July 19, 2022 by mbhmaine

Come On, Rain!

Yesterday, much to my delight, I noticed that rain was in the forecast. Much, much needed rain. As the skies greyed through the day, I found myself murmuring, Come on, rain!, over and over again, making me think of Karen Hesse’s fabulous picture book of the same name.

Finally, at around 3 pm, the rain started. Just a sprinkle or two at first. Come on, rain! Next a misting. Come on, rain!! Then, finally, the mist solidified into steady showers. Come on, rain!!!! Looking out my window at my garden, I could practically feel the plants shaking the dust off, their roots stirring and drinking, leaves plumping. I imagined them as jubilant as the young girls in Hesse’s book:

Thankfully, it continued to rain through the night. A soft, steady rush of water. Come on, rain!

In the middle of the night, or perhaps early in the morning, I woke with words running through my mind. I reached for pen, paper, and my book light, then scrawled them quickly so I wouldn’t forget them.

When I awoke this morning, I reached for the paper, remembering I’d written something on it, but not fully aware of what I’d recorded. Canticle? Do I even know that word? As you can see by the “?” on my paper, even my night-time mind wasn’t sure it made sense or that I was spelling it correctly. I looked it up to find that I had spelled it correctly and used it correctly, too, as it means a “hymn or chant.” The mind’s a funny thing, isn’t it?

Here’s what I ultimately did with those words:

The Rustle of Plants: A Translation

On this morning of rain
after endless days
of sun’s piercing gaze
we absorb its blessing
and offer up
a canticle of praise.

©Molly Hogan

July 15, 2022 by mbhmaine

PF: Sisters

Earlier this week I wrote a post called “On Grief’s Tender Gifts“. While it seems counterintuitive, I’ve come to realize that grief does offer comforts, many of them deeply moving. Often they involve interactions with others and acts of kindness. In 2021, as we navigated our father’s illness and death, my sisters and I united in a way that resonates as yet another “tender gift of grief.”

Surely the collective noun for a group of sisters must be a blessing.

To My Sisters

It’s not that we weren’t close
or didn’t get along
but the crucible
of his illness
seared away our imperfections
forged us
into something powerful
unbreakable and true
Perhaps this was Dad’s
final tender gift
to us all

©Molly Hogan

This week the Poetry Roundup can be found on Elisabeth Norton’s blog, Unexpected Intersections. She’s sharing a wonderful, original poem highlighting what can be revealed when we “break routine and change directions.”

July 12, 2022 by mbhmaine

On Grief’s Tender Gifts

Last month I came home from packing up my classroom to an unexpected package in the mail. I saw from the return address that it was from my friends, Dan and Hannah, two of the nicest and most considerate people you’d ever want to meet. I set it aside as I finished unloading the car, wondering all the while, What in the world could it be?

After finally unloading everything, I turned my attention back to the package. As I unwrapped the brown paper package, a soft beautiful hand-knitted shawl fell warmly into my hands. Ooooh! I sunk my hands into it and immediately wrapped it around me. I was still at a loss, though. Why had they sent me this? I dug around in the package in search of an explanation. Aha! There at the bottom was a letter. I pulled it out and opened it.

The letter offered a full explanation. Hannah is an in-home hairdresser and has a 96-year-old client, Helen, who lost her son to pancreatic cancer nine years ago. When he died, she was devastated. Ultimately she decided to make a prayer/comfort shawl in his memory. She chose to knit it in an ocean palette as her son made his living from the sea. When she was done knitting it, she asked Hannah if she knew anyone to whom it might bring comfort. Hannah had another client on hospice and she gave him the shawl.

This initial exchange blossomed into an ongoing practice. Helen has continued to make shawls and give them to others with Hannah as her conduit. At this point she has shared more than 75 shawls! Although she does not seek thanks or acknowledgement, she cherishes the notes she receives from recipients and feels that knitting these shawls has helped her deal with her loss. After summarizing this story, Hannah added a note for me, “We thought you might need a little extra comfort on Father’s Day. And the colors of this shawl seemed to me to speak comfort. And Peace.” I pulled the shawl closer around my shoulders and kept it on me all that evening, feeling grateful for its warmth on the cool evening and for the thoughtfulness of friends.

The next day I went to spend time with my dear friend, Sue, who was at home in hospice. I brought the shawl with me. Leaning close to her, I told her the story of Helen and the shawls.

