Tag Archives: Slice of Life

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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.

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Sag Wagons

I’m two days in to our second week of school. Transitioning from summer mode to full-on school is always a shock to the system, and this year has been no different.

This past weekend I checked in with a friend who’d agreed to participate in a 30 mile fundraising bike ride last weekend–after not having ridden a bike in decades! (Talk about a shock to the system!)

“”Can you walk? How did it go?” I asked immediately, as she answered the phone.

Once she figured out what I was talking about, she laughed and filled me in. “It went well! There was a sag wagon that ran alongside, so if you got tired, you could get on that. I rode most of the way, but got on the sag wagon at the end, because we had reservations and needed to be on time. “

At first, I mostly ignored her accomplishment (sorry, Mels!), because I was immediately transfixed by the idea of a sag wagon. Having never participated in a bike race, this was a new term to me.

“OMG! I want a sag wagon! I think everyone needs a sag wagon in their life!” I declared.

I love this idea so much! The more I thought about it, the more I loved it. I imagine everyone’s sag wagon would look different, too. In the case of the bike race, it was a literal wagon, with room for bikes and tired or injured riders. But, couldn’t we have metaphorical ones as well? The things that provide us with a bit of respite or just a breather? I’m pretty sure that my Friday night sag wagon last week looked like most of a small Margherita pizza and a generous glass of red wine. Sometimes a sag wagon might be a conversation with a friend or time spent within the pages of a book. Or watching the birds. Or just saying “No” to a pile of work and walking away for a while.

It just struck me that we probably do already all have our own varied sag wagons, but that’s not enough. The harder part is that each of us needs to decide when to stop and hop on board. A sag wagon is not going to grab you and your bike and make that decision for you. You have to recognize that it’s in your best interest to access that wagon so you can keep moving forward and eventually finish the race, one way or the other.

“Congrats!” I said to my friend, “That’s impressive! You did it!”

“Well,” she hemmed, “I didn’t ride the whole way. I did get on the sag wagon.”

“You still did it,” I insisted.

“Yeah, you’re right,” she said. “I guess I did…Thanks!”

I’m not sure this sag wagon metaphor works on all levels, but I’m definitely going to keep thinking about it.

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Early Morning Adventure

I set out on my morning walk, energized by the bright sun, blue skies and low humidity. About a half mile down the road, I spied something on the road further ahead of me. It was almost triangular in shape, larger at its base and rising to a sort of peak. What was it?

It didn’t look like a branch or bundle of leaves… Was it an animal? Was it a bird? I peered ahead. What could it be?

A car drove down the road, narrowly missing the object. As the car passed, the whatever-it-was lifted up a bit and shifted around. Oh, it’s definitely alive. That looked a bit like flapping. I think it’s a bird!

I picked up my pace. As I neared the object, I could see that it was most definitely a bird. In fact, it was a blue jay.

Another car came around the corner and I waved it to the other side of the road, away from the bird. After it passed, I knelt down and assessed. The bird looked a bit disheveled, but wasn’t obviously injured. The tail feathers were quite short, which made me think it might be a juvenile. I looked up and around. Where had it come from? I didn’t see a nest, although there were plenty of trees overhanging the road.

The main thing was to get it to a safer spot. I placed my hands closer to it, and it immediately hopped up and down agitatedly. That seemed like a good sign, health-wise, but it clearly didn’t want me to touch it. Still, I needed to get it out of the road. I reached down again, nudging it gently toward the edge of the pavement but met with little success.

“Come on, buddy,” I said. “I’m just trying to help you.”

I was pretty sure I was going to need to pick it up. I looked askance at its beak, which appeared quite large. Potentially painfully large. I considered my options and opted to procrastinate by taking a photo while I was at it. (See how big that beak is!?)

“You’re not going to peck me if I pick you up, are you?” I asked.

Then, figuring it really couldn’t do that much damage, I reached down, crouching and slowly cupped my hands around the bird, simultaneously moving toward the edge of the pavement.

