Tag Archives: Slice of Life

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Weaving a Few Things Together

If you’re looking for a laugh or a light post, this isn’t the place to find that. If you’re trying to avoid politics, you might want to skip this post. But I’m tired of watching what I say. The time for that is past. The reality is that it’s impossible to tear my mind away from the news, even when I try not to follow it. Even when I try to create, the darkness creeps in. So, this post may be disjointed, and it may be somewhat incoherent. But it feels like it reflects my reality right now, and even though I am hesitant to press publish…well, if you’re reading this, I guess I just went ahead and did it.

This morning I read Brad Montague’s post entitled “Empathy is Dangerous“. I thought it must be sarcastic, and I guess, in a sense, it was. But it was also deeply disturbing. Apparently, the latest trend is to suggest that there is danger in being empathetic. That empathy is being weaponized. What?!? When I looked into this a bit further, I saw quite a few 3-4 year old articles supporting the view that empathy is problematic. That it’s somehow dangerous to try to relate to how others experience the world. I really can’t wrap my head around this.

This reminded me of the Rodgers and Hammerstein song, “You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught.” One of the verses goes like this:
“You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate—
You’ve got to be carefully taught!”

Apparently some things haven’t changed much since this song was published in 1949.

In my Facebook feed today, there was a picture of Ruby Bridges. You know the name, right? She’s the woman who as a child was the first black to integrate a southern all-white school. She’s only 70 years old. How can that be? It feels like that should be ancient history. Clearly, oh so clearly, it isn’t.

I’m participating in a Facebook group poetry challenge this month. The theme is space and today’s prompt invited us to tell about “a thing or things you have, or know of, that used to be in a different space/place.” For some reason, I thought about a place where I once saw a fox, and wrote this poem:

A Waiting Space

Each time I pass
the bend in the road
where once I saw a fox
and the fox saw me,
I slow down to look

I’ve never seen it there again
but I’m now tuned
to its frequency
so if I keep looking
perhaps someday I will

©Molly Hogan, draft

A friend commented “This is what hope looks like.”

If you think of it in a different way, I suspect this is what despair looks like as well–the continual search for something that is no longer there.

These days, I’m looking at a dark space in our country’s history, where things have changed rapidly in a terrifying fashion. Or perhaps they haven’t changed so much as have been made more visible. I’m not sure which is more disturbing. The mandates and orders coming from the current government are ill-conceived and often illegal and unconstitutional. There is no empathy there. There is hatred. And so much greed.

I keep looking into the abyss of a space that once was, or at least seemed to be, a place where there was at lease some respect for the rule of law, for our constitution and for its careful balance of power.

I keep looking, but I’m not feeling hopeful.

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A Sudden Realization

This morning it struck me that I’m always hurrying. At least during the work week. This, no doubt, is not news to those around me. In fact, I can anticipate almost hearing the sound of my husband’s eyebrows shooting upward in shock when he reads this. Then, I expect to hear something along the lines of, “Wait! You’re kidding right? You really just realized this?!” (In fact, if you live within bordering towns, you might also hear him when he says this.)

At any rate, many years ago I started getting up very early before work so that I didn’t have to rush. It was quiet. I could write. I could get myself oriented to the coming day. I loved it!

But somehow this morning, it struck me that I’ve somehow managed to fill that part of my day up. It’s like a tetris screen full of blocks with no space for anything else to drop in.

I get up at 4:45 am, start the coffee and do the morning chores (feed the cats, stoke the wood stove, etc). Within 10-15 minutes of rolling out of bed, I’m sitting at my desk. I always start my day by writing in my notebook for 20-30 minutes or so. I’m often noodling around with writing challenges or prompts, too. Then, I try to read and comment on others’ writing. I respond to comments on my blog. I check my e-mails. Then there are a few beloved word games (Wordle, Connections and Spelling Bee) that suck up a few minutes. (I count that as time dedicated to slowing down mental decay.) I shower and get dressed. Then, while I’m eating breakfast, I read a chapter of whatever book I’ve designated as a morning book. (Right now it’s Margaret Renkl’s The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year which is fabulous!) Finally, I’m out the door by about 6:15 or 6:30 am, typically filling the bird feeders on my way to the car, and zipping off to work.

I cherish my morning time, and love all that I do during that time, but it really has become one big long rush. I’m stunned that I honestly hadn’t realized that until today.

So now I’m left with a lot questions: Is there any point in getting up at 4:45 am if it just means I’ll be rushing around for the next 11-12 hours? Do I want to change things? If so, what am I willing to change? I know I can’t get up any earlier, so how can I regain that feeling of morning spaciousness? That freedom of uncluttered time? What can shift or move?

I have a few thoughts, but for now, I’m still processing my realization and pondering…

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Conundrum

I woke up Sunday uncertain what to do.

