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SOLC Day 4: We coulda been contenders!

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March 2025 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

This is a variation on a common scene in our household.

I’m standing in the kitchen, looking at my phone. I call into the family room, “Hey, Kurt, do you know the name of that bird?”

There’s a long pause, then…”What bird?”

“You know. The one that comes out in the spring. At night. Or at least at dusk. And I can hear its call and you can’t.”

I move into the family room. Kurt just looks at me.

I try again.

“You know! That really cute bird…”

He shakes his head, still not sure what I’m talking about.

“It’s so cute! You know! The one that sort of dances when it moves. Like its body moves, but its head stays still and it’s so funny looking. It bops along…” I move my arms a little bit to demonstrate. Entirely ineffectually. (Also, I don’t think he’s even looking.)

“You know!” I insist. (side note: For some reason, despite all evidence to the contrary, I seem to feel that if I just say “you know” enough, he will.)

“I don’t know….” he responds. (See! It doesn’t work!)

I then remember I’ve been holding a phone with a picture of the dang bird on it all this time. I walk over and show it to him.

“Oh! A woodcock!” he says immediately.

“Yes!” I say triumphantly, feeling victorious in our mutual victory.

And then I have a sudden realization.

“OMG, Kurt! Do you remember that game show? $10,000 Pyramid? The one where there were mystery words and one person gave clues, but they couldn’t use the actual words, and the other one had to guess the words?”

“Yeah,” he says, again looking a bit mystified.

“Well, we would be sooooo good at that game. That’s what we do all day long every day! We give clues to try to find a word we can’t think of! We’re naturals!”

Kurt laughs, then pauses.

“There’s one problem with that though, Molly.”

“What?” I ask.

“Well, we have lots of practice with giving clues, but to win that game you had to be able to come up with the actual words they were looking for.”

Oh.

Good point.

Addendum: And now a little bonus for you, because everyone should experience the joy of watching a woodcock dance:

I’ll leave it to you to imagine what my imitation looked like.

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SOLC Day 3: Morning Walk

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March 2025 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

Yesterday my friend, Margaret Simon, wrote about her early morning walk, and I knew immediately that that was what I would write about today. Unlike Margaret, I don’t take walks before school during the week, nor do I meditate. My walks tend to happen early on weekend mornings. Most often they involve sunrise and photography, which means they are more like saunters than power walks. Some of them become more about standing still than about moving.

Yesterday morning, even though I knew it was cold outside, I opted to head out to the local river I drive over every day on my commute. Most days while rushing to work I wish I had time to stop and take a picture. Most days I’m already feeling the pull of too much to do, and don’t stop. Yesterday, with the generosity of Sunday morning time on my side, I hoped for some rising mist from the river, a burst of brilliant colors at sunrise, or some other photo-worthy moment.

As it turns out, the morning was not particularly spectacular, unless you were talking about the wind and the cold, which were out in full force. Still, I parked by the river and walked out onto the bridge, getting buffeted by gusts of biting wind. Ice and snow covered much of the river below me. The sky lightened in the east with no dramatic prelude to dawn, just a steady color change. The wind shoved me again and again and sent scrolls of scrawling ripples down the river. By the falls upriver, the valiant small tree, rooted amidst the rocks, defiantly steadfast through all seasons and flood and drought, still stood fast. Way downstream, some sort of duck was busy dipping and diving into the water. A leaf scuttled across the bridge.

I was freezing and my fingers ached, but I was also breathing in the frigid air, feeling the moment flow around me, feeling the sting of cold on my cheeks and smiling.

Margaret included a poem with her post, a lovely invitation and celebration. I thought I might do the same, to try to capture some of my morning “walk”. My first poem came out like this:

OMG! It was cold
really cold
dang cold
COLD!!!

Given Margaret’s mentor poem, I figured I could try a little harder. I’m also trying to channel positivity into my days, and even though the day wasn’t a dramatically beautifully one, my time outside was, as always, deeply fulfilling.

Daybreak

On the river, wind gusts sketch madly.
The water shivers with ripples.
Tree limbs scratch at the white sky.
Despite the chill, the sun
continues to rise,
to face down the
relentless
brutal
cold.
Each
sunrise
offers hope
for a fresh start.
Possibility
lingers every morning.
Even in the aching cold
there’s an insistent thrum of life
beating at the heart of each new day.

©Molly Hogan




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SOLC Day 2: Choose your words wisely

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March 2025 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

We were in New Orleans last week. Our visit, unfortunately, coincided with that of a polar vortex. Even though we live in Maine and are used to the cold, we struggled to get warm. The wind gusted, the air was damp and heavy. We didn’t have enough layers. Still, we managed. More or less. By choice, we spent our days outside, walking the streets and soaking in the NOLA culture.

