on the parts of me that helped me relate well with others in my role. Attempting to adopt a false persona would be too much work and lead to mistrust and wariness among students. Being real means showing your human side to your students and colleagues. Acknowledging vulnerability is an invitation for students to embrace their own, a key component of an exciting learning environment. All of that said, balance sharing your personality with getting down to business. Students know--and don't approve--when teachers make it all about them. You are not the point; they are.
2. Ask for Help: No one expects you to know everything. A most reassuring response from someone who is in charge and lacking an answer is an honest "I don't know but I will find out." Rely on colleagues and beg, borrow, and steal ideas and strategies that make sense to you. Ask questions--you won't appear weak or clueless, just invested. Your students know a lot too about how things work at your new school; rely on them.
3. Throw Them a Bone: My best teaching and lesson-planning advice boils down to this: students are excited by a classroom which offers intriguing stimuli and opportunities to interact. Your daily lessons should include offering something for students to chew on, explore, investigate, discuss, question, probe, analyze. With proper planning and support, you are then in the enviable position of observing brains in action and hearing insights as you wander the room answering questions and providing guidance. Resist the urge to make learning a transaction between you, teacher-body, and them, whole-class body. Make it more dynamic by removing yourself one degree. Example: you can stand in front of the class and analyze a poem with their input, or you can hand them the poem and see what they do individually and collaboratively. Offer additional support or challenging questions in summary. I mean, you wouldn't lead them on a scavenger hunt, right? You'd send them off with hints.
4. You Can't Stay on Top of It All: Own it. While you owe it to your students to return work and provide feedback in a timely fashion, balancing grading and planning is tricky business and you're likely to try to do too much at first. Remember you don't need to grade everything. We don't get credit for everything in life; some exercises are for practice or for us to understand ourselves better. From time to time you won't have the essays graded when you promised them; they won't have their homework. Model for students the importance of honesty and no excuses: I had another priority. I didn't finish grading last night. It's not the end of the world. Don't make it a habit. Be smart about your time.
5. Remain an Interesting Person: Maintain balance in your life by investing in your hobbies (and sharing them with students). Mine knew I loved running, writing poetry, and Africa. I know teachers who bring in homemade food to share, talk about the books they're reading, recommend hiking sites, and play guitar for students. Demonstrate your own passion for your subject and pursuits. It's inspiring to students.
6. Earn Classroom Respect Your Way: Capitalize on your strengths. As a new teacher I heard everything from "Don't smile till Christmas" to "Kick the trash can across the room on the first day to show them who's boss." Yeah, no. Those strategies were never going to work for me, and nevertheless, I even became a vice principal. Respect is the foundation for a safe and well-functioning community. Establish it, demonstrate it, and insist on it, with clear boundaries and expectations. Each teacher does this differently. When you encounter a community breakdown or have the need to make adjustments, don't feel it's ever too late. Honest dialogue and student feedback can help you recalibrate. Humble yourself.
7. Delight in the Joy and Magic of the Classroom: You've Committed to an Amazing Profession. As an administrator I know if I want to have a good day, the trick is visiting a few classrooms, where wise and inspiring teachers are creating exciting moments for students. Students and teachers alike share brilliant, funny, deep, insightful, problem-solving, and provocative nuggets all day long, and you are part of the action every day. Relationships with students and your discipline will enrich your life in ways you haven't imagined. It's a tough, often heartbreaking profession, but it's a privilege.
Welcome!
Last Wednesday, on the day I met with the superintendent to confirm my decision, I was scheduled to take some new San Diego Teach for America teachers to dinner as part of a TFA mentoring program for new corps members. The fact that I would be encouraging some of the newest members of our profession at the same time I accepted a new role myself made the evening more poignant. I was reminded to listen to myself, too, as I spoke to the nervous, excited, curious teachers before me.
