What are these things? This third photo prompt for Linda Shovan‘s February challenge certainly challenged me. I looked at it again and again trying to get some sense of context. Are these grapes? Marbles? Insect eggs? Beads? What are they resting on? How can that reflection be so deep and clear? I floundered, finding it hard to move forward without knowing more. In the end I simply had to push myself to just start writing–a good lesson, that!  I started and stopped and moved in so many directions with my response. At one point, I even tried to channel some Robert Frost:

What orbs these are, I do not know
reflections lurking dark below
in clusters of uncertain sprawl
They pulse with silken greenish glow.

I tucked that stanza and the rest of that effort away for some future fiddling. That form doesn’t lend itself to quick drafting and publishing!  In the end I opted to focus on the mystery of the objects and my desire for some sensory exploration. Here’s my effort.

Mystery Orbs
I itch to pick one up
squish it with a POP
and see what oozes out,
feel the dripping liquid
sticky on my pinching fingers.
I yearn to bite
and sink my teeth
into pale, silken green
to discover
if they are as juicy
as they look,
sugar-sweet like candy
or tongue-zapping,
puckering sour.
God forbid they’re bacteria!

Does anyone know what these are? Share any thoughts in the comments below. I can’t wait until Laura Shovan reveals the context of this photo later today!

This is Day 2 of Laura Shovan‘s Found Object challenge. (She has invited anyone interested to write a poem each day in response to a photograph prompt.) Part of the nature of the challenge is to write and post a poem quickly, without much editing, “turning off the inner critic.” This image took me in several different directions and still feels “half-baked.” It’s a poem I would usually tuck away to work on later but I’m pushing it out there in the spirit of the challenge.

A rainbow of vegetables
Cascades across the cloth
in a vegetable tangle
Richly hued glossy skins
and upright stems
like jewels from a casket
in burnished splendor
glistening with ruby lights
and polished emerald hues
A garden offering.

Soon the sharpened knife
will slice crisply
piercing taut skins
chopping, dicing, mincing
exposing seeds nestled deep in the core
or scattered throughout the flesh
carving out slivers and slices
on the scarred cutting board
stained with pooling juices
a stew?
a soup?
a sacrifice.

Author Laura Shovan is hosting the “2016 Found Object Poem Project” this February. She has invited anyone interested to write a poem (or prose) each day in response to a photograph of a found object. Here is the first photograph:

And here is my response:

Wooden Box
Capable hands
held the potential of
raw, green wood,
inspired,
rejecting spoon, platter,
a plethora of options,
crafted a secret-holder,
a box for treasures,
dovetailing corners
fitting the lid precisely
sanding smooth the slivers
and splinters,
adhering paper
with written words
whispering on wood
a destination
that has faded into memory
with the accumulating
patina of time.

Inside the box
echoes of those hands
and unknown treasures,
past and present,
breathe,
stirring dusty molecules
and memories.

Shortly after my daughter left for six months to study in England,  I was bumbling around on the internet reading poems about traveling. I stumbled upon reference to a poem entitled  “The Traveling Onion” by Naomi Shahib Nye. I’m already a fan of her work and that whimsical title hooked me, so I checked it out.

Naomi Shahib Nye prefaces her poem with a quote from the Betty Crocker cookbook that details the travels of the onion from India to Egypt (where it was apparently revered and a symbol of eternity–who knew?) to Greece and into all of Europe.  As I poked around a bit more, I discovered that there is some dispute about the actual origin of the onion that we cultivate, but most agree it probably has Asian roots.

Once again, I must lament my lack of awareness and curiosity. It’s so easy to be focused on the end goal (dinner!) and forget to be open to the possible wonders of the process. Nye, like every gifted poet, reminds me to pay attention and to consider different aspects of everything around me. I had never considered the onion much before, except to dread the stinging pain in my eyes whenever I cut into one. Nye’s poem has made me reconsider even this aspect of the onion and opened my eyes to others. Her words pay homage to this “small and forgotten” vegetable that disappears “for the sake of others.”

“When I think how far the onion has traveled
just to enter my stew today,
I could kneel and praise
all small forgotten miracles,
crackly paper peeling on the drainboard,
pearly layers in smooth agreement,…”
(click on this link to view the poem in its entirety)

I’m not sure what I love most about this poem.  Perhaps it’s the idea that there are many “small forgotten miracles” in our world if we just take the time to look. Perhaps it’s the lovely image of “pearly layers in smooth agreement” or the mouth-popping fun of the phrase “crackling paper peeling”. Certainly in part, it’s the gift Naomi Shahib Nye has for focusing on the banal and then shedding light on it so that it transcends its seemingly ordinary existence.  I, for one, will never cut into an onion again without thinking of these lines.

