Earlier this fall I entered a local writing contest and tonight I received my first official rejection letter.  With the reception scheduled for this weekend, I had begun to suspect that if I hadn’t heard by now, I wasn’t a finalist. There was, however, a small secret against-the-odds optimistic part of me that was still hoping. (That’s probably the same part of me that created gauzy-edged visions of me reading to my adoring audience at the reception, graciously accepting praise, signing the associated publication with a flourish, etc.  All of this, of course, accompanied by a wonderful, inspiring soundtrack.)

The rejection letter was very nice, but direct.  “Today we have notified the winners of the competition so if you haven’t heard from us then we are very sorry and we encourage you to submit again next year.” (My inspiring soundtrack screeched to a sudden, jerking halt.) The letter went on to say that judges had a very difficult time deciding on winners and would like to contact some non-winning entrants directly to give them feedback.  So, now I’m wondering if there’s a second rejection in store–the one when no one calls to give me feedback.  And I’m kind of laughing at myself, but kind of serious as well.

When I submitted my entry, I had a long talk with myself about the fact that, for me, merely entering the contest was a winning step. Winning the contest would be delightful, but it wasn’t the point. The point was about taking another new step with my writing. While that remains true, the knowledge of rejection does carry a bit of a sting, and I have to say, a little adoration and praise wouldn’t have come amiss!

For now I’m going to print out my rejection e-mail and tuck it in my writer’s notebook. It’s a rite of passage, right? It’s also a testament to the fact that I tried.  And come Saturday I plan to dress up and head to the reception.  I will listen to the winners read and celebrate the wonder of writing.  For all of us took that step, wrote our words, and sent them winging out into the world in all their vulnerability. And to my mind, that is certainly worthy of some applause.

Make your bed, they said
So I did.
Made it neat and complete
with hospital corners
tidily tucked in.
But then I heard it or read it
or someone told me about it:
1.5 million dust mites
living in my sheets.
In my sheets!
Throw back the sheets, they said.
Let it all air out.
Let the moisture evaporate.
Defeat those wee beasties
though they don’t sting or bite
or burrow into flesh.
Instead they revel in bed
dining on dead skin and hair
without care
leaving a trail of turgid fecal pellets
poop particles, if you will,
which you breathe in
and out
and in.
It’s enough to make you cringe
and scrub at your skin
or to activate
an asthmatic attack.

Did you know?
Did you know?
Dead mites
and their droppings
can accumulate
to a terrifying ten percent
of the weight
of a two-year old pillow.
Or more!
Did you know that?

But an unmade bed
showers those sheets
(that you tossed and turned
and shed in)
with light and air
to desiccate the dust mites,
depriving them
of their warm, moist domicile.

There’s no real debate,
no reason to wait.
Forget that Good Housekeeping
Seal of Approval.
Rip off that comforter.
Pull off those sheets.
Let the light shine in
and your bed aerate.
And come bedtime,
Night night,
sleep tight.

Damn mite.

(c) Molly Hogan, 2015

Remember to visit Katya Czaja at Write. Sketch. Repeat. for the Poetry Friday Round Up.

This fall I fell into audiobooks. Not just any audiobooks, but JK Rowling’s Harry Potter books, narrated by the remarkably talented Jim Dale. I had read all the books multiple times and had listened to most of them before.  My children grew up with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and Harry Potter audio books were a go-to book during long college road trips with my children. We were all devoted fans and knew we could easily fall under the Rowling spell while mile after mile slipped by unheeded.

So about 2 months ago, faced with a long solo drive, I picked up Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (one of my favorites), and popped it into the CD player.  I’ve been listening ever since.  Each day, as soon as I get in my car, I switch on the CD and pick off from wherever I’ve left off.  In an instant I’m whisked away to Hogwarts, the Burrow or to 4 Privet Drive. Over and over again, I am blown away by JK Rowling’s ability to create this world and to people it with such full-bodied vibrant characters. Even knowing the outcomes, I find myself once again gripping my seat and riding the emotional roller coaster.  I no longer listen to NPR in the car and have lost what little grasp I had on current events.  And I don’t miss it.  Instead, I look forward to my commute and I’ve actually begun inventing errands so that I can spend more time in my car.

But now that week after week after week has gone by and I’m listening to the sixth book,  I’ve started to wonder about this new habit. I recently came across the term “keystone habit”, coined, I believe, by Charles Duhigg.  He maintains that certain habits set off chain reactions of other habits, a cascade or domino effect.  Generally he emphasizes how creating a positive habit in your life makes it easier for other positive habits to fall into place.

