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Feeling small, a different perspective

At the end of the day, S. sat in the corner and cried and cried and cried. She’d begun the day with tears as well, devastated to realize that she’d missed the opportunity to sign up for the Talent Show auditions. “I don’t know what my talent is, ” she sobbed, “but I want to be in the show!”

With some support, she’d managed to reset for much of the day, but despair had descended on her again powerfully as the day ended. She now sat facing the corner, dejection radiating from every line of her body. I’d already checked in with her and tried to help, but small sobs still shook her shoulders.

“S,” I said to her now, “Your mom is here to pick you up. “

“I’m not going!” she wailed.

“S, if you want to be in the Talent Show, you should talk to your mom about it. They have one every year, so you can try again next year.” I suspected this was little comfort, but wasn’t sure what else to say.

“But my mom won’t take us anywhere. My dad has to watch the other kids and he doesn’t want to. He’s just lazy!” she exclaimed. “I wish,” she sobbed, “I just wish I could meet with someone.”

“You want to meet with someone?” I asked, a bit at sea.

“Yes,” she said, vehemently, “I wish I could meet with someone who could invent a time machine. Then I could go back in time and sign up for the auditions.” Tears streamed down her face.

Eventually, I managed to convince S that the best choice right now was to head out to where her mom was waiting for her. I offered her a hug and then helped her gather up her things and get into her coat and out the door.

Soon after she left, a colleague on dismissal duty came to check in and ask if I knew that S. was very upset as she headed out for pick up. I assured her I did, and that I also planned to drop a quick e-mail to her parents.

“I had no idea she even wanted to be in the Talent Show! She never said anything! ” her mom exclaimed when she responded.

Such big feelings in such a little body.

Not too long ago, I wrote a blog post about the value of feeling small (here). This moment reminded me that there are times that feeling small and powerless is really just no fun.

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Poetry Friday is here!

Welcome to Poetry Friday! I’m so glad you’re here! You are invited to the Inlinkz link party! Click here to enter

This month it was my turn to choose the Inklings’ challenge. “Make it easy!” someone pleaded, and I thought I did. But after fiddling around with it, I’m not so sure. I think it’s one of those prompts that sounds easier than it is.

Anyway, the prompt I chose was from Audrey Gidman’s advent prompts (here). She wrote:

“Write a poem after Wendell Berry’s “Like Snow” — word for word. Choose a subject: rain, a butterfly, granite, the ocean, anything. Berry’s poem is three lines long. Break down each line. In line one, replace the word “suppose” with something else: what if; in spite of; imagine etc., replace the pronoun and the verb, replace “snow” with your chosen subject. Do the same with the second and third lines. Be sure to write an epigraph that reads “after Wendell Berry”.” I added that everyone should feel free to interpret the prompt in ways that worked for them, including going rogue and writing to another prompt on the link.

As I intimated above, I found these tricky! Here’s Berry’s inspiring poem:

I definitely worked loosely with the prompt. I wrote quite a few of these and would love to keep fiddling and revising. But, it’s time to post, so here are two for today:

Like Rain
after Wendell Berry

Imagine if we fell together
like spring rain, gently, gently
nourishing everything around us.

©Molly Hogan

Like a bud
after Wendell Berry

Suppose we could still unfurl
like a bud, blossoming, blossoming
after enduring winter’s grip

©Molly Hogan

To see what the other Inklings wrote, click on their links below:

Mary Lee @ A(nother) Year of Reading
Linda @A Word Edgewise
Margaret @Reflections on the Teche
Heidi @my juicy little universe
Catherine @ Reading to the Core


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A Hard Won Slice

This week feels long and it’s only Tuesday. I told myself I’d write tonight. I still haven’t done so. But, I did enjoy a nice, large glass of red wine. So, that’s a win. And I’m trying to write, which is better than giving up. Right?

I can’t settle on anything to write about, though. Nothing feels right. I’ve already done it, or it’s boring, or I’m boring, or something. So finally, I just gave myself 15 minutes and told myself to do it. Just write about something.