“Oh, how lovely,” she whispered.

I tucked the shawl carefully around her and told her I wanted to share it with her. That I hoped it would bring her comfort.

Today I read a poem by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer called “As We Sang the Hymn at My Father’s Funeral”. This portion of it really captures that sense I have had so often lately–the feeling that within my grief, I have been blessed by the kindness of others:

Grief comes with its arms full of blessings.
I am not grateful for the loss,
but there is so much beauty in how the world
rises up to hold us—cradles us with kindness,
cradles us with song. There is so much good
in how grief asks us to be tender with each other—

(click here to read the full poem)

I have the shawl back now. The woven fibers hold Helen’s sorrow and comfort, her remembrance of her son and mine of my father, the kindness of Hannah and Dan, and the essence of Sue. Most mornings I wrap myself in it as I write. In fact, I’m wearing it right now.

July 8, 2022 by mbhmaine

PF: A Stolen Moment

I just spent some time in Tennessee enjoying family and unfamiliar scenery. One afternoon I spent some time sitting under a crepe myrtle tree, lingering in the moment, looking down over the lake and into the distant fading ridges of mountains. Ahhhhhhh….

Sitting Under the Crepe Myrtle

Sheltered from midday sun
surrounded by the hum of bees
the rustle of leaves
the heartbeat of the tree
Blossom sweet serenity

©Molly Hogan

This week the warm and wonderful Jan Annino is hosting. Be sure to stop by and check out her blog at Bookseedstudio.

June 30, 2022 by mbhmaine

July Challenge: Persistence

It’s the first of July and also the first Friday of the month. That means it’s time to share the Inklings challenge for the month. Heidi had the honors this month. After noticing how in her own garden “THE PLANTS KEEP GROWING. They rarely give up,” she noted that “there are so many ways in which we’ve all (but especially as women, as educators) had to be persistent, despite our weariness.” So, she invited us to write a poem about persistence.

For a variety of reasons, the past month got away from me (first of July=first Friday of July was an equation that escaped my attention until quite recently!). I am going with my initial off-the-cuff responses to the challenge. Clearly I needed (and took) a respite from heavier topics.

One of life’s pressing questions…

Who is more persistent:
The thick, black hair
reappearing
firmly rooted
in the softening skin
on the left side of my chin
or I
who wield
the tweezers
victoriously
again and again?

©Molly Hogan

I’ve run into a dilemma with the title of the next poem. It’s not objects, as in things, but objects, as in voices dissent. So, how does one convey that or give enough context in a title? Definitely a conundrum! I just decided to opt for forewarning you.

Cat Objects

Why is “dogged”
used to indicate persistence
or a steady pursuit?
Isn’t her presence
at the mouse hole,
paw poised, statue-still
more worthy of canonization
in the lexicon?
So, not “dogged”
but “catted”?
Just yell “Squirrel!”
she suggests
and rests her case.

©Molly Hogan

If you want to see what the other Inklings did with this challenge, click on the links below:

Linda Mitchell
Margaret Simon
Catherine Flynn
Heidi Mordhorst
MaryLee Hahn

I’ll be traveling for the next week or so, and am unsure how much internet access and time I’ll have. I hope to be able to make the rounds, albeit, perhaps, in a piecemeal fashion.

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Janice Scully at her blog, Salt City Verse. She’s sharing a great poem inspired by reading about supernovae.

June 28, 2022 by mbhmaine

On friendship, flickers, and remembering

Earlier this spring I was chatting with my friend, Sue. She filled me in on the progression of her illness, recent doctors visits, etc, but then got down to what she really wanted to talk about– a bird she’d seen lately hopping about on her grass.

“Oh I’ve been having such fun watching it!, she enthused. “It isn’t a robin though it’s about the same size. It’s got specks on its chest, and it’s always poking around in the grass out my back window. Do you know what it is?”

“Could it be a northern flicker?” I asked. “Does it have a sort of heart-shaped patch of red on its head and a black bib?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “It does!”

She looked it up in her bird book and was delighted to confirm that her mystery bird was indeed a northern flicker. She was also tickled that I’d been able to identify it based on her clues.

I was pretty chuffed too, but did fess up that I’d had several flickers visiting my yard last spring and learned about them then. I also told her that flickers were one of my dad’s favorite birds. In fact, during one of our visits over the past year, he had told me that one reason he’d bought the house I grew up in was because there’d been flickers in the yard when they first visited. For a few weeks after his Celebration of Life service in April, I spotted flickers all over the place and took some comfort in that. Now I always think of my father when I see flickers.

