“Your opalite earrings are gorgeous!”

The smiling blond stranger reached her hand toward me, gently touching the earrings that dangled from my ears. She stood behind us in line at the rest area Starbucks in Kennebunkport, Maine, where we’d stopped for a quick break on our way down south. I reached up and touched the earrings, trying to remember what pair I’d put on that morning.

“Oh, thanks,” I said, thinking, “Opalite? Huh. Who knew?”

“You know opalite opens up the third eye and the crown chakra.” She gestured with her hands in the middle of my forehead and above my head. “It’s associated with pure heart, potential and manifestation,” she continued.

“Well, that sounds good,” I said. I nudged my husband, “Did you hear that? Pure heart…potential!”

As we waited in line, she continued to expound enthusiastically about the wonderful properties and powers of opalite, while I struggled to keep up. After a bit, we moved on to other topics and continued our conversation as the line moved slowly forward. Well, actually, mostly, we listened, and she chatted happily about her life, an upcoming Yoga Fest, her daily Starbucks habit, places she’d visited in Maine, etc. She exuded good will and high energy.

After ordering, we met up again while waiting for our drinks, and she dove right back into conversation. “Well, as I’m sure you know, we’re at the beginning of a new 4,000 year cycle. People are speaking from their hearts….on the land…a time of consciousness…”

I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I said nothing, merely nodding as she spoke, but I had NO clue what she was talking about. What 4,000 year old cycle? I can’t even remember what else she said. Something about a moon? The universe? I think I was stunned by her assuming that I knew what she was talking about (maybe those opalite earrings were misleading?) and maybe even a bit flattered. Then, I was too busy trying to keep the lost and confused look off my face to follow her winding trail of words.

“I’m a Spiritual Medium on Facebook,” she finally said. “I lead live meditative immersions and then follow up with private yoga sessions to read your vibrations.” She reached into her bag. “Here’s my card.”

“Huh?” My brain was still struggling to translate, but I reached out and took the card. I loved this woman’s energy, even though I was still totally at sea.

At that point the barista handed us our beverages and we turned to leave, saying our goodbyes.

“Opalite is perfect for you!” she called out as we walked away.

It felt like a compliment. I was a bit dazzled by this whole encounter, but regardless, I walked away smiling. That woman personified positive energy!

After school today, I drove home and then down to the small park by the river. I walked down the path, sat on the dock, tuned out the day, and tuned in to the world around me. At the end of the dock, an old rowboat drifted back and forth with the movement of the water, a jumble of water-logged sticks current-caught against its side. Far off a dog bayed. A mournful sound. Lonely. Periodically car tires hummed over the metal bridge downstream. Cormorants perched on white buoys in the middle of the bay, their wings spread to dry in the golden afternoon sun. That same sunlight warmed my arms and the top of my head.

Warbling, trilling, and the occasional caw-caw-caw of crows crowded the air. Swallows skimmed over the water, their pointed wings dipping infinitesmally close to the surface, before they soared upward, then down again. An aerial dance. As I watched them, the wind blew, painting changing textures on the water’s surface. Pockets of velvety smooth alternated with ruched ripples and swirling eddies. With each gust, the lines on the flag pole tink-tink-tinked and the leaves tossed and turned in a soft, busy rustle. Their shadows flickered across the grass. High overhead a white-washed half moon shone in the brilliant blue spring sky, looking oddly out of place.

I sat still and tuned into the world around me.

Three more days of school. I can make it.

Year end craziness is in full swing and I find myself reflecting, thinking of best intentions, lost opportunities, dropped balls and fresh slates. This week’s Poetry Friday is hosted by Karen Edmisten. Click here to visit her site and to check out more poems.

Reflecting

I once knew a woman
who was asked
“If you could change anything,
what would you change
about yourself?”
and she answered
with no hesitation
“Nothing”
Her words stunned me
imprinted in my mind
to be recalled now
years later
while I ponder
who I am
and who I would be
and the chasm of distance
between them

©2018 M. Hogan

The following poem was inspired by my current dandelion obsession and a prompt in poemcrazy by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge. She suggests that you focus on an object, then name it, compare it, and ask it to bring you something you need.

Oh, Dandelion
moored in emerald seas
with bold, golden blossom sail
tossing in springtime breeze
soil-bound by roots, tapped deep
held fast, yet straining to soar
you transform, break barriers,
take flight as light as a wish
dancing on the edge
of dreams

Bring me
your
strength
your
whimsy
and
your
ability
to reinvent yourself

©2018 M. Hogan

Recently, a Facebook friend posted an “All-Star” version of the Sesame Street favorite, “Put Down the Duckie.” You remember the song, right? I mean, who can forget Ernie (Jim Henson) and Mr. Hoots (Kevin Clash) jammin’ to “Put Down the Duckie?” That song has serious ear worm potential!

(You can find the full lyrics here:   https://www.lyricsondemand.com/soundtracks/s/sesamestreetlyrics/putdowntheduckielyrics.html)

I listened (’cause who could resist?) and immediately my day brightened. This is such an upbeat song!  But as I bellowed along, grooving with Mr. Hoots and Ernie, I had a sudden random thought: Is there a greater message in this song? Is Ernie’s beloved duckie a symbol or metaphor?

