This month Catherine set the challenge for our group. Inspired by Irene Latham’s recent post, she asked us to try a triptych. I did a little research to make sure I fully understood the form. Apparently, there’s room for some interpretation 🙂 According to AI, “A triptych poem is a poetic form consisting of three distinct, yet related, sections or stanzas. It’s inspired by the visual art form of a triptych, which is a painting or sculpture made up of three panels, often hinged together. In poetry, the three parts of a triptych can explore different facets of a theme, tell a story in three stages, or offer contrasting perspectives on a subject.”
Another site I found offered additional, more complex, options, stating: “There are two types of Triptych poetry forms:
A poem consisting of three poems of equal length displayed side-by-side, like the panels of a triptych painting. Not only do the poems work together thematically, like the painting, they actually form a fourth poem. The fourth poem is read horizontally across the three poems. This fourth poem completes the theme of the Triptych.
A poem of three stanzas. The first stanza comments on the past, the second comments on the present, and the third comments on the future. The second stanza is twice as long as the first and third.”
I fooled around with all of these, lingering with the side-by-side format for a long time, enjoying the appeal of a visual triptych and the lure of a fourth poem to complete the trio. Eventually, I put that aside to work on again at another time. It was tough! The deadline was looming and I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do! But once again, I’m grateful for the birds. After looking out my window yesterday morning, I put everything aside and wrote this:
I the birch tree stands dappled in sun and shade one graceful branch arcs low a living artifact of the weight of winter snow
II blue jays gather and perch a cluster of fledglings all flutter and clatter and gawking beaks a constant, raucous clamor of bold and boisterous demand
III sudden lift and exclamation jays erupt skyward in an exhalation of blue and silence descends as softly as a falling feather alighting on the curve of the empty branch
This week’s Poetry Friday is hosted by Jane Whittingham at her blog, raincitylibrarian. If the summer heat has you down, click the link and spend some time chilling with some poetry!
In her typically generous fashion, Georgia Heard has begun to share monthly writing prompt calendars. For July she created a “Month of Tiny Letters.” Each day offers an invitation to write a tiny letter. Yesterday’s prompt was “Send love to your tired self.”
Dear Tired Self, A nap is a gift – not an indictment.
Lean in. Close your eyes. Let the hammock gently rock you into easy dreams.
Three days. Two naps in the hammock. I’m doing something right!
I thought my summer hadn’t fallen into any sort of rhythm yet. Then, I realized that it’s actually been an unexpected rhythm, mostly consisting of a sedentary pattern of sleeping, eating and drinking, reading, napping. Rinse. Repeat. Other than the reading, I’m apparently emulating a newborn!
As the days of July are now more than half over, I’m considering how I want to shape the rest of my summer. Adding a bit more writing and creating to my days is high on the list. I haven’t participated in Poetry Friday in quite some time, and have really missed the community. Today, I’m chiming in with a late-to-the-party nonet.
Visiting my in-laws in Nashville wondering where the years have gone days spiced with laughter and tears time passes so quickly inevitably departure looms cherish each fleeting now
After a fairly frenetic start to summer, I’m still struggling to find my summer rhythm. So far it’s mostly eluded me. I had all sorts of good intentions about getting back into a blogging routine, but once again, a few weeks have passed since I’ve posted.
In the last couple of days, inspired by On Being’s “The Hope Portal”, I’ve been trying to focus on finding “moments/sightings/experiences that bring flashes of light into your day.” I’ve also been trying to get a sort of routine in place–writing, walking, photography, etc. Yesterday morning I forced myself to take a walk, and found, as one usually does, a glimmer of joy.