Suddenly, SQUAWK!!!!! SQUAWK!!!! SQUAWK!!!!

A crescendo of piercing squawks of protest filled the air. How could something that loud come from this small bird?! Thoreau apparently described the jay’s ear-splitting call as a “steel cold scream”, and in this instance, I couldn’t disagree! I was so surprised that my hands flew open and the bird tumbled out of them, somersaulting onto the grass. It looked at me indignantly, but appeared none the worse for wear.

“Well, I’m sorry,” I said, defensively, “but I wasn’t expecting that!”

With the bird safely out of the road, I decided to leave it where it was and continue my walk.

“If you’re still here when I get back,” I told it, “I’ll be taking you home with me.”

Whether that was threat enough or not, I don’t know, but upon my return, about a half hour later, the jay was nowhere in sight. My ears were still ringing though!

It was quite an early morning adventure!

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An Unexpected Gift

I walked down the beach, soaking in the long sweep of solitude. I’d been inundated with activity and people lately, and needed this time apart to recalibrate. I was feeling frazzled and fractured.

As I walked, the wind blew relentlessly into my face, transforming my dangling earrings into wind chimes. I wandered along, soaking in the serenity and the scenery, stopping occasionally to take pictures. Struck by an isolated boat at anchor. The interplay of granite, tree and sky. Or a still life of rocks beneath my feet.

Moving along the beach, I spotted a large piece of driftwood. I love driftwood with its intricate lacing of pale sea- and salt-worn branches and roots. I angled up the beach to get closer. There were rocks tucked in to some of the crevices, and a strand of grass had opportunely seeded and was reaching toward the sky.

I began taking pictures. Often, photography can serve as a sort of meditation for me. I find myself lost in the flow of what’s around me. Moving seamlessly from object to object. Looking at the light. The shapes. The shadows. It was exactly what I needed at this time. As I took pictures in the sun, with the wind and waves and the worn wood and tide-tumbled rocks, I felt my own edges smooth out. I felt the stress of the past day fade away.

Then, thinking the light would be better, I walked around to the other side of the driftwood to take a few more photos. There were more rocks tucked in the tangled roots. It took me a second to realize there was writing on them. This was the first one I read:

I was stunned. The writing was so random and unexpected, yet so apt and intimate. I felt like I’d received a secret message.

I read all the other rocks, and noticed spots where people had graffitied the wood with positive words and images.

I imagined different people choosing their rocks, writing a message of hope and comfort, then tucking them into the nooks and crannies of this tide-tossed tree, not knowing who might ever read it. Not knowing how welcome its message might be.

What a lovely note of kindness to put out into the world. What a gift.

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Retreat!

“When are you going to find time to slice today?” Amy asked me as we passed in the hall.  

It was early on the second day of the Quoddy Writing Retreat led by Ralph Fletcher and Georgia Heard. I’d found out during the March challenge that Ana and her friend, Amy, would be here and had looked forward to meeting both of them. They both seem delightful …which is why typing my response to her question makes me cringe even more than when I said it.

“I was thinking about that, ” I replied, “but then I didn’t know if I could slice and be honest because you and Ana might read it!”

Immediately, I regretted saying this. Ugh. Somehow my filter has definitely frayed as I’ve gotten older. How in the world could anyone reasonably respond to that!? (Sorry, Amy!) 

Amy looked a bit taken aback, and I quickly retreated, saying my goodbyes and continuing on my way, mentally kicking myself the whole way. We didn’t cross paths again that morning. 

But let me back up a bit.

