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SOLC Day 4: With Apologies in Advance

March 2026 SOLC–Day 4
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I’m tired. 

Do you know that saying, or maybe it’s a fable, about the frog in the boiling water? How if you try to put a frog into boiling water, it will jump out? But if you put a frog in cool water and gradually turn up the temperature, it will remain in the water and boil alive?

Sorry to start your day with that imagery, but I’ve been feeling like that lately. A lot. Like I’m the frog. And my classroom is the water. And it is boiling me alive. 

I lay awake in bed this morning at about 3:30 am, unable to fall back to sleep, thinking about yesterday at school, pondering an incoming phone call from a parent scheduled for this morning, and wondering when I’m going to deal with all sorts of looming deadlines. The days are filled with one demand or need after another and by the time I get home, I’m utterly exhausted. Spent. Unable to open up my bag and get anything done.

Lying in bed this morning, giving up on the idea of sleep returning, I start to consider the fable more carefully. I notice some flaws in my thinking. First of all, the water in my classroom was NEVER cool. In fact, I think it’s cooler now than it was at the beginning of the year. We’ve made some progress. Yay! … at least on some days. But the never ending exposure has left me hot and bothered and tired. Drained. Cooked to the bone. I sometimes wonder if I’ve just become accustomed to the uncomfortable temperature. What toll is it taking on me? On them? There’s such a constant draining need with this group of kids. 

It’s been a year of firsts. I’ve had to remove sticky notes from the classroom materials. And then pens. And now, I decide, scissors are going. Oh, and apparently tape is too, because someone threw away or absconded with or destroyed part of the tape dispenser yesterday. Or maybe it just got lost. (Though my experience this year suggests the latter is unlikely.) My exhaustive search for the missing piece was unsuccessful after school yesterday. Another material bites the dust. These aren’t the sort of firsts I was hoping for when I began the year. I wonder idly how much money I’ll be budgeted for supplies this year. I know the budget is tight. I think of all the destroyed materials I need to replace. And, really, that’s just a symptom of larger problems. I sigh and roll out of bed and away from this unhelpful cycle of thinking. It’s 4:07 and there’s not much hope of sleep returning.

This year is a lot and I’m sure the events in the larger world add to all of it. I know there will be positives today. That we’ll learn and laugh. That there will be moments of joy along with the moments of frustration. But right now, the new day is beginning, and I’m still tired from the last 104 of them. (Who’s counting, right?)

When I’m feeling overwhelmed, one of my go-to strategies is, ironically, to take a hot tub and relax. 

I’m rethinking that one right now.  

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SOLC Day 3: Chatter

March 2026 SOLC–Day 3
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I actually don’t love teacher reels. Ok, well, I do love some of them, but many of them have a bitter edge that I don’t appreciate. This one popped up the other day and made me laugh, so I sent it along to my colleagues. I can’t figure out how to attach the actual video here, so I took a screen shot for you, but you get the idea. Just picture a few more yapping geese coming in and out of the frame, and coming in reaaaaalllll close!

In my classroom this year, ongoing talk is not solely a morning activity. It’s a day long affair. I can definitely relate to that black lab. (And hey, my name’s Molly, so I’m practically half lab anyway*!)

Case in point: This morning after I direct the kids to get ready for recess, student after student approaches me.

“Hey, Mrs. Hogan,” J asks, “Do you wanna know my secret soccer move?”

“Of course!” I say, putting my book down and reaching for my coat.

“Ok, well, I just move my body toward the ball and then when the ball gets close…”

“Can I go in the cupboard to look for a book?” someone interrupts.

“Wah-wah-wah-wah…ball….wah-wah-wah-wah…real fast…Wah-wah-wah-wah” J. keeps talking, Charlie Brown teacher style, as I am distracted by other incoming voices and simultaneously trying to get ready to head outside.

“Yes.” I answer, shrugging into my coat, putting my hat on, trying to hear at least some of what J’s saying.

“Are you on duty today?” M. pipes up.

“Yes.” Phone in pocket.

“I wanna be a beaver when I grow up.”

What? My hand stills as I reach for my sunglasses, and I turn toward the last voice, realizing it comes from Y, and totally abandoning any effort to listen to J.

“Can I go to the Lost and Found? I think I might have left my gloves on the playground last week. I was playing on the pirate ship with….”

“Sure,” I interrupt, “Just go on down after we head out the door to the playground.”

“What did you say?” I ask Y, simultaneously wondering if we’d talked about beavers in any way, shape or form today, while knowing full well that that’s not particularly relevant anyway.

“Can you fill out my chart?” another voice chimes in, shoving a clipboard and pencil in my direction. I grasp them and start filling out the chart, keeping my eyes on Y.

“I want to be a beaver when I grow up,” she repeats. Then, she quickly pulls her lower lip in and juts her top two teeth over it–those two typical second-grade-newly-emerged-permanent-and-still-a-bit-large-for-their face teeth. “See!”

This surprises a quick huff of a laugh from me, but luckily, she doesn’t seem perturbed by it.

Before I can respond, a curious classmate chimes in, “Why do you want to be a beaver when you grow up?”

“Cause I like ’em!” she announces cheerfully, and bounces away, in a not-remotely-like-a-beaver fashion. I can only hope she’s finally getting ready for recess.

I hand back the clipboard, place my sunglasses on and move briskly toward the door. The kids who aren’t already lined up follow me, still regaling me with information, questions and life goals.