After a bit of a writing dry spell, I wanted to write about making jam today. It’s a subject I’ve visited before (here and here and even once in the Portland Press Herald.) and no doubt will again. So, I pulled up my blog this morning, determined to write and to get back into blogging more regularly. I knew it had been a while since I had written, but I was shocked to see that my last post was at the end of May! That’s more than two months ago! 1/6 of a year!! How can time pass so quickly? (Update: My husband has informed me that my math skills are a bit off, and this is closer to one month than two. I’m not sure whether to feel better or not! lol)
I’ve been thinking about time a lot lately. Perhaps it’s prompted by the arrival of summer, which is always jarring in a teacher’s life, or perhaps it’s where I am in my own life, and where my loved ones are. It’s also been a common theme in books I’ve been reading. Time passing. It’s our one true constant, isn’t it?
I’ve been considering how the nature of time changes–how on some days, time visits you in a leisurely way, curls around you and tucks you into its slow unfolding, and on other days it whips past, barely seen, leaving you breathless in its wake. Most days it falls somewhere in between.
Perhaps that’s why traditions, like jam making, matter so much to me. They’re like small anchors in the tide of time. Or maybe small flags of proclamation. Jam making literally feels like a way to capture time in a bottle, to savor at a future time of your choosing. Ray Bradbury says it best, when writing about dandelion wine in his book of the same name:
“And there, row upon row, with the soft gleam of flowers opened at morning, with the light of this June sun glowing through a faint skin of dust, would stand the dandelion wine. Peer through it at the wintry day – the snow melted to grass, the trees were reinhabitated with bird, leaf, and blossoms like a continent of butterflies breathing on the wind. And peering through, color sky from iron to blue.
Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of course, the smallest tingling sip for children; change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in” ― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine
(After reading Bradbury’s writing again, it’s hard to continue writing this piece. What a master he is!)
At any rate, last summer we traveled extensively and I missed strawberry season entirely. This winter I found myself buying jam for the first time in years. I think I bought every flavor except strawberry, and I admit it was fun to have some variety. Still, this year I hoped to make jam again. As we moved further into June, I trawled through the local U-pick farm’s FB posts, eagerly searching for updates. Finally, after days of tantalizing “Soon!” posts and pictures of dangling berries, there it was:
Today’s the day!!! Opening Day for strawberry u-pick season!!
FB photo from Fairwinds Farm, Bowdoinham, Maine
The post appeared on Monday night. The fields were opening the following morning, which was the last day of school, and also the Tuesday before out-of-town visitors arrived and we hosted a party for 100ish people at our home. Over the following days, no matter how I juggled, there was simply no time for picking and jam-making. Things were starting to look grim on that front.
Once the party (such fun!) was over, visitors remained, and then the fields were closed for heat waves and then rainfall. There were sad commentaries about unfruitful harvests. But fear not, Dear Reader! For on this past Sunday morning, the grey clouds looked blanketing, not threatening. Temperatures were not supposed to rise into heat advisory zone. The local farm’s Facebook page said picking was light to moderate, but they were optimistically opening for the day. I set out for the fields first thing.
Picking strawberries tends to be a layered experience for me, and that morning was no exception. I crouched in my chosen row, avoiding puddles, searching for berries. A veery called repeatedly from nearby shrubs. Two cat birds swooped and dove nearby. As always, I listened to the voices drift over the fields from other pickers. Most people were in small groups or partnerships. I used to pick with my mother-in-law and children, but in recent years, due to distance and scheduling, I’ve been picking alone, steeped in memories.
Berry picking is a treasure hunt. This year it felt especially so, as the berries were smaller and fewer in quantity. Every so often I stumbled upon a patch of glowing red berries, but more often I was brushing aside damp leaves, searching for hidden ones. Sometimes I was rewarded. Sometimes not. But bit by bit, my green cardboard quart baskets filled up. Eventually I was finished picking and I headed home to make jam.
There was no rush. I had nowhere to be. No pending commitments. Just a morning free to pick berries and make jam.
Still, soon enough, I found myself hurrying, thinking about being done and not so much about doing. After months of crazy to-do lists, I’m working really hard to catch myself when I’m not being in the moment, not experiencing and appreciating it as it unfolds. I’m working to switch gears, to lean into the moment at hand, and not think ahead to the next thing, or the next step. So, on this day, I caught myself rushing, and then deliberately slowed down.