“Should I drive south and look for snowy owls?” I wondered.

It was tempting. The forecast was for cold and clear weather, and the possibility of seeing snowy owls is a time-limited opportunity here. There was no guarantee that I’d see one if I went out, but on the other hand, I definitely wouldn’t if I didn’t go looking.

I glanced around me at my desk, my notebook and pen. I heard the coffee pot burbling and felt the warmth of the wood stove gently pulsing against my back. In a little while, the sun would rise and the birds would be visiting. The idea of a lazy, lingering Sunday morning at home tugged at me. I love the quiet of the house when I’m the only one awake and when all deadlines are distant enough to ignore for at least a little while.

Still, I was torn.

I had a little time before I had to decide, so I opted to write for a bit before making up my mind. I opened up the most recent prompt from the New Year’s Poetry Challenge from MOST (the Modesto Stanislaus Poetry Center). Much to my surprise, it was entitled “A Chance Encounter.”

I put down my pen. “Well, that’s that,” I said aloud. It was a definitive sign, or at least I interpreted it as one: I needed to get out there and look for a snowy owl! I didn’t even read any further. I took another sip of coffee, shut my notebook, and packed up my things. Within about 10 minutes, I was on the road and on the hunt for snowy owls.

Here’s how the morning unfolded:

I did not see a snowy owl, nor did I return to write anything in response to the prompt, but I enjoyed a thoroughly gorgeous morning on the beach and at the marsh.

It felt like the right choice.

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Local Treasure

A few Saturday mornings ago, I was in my regular spot, writing at my desk. I had every intention of remaining there. I had a prompt to respond to and a list of other creative and mundane “to do’s” to accomplish. I was content, but also determined to be on task and focused.

Then I glanced outside and saw this sky:

It takes a much stronger woman than I am to resist that lure!

Mere minutes later, I was hastily dressed and in my car driving down to the waterfront. I arrived there to soft light and a flock of seagulls.

I stood at the shoreline and watched the gulls swoop and dive. Their white and grey bodies shone against the changing light and mist and fog. It was mesmerizing.

I watched them while my fingers grew cold, then colder and then began to ache. They flew in large circles or ovals over the water, their dark shadows mirroring them in the river, like phantom dance partners.

Often gulls can be quite loud. On this morning they were mostly silent, adding to the surreal atmosphere. Occasionally, one of them called — a sudden thrust of sound partially muted by the fog and mist. Echoing off and away across the river.

After a while, I wandered further along the shore. Raindrops from the previous day’s storm lined branches. Many were oddly shaped and half-frozen, etched with crystal. Caught in a liminal zone between water and ice. A spider web strand had transformed into a showcase for glowing orbs, neatly arranged along its length. Each one a complete, dazzling marvel.

Glancing upriver, I saw more gulls and a horizon layered with fog-softened grades of water, tree and sky.

Somehow, I’ve fallen out of the habit of visiting the local waterfront. I’ve been enjoying lazy mornings at home instead, or the occasional trek down to the marsh. Watching the gulls’ aerial ballet on this morning, seeing the light shift, and noticing the beauty that surrounded me, I felt a shift, a gentle click and an opening. It was as if a key had turned in some internal lock.

I was where I was supposed to be.

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Small lights in the dark

This morning as I walked out to the car, the horizon was aglow, lighting up the dark. It was lovely, but it didn’t stir me as it usually would. Its impact felt muted. Beauty is having a tough time finding its way inward these days. There’s so much to slog through first, I guess. This feeling has been hard to shake, and honestly, I’m not even sure that I should shake it.

As I moved forward, there was an unexpected flash of color in the doorway of our free-standing “office”. I took a small detour to check it out, and the sudden incongruity of the reflection pleased me. I snapped a photo with my phone.

As I stood there, I suddenly heard rustling and crunching out beyond the zone of visible light.

“What’s that?”

It was probably deer. Probably. Most days I would have imagined bears, coyotes and/or a roaming raving maniac, and would have stepped lively back into the light and then scampered into my car. But this morning I didn’t care. These days I vacillate between deadened and defiant. I’m not sure which was dominant at this point, but I took another step into the dark, gazing about me. The noises got louder, seemingly closer. Whatever was out there clearly wasn’t worried by my presence. I was still pretty sure it was deer. My eyes scanned the field in the dim light. I could see nothing, other than the dim shadows of trees and the hint of high weeds in the fields. The noises continued. Finally, the awareness of time passing pulled me back toward to my car.

As I drove down the driveway, I kept my eyes peeled. I drove a bit slower. Glanced to the left. Glanced to the right. And then, sure enough, there it was, barely visible in the dim light. A small deer standing in the front yard. I’m sure there were probably more of them, based on all the noise I’d heard, but this was the only one I saw. And yes, deer are plentiful in Maine. And yes, I see them frequently. But still, this sighting somehow felt like a small victory. A small light in the dark.