Some encouraging thoughts for new educators:
1. Be Real: One of the new teachers asked me if she should admit to her students that she was nervous--or if that would undermine her authority in the classroom. Every teacher brings his/her personality, with areas of strength and vulnerability, into the classroom. I learned early on in teaching, and again when I left the classroom to become assistant principal, that I could only be myself, and to capitalize on the parts of me that helped me relate well with others in my role. Attempting to adopt a false persona would be too much work and lead to mistrust and wariness among students. Being real means showing your human side to your students and colleagues. Acknowledging vulnerability is an invitation for students to embrace their own, a key component of an exciting learning environment. All of that said, balance sharing your personality with getting down to business. Students know--and don't approve--when teachers make it all about them. You are not the point; they are.
2. Ask for Help: No one expects you to know everything. A most reassuring response from someone who is in charge and lacking an answer is an honest "I don't know but I will find out." Rely on colleagues and beg, borrow, and steal ideas and strategies that make sense to you. Ask questions--you won't appear weak or clueless, just invested. Your students know a lot too about how things work at your new school; rely on them.
3. Throw Them a Bone: My best teaching and lesson-planning advice boils down to this: students are excited by a classroom which offers intriguing stimuli and opportunities to interact. Your daily lessons should include offering something for students to chew on, explore, investigate, discuss, question, probe, analyze. With proper planning and support, you are then in the enviable position of observing brains in action and hearing insights as you wander the room answering questions and providing guidance. Resist the urge to make learning a transaction between you, teacher-body, and them, whole-class body. Make it more dynamic by removing yourself one degree. Example: you can stand in front of the class and analyze a poem with their input, or you can hand them the poem and see what they do individually and collaboratively. Offer additional support or challenging questions in summary. I mean, you wouldn't lead them on a scavenger hunt, right? You'd send them off with hints.
4. You Can't Stay on Top of It All: Own it. While you owe it to your students to return work and provide feedback in a timely fashion, balancing grading and planning is tricky business and you're likely to try to do too much at first. Remember you don't need to grade everything. We don't get credit for everything in life; some exercises are for practice or for us to understand ourselves better. From time to time you won't have the essays graded when you promised them; they won't have their homework. Model for students the importance of honesty and no excuses: I had another priority. I didn't finish grading last night. It's not the end of the world. Don't make it a habit. Be smart about your time.
5. Remain an Interesting Person: Maintain balance in your life by investing in your hobbies (and sharing them with students). Mine knew I loved running, writing poetry, and Africa. I know teachers who bring in homemade food to share, talk about the books they're reading, recommend hiking sites, and play guitar for students. Demonstrate your own passion for your subject and pursuits. It's inspiring to students.
6. Earn Classroom Respect Your Way: Capitalize on your strengths. As a new teacher I heard everything from "Don't smile till Christmas" to "Kick the trash can across the room on the first day to show them who's boss." Yeah, no. Those strategies were never going to work for me, and nevertheless, I even became a vice principal. Respect is the foundation for a safe and well-functioning community. Establish it, demonstrate it, and insist on it, with clear boundaries and expectations. Each teacher does this differently. When you encounter a community breakdown or have the need to make adjustments, don't feel it's ever too late. Honest dialogue and student feedback can help you recalibrate. Humble yourself.
7. Delight in the Joy and Magic of the Classroom: You've Committed to an Amazing Profession. As an administrator I know if I want to have a good day, the trick is visiting a few classrooms, where wise and inspiring teachers are creating exciting moments for students. Students and teachers alike share brilliant, funny, deep, insightful, problem-solving, and provocative nuggets all day long, and you are part of the action every day. Relationships with students and your discipline will enrich your life in ways you haven't imagined. It's a tough, often heartbreaking profession, but it's a privilege.
Welcome!
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
I Heart (Hate?) Valentine's Day
As a child, I developed a Love/Hate Relationship with Valentine's Day. And on its 2008 Eve, I am conjuring up some contemporary loathing after a period of Relative Neutrality.
