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

 

In class we’ve been using Robert Frost’s “Dust of Snow” as a mentor poem. We’ve read it and discussed it many times.

Among other things, we’ve discussed the idea that this poem shows how a small thing can have a big effect or greater significance. That there are potential small turning points throughout the day, and an unexpected moment, or interaction, can turn a day around, from regret to joy. I love the idea that when you are open to it, a moment–just a moment–can shift the mood of a day. Like Frost, for me that shift often involves an outdoor setting (or view) and a flash of feathers.

I’ve been thinking a lot about potential and the sense of possibility that is so pervasive in nature–at the feeders, at a vernal pool, in a meadow at dusk, by the bay at dawn, outside my window. The constant wonder–What will happen next? What will I see? What beauty will unfold? It seems to me that when surrounded by nature, you’re always on the brink of wonder. Something isn’t there. And then it is. Often it always was there, but you just hadn’t noticed it, or paid attention. If you can just sit still long enough…

As E.B. White wrote, “Life is always a rich and steady time when you are waiting for something to happen or to hatch.” I’ve become increasingly aware that when you’re open and attentive to the world around you, there is always potential for “something to happen” or something to emerge and for a small jolt of joy to reset or enrich your day.

Yesterday, I woke thinking about the beautiful female Baltimore Oriole who’s been visiting my house lately, tempted by spring temperatures and juicy oranges. We’ve had Baltimore Orioles pass through before, but much to my delight, this one has been lingering. I wondered if and when she might appear. I settled into working, but looked out the window intermittently. Sure enough, just as I was starting to feel the weight of upcoming due dates and general year-end craziness, I looked up from my papers, and there she was, in all her glory. She perched by the orange, content to sit and intermittently dine on strands of juicy pulp. Just like that my worries receded, my heart was lifted and my day improved. A moment–just a moment–can shift the mood of a day.

Update:  As I was revising this post this morning, I was messaging with my daughter about her being sick (nothing serious), health insurance when out-of-state, and some financial stuff. I felt my shoulders tense and stress settle in.

A flash of movement outside caught my eye, and once again, there was the oriole, her beautiful orange and brown plumage glowing amidst the springtime greenery. Instantly, I smiled and felt lighter, and so grateful. I’m starting to feel such a sense of kinship with this bird!

I suddenly remembered a friend who was into animal totems. She’d told me that Native Americans believed that when you repeatedly see an animal, there can be meaning in that sighting. Impulsively, I googled oriole and totem and found this: “Oriole shows new occurrences in life and brings a sense of joy to the world. He helps discover the inner child and the relation to all things in the nature realm. Orioles have a beautiful song and will teach you to sing your own song from the tree tops.” Hmmmm….

Not long after I first found out that I was going to have a poem in Imperfect: poems about mistakes: an anthology for middle schoolers, I shared the news with my class.

“Read the poem to us!” they chorused. So, of course, I did.

“Wow! That’s good!” someone said after I’d finished.

Another voice chimed in, “That’s not a poem! It’s like a story!”

So, we talked about different kinds of poetry for a few minutes.

“Read it again,” they said. So I did.

“That should be in a book,” called out a student, who may not have been listening closely.

“Yeah,” said another student, a close cohort of the first, who was clearly listening just as closely.

“Um, yeah,” I said, “It’s going to be. That’s what we were saying.”

“Wow!” they chorused. I stopped my almost eye roll and smiled at them.

“Yeah. Wow!” I thought.

Even though I knew I’d be receiving a copy of the book at home, I ordered myself a hardcover and had it delivered to school. After it arrived, I walked to the classroom, book in hand, still feeling amazed that I had a poem in this collection. My class was working with the Guidance teacher in the community area, and I had to walk right by them. They recognized the cover of the book in my hands from their bookmarks, and a chorus erupted.

“It’s here!”

“She got it!”

“Can we read it later?”

Later, when we were back in the classroom, we gathered at the carpet to read.

“Where’s your name?”

“Can we see it?”

They all edged closer to see.

“Read yours to us!”

“Yeah, read it again!”

So, I leafed through the pages and read my poem to them and then a few more poems.

“What are those marks on the pages?” they asked.

I explained about kintsugu –how when something broke, the Japanese mended it with gold, emphasizing the beauty of the fracture, rather than trying to hide it. They celebrated the breakage, believing it enhanced the piece.

“That’s just like people,” J. commented. “We make mistakes and then we learn and we’re even more beautiful.”

The other kids nodded solemnly in agreement.

Now that was pretty much a perfect moment.