You know the narrative, right? Ernie wants to play the sax and he can’t. He keeps getting a “silly squeak” when he tries, so he appeals to Mr. Hoots for advice. You know he just needs to put down that duck! Mr. Hoots tells him that, too. But Ernie is having a hard time following that advice.

Mr. Hoots laments,
“You didn’t hear a word I said
You gotta get it through your head
Don’t be a stubborn cluck
Ernie, lay aside the duck!”

I started to wonder: How often am I like Ernie? How often do others, who look at me, know exactly what I need to do, and I miss it entirely? Like Ernie, do I cling to those comfortable ways, happy in my little ruts, sticking to the safe and well-traveled paths, and sabotage my own attempts to try something new?  I’m not trying to argue that I shouldn’t build on what is working or what I already know, but sometimes when I hold onto my own “duckies” so tightly, couldn’t I be preventing myself from fully investing  in new experiences?

Mr. Hoots puts it best:

“You’ll never find the skill you seek
Till you pay your dues

Though you’re blessed with flying fingers
When you wanna wail, you’re stuck
What good are flying fingers
If they’re wrapped around a duck?”

Meaningful growth does not come without some discomfort and risk. Maybe Mr. Hoots is reminding me how important it is to move boldly out of my comfort zones, stretch myself, and fly! Or play the sax, as the case may be. Now, there’s a message.

Alternatively, this song could simply serve as a reminder to focus on doing one thing at a time. How often do I try to multi-task and end up doing nothing well? Focus on one thing at a time. Put down the duck to play the saxophone. At this time of year, that’s a message I need to hear!

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, as Mr. Hoots points out to Ernie, “You don’t have to lose your duck. You can pick it up when you’re finished.”

“I can?” Ernie responds. “Oh, wow!” Then he throws his duckie over his shoulder and launches into exuberant saxophone playing…sans squeak!

So, now that I’ve absorbed some words of wisdom from Mr. Hoots, I’m off to listen to Oscar the Grouch sing “I Love Trash.” I’m wondering whether there might be a recycling message in there…

Last month as I walked down the hallway to pick my students up from lunch, X swirled like a dervish down the hall.

“Mrs. Hogan! Mrs. Hogan!” he cried.

“X,” I said, “What’s up? Why aren’t you at lunch?”

“But there are chicks!” he cried. “You have to see!” He grabbed me by the arm, tugging me toward a nearby room.

“Ok! Ok!” I said, laughing and moving into the room.

He pulled me over to the incubator. “Look! This one just got out! Oh! This one’s all fluffy now! ” He pointed. “And here’s a beak over here! Do you see it? Do you see it? Right here!” He pointed again.

He warbled with excitement and practically danced up and down, moving around the incubator, peering in from different angles.

“Aren’t they cute?” he asked, beaming from ear to ear.

We admired the chicks together for a minute or two. X chattered on, sharing all the changes that had occurred since he’d last visited them, apparently on the way in from recess. I finally had to drag us both away to get on with the day.

About 45 minutes earlier on the way to recess, X had shuffled along beside me.

“My dad had to get a new chip,” he said. “He has to start again.” He looked up at me and paused. “He didn’t stay clean and serene.”

“Oh, X, I’m so sorry,” I said, at a loss for words, knowing his father had just returned from six weeks of rehab. I took a deep breath and muttered some more inadequate words of encouragement–something about every day being a new day and his dad having lots of support. Stupid empty words. My heart ached.

We neared the door to the playground, and he looked down at his hand, revealing a small object.

“Why’d I bring this?” he wondered aloud. “I don’t want to lose it outside.”

“I can put it in your cubby,” I volunteered, thankful to be able to do something concrete to help this child.

He dropped the object in my palm and headed outside to recess. I looked down at the item in my hand. It was a small, white, plastic keychain. On one side it was emblazoned with shiny gold letters. NA. Narcotics Anonymous. I turned it over and read the motto.  “One day at a time.”

For a brief moment my hand clenched fiercely on that keychain. I felt its edges dig into my palm. I wanted nothing more than to hurl it down the long hallway and out the front doors. I imagined the force of my throw sending it blazing through the air far away from the school, far away from X, far away from all these innocent children.

Instead, I walked back to the classroom and carefully put it into X’s cubby.

The first thing he did when returning to the classroom was to check that it was there, waiting for him.

Unfortunately, I think it always will be.

In May at Michelle Heidenrich Barnes’s blog, Today’s Little Ditty, she and Julie Fogliano challenged writers to look out their windows and write a poem about what they saw. They decided to call these poems, Window Poems.

I spend a lot of time looking out my window and enjoy a beautiful view that often distracts me from whatever I should be doing.  This poetry challenge was right up my alley! I expected I would write something about the bird play at the feeders, the deer slipping through the trees, or even the solo turkey who’s been visiting us lately. Or perhaps I would write about the early morning moon shining through the dark branches, the silhouette of the barn roof at sunset, or the colorful blossoms emerging in the garden. I’m so often inspired by the beauty I see outside my window, especially at this time of year; It’s familiar writing territory for me.

Instead, one recent morning I found myself writing this:

Circle of Life