This is directly associated with the fact that I have a four-year-old, and it's her first year of Valentine Trading at Preschool. Our task tonight was to produce valentines for her classmates, all 37 of them. Her preschool helpfully suggested that each student could just make 37 valentines with only the giver's name on them...like, "From X Kid," or "Regards, X." So as to simplify the process. Hence, no list of all classmates sent home. I appreciate the sentiment, really I do.
But what this really means is that there are two options in this Choose Your Own Valentine Adventure:
My mother reminded me of Valentine's Day in 2nd grade, when I woke up sick but didn't tell her because I So Very Badly needed to be at school for our Valentine's Day Party. I have a clear picture of myself, post-nurse's-phone-call-home-to-mom, walking down the hall with my "Heart Man" in one hand (made of a construction-paper-heart body, with four accordion-folded limbs with heart-shaped hands and feet attached--I know you know what I am talking about) and my mother's hand in the other.
In 5th grade, I talked my mom into letting me buy a Real Bona Fide Full-Sized Valentine (I must have convinced her it was for Someone Related To Me) in addition to the requisite Box O' Little Cheap Fold-Ups. The Big Valentine With Its Own Envelope was for Gary W. I loved him in my own crazy 5th-grade way, and surreptitiously put the Big Card in his Valentine Pouch on the back of his chair with High Expectations of I Am Not Sure What. The moment of Heart Rending Reckoning was when I witnessed him showing another boy that valentine, under his desk.
On the other hand, the best part of Valentine's Day has always been my father's annual gift and card, with his love behind them. He has continued this tradition whether or not we're married or grown up. I love you, Dad.
The other best part of Valentine's Day is knowing I have Real Love to count on Every Single Day of the Year. I love you, husband.
So I include here a poem I wrote for my husband some years ago. I used the poem "I Love You" by French Surrealist Poet Paul Eluard as a template.
I Love You
I love you for all the moments you aren’t here
And I love you for the space between us in the room
For the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the smell of the heater
Igniting in the hall
For the rain soaking our flower beds and for your garden gloves
For the grass no one’s stepped on
I love you for love
I love you for all the moments you’re here
Who hears me if not you—I hear myself so little
Without you I hear nothing but echoes and empty notes
Between the lips of passersby
There is nothing in the atmosphere to hold
I have not been able to listen in the silence
I’ve had to learn to love sound by sound
How easily I forget
I love you for your gentleness, which is not mine
For endurance
I love you for perfection which isn’t true
For you over whom I exert no control
You think you are now but you are just forever
You are the light that opens my eyes
When I raise my head to see
This is directly associated with the fact that I have a four-year-old, and it's her first year of Valentine Trading at Preschool. Our task tonight was to produce valentines for her classmates, all 37 of them. Her preschool helpfully suggested that each student could just make 37 valentines with only the giver's name on them...like, "From X Kid," or "Regards, X." So as to simplify the process. Hence, no list of all classmates sent home. I appreciate the sentiment, really I do.
But what this really means is that there are two options in this Choose Your Own Valentine Adventure:
- Parent writes X's name on 37 valentines on her behalf, or
- OCD Daughter X wants to remember each of 37 classmates and write their AND her own names on Each Flipping Little Card at 8:30 at night. And we have to Keep On Spelling as she Randomly Recalls Fellow Preschoolers. We curtailed this operation and turned it into a Write Your Own Name ONLY Assembly Line after Tears of Anguish and Confusion ("How will they know it's THEIR valentine, MOM????) and I'll Be Damned if she didn't write her name, DOGGEDLY, 37 times, in record time. That's my girl.
My mother reminded me of Valentine's Day in 2nd grade, when I woke up sick but didn't tell her because I So Very Badly needed to be at school for our Valentine's Day Party. I have a clear picture of myself, post-nurse's-phone-call-home-to-mom, walking down the hall with my "Heart Man" in one hand (made of a construction-paper-heart body, with four accordion-folded limbs with heart-shaped hands and feet attached--I know you know what I am talking about) and my mother's hand in the other.