As we walked and walked, we complained now and again about the unwelcome cold. We also passed so many unhoused people in the streets, huddled against the unexpected and biting cold. We worried and wondered about them. Mostly, they were silent. Sometimes they asked for money. When that happened, we’d try to make eye contact, say, “I’m sorry” and keep on walking by. Guilt lay heavily on my shoulders each time. For not doing anything for them. For being on vacation. For being warm while they suffered from the cold. I compared my good fortune to their situation.

Then one morning, I saw a woman ahead of us on the sidewalk. She was bent over and talking into a sort of teepee of blankets and cardboard erected around someone. Did that person answer? I couldn’t quite hear. After a moment, the woman put something down on the pavement. A hand reached out and raked it in. Was it money? Food? I couldn’t be sure. Then the woman straightened and turned. “Happy Mardi Gras” she called back as she walked away. From the makeshift shelter, the words floated back to her, “Happy Mardi Gras.”

I can’t quite parse it all out yet, but this moment has replayed again and again in my mind. Was this woman a local or a tourist? I had no way of knowing. She was simply a woman who took the time time to stop and connect. She didn’t just give something, but she stopped to talk. I’ve heard her parting words again and again. “Happy Mardi Gras!” and then the disembodied response, “Happy Mardi Gras!”

I’m embarrassed to admit that it would never have occurred to me to say this. My mumbled “I’m sorry’s”, although well-intentioned, simply emphasized the difference between me and the unhoused. This woman’s words underscored their common experience–emphasizing unity rather than separation. Her words were a recognition of kinship–that no matter what else might be true, both of them were in this shared space and time of celebration.

“Happy Mardi Gras.”

So simple. Yet so profound.

.

.

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SOLC Day 1: Challenges

March 2025 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

After school ends on Thursday, I’ve already changed my mind multiple times. I’m ping-ponging back and forth in my brain.

“No, don’t go. Staying after school is the worst!”

“Oh, you should stay and give it a try.”

“The roads are already awful. It’s only going to get colder. Head home now before it gets worse!”

“It could be fun! You’ve wanted to try this for a while.”

I hem and haw, annoying myself with my indecision. Earlier in the morning, I’d already packed what I needed just in case I wanted to stay. (Which tells you that at this point, I’d been indecisive for about 10 hours. Not one of my finest traits!)

As I ponder my hesitation, I finally realize it’s not about staying after school. And it’s not about the condition of the roads. And it’s not about any other excuses I’m creating. Mostly it boils down to being uncomfortable. I always feel awkward joining group activities (even when I know the people involved), and while I wish I were more relaxed about trying new things and making a fool of myself in front of others…I’m not. Hence my current dilemma.

Finally, after being honest with myself about the root of my indecision, I also realize I am more likely to regret not trying than I am to regret trying.

So, decision made, I switch into gym gear and head toward the gymnasium… five minutes late. As I approach, I can hear balls bouncing, smacking rackets and lots of laughter. The event is already well under way.

I take a deep breath and walk through the door. I spy the gym teacher talking to a few others, and join them. We get a brief introduction to the game and soon hit the courts for a game of doubles. It’s time for staff pickleball!

Was it awkward and did I embarrass myself?

Again and again and again!

Did I also have fun?

Yes.

Am I glad I went, and will I try to go again next week?

Absolutely!

And now it’s time for a new challenge. This is my eleventh year participating in the March Slice of Life Challenge. This year, I really hesitated before deciding to join in. As a friend noted, she was signing up “with trepidation.” There are lots of things I love about participating in the challenge, but I definitely remember some very grumpy, stressful evenings last year when I needed to come up with something to write. March is an especially hard time to take this on, with report cards, teacher conferences and the unrelenting low-level treachery of lingering winter weather. Still, the community is amazing and the sense of satisfaction hard to beat. Also, I didn’t mention it, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that in the back of mind on Thursday it occurred to me that if I tried something new, I might have something to write about. The SOL challenge always encourages me to stretch myself, try new things and tune in to what’s happening around me. Those are huge wins! So, once again, after some indecision, I’m opting in.

Here’s to a month of challenging ourselves and growing together!

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Chillin’ in the Big Easy

It’s February break and we headed south in search of a little warmth…

It hasn’t turned out exactly as we’d hoped.