At the end of our driveway, I turned to head out toward the main road. As I pulled onto Main Street, another flash of color caught my eye. At some point during the last 24 hours, our neighbor had carefully wound brightly colored lights around each segment of a tree. A bold rainbow tree now decorated their side yard.

My spirits lifted just a bit.

Yet another small light in the dark.

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Finding My Way

It’s been hard to find my footing after the events of last week. The best analogy I have read is Anne Lamott’s in which she says: “If you are anything like me, you can barely remember having ever felt so stunned, and doomed, except when someone very close to you died, or divorced you, or the godawful biopsy results came back.

It’s a little as if the godawful biopsy results came back, and 73 million people cheered and gloated.“

In the aftermath, I’ve been reading a lot, writing a little, lamenting and brooding. And trying to find a way forward. What does one do? I don’t know, and neither do most of my go-to gurus. But I’ve been gathering ideas from different places.

One powerful piece of advice that always offers a way forward, comes from the recovery community: “Just do the next right thing,” they say. Apparently, this originated with Carl Jung who wrote, “And so the best we can do is walk step by next intuitively right step…”

Of course, determining what that step is can be a bit trickier.

This week Katherine May suggested that taking time to pause and tap into our resources is critical at this time. She defined resources as “something that we can draw on when we need to; or, better still, something that we can turn into a habit that becomes protective of our sanity, part of our steady functioning”. When I followed her prompts to consider my own resources, writing and writing communities were near the top, along with nature and photography.

And then Mary Lee Hahn of A(nother) Year of Reading put out a call to write haiku for healing (#haikuforhealing).

I’m weaving all these influences together, quite haphazardly, but it does seem like they create a path of sorts to follow. I remain uncertain what the next right thing is, but at least I’ll be doing something. As I ponder the magnitude of this moment and what it says about our country, I want, no need, to celebrate beauty, connect with community and dwell in gratitude. So, each day I’m writing, often haiku, trying to kindle some light in these dark times. It feels a bit like lighting a candle outside during a brutal gale…but I guess it’s something:

rainpatter slows…stops
patches of blue sky appear
soon there will be sun

©Molly Hogan

in the dark front room
the Christmas cactus bloomed
unnoticed until now

©Molly Hogan

day nears its end
late-hanging leaf and gold finch
compare their fading hues

©Molly Hogan



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The Day Looms

The day looms before me. I can feel myself pulling away from it. Wanting to hide. Seeking anywhere to linger in a bubble of ignorance. I try to ground myself to this moment. Listen to the slight trickle of water in the aquarium. Hear the faint tick-tick-tick of the clock in the kitchen. Outside it’s still dark. The day awaits. There’s nothing I can do right now.

Later, I’ll go to school for a half day of PD (professional development). No one’s mind will be on what we’re doing. Then I will vote. I will not tune in to the media today. Why crank up the anxiety volume? I’m not even sure I’ll check the news on Wednesday morning. I don’t expect that things will have been decided yet, and I’m so concerned about what might be coming. I can feel anxiety growing like a toxic algae bloom, deadly and smothering.

So, again, I breathe in and feel my lungs expand with air. I listen to the water trickle in the aquarium. I hear the far off hum of tires on the road. Others have begun their days. I’m trying to remember that we are all linked, but I feel the embers of anger stirring beneath my anxiety. How have we gotten to this place?

A faint tapping begins on the windows. I can hear raindrops hitting the fallen leaves. The water still trickles. The clock still ticks. No light has yet appeared on the horizon.

The day still looms, but now I’m writing. Soon, I’ll post these words to share. I’ll read other posts. Comment. Connect.

Later, I will vote.

That’s what I can do right now.

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A New Process for a Wordle Poem

WARNING: Spoiler alert!!! If you play Wordle and haven’t yet played today, wait to read this post. This post will reveal the word of the day!!!

I play Wordle every single day. Every so often I write poems from my guessed words. Recently, I’ve been doing this with more frequency. I enjoy having a pool of words to work with and try to combine in interesting ways.

I’m not a huge Wordle strategist. I don’t begin with the same word every time, or worry about vowels. I just wait for a word to strike my fancy. Sometimes it’s my mood, or the weather, or sometimes it’s just a random word winging it’s way into my brain. This morning I started with “tired” (Ok. I’ve definitely begun with that word more than once! Hmmmm….wonder why?) and then I decided to try something new. I would write a line or two for a poem after each guessed word, before taking my next guess. I was intrigued by the idea of not knowing where the poem was going. I’ve bolded my guessed words as they appear.