About a week ago, I walked out to my car after visiting Sue, carrying the weight of the knowledge that I would not see her again. In the cool, grey drizzle, something moved and caught my eye. I looked. A bird was hopping about in the back yard. Could it be? I blinked, peering through my tears and the rain. Saw the telltale speckles. The red heart. Sure enough, it was a northern flicker. I couldn’t help but smile, even in the midst of my deepest sorrow. It felt like a sign, a message from Sue or maybe the universe. Either way, I again took some comfort in it.

Yesterday, we celebrated Sue’s life. If I try really hard, I can still feel the warmth of her hand in mine , see the sparkle in her blue eyes, and hear her voice and the echo of her wonderful laugh. I know some of that will fade with time, but I also know that her presence in my life is permanent. She’s left an indelible mark.

In the days to come, I’ll be keeping my eyes out for flickers, and will now remember both my father and Sue when I see them. But truly, I won’t need the flickers to remember.

RIP my friend.

June 16, 2022 by mbhmaine

For Sue

I first met Sue when she walked into my classroom almost 15 years ago. I was 40 years old and it was my first teaching job. I’d been hired two weeks before school started and though I’d student-taught 5th grade, I was going to be teaching a multi-age 1st/2nd grade classroom. Sue introduced herself as the Literacy Specialist. Little did I know then that she’d become one of my very best friends.

I believe Sue’s first words to me were something along the lines of “Here’s my advice. Don’t pretend you already know everything.” Sue can definitely be blunt, and that comment might have been off-putting to some, but it was fine with me. I already knew I was in over my head, and here was someone who just opened the door to asking her all my questions. And she always had answers or would research until she found them.

When I think of Sue, one of the first things that comes to mind is her laugh. The. Best. Ever. Full and throaty and loud. I loved hearing it echo down the hallway at school. Something between a hoot and perhaps a cackle. But so vibrant and joyous. Unfettered. It was an open invitation to appreciate the moment along with her— the foibles of humanity, the quirks, the absurdities. Ever since Sue became ill, I’ve yearned to be able to bottle up the sound of her laughter.

Sue is, as all real learners are, deeply curious. Although she’s in her late 70s, she embraces technological advances and knows her way around a computer. She dives into each new endeavor with determination and enthusiasm. And maybe a spread sheet or two. She asks questions of everyone—sometimes without always thinking it through first. She’s endlessly fascinated by people and the world around her.

My favorite Sue story is when we were crossing the border into Canada. Our book club was going to Quebec City and this was Sue’s first trip out of the country. She was thrilled. In true Sue fashion, she’d researched the heck out of everything and had created detailed charts and timetables with everything we needed to enjoy our time in Quebec City. Unbeknownst to us, she also had a few questions for the guards at the border. Questions like: “Do you wear a bullet proof vest?” or “I’ve heard that even with a bullet proof vest on, it will hurt if you get shot. Is that true?” While she indulged her curiosity, and the guard kindly answered her, we struggled to urgently yet discretely signal to her to stop. We were sure we were all going to get pulled from the van and searched at any instant. Luckily, the guard received her questions in the inquisitive spirit with which they were offered, and the memory still makes us all laugh.

Sue is also the very best listener. I suppose that goes hand in hand with her learner stance and her boundless curiosity. She asks questions and then 100% focuses on your answers. She wants to gather up all the information and truly understand. Through the years we’ve talked about everything–books, teaching, family, friends, politics, nature, and on and on.

Sue loves completely, not blindly, but with acceptance. She understands we’re all flawed. She is so open and generous with her love and affection. I can hear her saying, when I confess something or share something new, “Oh, but I think that’s wonderful!” Such a Sue thing to say. But she also calls it as she sees it and her insight is often illuminating. I always knew that I could tell Sue absolutely anything. What a gift that has been.

Sue was diagnosed with cancer in April. Along the way, she’s shown her typical inquisitiveness. She was fascinated when she learned a way to breathe better to compensate for her partially deflated lung. She kept telling me that she was going to “go with the flow of it.” It wasn’t unusual for us to talk during this time and for her to begin a sentence, “You know what I love about all this…” and then share a recent anecdote from time with her daughter during yet another doctor visit or offer up some newly gained knowledge.