In 5th grade, I talked my mom into letting me buy a Real Bona Fide Full-Sized Valentine (I must have convinced her it was for Someone Related To Me) in addition to the requisite Box O' Little Cheap Fold-Ups. The Big Valentine With Its Own Envelope was for Gary W. I loved him in my own crazy 5th-grade way, and surreptitiously put the Big Card in his Valentine Pouch on the back of his chair with High Expectations of I Am Not Sure What. The moment of Heart Rending Reckoning was when I witnessed him showing another boy that valentine, under his desk.
On the other hand, the best part of Valentine's Day has always been my father's annual gift and card, with his love behind them. He has continued this tradition whether or not we're married or grown up. I love you, Dad.
The other best part of Valentine's Day is knowing I have Real Love to count on Every Single Day of the Year. I love you, husband.
So I include here a poem I wrote for my husband some years ago. I used the poem "I Love You" by French Surrealist Poet Paul Eluard as a template.
I Love You
I love you for all the moments you aren’t here
And I love you for the space between us in the room
For the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the smell of the heater
Igniting in the hall
For the rain soaking our flower beds and for your garden gloves
For the grass no one’s stepped on
I love you for love
I love you for all the moments you’re here
Who hears me if not you—I hear myself so little
Without you I hear nothing but echoes and empty notes
Between the lips of passersby
There is nothing in the atmosphere to hold
I have not been able to listen in the silence
I’ve had to learn to love sound by sound
How easily I forget
I love you for your gentleness, which is not mine
For endurance
I love you for perfection which isn’t true
For you over whom I exert no control
You think you are now but you are just forever
You are the light that opens my eyes
When I raise my head to see
Happy Valentine's Day
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Still Waters
Here is a poem from 2002:
You are the only one who knows.
Over parched and arid landscape,
You, a divining rod,
Plunge through the deep, darkened earth of my eyes
To find moisture seeping—
buried, silent.
Stepping lightly over the consistent landscape
Of my life,
You’re the only one who knows.
And I am still,
Wishing the springs to run dry
Before a well is dug
And undercurrents rise
To muddy the ground beneath me.
You are the only one who knows.
Over parched and arid landscape,
You, a divining rod,
Plunge through the deep, darkened earth of my eyes
To find moisture seeping—
buried, silent.
Stepping lightly over the consistent landscape
Of my life,
You’re the only one who knows.
And I am still,
Wishing the springs to run dry
Before a well is dug
And undercurrents rise
To muddy the ground beneath me.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Empty Bowls, Overflowing
There are some days when goodness just abounds. And today was really, really good.
Starting with the potentially contentious conference between parents and coaches I sat in on, which ended with a leap in respect gained by both sides, both for the Job of Parents of Struggling Kid and for the Job of Coaches of 80 Alternately Struggling Kids. Sometimes people can start suspicious of one another and end mutually respectful, even admiring. It's pretty cool to watch that go down.
Then I attended a meeting about a student in our special education program who suffers from serious disabilities as well as Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. We celebrated this teenager's occupational therapy evaluation results, awed by how well she copied shapes and stayed in the lines when asked to perform tasks with a pencil. We listened while her mother described the family's hour-and-a-half-long morning routine, meant to stretch her daughter's muscles and prepare her for less-painful days.
"What time do you wake up in the morning?" I asked, humbled by this parent's dedication.
"4:45," she answered, "Everyday. This is our family's schedule," she added. "We're used to it," she smiled. "And it makes a difference."
I had an opportunity later in the day to counsel two girls I had disciplined earlier for going AWOL from class for half an hour. One set of parents was now sure that the other young lady was a bad influence. They wanted advice, as well as confirmation that I hadn't told their parents they were Satan's Spawn. Though in our last encounter I played Stern Vice Principal and lectured them on Trust and Accountability (as well as assigned them Saturday School), this afternoon we sat on the quad at a picnic table and talked about how to gain and keep the trust of parents. How to apologize, atone, and embark on honest relationships with people who are constantly worried you're Going to Hell in a Handbasket, fast. Especially on days when the school calls with Bad News.
