Tranquility is a true gift In the midst of the year-end hullabaloo and preparations for summer travel, and there’s not much that’s more peaceful then spending time in a spring garden…at least when you’re not being surprised by reptiles (here). Whenever I can find the time, I’ve been soaking up the essence of my garden. In between the flares of dame’s rocket and the spears of iris are pockets of calm. I linger there.
In the garden peace sprouts green tendrils. Peace unfurls tender leaves. Peace in the garden.
Spring in Maine has been oh-so-beautiful this year and I’ve been soaking it all in. It struck me this morning that I’m living in a sort of emerald “snow” globe. Up on our hilltop, our house is surrounded by shades of green in all directions, and every so often, blossoms flutter down instead of snowflakes. A crescendo of bird song wakes me every morning. It’s pretty awesome!
Poet, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, shares a poem every day. In the initial part of one recent poem, “Rapture“, she describes stopping to listen after hearing a bird call, and speculates on the power of that listening. The final lines to the poem are:
“…tuning with wonder, thrill lacing our spellbound silence as we slip through the narrow gate of amazement and more wholly into the world.”
I can so relate to that moment of intense awareness and to slipping through that “narrow gate of amazement.” I’ve been thinking a lot about how to find joy in the stress of this mixed-up world, and in the midst of missing those who are no longer with me. I’m so grateful for the the natural beauty that surrounds me and for the consistent entry to wonder that it offers. Such moments sustain me.
Today I will write a poem about being happy. It will not be about feeling overwhelmed by a friend’s recent diagnosis or by yet another bombing, distress, or disappointment. It will not splash into a pool of angst or seek synonyms for sorrow. But rather it will be about a soaring hawk, wings glowing impossibly white against blue skies. But rather the joy of a sun-speckled path through river-side woods and time to linger. But rather how all these things are present and sometimes they rise like cream to the surface, rich, delicious worthy of savoring. And how there’s always time later to linger with grief and world-weary worries. But rather, today, I’ll drink deep and write a poem about being happy.
It’s one of those days that reminds me why I live in Maine–all sharp-edged clarity and cool low humidity. Sun streaming and the air scented with a potpourri of scents: lilac, wisteria, lily of the valley, and freshly mown grass. I putter about the yard, moving from garden to garden, enjoying my haphazard wandering, surrounded by bountiful evidence of spring’s entrenchment. I weed here and there, spread some mulch. Every so often I stop to admire tendrils of growth or newly emerged blooms. To gently brush variegated leaves. I’m deeply and utterly content to be where I am, doing what I’m doing.
I reach into the half-weeded side garden, where bee balm and evening primrose thrive along with some needs-to-be weeded long grass. I lean further in to pick up a plastic pot filled with hard and shrunken soil. I’d had sweet peas in there last year, hoping they would wind there way up the side of the outbuilding. No such luck. What might I do this year?
The day shifts to shudder when I see, or sense a flash of movement and feel a sudden slithering whisper over the back of my hand. My shriek shatters the crystal blue tranquility of the day. I drop the pot, jumping backward, and recognize the sinuous form–SNAKE– in the same instant that it computes:
OMG! It just slithered over my hand!!!
The pot tumbles back to earth and there’s a flash of muscular scales as the snake nestles further into the shadow between the pot and the earth. I hold my hand to my heart, struggling to slow its frantic pace.
After a few minutes I step forward, my curiosity getting the better of me. In my mind, my favorite mantra of all time loops on repeat: There are NO poisonous snakes in Maine!There are NO poisonous snakes in Maine! I’m pretty sure it must be a garter snake. I can remember my grandmother speaking fondly to them in her own garden. I’m not sure I’m up to that, but still, I’m slowly drawn forward.
At first I can only see one bend of snake, looped up over the soil. The sheen of overlapping scales is almost beautiful. Almost. Then I see the head, tucked down into the shadows. A glimmer of eye. The snake is clearly watching me and is also clearly entrenched. After a few moments, I go inside to get my camera and return to take a few photos. The distance of a lens is always helpful.
It isn’t too long before I realize that it isn’t just one snake. There are actually TWO of them. I can’t suppress another little shudder. One is bolder and pops its head out. Its tongue flickers wildly, no doubt trying to pinpoint my presence. I see the forked black end of the tongue emerge over and over, noting how it turns to red when the tongue is fully emerged. I’m sort of grotesquely fascinated. This snake and I lock eyes as I take a few photos. I murmur a few reassurances. I won’t hurt it, but I’m not going to pet it either!