Tired hums in my veins
It stains my vision
bleaching out color
like a sepia photo
Night has advanced
creating its own home
deep within my bones
I grope for tinder and flint
anything to strike,
to light my way
to point to a path forward
Still, I’m utterly weary
I feel the weight of age
in every joint.

©Molly Hogan

Well, that was a bit dark! Really, I am fine. But even though it’s not the lightest of poems, I did enjoy the process. I suspect this will become a new part of my morning routine. On a side note, I’m not sure if I was disheartened or inspired by having 6 words to work with. It was not a stellar Wordle performance, for sure, but it definitely provided more fodder for a poem. Another upside to writing Wordle poems, I suppose!

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One Positively-Charged First Grader

It was recess and P, an exuberant first grader in a printed T-shirt, came barreling across the playground and threw herself against me for a hug. Her brother, C, was in my class last year, and that’s granted me premium hug-target status.

“Hi, my Positive Proton!” I said, reading her shirt’s inscription as I returned her hug. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” she said.

She stood by my side for a moment or two, joining my colleague, Haley, and I in surveying the playground.

Suddenly, P enthused, “It’s soooo exciting!”

Haley and I exchanged confused glances, and simultaneously looked around the playground trying to figure out what she was talking about.

“What’s exciting?” I finally asked.

“Is it recess?” Haley asked.

“No! C lost a tooth!” She was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Oh, that is exciting!”

“Yeah!” she replied.

We began to follow up with the essential tooth questions, “When did he lose it?” “Which one?” etc, but she interrupted us both and stated matter-of-factly, “Actually, it happened a long time ago.”

“Ooohhkay,” we responded, once again exchanging bemused glances.

Then P happily skipped off, whirling her way across the basketball court.

“And that,” stated Haley, “pretty much sums up conversations with first graders.”

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Small Town USA at Its Finest

Folks enjoying music from the town pavilion at Bowdoinham Days in our small town, Bowdoinham Maine

Saturday was our town’s annual celebration, known as Bowdoinham Days. The skies were blue, the sun was shining and the temperatures were perfect. We couldn’t have asked for better weather.

But as good as the weather was, the parade was definitely better. It was the best! We gathered with our neighbors along Main Street and hooted and hollered as the decorated tractors, trucks and trailer beds drove by. A band drove by on a flatbed, playing with great enthusiasm. Local politicians glad-handed the crowd, and people showed off their polished-up antique cars. The float drivers and riders threw candy, colored pencils, and one group even handed out water bottles. The Loose Ladies Book Club float was pretty awesome, with their slogan, “Even Monsters Read Books!” , and they were handing out books instead of throwing candy. Gotta Love that! But every year, my favorites are the farm-based floats,because instead of candy, they throw…. veggies! This year they stuck to red peppers, and we have several now awaiting the soup pot. Sweet! This has to be my favorite thing about Bowdoinham Days.

Can you see the pepper mid-air, and the white-shirted spectator setting up for the catch?

But then there was the library’s book sale. Maybe that was the best? There were tables piled with all sorts of gently used books, from picture books to popular fiction to cookbooks to horror. They had it all, and you couldn’t beat the “buck a book” price. If you couldn’t find what you wanted on the tables adjacent to the parade, you just headed inside the used book shop and found even more options. There was always someone delighted to fall into book talk, and helpful, love-to-talk-books volunteers! There were even decorated town tote bags for sale!

Although, come to think of it, the food was pretty awesome, too. Could that have been the best? It certainly smelled the best! There were food trucks offering all sorts of fried seafood, Filipino cuisine , coffee and donuts, and your standard cookout fare. Something for everyone! Can you say spinach and cheese empanadas? YUM!

There was so much going on! We missed the lobster crate races in the river, but I’m pretty sure they were splashing good fun. There was non-stop music, too, the art gallery was open, and there was even line dancing, but… wait! No! I know what had to be the best thing… Hands down, it had to be the zucchini races!!

Yes, you read that correctly. Zucchini races! These are a much loved Bowdoinham Days tradition. As they do each year, kids of all ages had souped up their zucchinis in a million different ways, put them on wheels and before you knew it, the town skate board park was transformed into a zucchini race track. There was even a pit crew! The enthusiastic crowds roared as the veggies cooked down the ramp. There were head to head competitions and then race offs. We watched a pretty brutal spill that sent wheels and seeds flying. Despite the veggie carnage on the course, it was all pretty awesome. Such a fun part of the day, and an inspired way to use up some extra zucchinis. How can you beat that? The best, right?

Look at all those creative contestants just waiting to race!

Finally, it was time for us to head home. As we walked back toward our house, aglow from all of the above, we talked about the highlights. Which one of these things was the absolutely best part of the day?

Our final decision?

It was all of them together…The whole darn thing!

Truly, it was small town USA at its best.