Unfortunately, we brought Maine temperatures with us, along with a gusty wind. Brrrrrrr!!!! You’d think we’d be used to it! Regardless of the cold (thank goodness for layers!!!), we’re having a lovely time. And luckily, after thick clouds and misty rain on Wednesday, yesterday was sunny, so we had that going for us!

With the temperatures so low, it’s been odd to see green leaves and blooms. The majestic oaks, with their twisted limbs and long winter shadows, dazzle me. I have been feeling a little bad for the magnolias though. They look so cold!

grey clouds scud
in a winter-frosted breeze
blossoms tremble

©Molly Hogan

This week’s Poetry Friday is hosted by Laura Purdie Salas, and she’s sharing all sorts of exciting book news. I’m still traveling, but hope to get around to read and comment over the next few days.

PS A highlight of the trip–hanging out with Margaret and Jeff Simon and parade watching!

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Weaving a Few Things Together

If you’re looking for a laugh or a light post, this isn’t the place to find that. If you’re trying to avoid politics, you might want to skip this post. But I’m tired of watching what I say. The time for that is past. The reality is that it’s impossible to tear my mind away from the news, even when I try not to follow it. Even when I try to create, the darkness creeps in. So, this post may be disjointed, and it may be somewhat incoherent. But it feels like it reflects my reality right now, and even though I am hesitant to press publish…well, if you’re reading this, I guess I just went ahead and did it.

This morning I read Brad Montague’s post entitled “Empathy is Dangerous“. I thought it must be sarcastic, and I guess, in a sense, it was. But it was also deeply disturbing. Apparently, the latest trend is to suggest that there is danger in being empathetic. That empathy is being weaponized. What?!? When I looked into this a bit further, I saw quite a few 3-4 year old articles supporting the view that empathy is problematic. That it’s somehow dangerous to try to relate to how others experience the world. I really can’t wrap my head around this.

This reminded me of the Rodgers and Hammerstein song, “You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught.” One of the verses goes like this:
“You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate—
You’ve got to be carefully taught!”

Apparently some things haven’t changed much since this song was published in 1949.

In my Facebook feed today, there was a picture of Ruby Bridges. You know the name, right? She’s the woman who as a child was the first black to integrate a southern all-white school. She’s only 70 years old. How can that be? It feels like that should be ancient history. Clearly, oh so clearly, it isn’t.

I’m participating in a Facebook group poetry challenge this month. The theme is space and today’s prompt invited us to tell about “a thing or things you have, or know of, that used to be in a different space/place.” For some reason, I thought about a place where I once saw a fox, and wrote this poem:

A Waiting Space

Each time I pass
the bend in the road
where once I saw a fox
and the fox saw me,
I slow down to look

I’ve never seen it there again
but I’m now tuned
to its frequency
so if I keep looking
perhaps someday I will

©Molly Hogan, draft

A friend commented “This is what hope looks like.”

If you think of it in a different way, I suspect this is what despair looks like as well–the continual search for something that is no longer there.

These days, I’m looking at a dark space in our country’s history, where things have changed rapidly in a terrifying fashion. Or perhaps they haven’t changed so much as have been made more visible. I’m not sure which is more disturbing. The mandates and orders coming from the current government are ill-conceived and often illegal and unconstitutional. There is no empathy there. There is hatred. And so much greed.

I keep looking into the abyss of a space that once was, or at least seemed to be, a place where there was at lease some respect for the rule of law, for our constitution and for its careful balance of power.

I keep looking, but I’m not feeling hopeful.

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A Sudden Realization

This morning it struck me that I’m always hurrying. At least during the work week. This, no doubt, is not news to those around me. In fact, I can anticipate almost hearing the sound of my husband’s eyebrows shooting upward in shock when he reads this. Then, I expect to hear something along the lines of, “Wait! You’re kidding right? You really just realized this?!” (In fact, if you live within bordering towns, you might also hear him when he says this.)

At any rate, many years ago I started getting up very early before work so that I didn’t have to rush. It was quiet. I could write. I could get myself oriented to the coming day. I loved it!

But somehow this morning, it struck me that I’ve somehow managed to fill that part of my day up. It’s like a tetris screen full of blocks with no space for anything else to drop in.

I get up at 4:45 am, start the coffee and do the morning chores (feed the cats, stoke the wood stove, etc). Within 10-15 minutes of rolling out of bed, I’m sitting at my desk. I always start my day by writing in my notebook for 20-30 minutes or so. I’m often noodling around with writing challenges or prompts, too. Then, I try to read and comment on others’ writing. I respond to comments on my blog. I check my e-mails. Then there are a few beloved word games (Wordle, Connections and Spelling Bee) that suck up a few minutes. (I count that as time dedicated to slowing down mental decay.) I shower and get dressed. Then, while I’m eating breakfast, I read a chapter of whatever book I’ve designated as a morning book. (Right now it’s Margaret Renkl’s The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year which is fabulous!) Finally, I’m out the door by about 6:15 or 6:30 am, typically filling the bird feeders on my way to the car, and zipping off to work.