I could write about recess in the winter in Maine. About how we go outside even when the real feel hovers around 10˚F or a bit colder. Maine children know how to dress for the cold. They put on all their layers (which takes an eternity!) and then once we’re outside, quite a few of them surreptitiously remove their coats when teachers aren’t looking. “It’s hot!” they complain as we insist they put on their jackets while we huddle in our full length coats and clutch our electronic hand warmers. The other day some kids found hoarfrost in the playground drain grids. “It looks like snowflakes!” they exclaimed! “They are like little crystals and they melt when I touch them!” It’s gorgeous out there, but the cold can take your breath away. Somedays, no matter how many layers you wear, it seems to take hours to truly feel warm again!

I could write about our current Science unit. About how kids are exclaiming, “Look, Mrs. Hogan! There are geysers coming out of the rocks!” as they observe the volcanic rocks they’ve submitted in water. How they take the hand lenses and wear them like glasses, their little eyes magnified and buggy. How I’ve had several heart to heart talks with students, trying to open their eyes to the depressing reality that “poop”, although hilarious, really is not the best descriptive word choice for the color brown.

Or I could write about a recent day when we’d been mapping and studying the word “other”. We came up with a rhythmic chant to help us remember it–O! T-H-E-R! A little later when I challenged them to write it on their slates, I noticed a student was stuck. I wandered up behind him and started quietly chanting to help him out. Apparently, I was moving about a bit enthusiastically, too. Another student noticed and piped up, “Mrs. Hogan! You’ve got some moves, Girl!” which sent us all off into peals of laughter and a short-lived dance party.

So, there it is. Not really a slice, but a few of them cobbled together. A Frankenstein slice maybe? lol

But, hey, I wrote. So, in my book, that’s a definite win.

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Seeking small doses of joy

These days, more than ever, I’m following Mary Oliver’s advice and actively looking to be astonished and stand in wonder. The opportunities are there if you “pay attention”, and I need the counterbalance. So, I’m actively tuning myself to the joy channel, trying to notice and linger in such moments–this morning’s moonlight streaming through a frosty window…the daily sunrise…mist rising from the river as I cross the bridge on a frigid morning…the laughter of children reveling in the new fallen snow at recess…the steady warmth of the wood stove’s heat on my back as I write…so many small moments of wonder! And here was another one:

Taking the trash out on a January morning

I step outside into bitter cold
into clear, clean air
and a glow in the west
The moon hides below
the tops of snow-sugared pines
and casts a diffuse light heavenward

In the east the sun rises
in purples and reds
smudged with charcoal clouds
a canvas for the stark elegance
of winter trees

After hoisting the trash into the bin
I turn carefully
on the ice coated driveway
west to east,  moon to sun
and then again
east to west, sun to moon

I turn and turn and turn

dizzy with the glory of it all 

©Molly Hogan

I hope that your days offer up small wonders to notice and be astonished by, and that they act as a balm in these bruising times.

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater at her blog, The Poem Farm.

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The Unwaning Lure of Snow

I woke and glanced over at the clock. 3:46 am.

How much had it snowed?

Lying in my nest of blankets, I imagined piles of snow draping the garden, layered upon the table like a huge dome of frosting on a cake. Did we have a foot? More?

I already knew we didn’t have school, so there was no need to get up and wait for a call. I closed my eyes and snuggled deeper, willing my body to fall back to sleep.

My mind had other ideas.

Maybe I should just go to take a quick look?

I’d deliberately left the outside light on overnight, in case I woke during the night, and wanted to take a quick peek from upstairs to gauge the snowfall. But I’d slept through and now it was morning. Well, sort of. Still, I could just take a look. But I know myself well enough to know that once I’m up and out of bed, I’m up.

“Go back to sleep,” I told myself. “The snow will still be there when you wake up!”

So, I tried. Really, I did. I lay there beneath the blankets, my eyes closed, sternly telling myself to sleep. I was warm. I was cozy. I was dying to know how much snow there was!

Finally at 4:03 I gave up. I couldn’t resist any longer. I had to know.