Walking out to the back yard to harvest rhubarb, I focused on the damp weight of the encroaching vegetation against my legs. I felt the gentle scrape of the massive leaves against my hands as I parted them and reached low into the plant. Heard the snip of scissors cutting through each ruby stalk and the subsequent tree fall of it timbering over. Back in the house, I focused on the flow of water over my hands as I washed each stalk. The crisp slice of the knife. The gathering pile of chopped pieces on the scarred cutting board. Then the hulling of each strawberry and the soft thunk as it landed atop the growing heap in the large, white bowl. The sticky red coating my fingers. The soft squishy sounds of mashing berries together, and the rush of juices. I savored the grit of sugar against my finger as I swept it across the top of the measuring cup. Watched it spill into the pot. Marveled at how the color transformed and intensified. Heard the steady thump of the spoon as I stirred, and the eventual gentle burble of a rolling boil. The heavy scent perfumed the kitchen.
All these sensations intermingled with reminiscences of previous jam making adventures with my mother in law and my children. Even as I tried to stay in the present, grounding myself in sensory experiences and willfully turning away from the tug of the future, the past slipped in. I welcomed it. Rather than undermining the moment, it enriched it. I lingered in the sweetness of memories of collaborative berry picking and jam-making. As I worked, I smiled, remembering how a couple of years ago, my youngest daughter and I spontaneously began to recite Bruce Degen’s “Jamberry” in the fields as we picked:
One berry, two berry, pick me a Blueberry ! Hatberry, Shoeberry in my Canoeberry; Under the bridge and over the dam, Looking for Berries – Berries for Jam !
Finally, at the end of this morning, the jam jars lined the island. Row after row. I cleaned up the kitchen as they cooled, somehow enjoying the wash-up as an extension of the creation. I wiped away streaks of strawberry from the counters and scrubbed sticky remnants of jam from spoons and pots. As I worked, every so often one of the jars emitted a soft sealing clink. One of the best sounds ever!
Later, as the day drew to a close, I stacked the jars of cooled jam in the wooden pantry. I admired the soft glow of berries through the quilted jars, and anticipated savoring their flavor on dark winter days.
To an outside observer, this was a solitary endeavor. One moment in time. I know, though, that it was so much more than that. Picking each berry, washing, cooking, cleaning and bottling filled my morning. But making jam on this particular Sunday also, somehow, transcended time. It united past and present, and fused them together into a glorious, sweet preserve–one I know I will savor as time and the seasons pass.
An opportunity to visit the nurse is the holy grail for many students in my classroom.
One day recently, M. had asked to head to the nurse more than once. Considering that she’d been bouncing around both in and out of the classroom, and was silly and smiling between strategic, puppy-eyed requests, I’d denied her repeated pleas. That didn’t deter her though, as clearly, persistence is one of the key traits needed on the quest to the Kingdom of Nurse.
As the day wore on, I wore down and M started to look a bit less bouncy. Maybe. Or maybe her persistence was paying off. At any rate, in a brief lull between requests, I realized I needed more band-aids. I decided to head off yet another request, and to kill two birds with one stone.
“M, would you be willing to go to the nurse and get some bandaids for the classroom? You could also mention to Mrs. G. that your stomach hurts and see what she says.”
M perked right up.
“Okay! Do you need big band-aids?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, “I just need the regular sized ones.” I held up the bag of bandaids and pulled the last three out. “This is the size I need. You can take the bag with you and ask her to fill it up.”
M. took the bag in her hand. She pivoted to leave, then paused and turned back to me. “Do you think I should bring a mentor band-aid?” she asked.
Mentor* what? …… Ohhhhhhh….the light dawned, and after that split second of confusion, I understood.
