I headed into the woods yesterday. Alone. My husband was sick and after a short visit, the girls had returned to school. The house was too quiet and the day was too beautiful to stay indoors. I drove to a trail head near our house and dove into nature, seeking its comfort, wishing to loose myself in its wonders.

It was a full-on sensory autumnal day. The blustery wind whooshed through the trees, setting leaves dancing and rustling, and acorns periodically rained down, hitting the carpet of leaves with dull thuds. The sun danced through the trees, backlighting vibrant leaves and gilding paths carpeted with amber pine needles. Mushroom and funghi of all shapes and sizes peeked out from between leaves and under fallen logs and climbed the sides of trees.

It was a day for noticing and luxuriating in the small things–the clusters of mushrooms and bright red berries, and the way the golden ferns danced in the breeze. The warm, rich smell of earth and decaying leaves. The leaf rainbow rippling on the water. The chorus of wind-whipped leaves. I was drawn continually off the path to explore just one more scene, to investigate one more shadow. It was literally and figuratively a breath of fresh air and I reveled in it. Finally, feeling rebooted and ready for the week ahead, I turned toward home, once again overwhelmingly thankful to live in such a beautiful place. Sometimes all it takes is a walk in the woods.

Epilogue–As I climbed the hill heading back to my car, I realized I wasn’t alone in the woods. Someone with a quirky sense of humor had nestled this grumpy looking gargoyle in the base of a tree. I’m not sure he is getting as much pleasure from his sylvan home as I did!

My sister enjoys cleaning. Me? Not so much. I love having a clean home, but I am not a cleaner by nature and my house is typically a bit of a mess. It usually stops short of squalor but can definitely descend into downright dirty. Other things simply take precedence, despite my best intentions. On rare occasions, when the world feels overwhelming, I do take comfort in the simple act of cleaning. Last night was one of those times.

Cleaning

There are those times
when the sweep of a dampened sponge
over countertop or across sink
chases away dirt, germs, debris and
the overwhelming sum of it all
putting a sweet shine on that spot
imposing an island of order
an eye in the chaotic storm
Gratifying
Satisfying
Superficial

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

Stop on by Violet Nesdoly’s blog to enjoy the Poetry Friday Roundup!

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about how fortunate I am in my friends, particularly my work colleagues. Knowing that I would have to leave my 1-2 team was definitely the most challenging part of choosing to teach fourth grade. For with the change in grade levels came a move to a different wing in the school–far away from my companions of the past eight years.

My 1-2 friends have gone out of their way to keep in touch and to support me. One of them stops by on her way to my old wing almost every day. When she didn’t come by on a recent Friday, she called quickly to say hello and have a great weekend. On this same day another friend stopped by and when I wasn’t there, left a cheery post it note on my desk. Yet another friend stopped by later to surprise me with one of my most favorite delicious and decadent treats ever–another note of kindness.  I’m also lucky enough to enjoy a growing friendship with my new teaching partner. I thought I would miss laughing with my first grade teaching team, but we certainly do our share up here in fourth grade! Overall, I am just so thankful for the generous support and friendship all of these women have offered me.

This weekend I read a wonderful article by Omid Safi about friendship (Gathering Friends Like Roses) and it helped me consolidate some of the thoughts and emotions that have been swirling through my mind. So much of what he wrote resonates with me, like this part from a medieval story, The Golestan (The Rose Garden), that he shared. In this story a woman speaks to a bit of clay that has been gifted her:

“One day in the bathhouse, a sweet-smelling clay was handed to me by a loved one.
“Are you musk or ambergris?” I asked, “for I am intoxicated by your enchanting fragrance.”

“I used to be just mud,” it said, “ a mere nothing, but I for a while I kept the fellowship of the roses,
the perfection of my companions had an effect on me.

Otherwise, I am nothing but dust.”

— Sa‘di, Golestan, translation modified”

Safi notes that we all have different inner qualities, some admirable, some not. Different people pull out different aspects of our nature. Do we choose to spend our time with those who pull out the higher notes, those notes of radiance, or with those who appeal to our darker side?

In summary, the fellowship we choose leaves an indelible mark, and these days I think I must be smelling of roses.

Author Laura Purdie Salas posts a weekly photo prompt on Thursdays (here). She invites others to write a 15 words or less poem in response to the photo, and bills this exercise as a “low pressure way to wake up your poetry brain.”  I stumbled upon this site a few weeks ago and thought it would be fun to give it a try. I didn’t manage to participate the first week, but this week’s photo was especially intriguing to me. What caught my attention was the contrast between the word Pacific on the building and the tense stance of the player.

Photo: Laura P. Salas

Hardly pacific,
the intensity
of fraught battle
looms
awaiting the first
incoming 
missile

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

If you have a chance, check out the site. It’s fascinating to see how many poems and perspectives emerge from a single photo prompt.

Four weeks into the school year, my morning routine has been sliced and diced and reconfigured into a new and less flexible shape. Already my morning writing has suffered. This week I’ve been thinking and writing about the importance of just showing up to write (here) and then resolving to do better. In this midst of these thoughts, I happened across this poem by Billy Collins–Another nudge to show up and take the time and write.