Starting with the potentially contentious conference between parents and coaches I sat in on, which ended with a leap in respect gained by both sides, both for the Job of Parents of Struggling Kid and for the Job of Coaches of 80 Alternately Struggling Kids. Sometimes people can start suspicious of one another and end mutually respectful, even admiring. It's pretty cool to watch that go down.
Then I attended a meeting about a student in our special education program who suffers from serious disabilities as well as Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. We celebrated this teenager's occupational therapy evaluation results, awed by how well she copied shapes and stayed in the lines when asked to perform tasks with a pencil. We listened while her mother described the family's hour-and-a-half-long morning routine, meant to stretch her daughter's muscles and prepare her for less-painful days.
"What time do you wake up in the morning?" I asked, humbled by this parent's dedication.
"4:45," she answered, "Everyday. This is our family's schedule," she added. "We're used to it," she smiled. "And it makes a difference."
I had an opportunity later in the day to counsel two girls I had disciplined earlier for going AWOL from class for half an hour. One set of parents was now sure that the other young lady was a bad influence. They wanted advice, as well as confirmation that I hadn't told their parents they were Satan's Spawn. Though in our last encounter I played Stern Vice Principal and lectured them on Trust and Accountability (as well as assigned them Saturday School), this afternoon we sat on the quad at a picnic table and talked about how to gain and keep the trust of parents. How to apologize, atone, and embark on honest relationships with people who are constantly worried you're Going to Hell in a Handbasket, fast. Especially on days when the school calls with Bad News.
The day culminated with our school's second annual Empty Bowls Dinner and Student Art Exhibit. Our ceramics teacher conceives this event, which involves our students hand-throwing hundreds of ceramic bowls, local restaurants (and citizens AND students) contributing gallons of soup, and artists donating treasured works for a silent auction, all benefiting the homeless and hungry. Teachers, students, parents, community members, and families were all over our quad, listening to live music, eating, communing, greeting one another, holding one another's children, dancing, cartwheeling...and oohing and ahhing over amazing student artwork.
Maybe the best part was our music teacher on guitar, singing 80s cover tunes with current students accompanying on the mandolin and violin.
Maybe the best part was students pointing to bowls strangers had chosen and offering, humbly, shyly: "Ohhh...I made that bowl..." and the Chooser saying, "Really? Oh my goodness! It's the Most Amazing Bowl!"
Maybe the best part was the reunion of student musicians, some graduates, who've made a name for themselves and cut a CD, playing their famous version of "Video Killed the Radio Star."
Maybe the best part was that I happened to choose a bowl, blindly, among 700-odd bowls, made by my artist friend, the ceramics teacher, to give to a friend who asked me to pick one for her.
Or that my husband and I divided and conquered with our two girls, to allow them to choose their own favorite bowls. And they both chose pieces from the same whimsical student artist.
Or that my husband and my mother both chose bowls by another talented student.
Or that my mom managed to snag a bowl that featured my own poem reproduced inside.
Or that my dear friend and her three children came to the event, and a sweet student agreed to stand in the soup line with her to help her juggle five soup bowls and three kiddoes.
Or that I caught up with the mother of a student whose father (her beloved husband) is dying, who came to see her son, and to eat soup and to just be for the moment...
Or that my Daughter #2 showed up in mittens and shorts.
Or that my Daughter #1 demonstrated how important some of the adults (NOT related to her!) are in her life, especially my artist friend and a math teacher colleague/mentor/friend. Making ME feel like my mother side and my work side and my friend side converge. And that it all makes sense, really it does.
Or that teachers at our school are teaching our students more than subject matter. That each discipline has its global connection. That ceramics comes with GIVING and a potential for awareness beyond ourselves, and that we need to give, give, give...and open our eyes.
That's what my teacher friend did by hosting this event AGAIN, and by inspiring his students to create more than 700 bowls to give to others. And that's what the parents demonstrated, the parents who made this one of the most well-organized events we host. And that's what the pride in craftsmanship--of the music, of the pottery, of the ideas conceived, of the hard work--really means to the people behind this event.