So, is my audio habit a healthy habit or a reason for concern?  Is there such thing as a keystone habit for negative habits?   Like a gateway drug? Each day when I listen, am I getting a fix?  What is it about Harry Potter and that whole magical world that entices me away from NPR, the real world and my own worries and concerns? I’ve been known to avoid serious issues and confrontations and the general unpleasantness of reality. Is this a more creative and socially acceptable way for me to indulge my ostrich-like tendencies and bury my head in the sand?   B.H. (Before Harry), I used  car time to catch up on the news but also to wind down after a long day, to process, to work through ideas and thoughts in my  mind, to contemplate or to simply exist in solitude.  A.H. (After Harry), I simply push a button and drift away. Is this simply a healthy respite or is the effect more pernicious? I really don’t know.

And tonight as I get in my car and drive to class (looking forward to the bonus 90 minutes of listening time), the biggest question of all remains.  What  will I do after I finish listening to the 7th book?

We’re stepping back an hour
this Sunday. And I want to know,
Can we recapture a misspent hour?
Can we choose a redo?

I think back to words said or unsaid,
moments lost, comfort ungiven,
and yearn for that hour,
an hour of choice,
a chance to remake a choice,
to move in a different direction
to take a step backward
or a decisive move forward.

When the clocks rewind,
can we untwirl the ribbons of time
to weave a new pattern?
Go back to the one step
that led us onto a path
which led into the forest
filled with lions and tigers and bears
oh my
and instead take a step onto the path
of winding yellow brick
that would take us to the knowledge,
true to ourselves,
that there’s no place like home?

Though, home is not a place,
we carry our home within us.
But when neglected
the cobwebs and dust mount
as inexorably as in the corners
of our physical abodes.

We’re stepping back an hour
this Sunday. And I want to know,
Can we recapture a misspent hour?
Can we choose a redo?

Molly Hogan (c) 2015

As I walked down the hallway, a young child, unknown to me, stopped me.  He looked up at me, his big brown eyes intent.
“Do you know what?” he asked, quite earnestly.
“No, what?” I asked.
“Sometimes I call my sister Sweet Cheeks,” he said.
And then before I could respond, he was dancing out the door to recess, leaving me with a bemused smile on my face and a deep thankfulness for the whimsical joy of working with children.

Poetry has been calling to me in recent years and I find myself drawn to both reading and writing poetry, especially the latter. Writing poetry allows me to dive into the heart of what I’m feeling or seeing.  Poems are also a place for word play and I can jump in and linger. I  love the sounds and physical sensations of certain letters and letter combinations.  Even as a young student I remember repeating the word Peloponnesian again and again. As you will see, those “p”s still speak to me!  As an adult,  I have become even more entranced with the way words can flow and stutter and dance. Thanks so much for providing me with a platform for learning about, sharing and enjoying poetry.

Here is a poem I wrote several months ago about my love for word play.

Words, Words, Words

I love words
Love playing with them
twisting them
this way and that
Love the way
certain words
sound when they
pop with p’s
or crackle with k’s
Preposterous, pumpkin,
cantankerous,  cranky
I pucker up with the p’s
and spit the c’s,
peppering my conversations
with friendly shrapnel
z’s invigorate
zipping and zinging
adding pizzazz
And the b’s of bellicose
bawdy
byzantine
blast through my lips
and burst in the air
Words, Words, Words
I could play all day

(c) Molly Hogan, 2015

After driving through moist winding roads and up into higher elevations,we arrive early in Locronon.  Our guidebook describes Locronan as “an exquisite hilltop village” “frozen in its ancient form” and we are eager to explore. Cars are restricted in the actual village, so we park in the designated lot and amble down the street that leads into the town. At the end of the street the towers of the Eglise St-Ronan and the church itself are swathed in mist. Beautiful granite buildings line the street and flowers spill from flower boxes, planters and gardens. Everything is lush and timeless here.

This is a peek-a-boo kind of town. Around each corner are visual delights, waiting to surprise and entrance. Each new spot offers a new vantage.  Peek through a hedge, and see the rolling hills and farmland spilling down the hilltop. Glance around a corner to see a cobblestoned lane, leading on a winding path to some hidden destination. Walk past the chapel to see pink and purple hydrangea burst forth from a small, inviting garden, their enormous blossoms unbelievably vibrant in the gray morning.
We meander through the town and opt for a tour of the church. Among other things, our volunteer tells us the tale of St. Ronan and the Keben, a local woman who conspired against him. He shows us how to follow the dramatic story through the painted carvings on the pulpit. These are not tame stories and involve werewolves, infanticide, treachery and miracles.  People still travel to this church to crawl under the supine statue of St. Ronan, hoping to cure their back pain. Fascinating stuff!

After our tour we visit boulangeries, and a variety of other stores. Following the advice of our guide book, we head toward Notre Dame de Bonne Nouvelle, a nearby chapel down a windy, green path, strewn with pebbles and warning signs about steep descent.  The chapel is situated near a natural spring, and it’s a green, lush, vibrant, holy place. Used by the hemp weavers and as a washing place, this spring was a gathering place for centuries.  As in most of Brittany, you can feel the weight of time in the weathered lichen-covered gray stones and in the cool reflections in the still pool of water. The weather heightens the feel—misty, mystical, and serene.       