I cherish my morning time, and love all that I do during that time, but it really has become one big long rush. I’m stunned that I honestly hadn’t realized that until today.

So now I’m left with a lot questions: Is there any point in getting up at 4:45 am if it just means I’ll be rushing around for the next 11-12 hours? Do I want to change things? If so, what am I willing to change? I know I can’t get up any earlier, so how can I regain that feeling of morning spaciousness? That freedom of uncluttered time? What can shift or move?

I have a few thoughts, but for now, I’m still processing my realization and pondering…

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An image, a new-to-me word, and a limerick

Have you heard of the Public Domain Image Archive ? Well, if you haven’t, carve out some time and go visit. It’s amazing! Mary Lee introduced us to the site for our challenge and invited us to type a color into the search bar and write about one of the images that popped up. After a bit of playing around (and a lot of time passing!), I entered peach and was regaled with this image of a water tower in Gaffney, South Carolina.

Oh, my.

That’s what I thought, too.

So, while looking up synonyms for butts, I discovered the new-to-me word “callipygian”.

And that’s how this limerick came to be.

Down in Gaffney they sing a proud paean
to this tower that’s oddly protean.
They exclaim, “It’s a peach!”
Tourists claim that’s a reach–
it’s decidedly callipygian!

©Molly Hogan

Check out what the other Inklings did with this challenge by clicking on their links:

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

This week’s Poetry Friday is hosted by Carol Varsalona at her blog, Beyond Literacy Link.

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A Burst of Color

I can’t imagine living year long in a temperate climate. I love all the seasons, and they connect me to life and nature in a deep and meaningful way. Or at least they do when I pay attention. I’ve often thought that seasons heighten my awareness of time passing, which is bittersweet, but also valuable. In a weirdly related way, it’s why I’ve never colored my hair (okay, other than a temporary glaze a few times).

I love winter for so many reasons. One simple one is that, to my eyes at least, it’s simply stunning. I’m drawn to the stark contrasts of light and dark. To the beauty of snow and ice and to the grace of bare tree branches. Winter is filled with subtle mysteries. It offers up the bones of the world, and exposes things in new ways.

Still, sometimes I find myself wishing for a little color. Recently, on a freezing, not-much-snow-around-this-January day, an image popped up in my Facebook feed :

It was a painting by artist, Jane Dahmen, entitled “River Landscape.” Viewing this landscape with its vibrant colors felt like a detonation. They fed something in me that I hadn’t even realized was hungry.

On Viewing “River Landscape” in Winter

I yearn to lick vermilion patches like lollipops,
feel their red and orange scratch
and splash on my tongue,
absorb the bold bursts of amber and pine
into the stream of my cold, sluggish blood.

Oh! to grab dripping handfuls
of effervescent blue
raise them to my nose
and inhale the coursing river,
let it ripple down my throat
anointing all lying dormant within.

Surrounded by a landscape
swathed in grays and whites,
I feast.

©Molly Hogan, draft

Until spring arrives with its shy greening and tentative bursts of color, I’ll continue to drink from winter’s chilly brew. It remains delicious.

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by the effervescent Jan at her blog bookseedstudio. Be sure to stop by and warm up with the poetry goodness on offer!

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Something You Should Know

People often wonder how my husband and I ever got together. How we ever lasted over 35 years. Sometimes, it’s a mystery to me as well, but I’m always thankful. He is a man who defies description, but describes himself as a “hippie, red-neck philosopher.” He would be the first to admit that he has some rough edges, but he is a man to admire–someone who works hard at being his best self. He makes me a better person, too. He turned 60 recently and I wrote this poem for him.

Something you should know
(After Clint Smith)

is that I find your hands beautiful.

I know you’ll laugh when you read this,
hold up your knobby hands,
rippled with callouses and scars
of unknown origins,
thick-fingered with nails bitten
into deformity
These hands? you’ll ask.

Yes, those hands,
your hands
I find them beautiful.
Achingly so.
How they cradled our children
How they dance across my skin
How I know they will be there
when I reach out with mine.

And how those quick-bitten nails
record the unceasing effort,
the struggle you put
into living your best life
every single day.

Heroism at its most fundamental.

Beautiful.

©Molly Hogan

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