You, Reader

I wonder how you are going to feel
when you find out
that I wrote this instead of you,

that it was I who got up early
to sit in the kitchen
and mention with a pen

the rain-soaked windows,
the ivy wallpaper,
and the goldfish circling in its bowl.
…

If you’d like to read the poem in its entirety click here. You will also have the opportunity to click on an audio link and hear Billy Collins give an amusing introduction to the poem before reading it aloud.

You can find more poetic wonders at the Poetry Friday Roundup, hosted this week by Karen Edmisten–click here to join in the fun!

When I touched my pen to paper this morning, I half expected the ink to clot or sludge. I wondered if I’d have to cajole its steady flow with words of apology for my neglect. But as soon as it touched the page, the ink flowed, ready to record my thoughts. It was a visible reminder that I was the one who had hesitated in the relationship–the one who didn’t show up.

Sarah Orne Jewett wrote, “You must find your own quiet center of life, and write from that.” I find ideas in so many places–in a whirling swirl of activity, in a quiet morning walk, in idle conversations with students or strangers, in interactions with family and friends, and in the flutters, squawks and trills from the bird feeders. But to write, I need first to make and take time and then to sit down, breathe, and arrive at that quiet place within myself. Then, as I write, I can begin to make sense of my thoughts and feelings, and above all, try to figure out what matters. What’s the heart of it all? Inevitably, I feel better after I’ve spent time writing. In the hurly burly tumult of school days it’s difficult to carve out that sacred writing time in the morning, to make it a priority. This morning when the ink flowed and my thoughts wandered and then coalesced, I resolved to do better.

In early morning
summer folds into autumn
with a foretelling chill
Geese soar above rolling golden fields
chasing clouds toward southern climes
A deep mist hovers over the land
as though the earth has exhaled
its memories of summer’s warmth
and the essence of the season passing
lingers in the morning air,
a visible adieu.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

Click here to visit Catherine Flynn’s blog, Reading to the Core, where you’ll find this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

At the end of the day we gathered on the carpet, my fourth graders and I.

“So, guys, I’m going to a library book sale on Friday night, and I need your suggestions. Are there any particular books you’d like me to pick up if I see them? What’s missing from our library?”

“Graphic novels!” called a couple of voices.

“Yeah! Like Sisters and Smile!” someone said.

Hands flew up, waving frantically. Book titles and series names came fast and furious and I diligently jotted them down. “The Narnia books!” “The Stone Fox!” “The False Prince!” “Harry Potter!” My page quickly filled with titles. As students shared suggestions, the room filled with a buzz of vigorous nods and side comments like, “Oh, yeah, I love that book!” or “Those are great!”

Finally, I called on yet another enthusiastic student. “Where the Red Fern Grows,” he proclaimed. “You have got to get that book. I cried so hard when I read it.” Then he paused and declared with great sincerity, “That book is powerful!”

This summer and fall the chipmunks have been cavorting in the gardens around our house. They seem to have minimal fear of us or even of our two geriatric cats. We’ve had great fun watching them gorge on sunflower seeds, pose for pictures, linger in the sun, and generally enjoy the high life–or at least as high of a life as a chipmunk can enjoy.  This poem, by Robert Gibb, appeared in my Inbox today, courtesy of the Poetry Foundation’s Poem of the Day.

For The Chipmunk In My Yard

To enjoy more poetry, click here to go to the Poetry Friday Roundup, hosted this week by Michelle Hendrich Barnes at This Little Ditty.

Early one day recently I woke up, instantly remembering that I’d left the kitchen a mess the night before. Eventually, I sighed, dragged myself out of bed, and wandered out, prepared to deal with the accumulated dishes. I was stunned to walk into a pristine kitchen–no dirty dishes, clean counters, and no mess. Wow, someone did the dishes! I thought. It must have been Kurt.  It was such a lovely and unexpected surprise. When my husband awoke later, I made it a point to thank him enthusiastically (because I was truly thankful and because I was hoping to reinforce the behavior.)

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled, accepting my fervent thanks nonchalantly.

The next night the dishes were done again. “Wow! Thanks, guys! This is great.” I commented.  “Did you do the dishes again, Kurt?”

“No, I did, “piped up my daughter.

“Thanks!”I said, “What a nice surprise to have someone else do them two nights in a row-and without me asking!”

“Yeah,” she said, offhandedly,  “I did them last night, too.”

“What!?” I said, as my husband looked away. “I thought Dada did them.”

“No,” she said, “I did.” She paused, “I was kind of surprised you didn’t say anything.”

My disbelief grew. I looked over at my husband, sitting on the couch trying to look innocent, avoiding eye contact. “I thought Dada did them,” I repeated slowly. I looked at my daughter. “I even thanked him,” I said to her, “and he didn’t say anything to deny it!”

We both turned and stared at him. After a long silence, he finally looked up.

“Well, I didn’t actually say I did them,” he said sheepishly.

I’m still speechless.