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SOLC 2019 Day 4: An Apology to My Fellow Slicers

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March 2019 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

Four days into March and I’m floundering. So far this time around, it’s not finding ideas that’s been so hard, it’s finding the time to read all the blogs I want to and then make thoughtful comments. Every day I try to read and respond to blogs I follow, the loose community of people who tend to post when I do, new people I want to support, and a few random blogs as well. Then later, I try to respond in kind to those who have taken the time to read and comment on my blog. I’ve come to realize that I simply can’t get to everyone, and it’s driving me a little crazy. So, inspired by William Carlos Williams and Joyce Sidman, I wrote this for you all.

This is Just to Say

every day
my intentions are good
I see you out there
your posts cleverly titled
filled with wonderings
noticings and
powerful reflections

I long to linger
to read and learn from
and about you
to delight in
the taste of your words
nourishing
refreshing
and so delicious

Forgive me
the sheer volume
delights
and overwhelms

©Molly Hogan, 2019

 

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SOLC 2019 Day 3: Listening

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March 2019 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

Sometimes I wonder if my husband ever listens.

Here’s a case in point. Last night we’d met our daughter, Lydia, and her boyfriend, Andrew, for dinner before going to see “Into the Woods” together. They still had to pick up their free tickets, so after dinner we separated and agreed to meet about an hour later at the auditorium.

Shortly before 7 pm, Kurt and I were chatting casually as we walked across the parking lot. I was slightly ahead of him and turned to head up the hill.

“It’s not in the CCA?” he asked, glancing across the road at the Collins Center for the Arts, the biggest venue on campus and where Lydia works part-time in the box office.

I stopped walking, looked at him, then continued, shaking my head. Where had he been during the last five minutes of dinner at the restaurant? When Lydia mentioned having to redirect all the people who had come to the CCA by mistake last night when she was working? When she said that they’d finally just started asking everyone who came in if they were looking for “Into the Woods”? When she SPELLED the name of the auditorium? H. A. U. C. K. When Andrew said to head right at the top of the stairs outside the Union?

“I guess I wasn’t listening,” he said.

Really?

But then I remembered yesterday in the car on the drive up.

“Oh, Kurt,” I said, “I forgot to tell you that I got another rejection.”

“Good for you!” he responded immediately, glancing over and smiling.

I smiled back, then laughed, wondering what someone eavesdropping might think of that exchange.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how significant it really was. Somewhere along the line, Kurt had clearly been listening. When I talked about Stephen King and his stack of rejection slips, he had listened. When I shared my annual rejection letter goal, he had listened. Through this whole writing journey, he’s been listening and it shows. He values my writing and the effort I put into it. He knows that it isn’t just about the final piece. He knows that a rejection isn’t a failure, it’s an important part of the process. I hesitate to write this (because I’m never going to hear the end of it from him), but I guess, just maybe, he listens when it really counts.

A more expected response to my statement might have been, “Oh, I’m sorry!”, but Kurt’s response was perfect. It showed me that not only has he been listening, but he gets it.

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SOLC 2019 Day 2: Double Take

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March 2019 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

I finally clicked enter, cut and pasted and the first post of the challenge was done! Phew! I’d struggled with the ending a bit, but mostly I’d enjoyed the process. Now, though, I was running a bit late. I needed to shower, eat and get out the door to head to work.

Walking upstairs, I looked out the window and gasped. The horizon was streaked with charcoal clouds backlit with glowing pinks and reds. My fingers itched to grab my camera and run down to the river. I stopped in my tracks.

I should just run down right now and take a few pictures. Can I do it? Do I have time? I have to go really soon or I’ll miss it…but it’s only 5˚F out so I can’t go with wet hair after I shower… or can I? I could be quick…I could wear a hat…but I’m already running late…Yes? No?  I waffled.

I’m experiencing an ongoing internal tug of war these days. I feel the need to slow down and take in the moment–to be mindful of the experiences and wonders in each day. It’s one reason I like photography and writing so much: Both naturally push me in that direction. On the other hand, I’m in my early 50s now and I keep thinking, “Hurry up! Do it now! Time’s passing!”

So, I stood on the stairs, looking out the window, feeling pulled and tugged in different directions. I simply have more things I want to do than I have time to do them. It’s a struggle! Eventually, I decided (with great difficulty) to ignore the stunning sunrise and get moving toward school. Half an hour later, I was on my way. Driving along, I found my thoughts wildly ping ponging back and forth.