I move to the doorway and do a quick scan of the haphazard line of winter-clad students. Fortunately, even the aspiring beaver has managed to get geared up and into her place in line. It looks like we’re ready.

“Come on geese…, I mean, kids!” I call, “Let’s get going! It’s time for recess!”

We head out of the room, and I swing back in line next to J.

“Hey, J. What’s that you were saying about your soccer super power? I think I missed a few details.”

J happily regales me with full details of his soccer prowess, all the way down the hallway and out the door to the playground.

*If you’re a dog owner or lover, you might already “get” this. But in case you’re not, or you just haven’t noticed, so many dogs, and labs in particular, are named Molly!

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SOLC Day 2 People Watching at the Hospital

March 2026 SOLC–Day 2
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

As we left the hospital wing where we’d been visiting my son and daughter-in-law and our new (and first! and adorable!) grandchild, we walked down the long hallway. I watched the people entering the building, knowing how lucky we were to be here for a joyful reason. Most people in hospitals are not. I scanned their faces, their postures. Who were these people here to see? What were their stories? 

As we neared the elevators to the parking garage, a very tall man and his much shorter young daughter walked toward us. She was maybe five or six years old, and bounced as she walked, her ruffled skirt bobbing about her thin legs. Although I couldn’t make out her words from a distance, I could see that she was talking non-stop. I glanced at her father, trying to read his face. Were they here to visit a new baby, like we were, or was their purpose more worrisome? Although his head was inclined slightly toward her, an ear out to catch her stream of talk, he seemed quiet, maybe even sober. Or maybe it was just the contrast with the animated child at his side? 

We passed the two of them, and not long afterward, the little girl’s high voice drifted back to us. “Daddy, do you want to skip with me?”

What would he say? I wondered. Would he do it? 

I paused for a moment, but then couldn’t resist turning around to look.

Much to my delight, there they were, still in sight, at the far end of the hallway. The man had leaned way over to hold the child’s hand. The two of them were moving together in a hopping-bobbing-up-and-down approximation of skipping. People stopped to glance and smile as they passed, but the two of them focused on each other. And on their skipping. His long gangly legs angled out from side to side, jerky and awkward. She moved with the fluidity of youth. His movements were somewhat taut, and slightly ridiculous looking. Hers were graceful and free-spirited.

Together, they skipped down the hallway toward whatever awaited them.

And together they were absolutely beautiful.

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SOLC Day 1: And so it begins…

March 2026 SOLC–Day 1
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

It’s coming.

The words, or a variation of them, have been a pulse threading through my mind for at least the past week, probably more like two or three. A steady beat. Sometimes louder. Sometimes softer. Always there.

It’s coming. Soon. Are you ready?

The words have ebbed and flowed, a flutter of anxiety occasionally accompanying them. They’ve sparked an increased awareness of time evaporating. Of a deadline fast approaching. Of more things crowding into my mind. Onto my to-do lists. Into my already over-scheduled day. Into the madness of March with it’s glut of assessments, report cards, conferences, etc. (And that’s just the school stuff!) Every so often, the words have crescendoed…It’s coming. Are you ready? Are you? Soon! Soon! It’s coming… and the flutter of anxiety has roiled into a full-fledged heavy repetitive beat. Uncomfortable. Persistent.

How will I do this?

Inside my head a tentative voice reminds me this is a choice and that I’ve done it before. Many, many times.

Still, this year feels different. I’m unsettled by the world and by changes in my own life. I’m juggling a lot of commitments to myself and to others. I’m already feeling overwhelmed and dropping balls here and there.

Where will this energy come from? Where will the time to write come from? Should I even bother starting?

I remind myself I can quit. That missing a day isn’t failure. That’s what I tell myself, but I’m not sure it’s what I believe.

“I’m feeling stressed about the Slice of Life challenge,” I blurt out to my husband. “More than usually so.”

The questions spill out of me. “Am I being ridiculous to pile more into this month? Am I just needlessly adding stress?”

He turns, but before he can even answer, I continue, “But I say this every year. And I always get so much out of it.”

I know he can’t answer this for me. I’m just thinking out loud. Trying to get my feet under me.

This morning I wake. The calendar page has turned. March has arrived, and it’s time to decide.

With trepidation looming, I’m trying.

It’s here.

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PF: For Sullivan

Susan Thomsen is hosting Poetry Friday today at her blog, Chicken Spaghetti. I took her up on her invitation to join her in writing in response to Walt Whitman’s line, “I stop somewhere waiting for you.”

For Sullivan on the day of his birth

This morning I await
your mother’s and father’s
texted updates.
I check my phone again
and again
and wonder at this world
expanding
as we wait for you.

You should know now
and it will forever
be true
that I will always stop
anywhere
anytime
and wait for you.

©Molly Hogan

Our first grandchild was born this past Sunday, February 15th. He weighed a bouncing 9 lbs 3 oz and measured 24″ long! You’ll have to take my word for it that he’s the cutest guy ever!

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Just a small moment

There’s nothing like a morning walk to loosen all that has become tangled and taut. I took this picture back in December, on a morning of wandering wide swathes of open beach. I reveled in the sights and sounds as the sun rose and the skies transformed again and again. It was a day when I celebrated being small and finding myself lost in the flow of it. By chance, I scrolled past this photo again this week and saw it in a new way.

Above the vast expanse
of sandy beach
clouds gather
like a herd of horses
flick their tails up
into cerulean blue
and gallop along
the horizon

©Molly Hogan

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Robyn Hood Black at Life at the Deckle Edge.

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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.