I reached for my glasses, put on my robe, and tiptoed out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Then I peeked out of the frosted window to the garden below. Mounds of sparkling white draped everything in sight. My eyes scanned the scene, utterly delighted by how the heavy snowfall transformed the world outside my door. It was absolutely beautiful– a generous gift from Winter, and one that was well worth getting out of bed early!

No matter how old I get, I simply can’t resist the lure of of a fresh snowfall.

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PF: A Pantoum

Somehow January has flown by. I just realized that I haven’t managed to show up for Poetry Friday more than once. Yikes! That’s a trend I intend to break, so I’m showing up a day late to the gathering.

I love when Pádraig Ó Tuama reminds me to try out a pantoum (here). His formula always yields interesting results. He says to write 8 lines, number them and put them into this order: 1,2,3,4 2,5,4,6 5,7,6,8 7,3,8,1. Then he says, “As lines repeat, feel free to punk them up a bit.” So here’s my pantoum-ish poem:

New Year’s Day

I forgot to watch for the first bird
I watch the snow fall instead
The trees shiver, draped in winter white and
we have eight blue birds at the feeder

I watch the snow fall
Even inside, the air by the windows is cold
While blue birds come and go from the feeder
my pen stumbles and starts

The air by the windows remains cold
As the moon descends, the sun peeks over the horizon
My pen stumbles and starts
The stack of firewood is getting low

The moon has disappeared: the sun peeks over the horizon
The trees are graceful, draped in winter white
The stack of firewood is getting low
I forgot to watch for the first bird

©Molly Hogan, draft

This week’s Poetry Friday is hosted by Tabatha at her blog, The Opposite of Indifference.

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Winter Cold

Winter’s grip has been fierce in recent weeks. Most days the temperatures struggle to get into the twenties, and that’s not considering the wind-chill. Usually, I can lean into the beauty of winter, and take the cold days in stride, but the consistently below normal temperatures have been making that more challenging than usual. (I may have even complained once or twice.)

This past weekend my lovely, long December break was winding to a close, and I found myself chafing against the unrelenting cold and determined to get outside. I was yearning for an opportunity to do some early morning wandering, filled with fresh air and natural beauty. I knew that once school started back up, my opportunities would be much more limited. So, on Saturday night, the last “free” night, I made up my mind.

“I’m going to go look for snowy owls and walk on the beach tomorrow morning” I announced to my husband.

He looked at me askance. “What’s the temperature supposed to be?”

“I don’t know. Mid-high teens?” I paused and wondered if I should check the forecast more carefully. “You know what?” I said suddenly, defiantly, “I don’t care what the temperature is! I’m going!”

“Ok,” he said. “Wake me up early, and I’ll come with you.” (Wow! I guess we were both feeling a little bit claustrophobic!)

So, shortly after 7 on Sunday morning, bundled up as if heading into the tundra, we set out for the beach. We chose to head to one about an hour south, where snowy owls tend to visit. (Spoiler alert: we didn’t see any.)

When we arrived at the beach, it was snowing and other than a small cluster of birds, the beach was mostly deserted. Thankfully, there wasn’t much wind, but when we got out of the car, the cold slapped us in the face. I wondered if we’d made a mistake.

“Well,” I said, looking at Kurt, “if it’s too bad, we can just drive around.”

We pulled our hats down further and burrowed into our layers. I pulled my hood up over my hat and then tucked my fingers deep into my pockets, cradling two hand warmers . We walked down onto the beach, where the tide’s edge was marked with frozen slush. (You know it’s cold when salt water’s freezing! )

Thankfully, as we walked, we got a bit warmer. Well, a little bit.

Moving along the beach, we approached the flock of birds. Though, I’m not positive, I think they were sanderlings. They huddled along the shoreline, feet encased in bubbling surf, occasionally running a few feet ahead, but mostly standing still. Just looking at them made me even colder.

As we neared, they moved slightly away from us. They seemed a bit sluggish, decidedly less active than usual. One, slightly behind the others, hopped along toward the group, and something about its movement caught my eye.

“Oh, no,” I said, “Do you see that? I think something’s wrong with one of its legs. It looks like it’s only using one of them.”