What will I write about for the challenge tomorrow am I insane to have signed up for a poetry challenge this month as well I need to write a poem about bread by the end of the day can we get to writing the essays today oh, I still need to finish up those comments yikes parent conferences are coming right up and I still haven’t sent out those notices the clouds are really amazing this morning so many shapes and varieties…

Mindful? Ha! Not really. I was in full out frothy rush mode! And to top it off, I had my audio book playing and was simultaneously listening to the adventures of my favorite characters in Three Pines. Just cramming it all in!

Up ahead I saw a car pulled to the side of the road. I eased up on the gas. As I neared the car, I glanced to see why it was pulled over. Does someone need help? Are they picking someone up? Is there a deer? Maybe an owl!?! I’ve been dying to see an owl!

Wait! What?!

I did a double take. Shocked.  Instead of what I’d imagined, I saw a precarious black hulk surrounded by coils and explosions of debris–the charred remains of the modest home that had been standing there just yesterday. It was still smoking. A Sheriff’s car was in the driveway and the car I’d noticed was parked out front. Otherwise no one was about.

My bubbling, rambling thoughts skidded to a halt.

Oh.

I passed the parked car and the ruined home.

I turned off the audiobook.

Then, I continued on my way, my thoughts much different now.

How quickly life can change.

 

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SOLC 2019 Day 1: A Nice Quiet Afternoon At Home

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March 2019 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

My husband, Kurt lay on the couch, dozing, fighting off a nasty virus. He’d been miserable for a couple of days and had settled in for a nice nap.

Outside our old farmhouse, winter continued unabated. I wasn’t even slightly tempted to get outdoors and enjoy the fresh air. Instead, I sat, curled up in a chair, swaddled in a blanket, and utterly content. I had my book in hand, a cup of hot spiced tea nearby and a bowl full of dry cereal, one of my favorite snacks. Ahhhh …. vacation!

As I read, I munched contentedly, enjoying the long peaceful stretch of a rare unscheduled day and seemingly unlimited time to read.

This is wonderful! I thought.

Kurt stirred on the couch, then resettled a bit more comfortably. Poor guy, I thought, he really isn’t feeling good. 

I grabbed another handful of  cereal, popped some into my mouth, and snuggled into the chair and into my book.

A moment later, Kurt shifted, half opened his eyes, and looked around.

“Molly,” he said groggily, “What are you eating?”

I started in surprise, stopped chewing, glanced at his disgruntled expression and laughed.

“No, really,” he repeated, looking bemused, “What the #$@! are you eating? It sounds like there are barnyard animals eating in here!””

His face was a picture–sleepy, grumpy and slightly horrified. I couldn’t help it. My mouth still full of half-chewed cereal, I started to laugh. I was soon laughing so hard that I couldn’t finish chewing, and that made me laugh even harder. I leaned back in the chair, and I laughed and laughed and laughed. After a minute tears gathered in the corners of my eyes, and my sides started to ache. At some point, I heard Kurt begin to chuckle, too.

Finally, I was able to settle down. I finished chewing and swallowed the cereal. I wiped my eyes and took a deep, shaky breath.

“OK,” I said, regaining control. ” It’s just Oatmeal Squares, and I’m almost done.” I popped another few in my mouth.

CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!

Oh.  I guess these are pretty loud. I started giggling again.

Kurt harrumphed and muttered something else unflattering about pigs or horses. Then he lay down again and rolled over, facing away from me. I quickly shoveled the last few Oatmeal Squares into my mouth, and crunched away.

As he dozed off again, I hurried to finish chewing, now fully aware of the sounds emerging from my mouth. Unexpectedly, a refrain threaded through my head,
“And on that farm he had a wife…..
“…with a CRUNCH CRUNCH here …
and a CRUNCH CRUNCH there!”

I giggled again, teetering on the edge of hilarity.

Ruthlessly, I squashed the giggles, swallowed the last piece of cereal, and took a deep sip of tea. I picked up my book and settled myself down, resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t be snacking again anytime soon.

Leavened with a bit of shared laughter, the quiet of the afternoon seemed richer now and settled around us. Within moments, Kurt had slipped fully into sleep, and I had slipped back into 1930s Los Angeles.

Ahhh…vacation…

 

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Poem Sketching

unnamedThe first week back after break is always a haul. Every day my alarm seems to go off earlier and earlier, but Friday seems to move progressively farther away. It’s a phenomenon that defies understanding.

Last week, when free time was abundant, I started fooling around with word group poems. Margaret Simon’s post inspired me so much that I purchased the Sandford Lyne book she mentioned. I haven’t read it all yet, but I’ve really enjoyed looking through his word combinations and toying around with them in my notebook. Lyne calls this “poem sketching.” It’s been the perfect activity to keep me writing on these bleary-eyed mornings.