Many months ago, when I signed up for this retreat (the first writing retreat I’ve ever participated in), I knew I was pushing myself out of my comfort zone. I knew that I’d likely be uncomfortable. First of all, I’m an introvert and am especially uncomfortable in large social groups. Secondly, I’d be sharing my writing with strangers. Thirdly, I’d be sharing my work with…Ralph Fletcher and Georgia Heard! Fourth…

Well, I could go on, but suffice it to say that months ago, it felt like an important challenge for me. Unfortunately, as I’ve learned more and more about growth mindset, I’ve realized that my own is lamentably weak. I wish I viewed new experiences as opportunities to stretch myself. Actually, I do view them that way, at least intellectually. Emotionally, it’s a whole different situation. My intellect had been in charge when I signed up, but after the first day at the retreat, my emotions had made a surprisingly strong and unwelcome surge. Imposter sydrome also made an ugly appearance. I felt slightly under siege.

By the end of the first full day, I’d written morning notes in my notebook, breakfasted with the group, listened to Ralph and Georgia, written for another 1 + hours, participated in a response group and shared my work, met with Ralph Fletcher (who, after reading my work, disappointingly did not turn to me exclaiming about my genius and offering to set me up with his agent), lunched with everyone (and they’re all interesting and friendly people, but all the personalities and remembering the names and matching them to faces and trying to remember whom I’d talked to about what…Ack!) and headed out for a hike (beautiful!)  with a group (lovely and low key…but still… people!), then a reception at Ralph’s house (wow! gorgeous! More people and conversation…), and then a lobster dinner for the group…

Perhaps having read that grammatically challenged and surely convoluted prior sentence/paragraph helped you relate: I was utterly exhausted and more uncomfortable than I ever might have imagined. I felt a visceral urge to… RETREAT! (The irony is not lost on me.)

“There are just SO many people!” I said when I called my husband that night. “I’m not sure I realized how intensely introverted I’ve become. I think it’s getting worse, rather than better with age.”

Still, a good night’s sleep began to put things into a better perspective. I realized that my response was way out of proportion, and probably rooted more in anxiety than in reality. In the light of a new day, I took stock. A part of me has really enjoyed meeting with and talking with all these people. Ralph and Georgia are great, and I have a warm, supportive response group. To be honest, it was also helpful to know that most of the group was heading to Campobello Island to see the Roosevelt’s cottage and have “Tea with Eleanor”. Having passed on the outing (since I’d done both before), I knew I would have some afternoon down time. By mid-morning, I felt more composed and had managed to get a better perspective on my oversized reaction.

Somehow, unfortunately, I hadn’t quite attained this sense of equilibrium before seeing Amy (sorry again, Amy!), and those words just spilled out, sour left-overs from yesterday’s turmoil.

After our workshop time ended today, everyone grabbed lunch and headed off on their adventure. And I opted to spend a LONG time here:

Ahhhhhhlone!

Instant recalibration.

So, now it’s a little after 5 pm, and rather than holing up in my room, I’m typing in the common room of the lodge. I’m actually hoping to catch up with some people as they return from the island outing.

Believe it or not, right now, dinner with a few companions sounds quite nice.

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Sisters

Last week I drove to Seneca Falls, NY to spend time with my three sisters. What a gift! I’ve been writing a lot about them and our trip since my return. I could go on and on about what a wonderful time we had together, and about how much I miss them now that we’ve parted. This morning I wanted to write a slice about our time together, but I couldn’t figure out what to focus on.

While I was waiting for SOL inspiration to strike, Margaret Simon’s slice arrived in my Inbox. She shared her puppy-centered response to this morning’s Ethical ELA prompt. That prompt suggested using “The Important Book” by Margaret Wise Brown as a mentor for a poem. I, too, had written a response to that prompt this morning, but mine had focused on my sisters. Somehow, it had never occurred to me to share that poem as my slice today. Thanks for the idea, Margaret!

The important thing about sisters
is that they are always there for you.
They love you despite your faults,
and maybe even because of them.
They share your memories–
and sometimes augment or correct them.
They connect you to past and future.
They speak the family shorthand fluently
with a gesture
or a glance.
They are companions and confidants.
But the most important thing about sisters
is that they are always there for you.

©Molly Hogan