We pass several long moments together. My heart settles down. We watch each other carefully. The small space between us hums with possibility.
After a while, I leave the snake and return to my puttering. Every so often I cast a wary eye toward that garden. Perhaps the primrose and bee balm will thrive even with the weeds in their midst. It seems I’ll be sharing that garden for the summer. Now that I’m aware of that, I’m sort of…maybe…okay with it. But I’m pretty sure I won’t be weeding much there.
I looked outside and saw the sparkle of rain, lit by sun. It was one of those spring showery days, where the sun and rain had been continually vying for control. In short, it was rainbow weather.
“Ooooh!” I said, scanning the skies through the window, “I bet there’s a rainbow somewhere!”
Our home is situated on a hill, surrounded by trees. It’s lovely for many reasons, but viewing large expanses of sky and/or the horizon isn’t one of them.
“I’m going to drive down to the river to see if there’s a rainbow,” I announced. “Want to come?”
“Sure.”
We grabbed jackets and the keys, and were out the door and into the car within two minutes. Turning left out of our driveway, I kept one eye on the sky. As we approached the end of our road, I exclaimed, “Oh, look! There’s one!”
A huge rainbow was just appearing in the eastern sky. As we drove, it seemed to get brighter and brighter. Within a minute or two we were at the river and quickly parked. We scrambled out of the car to marvel at the rainbow emblazoned across the sky. It was a beauty! I took a few photos, hoping to capture its splendor. Its colorful arc stretched from dark clouds partway across the river, then disappeared into cloud-scattered blue skies. Wow!
Even if you understand the science, rainbows still feel like magic. When you see one, you have to stop and appreciate it. To wonder at it. To watch it glow and then ultimately fade away. It’s such an intense and transient beauty.
You can’t order up a rainbow like you can a taco (nod to Naomi Shihab Nye), but you can notice when conditions are ripe and go looking.
Some people chase tornados, I chase rainbows. I highly recommend it!
This month Linda Mitchell posed our Inklings challenge. She had us randomly exchange poems amongst our group and invited us to respond in some way or other to that poem, saying we could “fiddle with, play with, tinker, tear-apart, be inspired or stumped by the poem…”
Margaret Simon sent me her poignant poem, “Porch Lights.”
This poem is steeped with love, loss and longing. I considered many responses to it, and found a wonderful one in Charles Wright’s “Sitting at Night on the Front Porch.” Unfortunately, I didn’t write that poem, so I was still at the drawing board. I thought about responding to the grief of losing one’s mother, to the wrens in the discarded nest, to the porch in the title.
I was especially drawn to the porches, though that felt like a light direction to take from this weighty poem. Still, I’m fascinated by them, and by how society has changed since the invention of AC (among other things) took people off their porches and into their homes. I did a little googling and discovered there’s actually a Professional Porch Sitters Union, and they even have a motto: “*Sit down a spell. That can wait.” Oh! I can really get behind that!
In the end, I fiddled around with all sorts of entry points and forms, including triolets, found poems, golden shovels, free verse, haiku and acrostic responses. I’m sharing two of these poems, wishing I’d had a bit more time to work with a triolet that seemed to be coming together.
In the sorrow of a forgotten flower pot, a wren builds its nest
Life is like that full of paradoxes, the cloak of our sadness woven with intermittent glinting threads of gold as bright as the echo of a wren’s call
Porches invite you in Offer respite from blazing heat, incessant rain or the Rub of daily life. They create a space for Companionship–a liminal place where Heartache and joy intertwine, Embedded within stories and silence… Sometimes a porch is like a poem
The Poetry Friday Roundup this week is hosted by Buffy Silverman. Her post comes with a trigger warning for those who are snake-phobic. Check it out here!
In 2012, Irene Latham conceived of the collaborative poem, a poem built day by day, written line by line by thirty different authors throughout the month of April. Irene passed the baton to Margaret Simon in 2020, and under her guiding hands, the collaborative poem continues to flourish.
It’s always such a pleasure and inspiration to watch this poem take shape through the month, moving from one author to the next. This month’s poem has taken us along a literal journey as well, with our narrator and sibling, Manu. I’ve been watching more closely as it neared my sphere. How in the world would this journey unfold? How could I, from my comfortable perch in the world, do justice to these stalwart souls and their hopeful, painful journey? As Heidi Mordhorst mentioned in her post, “This poem has STAKES!” I’m thankful for those who have guided the poem along to me and found some sanctuary for our heroes. I’ve added my two lines in bold.