Here’s one word group that took me in an unexpected direction:

flowers
memories
lonely
jar

I have few memories of flowers,
but one sister says,
“Remember how much she loved daisies?”
and another recalls planting marigolds with her
at the edges of the vegetable patch

Lonely amidst such remembrances
I surround myself with gardens and
fill the house with cut blossoms
tucked into the mason jars
my mother once filled with jams

©Molly Hogan, 2019

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Linda Baie at her wonderful blog, Teacher Dance. She’s sharing a fabulous spring poem that sprouted from a rich bed of anagrams.

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Saving Up Ideas

11454297503_e27946e4ff_hThis past fall, after completing the first narrative writing prompt of the year, A. turned in his story.

“It’s not very good,” he confided. “I didn’t want to use up my best idea at the very beginning of the year!”

I took the paper and smiled inwardly, and groaned a little. Clearly we had a lot to talk about. 🙂 But yesterday, I found myself remembering this moment and reacting somewhat differently.

I’ve been uneasy about signing up for the SOL Challenge this year. Earlier this month, after some internal debate, I signed up for the Welcome Wagon. But now that it was time to actually sign myself up to participate, I balked. I looked at the form and couldn’t quite bring myself to fill it out. It would be my fifth year participating, but I found myself hesitating.

March is a very challenging month at school (report cards, conferences, crummy weather…), and  I’ve been working on my writing in other areas, and also on my photography. There’s only so much energy to go around, right? I was uncertain if I wanted to commit to blogging every day. Just thinking about that felt more than a bit overwhelming. I was developing a major case of cold feet. I could always back out of Welcome Wagon, right? Or maybe I could still do that, but not write myself?

Then I remembered that every year I get so much out of participating in this challenge. My writing gets a work out and I live life with a more writerly eye. The more I write, the more I find to write about. There’s also the wonderful sense of writing with a community, taking on that challenge together and supporting each other through it. Finally, I took a deep breath and signed up.

Then, last night I debated. Should I slice today? I had a potential idea, but maybe I should save it for Friday when the challenge starts….

That brought me full circle, back to the memory of A. and his one good idea. I had smiled and groaned then, but right now I could really relate to what he had said and fully empathize. If looking at 31 days in a row is intimidating, just think about looking at an entire academic year!

In the end, I obviously did slice today, but happily, I still have that potential idea on hold. Maybe Friday…

 

 

 

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Invitation: a word collection poem

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In her Slice of Life post this past Tuesday, Margaret Simon shared some word group love poems she’d written with her students. They were inspired by a wonderful Charles Ghigna poem, some brainstorming and then a photocopied page of small word groups from Sandford Lyne’s Writing Poetry from the Inside Out. I was immediately drawn to the word collections and, in particular, I was intrigued by this list:

crane
brushstroke
iris
cloud

Here’s the resulting poem:

Invitation

you are the crane
in flight above
the purple flag
of my iris
your wings brushstroke
cloudy paths
through azure skies
as if to say
Come this way
Come this way

©M. Hogan, 2019

I’m not sure it’s a love poem, per se, but it’s what happened. Thanks to Margaret, her students, and Sandford Lyne for the inspiration!

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by children’s author, poet and artist, Robyn Hood Black at her blog, Life on the Deckle Edge.

PS–In a mixed-up moment this week, I thought Haiku Dialogue’s current theme was “a smooth coin.” I wrote a haiku, then realized I was a week late to submit it. “A smooth coin ” was last week’s theme. Oops.

how heavy the coin
worn smooth by Charon’s hand
the final payment

©M. Hogan, 2019

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A Tale of Two Tulips

11454297503_e27946e4ff_hSnow still covers the ground, but the tulips are out in full force at the grocery stores. Tilted buckets spill over with vibrant bouquets, repeating rainbows of mixed hues. Those prim tulip buds always catch my eye. They’re so self-contained and demure, but destined to fling open petals in a bawdy display of extravagance. Who can resist?

So, a week or so ago, I wound up with two different bouquets of tulips. I placed one in a vase in the kitchen and the other in the family room.

In the kitchen, the bouquet of purple tulips remained upright day after day, retaining pursed buds and straight stems. From a distance they exuded vitality, but as the days passed, a closer view revealed petals and stems with brown and crumpling edges. They never opened, simply drying and then dying in that nascent state.

In contrast, the mixed tulips grew more and more undisciplined in the family room. The prim buds transformed into bold and blowsy blossoms. Only slightly contained by their glass vase, they sprawled in a burst of color, stems akimbo, petals flung wide revealing previously hidden centers with new, unexpected splashes of color. Then, bit by bit they scattered soft petals onto the table below.