To quote one of my colleagues, reflecting on tonight in an email to staff: "I usually feel my bowl runneth over..."Wednesday, October 7, 2015
If (Middle Sis) Were in Charge of the World
A poem written by our now-fourth-grader last year (pulled out of the backpack today??)
If I were in charge of the world I'd cancel
Robbery, killing, war, and smoking drugs.
If I were in charge of the world there'd be
Book Clubs in every school, you would only
have medicine drugs, and at all schools you'd
have hour long recess and lunches.
If I were in charge of the world you wouldn't
have pain. You wouldn't have meanness.
You wouldn't have cancer or hunger. You
wouldn't even have homeless people.
If I were in charge of the world
A house could transform into a giant hot tub. All
people would be nice. And a person who sometimes forgot
to sleep and sometimes forgot to brush their hair would still
be allowed to be in charge of the world!
Friday, September 14, 2012
That Punishing Pooch
There was a period of time when I did yoga regularly...a time before I had children. Now, I mostly run, because fleeing my home on foot only requires another adult left behind with the kids and no prior appointment.
And, well, I love running.
I love running so much that for decades I have pretty much ignored my upper body and, as it's become affectionately known, my core. And then last year I was recruited into an inclusive club of colleagues meeting at 5:45 AM to work out to P90X videos projected on the wall of our dark and otherwise empty high school gym. I have learned how to lift weights that weren't children or groceries. I have learned how to make my abs hurt a lot. I have learned that even though I run regularly, a good leg workout will mean I can hardly walk on those running legs the next day.
I'm not trying out for a P90X promotional here; nor do I want to become part of Tony's Team, but I have to say, it's been nice to notice that my back doesn't hurt as much when I get out of bed, and I even sit and stand more comfortably since, allegedly, I have Strenthened My Core.
This morning's o'dark-thirty workout incorporated some yoga, and I was reminded of a poem I wrote ten years ago, when I was dogged by one particular pose.
Perhaps you can relate:
Down with Downward Facing Dog
I hate you,
Stretch that my dog achieves with such ease and grace and
sloping back
You make my calves burn and my arms ache.
I shift my weight and try, try, try
To push my heels down flat
while my biceps tremble and my eyes tear.
I cannot turn my elbows outward
I cannot move my outer arms inward
I cannot move tailbone upward
I cannot release my head and make my back concave.
I long to collapse on my haunches,
forehead on the wood floor.
I whimper when I hear the words
"Downward Facing Dog"
And, well, I love running.
I love running so much that for decades I have pretty much ignored my upper body and, as it's become affectionately known, my core. And then last year I was recruited into an inclusive club of colleagues meeting at 5:45 AM to work out to P90X videos projected on the wall of our dark and otherwise empty high school gym. I have learned how to lift weights that weren't children or groceries. I have learned how to make my abs hurt a lot. I have learned that even though I run regularly, a good leg workout will mean I can hardly walk on those running legs the next day.
I'm not trying out for a P90X promotional here; nor do I want to become part of Tony's Team, but I have to say, it's been nice to notice that my back doesn't hurt as much when I get out of bed, and I even sit and stand more comfortably since, allegedly, I have Strenthened My Core.
This morning's o'dark-thirty workout incorporated some yoga, and I was reminded of a poem I wrote ten years ago, when I was dogged by one particular pose.
Perhaps you can relate:
Down with Downward Facing Dog
I hate you,
Stretch that my dog achieves with such ease and grace and
sloping back
You make my calves burn and my arms ache.
I shift my weight and try, try, try
To push my heels down flat
while my biceps tremble and my eyes tear.
I cannot turn my elbows outward
I cannot move my outer arms inward
I cannot move tailbone upward
I cannot release my head and make my back concave.
I long to collapse on my haunches,
forehead on the wood floor.
I whimper when I hear the words
"Downward Facing Dog"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)