“Oh, that’s a great idea!” I said. She reached out and I handed her one of the bandaids, which she tucked into the bag. Then she bopped happily out the door and down to the nurse’s office.
I’m happy to report the use of a mentor bandaid was successful. M returned not too much later with her stomach ache mysteriously vanished, holding a bag full of the correctly sized bandaids.
*In case you’re not in the education field, a mentor text is a piece of writing that students can use for many different purposes. Often in our classroom we use mentor texts to explore how authors craft their writing within different genres and to get ideas of different strategies/moves we can try out in our own writing. In a nutshell, mentor texts can serve as examples to guide us. M. clearly has a full and flexible understanding of mentors!
Once again I want to send a huge thank you to Mary Lee for stepping in with little notice when I had to withdraw from my PF hostess duties two weeks ago. It sounds like word got around, and everyone managed to find their way to the correct site. Poets are so smart! 🙂
Unfortunately, I do have a good excuse for my unexpected absence, as I was unexpectedly sidelined by an emergency eye surgery. (I wrote a little bit about it in this week’s Slice of Life.) This meant, in addition to missing more than a week of work, I missed the opportunity to participate in the Inklings challenge from Linda Mitchell on that date as well. Now that I’m on a path to recovery (and able to read again!), I’m sharing my response.
First, a little context: Linda invited us to explore Whitney Hanson’s poetry. Hanson shares her work on TikTok and is known for sharing poems that “begin with, “in poetry we say…” In these poems, Hanson takes a common phrase we know in English and translates it poetically.” Linda went on to say, “I see an invitation to write in a few ways:
Find a poem that you love to show how poetry translates English in a new way Or,
Write poetry in a way that responds to the phrase, “in poetry we say…”
Go rogue and respond to Hanson’s poetry in any way that makes you happy”
I chose door number two. As someone who is perpetually title-challenged, I’ll admit the fact that the structure of the poem essentially provides its own title is a huge plus to me. Unfortunately, now I’m not sure how to write a dedication line when there is no title. There’s definitely some irony there! Anyway, here’s my better-late-than-never response, written for my husband.
In English we say you were there
In poetry we say when all seems dark it’s you I seek your voice like a lifeline at the other end of the phone your hand an anchor in the swirling storm
I flinch violently as something hits the window. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blur of feathers bounce off the glass and tumble downward. I jump up and race over to the door. A small sparrow sits stunned on the stone step. I open the door to get closer and check on it. When I do so, it flies up onto a nearby perch on the rugosa roses. That’s a good sign, but I imagine it shaking its head and thinking, “What the hell just happened!?”
I always feel awful when this happens, and I want to protest. “There are decals on the window! Pay attention!”
But I imagine the bird was caught up in flight, lost in its world, unaware of possible danger, until…THWACK!
I wonder if it will be okay. How it will move forward into the day. How long it will take to recover from the impact. Will it fly more carefully in the future–perhaps hesitate to lift off from that secure branch? Or will it launch itself joyfully into the air, thankful to still be able to fly?
I empathize with the bird. A lot. About two weeks ago, I hit my own sort of window, at least figuratively. I was teaching my class toward the end of the day. Everything was fine. Until it wasn’t. Suddenly there was a black line snaking across the vision in my right eye. Within moments, it looked like someone had scribbled over the world in big, thick lines with a black marker. Within about 5-10 minutes, that had faded away, and essentially only light and shadow remained.
It turns out I’d had a sudden retinal tear that required emergency eye surgery.
THWACK!
Suddenly, my world changed.
My husband says, “What happens to the mind, happens to the body. And what happens to the body, happens to the mind.”
Suffice it to say, it all threw me for a loop. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
I’m on a good path to recovery now, and am grateful for oh-so-many things: my family, my colleagues (who had to write my sub plans for over a week!), having two eyes, visiting friends, medical insurance, access to health care, paid leave, compassionate surgical staff, etc. Oh, and over and over again, I was deeply thankful for the beauty that surrounds my home. So many birds and various creatures flew and ambled through my yard during my long days of not reading, not driving, not bending or lifting, etc. When I wasn’t huddled on the couch, eyes closed, seeking to lose myself in an audiobook, I was most often looking out the windows.