Here’s the poem so far:
cradled in stars, our planet sleeps, clinging to tender dreams of peace sister moon watches from afar, singing lunar lullabies of hope.
almost dawn, I walk with others, keeping close, my little brother. hand in hand, we carry courage escaping closer to the border
My feet are lightning; My heart is thunder. Our pace draws us closer to a new land of wonder.
I bristle against rough brush— poppies ahead brighten the browns. Morning light won’t stay away— hearts jump at every sound.
I hum my own little song like ripples in a stream Humming Mami’s lullaby reminds me I have her letter
My fingers linger on well-worn creases, shielding an address, a name, a promise– Sister Moon will find always us surrounding us with beams of kindness
But last night as we rested in the dusty field, worries crept in about matters back home. I huddled close to my brother. Tears revealed the no-choice need to escape. I feel grown.
Leaving all I’ve ever known the tender, heavy, harsh of home. On to maybes, on to dreams, on to whispers we hope could be.
But I don’t want to whisper! I squeeze Manu’s hand. “¡Más cerca ahora!” Our feet pound the sand. We race, we pant, we lean on each other I open my canteen and drink gratefully
Thirst is slaked, but I know we’ll need more than water to achieve our dreams. Nights pass slowly, but days call for speed through the highs and the lows, we live with extremes
We enter a village the one from Mami’s letter, We find the steeple; food, kindly people, and shelter. “We made it, Manu! Mami would be so proud!” I choke back a sob, then stand tall for the crowd.
A slapping of sandals… I wake to the sound of ¡GOL! Manu’s playing! The fútbol rebounds. I pinch myself. Can this be true? Are we safe at last? Is our journey through?
On this Monday of our week of spring break, the clouds drew me outside early. Something about their arrangement over the smooth line of the barn roof caught my eye, so I ventured out, camera in hand. I had snapped a photo when, out of the corner of my eye, I heard a flutter, saw a whisper of movement. I glanced over to see the door to an outbuilding had come open during the night–or perhaps been left open after all our yard work yesterday.
Looking in, I saw a small bird fluttering up and down, trying to escape through the window–though the open door was just as close. I stepped inside and slowly walked over to the window. As I neared, I reached my hands to the window sill, where the bird was now huddled, to pick it up. I placed my hands about it–felt the scrabble of feet, the quick flutter of wings, the insubstantial weight of flight. It quickly stilled within my cupped hands, and I murmured reassuringly, It’s okay. Why, you’re a sweet little white throated sparrow, aren’t you? You’re such a tiny one! Let’s get you out of here now.
Keeping up my inane crooning, I stepped outside the building and slowly opened my hands. The bird, after the slightest of hesitations, flew directly to the birch tree to perch. My spirits lifted with its flight. It really was okay! A red-bellied woodpecker sang out jubilantly from a nearby tree, calling again and again. I watched my breath cloud in the chilly air, tuned in to bright day around me, to the gradual greening, the myriad bird calls. I watched the small sparrow rub its beak against the birch bark.
Then there was a sudden crash and clamor from the brush in the side yard, and I looked over to see a flurry of movement. Deer! My pleasure at seeing them wasn’t enitrely unadultered, as I’d already taken note of some decimated tulips under the apple tree. Still, I couldn’t fail to mostly delight in their presence. They stopped just over the ridge toward the neighbor’s yard, and I counted. One. Two. Three. Four. One looked steadily through the branches at me for long minutes. Then another. Then, in a sudden silent coordinated moment, they took off, loping away–all elegant limbs and tawny pelts, flashing white tail flags as they left.
I turned to walk back inside and return to my coffee. A white throated sparrow called over and over again. The clouds still dotted brilliant blue skies.
This month Mary Lee had our Inklings challenge. She invited us to write a series of haiku about poetry without using the word poetry. I wish I’d had more time to linger with this prompt, but March holds madness not only for basketball players and their fans. This was my liberal translation of the prompt :).
Turn, Turn, Turn*
a rush of syllables whispers in leaf-lush trees songs on the breeze
a quickening leaves and light, autumn-gilded the haunting cry of geese
skies clear to moonlight snow cloaks each branch all is aglow
a tree exhales— feathered buds transform blackbirds take flight
We’re in the midst of a winter/spring storm as I write this post. School was cancelled today and has already been cancelled for tomorrow. With no power at home, we hear only the crackle of the fires in the wood stoves and a far off hum from neighbors’ generators. Every so often we’re startled by a crack and crash as tree limbs break under the weight of this heavy, wet snow. We’re thankful to be safe and warm.
shattering tree limbs winter silence splinters weathering the storm
If you’d like to see what the other Inklings did with this haiku challenge, click on the links below.