Please be sure to visit Reading to the Core for this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup!

Last week, prior to launching our Opinion Writing unit in my first grade class, I asked my students to write an opinion or claim and tell reasons why they have that opinion. I planned to use this piece as a pre-assessment to inform my teaching. One student, A., chose to write about ballet. Here is a page from her piece:

For those of you who don’t read first grade, I’ll translate: Ballet practice can be hard. But you don’t just dance. Dance with a joyful heart. (And for those of you who know first grade well, did you notice the beginning uppercase letters and ending punctuation?  Yeehaw!)

I’ve thought about these heart-warming words a lot since I first read them. My initial reaction was something like, “Oh, how sweet!  I love that phrase, “a joyful heart.” Then later on I thought, “I bet her dance teacher uses those words.” And later still, I began to wonder, what are the words that my students take away from our time together?  Are there phrases that I’ve instilled in them, deliberately or by chance?  Are they all positive? 

A’s piece reminds me to be mindful of the messages, spoken and unspoken, that I send each day to my students and to maximize the joy and the sheer fun of learning.  If my first graders leave my class with the message that even when things are challenging, you try your best, persevere and keep joy in your heart, well, I would be quite delighted with that. (In fact, even more delighted than with beginning uppercase letters and ending punctuation!) What a lovely, powerful message to cultivate.

I intended to use this writing to guide my teaching, I didn’t realize how much it would do so. A has also reminded me that one of the joys of teaching is learning from our students.  

I wake snuggled in a cozy tangle of fleece and down with my cat’s warmth pressing against my side. The radiators softly tick-tick-tick and in the distance the tires of a passing car hum on pavement. A typical start to the day, but the house feels foreign this morning, operating on a different frequency.

Over the past two weeks my children have returned to their rich, busy lives: Adeline heading off to England for six months of study, Connor returning to his final semester at college, and Lydia safely ensconced in her dorm again late yesterday afternoon. Our old house sighs and settles in the cold morning and so do I. My thoughts wing outward to linger gently, like a blessing, on each of my children.

Over the years at times of parting I’ve learned to speak a sort of code to my kids, encapsulating vast emotions in catchphrases like “Drive safely” and “Make good choices.” At times they roll their eyes affectionately when I repeat these phrases, and they have become a bit of a household joke. But to me, these phrases are mantras, heartfelt repeated prayers. They are shorthand for “I love you and when you go out and about in this world, I’m proud and excited and so, so vulnerable. For you are my heart. So be careful and be kind and live your life to the fullest. Oh, and have fun but don’t be stupid. You are not invulnerable and you have enriched my life and simultaneously sent it careening wildly out of my control. So, please, please remember I love you and always will and sending you off with a smile on my face is a huge act of trust and faith in both you and the universe.”

And this morning as I lie in my warm, soft bed, in the newness of their absence, my thoughts touch on each of them in turn, envisioning them where they might be…missing them, loving them, hoping against hope that this morning ritual, this mental caress, will keep them safe in this wild, wonderful, unruly world. And softly, like a prayer, I think, “Drive safely. Make good choices.”

I stepped out into the cold of an early January morning in Maine, dragging my feet and feeling a bit grumpy about heading to work. The eastern sky greeted me with banded hues and the car was bedecked with frosty flowers. I turned the key in the ignition, making sure to click on the seat warmer, then stepped back, shutting the door. The squeal of some loose belt or other briefly filled the chilly air then subsided. I took a deep breath and stood still, admiring the sunrise and feeling the cold air rush through my nose and into my lungs. After a few moments I crunched across stiffened grass to fill the chicken’s dish with warm water. They cooed and rustled sleepily in the coop. Apparently they were not quite ready to face the day either.

Almost 12 hours later I headed home, stepping back out into the dark. The roads were coated with snow and my headlights highlighted a meteor storm of snow bombarding my car. I drove slowly, appreciating the show, pulling over twice to allow other more intrepid (or impatient or foolhardy) drivers to pass me.  A smudge,not quite a shadow, in the road ahead of me transformed into a deer as I neared. And then another and another, their hooves slipping beneath them as they scurried across the slippery road. At my slow pace, I merely lifted my foot off the gas and watched them cross the road before me, thankful that I was driving slowly, enjoying the moment. After they passed, I pressed my foot lightly on the accelerator and continued the slow drive home.

My day began with beauty and ended thus as well.

How can finding one little word be so hard? Last year I noticed some of the discussion about OLWs and was intrigued by the idea of choosing one little word to define my year. Sure, I’ll do that next year, I thought.