The contrast between these two bouquets struck me and turned my thoughts to aging.  We are a culture that values youth, the budding potential of tulips. Yet, there’s clearly something off in a bunch of tulips that doesn’t fully bloom: Though each purple bud retained its “youthful” air, its potential was never realized. The buds never transformed, and we’ll never know what color lay hidden beneath those tightly furled petals.

I wonder if, when we seek so hard to cling to the vestiges of youth, we avoid the glorious blossoming as well, in all its potential messy exuberance. Something to keep thinking about…

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Insomnia and Poetry Postcards

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Sleep doesn’t always come easily to me. To be more precise, I typically fall asleep in a heartbeat, but wake in the darkest hours of the night unable to sleep any longer. My eyes pop open and I’m alert, my mind racing with churning thoughts and worries. Ironically, one thing that can help me relax and get back to sleep is to mentally compose a story or a poem. I’ve even caught myself tapping syllables on the underside of my pillow. I’m not sure it’s a good sign that my mental writing efforts help me drift to sleep, but honestly, I’ll take it! Ironically, recently I’ve been composing insomnia poems in my mind during my wakeful hours. Here’s one of my latest:

Insomnia

In the deepest dark hours
night shifts and moon-born
silent shadows stir and stretch,
oblong on old pine floors, then
melt into inky corners, where murky
nocturnal thoughts slumber fitfully, and
invite them to fully
awaken

©Molly Hogan, 2019

I’ve also been remiss about thanking all those wonderful poets who participated in the New Year Poetry Postcard Exchange. My refrigerator is practically strutting! She’s covered with all sorts of poetic goodness and fabulous images. We’re both delighted with the make-over, and I can’t tell you how much those postcards perked me up during the darkest winter days. Thank you, thank you!!! Here they are in all their glory:

I’d like to pretend that my delayed thank you was deliberate, but it’s really just a happy coincidence that the New Year Poetry Postcard organizer, Jone, is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup. You can find more poetry at her blog, Check it Out.

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Surprise Visitors

11454297503_e27946e4ff_hAfter seeing my sister off, I pulled up our driveway at 11 am, weary to the bone, anticipating throwing myself onto the bed and into oblivion. It had been an amazing, rich, full weekend, but I was now officially and utterly exhausted. As I crested the top of the hill, my foot slipped off the gas.

Oh, no! Whose car is that? 

I tamped down on a slight sense of panic. Noooooo! I was just sooo tired. The idea of entertaining anyone was simply inconceivable. I was peopled out. I parked the car and sat for a moment, gathering myself.  Finally, I took a deep breath and headed inside.

There in the family room was my husband, Kurt, and his friend….and his friend’s wife. I’d only met her once before, and I realized instantly that I was not going to be able to say a quick hello, make excuses and go take a nap. Instead, I summoned up a smile and offered tea.

Later, as we sat and talked and drank tea, my fatigue retreated slightly. The four of us chatted comfortably about this and that. Gradually, I found that I was actually enjoying myself.

Suddenly, Kurt’s friend blurted out, “Hey! You’ve got bluebirds!”

“What? Where?” I asked, my head jerking.

“Look!”  he pointed. “They’re right out there.”

I peered out the back window to see flashes of blue amidst the thicket of rose bushes. We all crowded the windows.

“Wow! There are a bunch of them!” Kurt said.

We looked out, trying to count as they flitted about. There were at least three or four, maybe five. Bluebirds…harbingers of happiness and hope! I snatched up my camera and hurried outside.

As I approached the corner of the house, I slowed down, leery of spooking the birds, hoping they still lingered. I had rushed out without a coat, and although the air was cold, the sun warmed my skin. I suddenly realized it was quite a beautiful day.

Rounding the corner, I looked out across the backyard into the trees and was surprised by the variety of movement. Birds were everywhere! There were multiple woodpeckers, tufted titmice, goldfinches, and chickadees climbing tree trunks or flitting through the branches. And then…there! There was a bluebird. The others were no longer in sight, but this one flew out to the field and swooped in and out of low-lying brambles. I stood in the winter sun, content to watch, each flash of brilliant blue sparking a smile on my face.

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After a few minutes, the bluebird flew to a nearby tree and then, as I held my breath, it came even closer. It lingered for a short time, moving from perch to perch, then suddenly flew into the backyard and out of sight. Although I waited for a few more minutes, it didn’t return.

Warmed by winter sun and flashing blue wings, I slowly headed back inside to our guests. I was still tired, but more comfortably so now, for offsetting the weight of fatigue was a deep and quiet gratitude for the joy of surprise visitors.