The PF Roundup is hosted this week by Irene Latham at her blog, Live Your Poem. She’s got all sorts of exciting things to share! Be sure to swing by and check it out.
March 2024 SOLC–Day 31 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 daughter, Lydia, and I took a block printing class. I signed us both up a month or so ago, because…well, why not? I thought it would be fun to stretch ourselves and try something new, and she was game. It was a date!
At 2 pm we sat down to learn about block printing. There were 10-12 of us there. The instructor gave us a brief overview and then set us free. We began with potatoes to get the feel for the tools. Everyone dove right in, and I immediately floundered.
What should I try?
I sketched a few things, but nothing resonated. Lydia had a few good designs going, very Scandinavian in temperament. The women across from me were working on shapes and leaves. Soon, they’d already cut into their potatoes and started experimenting. I envied their blithe confidence. I stared at my potato, hoping for an incoming idea. I could feel tendrils of frustration start to unfurl and grow. Remember this is for fun. It’s good to try something new! I glanced at my paper. I glanced at my watch. How much longer did this class last?
In desperation, I looked up a few things on my phone to try to spark my inspiration. I found some organic looking prints I liked. I shook off my hesitation (well, as much as possible) and decided to go for a sort of organic Queen-Anne’s lacy vibe. The blade that was available seemed too thick for what I’d envisioned, but I plugged away. Eventually I took a deep breath and set down the potato, hoping it would turn out better than I thought. Remember, it’s just a potato! You can try another one if it doesn’t work. I rolled out the ink, inked my potato and pulled over a scrap piece of paper. I pushed the potato down carefully, held it there, held my breath too, and then carefully pulled the potato up and away.
Voilà!
Oh, this was downright embarrassing. Was anyone looking? I re-inked and tried again. Not much improvement. I had to resist turning my paper over to hide it. I showed my effort to Lydia, and tried to laugh it off, but yikes! I looked at the much higher caliber work on the table around me. My thoughts turned to students who are reluctant to share their work, and I remembered again why I was doing this, and why I need to do things like this more often. The learning curve is not comfortable for me. It also didn’t help that my daughter was apparently a block cutting prodigy, producing this on her first potato effort:
The instructor, walking by, commented, “Wow! I can’t believe you were able to get so much detail out of a potato!” She just nodded (pityingly?) as she walked by my apparently Rorschach-ink-blot-inspired print. Ugh! At the next table she gushed, “Do most of you already have a creative practice? I’m so impressed by what you’re producing!” I resisted the temptation, yet again, to turn over my printed paper. “Well, I could write about this,” I muttered under my breath. Damn learning curve!
Back to the drawing board! What had I learned so far that could help me? Well, I definitely needed a finer tool, and I needed to simplify my design (and revise my high hopes that I was going to have a secret hidden block cutting talent). My next two efforts looked like this:
Ok. That wasn’t too bad. I realized that I needed to consider the shape of the potato, too. I liked how it was irregular around my regular spiral, and hadn’t even considered that element of things when cutting.
Then it was time to switch to the linoleum printing block. The instructor gave us some more instruction and tips. She rustled up some additional fine point cutting tools, so we all had access to whatever we wanted and needed. I stared at the pink block. Drew a sketch on paper. Shrugged. Drew the sketch on the block. I struggled to think about how this would actually print. It’s a sort of reverse way of thinking– You’re carving what you don’t want to show, and it’s rather mind-bendy. It was definitely a foreign way for me to think. I considered it a bit longer, trying to wrap my head around it, and finally, just shrugged (there was a lot of shrugging going on!) and started. (Next to me, my daughter prodigy was staring at her block and feeling frustrated now. “I peaked too early,” she claimed.)
I picked my tool and began cutting. I liked the feel of the block and carving away the lino was kind of fun. Soon, a pile of pink slivers littered the table before me and my chosen shape was, more or less, emerging. I grew a bit bolder, taking off more and more of the lino. Still, I was very unsure how this next experiment would turn out. I was NOT looking forward to a return to the humiliation of the first potato effort. I tried a trial print of my block, and revised my plan, cutting away a bit more. I also noticed how the ink made fascinating patterns, which added to the print. This was another whole element I hadn’t considered–ink color, thickness, etc. I reconsidered. Carved more. Printed on some scrap paper again. Removed a few more spots.