Once in a while this year a word has drifted through my mind as a possible contender. Focus? Clarity? Embrace? All considered and rejected for one reason or another. As the end of the year approached, my search intensified. I frequently turned words over in my mind, exploring their nuances, considering their potential impact on my life in the year ahead, which feels charged with a potential for change. I wanted to come up with a word that was unique, inspiring and layered (and preferably multi-syllabic). A “wow!” word! Looking back, I think I wanted the discovery of my OLW to do all the work of the year for me in advance—to be an epiphany of sorts which would chart out a clear course. I think I was missing the point.

At any rate, somewhere through the process I realized it was important to me to choose a verb. I wanted an action word. I’m too apt to go with the flow and follow the path of least resistance and I’m determined to make active, conscious choices this year. And, there it was, I realized, my one little word: Choose.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that must be it. It’s not a “wow” word to be sure. It’s nothing too fancy, rather pedestrian really, but it’s a one-syllable word packed with potential. Because to choose, you have to make a decision. Even staying where you are is a choice, but this year if I choose inaction, I want that to be an active, conscious choice. I want to know that I’m setting my foot on a certain path, or choosing not to set my foot there, because that’s the path I want to follow. Or not to follow. I want to pack my choices full of intention.

Choosing is powerful.

My OLW for 2016: 

With everyone home for the holidays, I’ve spent more time than usual in the kitchen. Even though I’m delighted to have my children home, I’m not always thrilled to be cooking, cleaning, cooking, cleaning…. The other night I discovered a wild musical mix on youtube and with the volume blaring, I set out to make dinner. I expected drudgery but the music, from big band to zydeco to gospel, transformed the chore into a sheer delight and inspired this poem–my own version of a dinner dance. 

Dinner Dance

My finger taps the button
And music starts to play
I crank the volume higher
And quickly start to sway

Upbeat and lively only
no dulcet tones today
The cupboard doors start rattlin’
Dinner is underway

I can-can to the cabinet
retrieve some garlic there
Then shut it with a hip bump
Fists pumping in the air

R-E- S- P- E- C- T
Aretha belts it out
While dicing up the tofu
I sing and swing about

I jitterbug with ginger
’til grating is complete
Then mince the yellow onions
gyrating to the beat

I salsa while food simmers
I cha cha while I chop
While waiting for a boil
I do the bunnyhop.

I jazz-hand in the spices
Then add a wee bit more
Choreographing wildly
I hip hop ‘cross the floor

I bump my hips in tempo
While stirring my sauté
Bellowing out a chorus
I improvise ballet

I twirl around the island
Dancing with my spoon
Happily cooking dinner
This December afternoon

Mary Lee Hahn at A Year of Reading is hosting today’s Poetry Friday Roundup. Make sure to stop by to enjoy some poetry to bring in the New Year.  May your year be filled with unexpected moments of joy and sparkle, like an impromptu dance around the kitchen!

I’ve taken a lot of pictures over the past six months or so. We live in a beautiful place and it’s hard not to find a spectacular natural scene.  I’ll wake to the drama of a red-streaked sky or sparkling frost and off I’ll go. Some mornings I just get into the car and drive, keeping my eyes open to whatever may be there. And something always is.

This December we’ve had a lot of rain and chilly, dreary weather. It’s not particularly inspiring, and like many others, I’ve been lamenting the lack of snow.  There’s something magical about the hush of a fresh snowfall and those sparkling blankets of white cover the brown, muddy detritus of fall and seem to promise a fresh start. And after the snowfall, when the sun comes out and the skies clear… Is there anything more beautiful than a brilliant blue sky over hills and valleys of fresh fallen snow?

One day last week it was yet another misty moist morning with a haze of fog. The colors were muted. No dazzling snow, or crimson leaves, or brilliant azure skies. I set off with my camera, anyway.  I drove the back country roads aimlessly, and eventually parked by a bridge over the river. Out of my car, I looked intently around me, walking, pausing, noticing. And the more I looked, the more I noticed: an intriguing alignment of rocks, the impressionistic reflections of tree trunks in the river behind blowsy cattails, the unexpected splash of green moss mounded around a white-lichened trunk, a trio of contorted trees mirrored in shallow water, and the golden tones of a marsh of cattails. Slowly, surely, the quiet wonders of nature unfolded around me.

This seemingly unpromising morning yielded great beauty that was perhaps even more rewarding for its gradual revelation.  Once I tuned in and adjusted to its nuance, it was everywhere. It makes me wonder how many times I’ve missed the subtleties when dazzled by the spectacular.