Months have now passed since my daughter, Lydia, and I visited Locronan and traveled throughout  Brittany. I’m back in the classroom and Lydia is well into her first year of college.  Though empty nest hasn’t impacted me as I’d feared, there are days when I yearn for the timeless tranquility of Brittany, for those traveling days, a respite from the unrelenting pace of teaching and a time for the two of us. Tonight as I write this, thinking back, and browsing through the pictures, I’m struck by how far away and dreamlike our journey seems. And I realize how much I would like to sink back into that months-ago summer day, and relive another carefree moment with my daughter in this beautiful hillside Breton village, suspended in time.

At recess duty this week I was grabbed from behind in a giant hug. I twisted around to see one of my first grade students from last year. This student is pure bottled sunshine. She dances through life with a smile on her face, a positive attitude, and a never-ending stream of chatter. “Oh, K,” I said, “That’s my second K hug in one day!  What a lucky day!”

Arms still wrapped around my waist, she declared, “Mrs. Hogan, you’re my almost bestest teacher!”

“Almost bestest?” I queried.

“Yes,” she said, “Cause I don’t  know yet.” And then she added, as though stating the obvious, “I don’t know yet if you’re the bestest yet cause I’m still in school.” She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Maybe when I’m in 8th grade, I’ll know.”

“Well,” I said, “Be sure to let me know.”

She bounced away, off to play with her classmates, calling back over her shoulder, “I will….if I see you.”

Smiling, I watched her dance away, and soon after, headed back to the classroom, determined to do my bestest.

Anxiety

When I wake in the morning, before my eyelids part,
the first burgeoning thought plucks at the strings of my mind,
setting off a faint vibration.
The next one chimes in.
Then yet another,
and another.
Until there is a thrumming, humming chorus
of thoughts and concerns,
obligations and intentions.
Most days the hum is background,
the established white noise soundtrack of my life.
But some days the strings are plucked
one after another
faster
and faster
crescendoing
cascading
one
atop
another
creating
a frantically discordant rhythm
an unhealthy resonance
of increasingly intense vibrations
until I wonder
Is this when I,
like a crystal goblet,
burst
into millions
of jagged shards?

I didn’t appreciate socks until I was well into my twenties and headed toward thirty. When I was young, I simply didn’t wear them. My husband still recalls with some disbelief our first real date. We were in high school and had gone out casually for the first time earlier in the week.  When he dropped me off, he’d said, “Next time it snows let’s go walking in Towner’s Woods.” Lo and behold, a scant few days later it did snow and in an unusual move, our superintendent cancelled school.  Kurt called me to make plans for a long walk in the snow later that day. 

When he picked me up, I was wearing Topsiders and no socks. He now says he has no idea why he continued to date me in the face of such monumental stupidity.  At the time he was astonished. I just didn’t like socks and I’m not convinced I even owned any, though I suppose I must have.  I didn’t understand why he thought it was such a big deal. So, with him shaking his head, we set off for our hike in the snowy woods. To this day I maintain (and he is forced to agree) that I didn’t complain (so why should he have cared?) and we had a great time.  We had such fun together, in fact, that 6 years later we were married in Towner’s Woods.

After my college graduation and our wedding, we moved to Baltimore. No one needs socks in Baltimore.  They really don’t.  You need air conditioning and you could make an argument for a concealed weapon in certain neighborhoods perhaps, but you really don’t need socks. So for years my sock bias remained unchallenged.

But then we moved to Maine.  We bought a 200-year old fixer-upper.  For the first year or two we had no heat in the kitchen other than a poorly designed wood stove. The kitchen pipes regularly froze and the floor was so cold that if I didn’t wear socks, my feet ached. I learned to appreciate the value of socks—not just any old socks, but really good socks—the ones in which you make a monetary investment. Like Smart Wool socks. Now, don’t get my wrong, my wallet still twinges when I see the price tag attached to those socks, but I now recognize their worth. 

So, today, with a chill clearly present in the autumnal air, I was willing to drive 20-30 minutes to investigate a new sock at one of my favorite fun funky stores. These socks were featured on their sale e-mail and after reading the description— “cozy fleece-lined wool socks” —I couldn’t resist checking them out. (The word “cozy” sucks me in every time!) I finally located them in a corner of the store, arrayed in rainbow hues. They exuded cheerful warmth and comfort, and even better, they were 25% off.  After some debate I selected a pair with warm blues and greens and happily paid for them, anticipating putting them on my feet. After arriving home, I immediately did so. I now have a little heat factory on my feet and feel encased in warmth from head to toe. These are super socks, ones that would send Dobby of Harry Potter fame into sock-excitement orbit. I’m almost there myself. These socks have raised my day to stellar heights. My daughters are home for the long weekend, there’s hot gypsy soup, a crispy boule and steamy gingered apple crisp for dinner, and my feet are encased in sock bliss.  Who could ask for anything more?  I think I’m going back tomorrow to buy another pair!