“Well, a lot of them are only on one leg,” Kurt noted.

“Yeah, but this one only moved on one leg. Did you see it hopping?”

I struggled to catch sight of the bird again, amidst the others. From a distance, I still couldn’t be sure, but one leg looked different. Also, whenever this bird moved, it still hopped from place to place. The others scurried with both legs, and when they stopped, they’d tuck the other leg up, to keep it warm. We watched the birds for several minutes, and I took a few photos, but it was too cold to linger. We wandered away, moving further up the beach, and my attention drifting to other things.

Before long, we decided to call it quits. Our feet were cold, our cheeks vivid pink, and our noses were running. But, hey! We’d gotten some fresh air and we’d gotten outside. It felt like a victory!

Note: Later, when I got home, I was still thinking about that bird. I downloaded my pictures and when I zoomed in a bit, I could clearly see that the its leg was significantly impaired.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot since then. About endurance and survival. About how harsh life can be. It feels like there’s a message in there somewhere. I’m still waiting for it to land.

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PF: January

This month our Inklings challenge came from Catherine Flynn. She invited us to write a poem beginning with either “This is January” or “January.” My thoughts immediately turned to John Updike’s poem “January” and it’s first stanza, which eloquently sums up what our days are like during a Maine winter:

The days are short,
The sun a spark,
Hung thin between
The dark and dark.

Inspired by this poem, I first tried writing some rhyming verses, but that fizzled out pretty quickly. Then, when I woke early on New Year’s Day, it was snowing. It was unexpected and oh, so lovely.

January

begins with the slow hush
of snowfall
dark skies brighten with
lacy flakes tracing
their earthbound migration

A peaceful gathering

©Molly Hogan

I’m hoping for many tranquil, peaceful moments for us all during this coming year.

Catherine is hosting the Poetry Friday Roundup this week at her blog, Reading to the Core, and you can read her response to the prompt there. If you want to see what the other Inklings did with this challenge, click on the links below.

Mary Lee @ A(nother) Year of Reading
Linda @A Word Edgewise
Margaret @Reflections on the Teche
Heidi @my juicy little universe

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PF: Duality

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Tricia at her blog, The Miss Rumphius Effect. She’s sharing the Poetry Sisters’ most recent challenge, writing poems of peace, light or hope. By chance, my post fits right in with this challenge–a happy coincidence! Here’s my image poem to end the year. Something to ponder.

Duality

The light
that kindles ice
to sparkling heart
is also the catalyst
for its inevitable
melting

©Molly Hogan, draft

Wishing everyone love and light during this holiday season!

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Feeling Small

My weekday morning book is entitled, “Phosphorescence: On Awe, Wonder and Things That Sustain You When the World Goes Dark by Julia Baird. It’s a combination of memoir and scientific findings, and reminds me a bit of Katherine May’s “Wintering”, which I love. I find myself highlighting occasional phrases or passages. Recently, I was struck by these lines, and jotted them down in my notebook:
“We spend a lot of time in life trying to make ourselves feel bigger–to project ourselves, occupy space, command attention, demand respect–so much so that we seem to have forgotten how comforting it can be to feel small and experience something greater than ourselves, something unfathomable, unconquerable and mysterious.”

I turned these words over and over in my mind. So often we think of being small in a negative sense. As being disempowered or vulnerable. To make someone feel small is to belittle or demean them. The idea that there is a flip side to this, that such a feeling might be positive, was intriguing to me.

Julia Baird goes on to write, “This sense of smallness seems to be a key to a true experience of awe.” She writes about how architects designed vast interiors in cathedrals to inspire “a sense of smallness, and consequently, awe.” She notes that researchers have tracked people’s reported experiences with awe and found that “on average, they encountered something that inspired awe every three days, such as ‘music played on a street corner at 2 am, individuals standing up to injustice, or autumnal leaves cascading from trees.'”

I mixed these ideas in my mind: feeling small, feeling awe.

Then, I went to the beach:

There is assuredly some comfort and peace to be found in feeling small.