And then I was done. I got a notecard, carefully rolled out the ink, placed my lino block on it and pushed. I moved the inked block over to the card, centered it and gently laid it down. I pressed, hoping the ink was evenly applied. Once again holding my breath, I slowly lifted away the block to see what I had made.
Hey! That wasn’t bad. I actually liked it! I decided to use this print for my second card, too, and quickly learned that two prints are never precisely the same–which was actually kind of cool. Looking at my prints, I noticed some things I would change, but essentially, I felt pretty successful. Next to me, Lydia had recovered her equilibrium and had created a sweet floral carving, printing it on her notecard in a bright red.
And then, just like that, it was time to clean up.
After the class, Lydia and I left the studio, prints in hand, talking about how we’d had a lot of fun, and about how we’d had to work through our doubts and frustrations to get there.
It seems fitting that this month of writing challenge ends with a post about trying something new. Yesterday, I swiftly remembered how much I dislike the learning curve and how frustration and embarrassment can get in the way of learning. I also remembered how important it is for me to put myself out there and give it a try.
Thanks for a great month everyone! I won’t say it’s been easy, but it was definitely worth the effort.
March 2024 SOLC–Day 30 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
Saturday, March 16th : Today we walked at Center Point Preserve, marveling that we could be out in the woods at this time of year. Usually the woodland shade preserves snow and ice until well into spring, making for treacherous going. Yet, there we were, easily hiking around and through puddles, muck and mud on a beautiful day in mid-March. There were plenty of other signs of the changing season, including vigorous eruptions of skunk cabbage and even a small eastern newt. Everything’s stirring! It’s both exciting and worrisome.
Thursday, March 21st: Dodged one today! There was only an inch or snow. It was enough to freshen up the scenery and prompt me to take the less scenic, safer drive to work, but not enough to interrupt a school day. With airline tickets booked to depart not long after the current last day, I’m voting (insanely and unusually!) for no more snow days.
Saturday,March 23rd: The forecasted snow has arrived, not in deep piles as we’d thought, but enough to make staying at home enjoyable. The birds are bombarding the feeders, and I could easily sit by the window watching the show all day. The goldfinches are transforming from drab olive to cheerful yellow, a sure sign that spring is on its way, despite the snow. A pileated woodpecker even came by to visit. They’re here year-round, but still a joy to hear and to see. I’m thankful this storm arrived on a Saturday!
Sunday, March 24th: Whoa! Overnight the world transformed to ice. When the wind blows it sounds like fairy bells are ringing. Everything glitters and shines. It’s stunning. Walking outside is treacherous as the snow has mixed with falling rain and ice to a concrete-density. Meandering in the yard, I have to stomp my heel in the ground to make a divot in the snow each time I step. Several times, I found myself sliding along with windmilling arms, trying to get a grip.
We lost power late last night and it looks like it may be out for days. I’m thankful for wood stoves and plenty of wood, town water, and a gas stove! Also, thankful for the timing of the storm. If it had hit during the school week, we would have been out for two days. That would have ratcheted up the tension on ending the school year and heading off on our trip! Phew!
Saturday, March 30th: The wind has finally died down after gusting crazily last night. I’m surprised we didn’t lose power again! After days of dreary skies, chill, and unrelenting rain (with the accompanying flooding of small rivers), we’re supposed to have a sunny weekend with temps in the high 40s and low 50s. Woot! Ironically, most of my plans (and very enjoyable ones they are!) involve being inside. Oh, well. I’m sure I can sneak in a walk or two.
Unfortunately, I looked at my phone this morning, and this is what I saw:
What?! March and April often have a hefty snowfall or two, but this one sounds pretty icky. I scan the article: “Maine could be in for the longest lasting weather event of the year so far…potential flooding..a lot of precipitation…heavy, plowable snow in a multi-day event…early predictions…as much as two feet in some parts of the state…no this isn’t an April Fools’ Day joke” The storm is forecast to arrive mid-week and impact two days.
Uh oh.
When we scheduled our trip, I knew I was taking a gamble, but it definitely felt like the odds were in my favor. (And flights were so much cheaper if I booked for a bit earlier!) I promised myself I would not stress about potential snow days, but I can feel a little shiver of anxiety slivering in. Eek! Fingers crossed that this storm changes course and misses us. Once again, I’m wishing away a snow day. Or two.
I am not cut out to be a gambler, and I should know by now that Maine spring is anything but predictable. It’s always a bit of a ride.
Nix the comfort zone 