Ultimately, I don’t see the sparrow take off from its perch, but when I look later, it’s gone. I’m going to assume there was a happy ending. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have one, too, but I’ll admit, right now I’m keeping a cautious eye out for unexpected impacts. You just never know.
Of course, chances are, I won’t see it coming. (Thwack!) But if it does come (and something surely will, because…life), chances are also good that I’ll have the support and resources to deal with it. So, I’m moving a little tentatively through my days right now, but I’m seeing the world through a lens of gratitude. And these days, I’m also beyond grateful for all that I can see.
So sorry but Poetry Friday has been moved! You’ll find this week’s Round Up with the amazing and generous Mary Lee who filled in for me last minute. Here’s the link.
This past week was our April break and with time at home, I was able to see all of the spring visitors stopping by. Our feeders were buzzing nonstop with birds, all sporting their finest breeding plumage. The bright yellows of goldfinches, raspberry-hues of purple finches, brilliant blues of bluebirds and bluejays, scarlets of cardinals and other assorted hues spotted the branches of nearby trees like colorful buds. Beneath the feeders, the newly arrived white-throated sparrows scratched at the leaf litter and periodically sang out their distinctive song: “Oh Sam Peabody Peabody Peabody!” An eastern towhee unexpectedly stopped by to do the same. I’ve spotted yellow-rumped and palm warblers flitting by as well. The air is filled with song!
It’s such a spectacular time of year, and having time off to enjoy it is such a bonus. I was able to visit local marshes and ponds and was thrilled to see great egrets, snowy egrets, glossy ibises and more! The turtles are back and the tadpoles are growing. Every day the grass gets greener and the landscape is clearly shifting to technicolor. It’s such a dynamic time of year.
Each day seems to bring new visitors. This past Sunday morning a turkey wandered into our garden to join in the fun and later in the day a pileated woodpecker stopped by to feed on the suet. (They are regulars in the surrounding area, but not often in the house zone.) The osprey are back in the neighborhood and we’ve seen several nesting pair around town. Our neighbors have seen a Baltimore oriole already, so I’ve put up some orange slices to lure them in, and my hummingbird feeders are filled and placed in anticipation of the ruby throat’s imminent arrival. I never know who’s going to be visiting when I look out my window!
Yesterday, the warmest of the year’s weather came to visit–light breeze, 70 degrees, blue skies and sunshine! After school, I took a detour to the hammock with an apple and a book. Within moments, I was swaying beneath the trees, slipping into relaxation. Ah, bliss!
I hadn’t been there long when I was interrupted.
“Hey, Molly!” Kurt yelled from the front yard.
“Yeah?”
“Did you by any chance bring a fish home today?”
“What?”
“There’s a fish in the yard. Right next to my truck.”
I sat up quickly, careful not to spill out of the hammock.
“A fish. In the yard? A big one?”
“It’s pretty big. I think it’s a blue gill. How in the heck did it get here?”
I had to see this! I I struggled to stand up, discarding my bowl of apple slices and book.
“I’ve heard of people finding fish in their yards before.” I called out while grabbing my phone, knowing I’d want to document the moment with a picture. “Do you think an osprey dropped it?”
“I don’t know…maybe?”
“Are there any talon marks or punctures?”
I kept up a steady stream of questions until I made it out to the front yard, and could check it out for myself. Sure enough, there it was… a good sized fish in the grass.
Kurt nudged it over with his foot. There were no noticeable talon marks or any indication that it had been carried by an osprey or eagle. We looked at each other, perplexed, and then both looked up at the clear blue sky above us.
What in the world?!
We have no answers to this mystery. Like I said, at this time of year, each day brings new visitors.
Nix the comfort zone 