Simply put, Sue’s an inspiration. She’s taught every one around her so much. At each juncture of this journey, she’s gathered information, considered her options, and openly communicated with family and friends. Her worries have been mostly for her family, not herself. She’s shown such grace.

When I was visiting with Sue a month or so ago, she commented, “I won’t be here, but I’ll be everywhere.” I’m trying to take comfort in that. Mostly I’m focusing on my gratitude for having been blessed to know and have a deep friendship with this wonderful woman. She’s been such a tremendous mentor and support to me in countless ways.

In her latest text update, Sue’s daughter, Hannah, wrote to say that Sue is moving into a hospital bed in her living room. In true Sue fashion, she wants to be part of “the ins and outs of the day” and she has made Hannah promise to “keep telling her stories even if she cannot respond.”

Throughout the years, Sue has read every blog post I have written and often e-mails me with her reactions. She knows how much I love her and how much I value our friendship, but this is one more chance to thank her for enriching my world and tell her once again how thankful I am for the time we’ve had.

So, this one’s for you, Sue, my dearest friend. I love you!

June 14, 2022 by mbhmaine

Grief and Gratitude

Sometimes on a day where your heart feels heavy and grief feels like too steady of a companion, the universe conspires to lift you up…

A visit to the garden in the morning yields an exuberance of blossoms. Pollinators tumble and bumble in and out of pollen-rich stamen. Peonies unfold in fragrant splendor. Sun sets a late-blooming poppy ablaze. A white crab spider lingers in a rugosa rose.

In early afternoon, an out-of-town friend calls and I pull myself out of low energy and an afternoon nap to meet her. To talk and walk. On that walk we stumble upon a garden of prayers for the Earth.

It is one woman’s intricate creation, open to the community. She is (by chance?) in her garden and explains: The prayer wheels are painted in Aboriginal style, in colors representing the Chinese elements. “I started to paint the dots,” she says, “and it wasn’t until I got underway, that I realized the dots were actually leading me.” Her garden is a place of welcome, tranquility and unity. Hope and harmony.

Later, after eating out, Kurt suggests that we take a walk, and though I yearn only to go home and cocoon, I acquiesce. And on the walk along abandoned railroad tracks out into a sort of forgotten wilderness, we see snapping turtles heaving their heavy bodies up by the tracks, churning up the earth to lay their precious eggs. Primal and sacred.

Further on, a beaver swims in lazy circles, undisturbed by our presence. It’s so quiet and so still that I can hear the beaver exhale over the water. A Baltimore oriole flashes tangerine in the leaves and a yellow warbler hops through the treetops. Far off in the distance a deer grazes.

Later, as we leave the tracks and head back toward the car, a mink appears by the side of the road. It’s not there. And then suddenly it is. It sees me and takes one step back with its catch firmly gripped in its mouth. It stops. We stand, frozen, eyes locked, for one long moment. Two creatures traveling along the same road.

Then it bounds across the pavement and disappears into the greenery.

Suddenly the day sort of spins into a wild joy or keening gratitude, kaleidoscoping all these moments.

And perhaps they are all the brighter for the sorrow that darkens their edges.

The poem from the prayer garden now seems especially apt:

Gratitude:

“I thank you God for this most amazing day… blessed is the fruit of Thy womb. Who can number the sands of the seas and the drops of rain? Green trees spiraling to the sky, earth in their roots and heaven in their branches. Creatures of the field and forest, the sea. Our brothers & sisters who share our home. The Whole Universe is blessed…is lost in this Wonderful Holy Dance.”

June 2, 2022 by mbhmaine

PF: Spring Cleaning

This month it was my turn to pick the writing challenge for the Inklings. Spring arrives a bit later up here in Maine, so my thoughts turned to the much vaunted “spring cleaning.” Anyone who knows me well, knows that cleaning is not my forte. Still, here was the challenge I posed (perhaps with procrastination in mind): “Spring is finally arriving in Maine, and though, year after year, I turn my back on spring cleaning, I thought it might be fun to write a poem about some sort of domestic task. (Writing a poem = way more fun than cleaning!) “

I also shared a link to a possible mentor poem called, aptly, “Spring Cleaning”.

Spring Cleaning
by Ellen M. Taylor

Why are there no poems of the joy
of vacuum cleaning after a long

winter? Of the pleasure of pulling
the couch back, sucking up cobwebs, dead

flies, candy cane wrappers, cookie crumbs?
The sun rises earlier now, flooding

the room with daffodil light, enough
to see long unseen clumps of dog hair,…

(click here to read the rest of the poem)

Once I’d shared the challenge, I realized that I really didn’t know what I wanted to write. All my best intentions to clean and organize scatter every weekend morning when I awake to a vibrant, changing world. How could I write about cleaning? Perhaps more to the point, how can you stay inside when there’s something to exclaim over around each corner?! The bees are buzzing! The alewives are running and the osprey are fishing! There’s a pair of wrens nesting in the tree out back! Lilacs perfume the air! Dandelions transform lawns to wishing field overnight! Spring showers bauble the garden! The warblers are warbling! There’s just so much going on! In Spring the world is on permanent exclamation point! It’s a time of year that invites, almost demands, celebration. I kept thinking of the hymn, “How Can I Keep from Singing?” Finally, I decided to use that song as a sort of parody base for my poem.

You can find different versions of the lyrics, but here’s a choral rendition of the the version I prefer which is more inclusive:

So, as you read, feel free to sing along with my poem. To be honest, I do not know how well the rhythm and the poem itself works without the hymn in mind, because I sang as I wrote this and can’t divorce the melody from the words!

Spring Cleaning

As Winter fades and Spring arrives
abrim with new creations
the virtuous are locked inside
obsessed with dirt predation

But robin’s rockin’ on the lawn
an oriole is singing
wisteria drips down the vines
while they’re inside mop-wringing

I tarry in the shower stall
where grout is grim and greening
I make one desultory swipe
then flee away from cleaning

Although the corner cobwebs grow
in silent protestation
I can not yield the duster more
without loud lamentation

The grass is green, the skies are blue
the vernal pools are teeming
What foolish person would I be,
if I just kept on cleaning?

The meadows burst with newfound life
sweet blossoms resurrected
Each day unfolds with new delights
Spring cleaning is neglected

When flowers tremble in the breeze
and birds are hover-gleaning
I will not yield to tyrant dirt
I will not keep on cleaning

I will not scour, dust and mop
and waste these hours, fleeting
Spring’s miracles will soon be gone.
There’s time enough for cleaning.

©Molly Hogan

Karen Edmisten is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Round up at her blog. Be sure to stop by and enjoy a wonderful poem by Yeats and while you’re there, check out some other posts as well. If you want to check out what the other Inklings did with this challenge, click on the links below:

Linda Mitchell
Catherine Flynn
Heidi Mordhorst
MaryLee Hahn
Margaret Simon

Also, be sure to spend some time outside celebrating the wonders of Spring!

May 24, 2022 by mbhmaine

“Warbling”: A Photo Essay

Looking for warblers, or what I call warbling, is one of my favorite things to do early in the morning on spring weekends. According to Oxford dictionary, warbling technically means to sing with a “succession of constantly changing notes”. I, personally, prefer to think of warbling as wandering around on an early morning, neck craned to look upwards, eyes flitting about from tree to tree. I’m not alone in this pursuit, as in birding hotspots, you’ll find flocks of like-minded folk, binoculars pressed to their eyes, cameras at their side. I often think we look like our own odd species of bird. You’ll even hear whispers and fragments of our customary calls: “Oh, there’s one!” “Did you see….?” or “Darn it!”

So, if you’re not a bird of this feather, it would probably help to know that warblers are small, often colorful, active birds that migrate in the spring. I’m still relatively new to birding, and I only recently learned that most birds migrate overnight. Isn’t that the coolest thing!? I love to think of waves of warblers moving through the night skies while we’re sleeping! In the morning they’re hungry from all their exertions and need to fuel up for the next leg of their journey. As the sun warms the treetops, they glean insects from the newly emerging tree foliage. In pursuit of prey, they rarely sit still–or at least when they’re not blocked by a leaf or a branch! Spotting them, much less identifying them is a challenge!

Trying to take photographs of warblers is an exercise in patience and optimism. You spend a lot of time looking up at this…

or at suspicious looking clump of leaves like these…

hoping to see a flash of movement or a splotch of color like this (though preferably when one’s camera settings aren’t off!)…

indigo bunting (messed up my camera settings…again! lol)

And then (if you’re lucky!) there are lots and lots of birds around and many “almost got it!” moments like this (unlucky timing, poor camera settings, bad lighting, etc)…