Hickory Smoked Turkey

  I'm switching it up and taking a break from the daily writing.  I've decided to try taking a photo every day and posting it here.  It could be something I find beautiful, funny, weird, or meditative.  Or, it could be something I'm grateful for.  Here we go...

  The other day, while sitting in circle, a student who had been upset and crying outside because a friend hurt her feelings, leaned over to me and said: "I'm sorry I'm crying over something so small." My heart sank because I knew how she felt. I looked our sweet student in the face and reassured her she had nothing to apologize for, that her feelings, no matter what they were, were valid.   Why is it so easy to recognize the pain or sadness of another human as valid, but it's such a challenge to honor and validate my/our own?   I've struggled with not only validating my own feelings but even recognizing them.  Over the summer, with my sister and nephew in town, I was sure that the nausea and trouble breathing I was experiencing, were due to an asthma attack. My hands and fingers cramped up and I felt like I was hyperventilating.  My husband took me to urgent care where the doctor listened to my symptoms and asked if I was especially worried about some

Macro focus, micro focus, ants move. Rooster on gravel road, VFW door. Tips of leaves begin to change. From the playground, a rooster crows.

  I think of myself as optimistic. I tend to have a positive outlook on things and try to see the "bright side" of challenges. But, I am kidding myself. I'm freaking stressed out, in a manageable way, but I need to acknowledge it.   This summer I began to notice a pattern. I had just gotten surgery and after a week I expected that I would be back to normal. Six weeks later, while feeling pretty normal I'm still experiencing the after effects and am very much in the healing process. When I slow down and allow myself to think about how I'm feeling and the possible reasons associated with it, I see that I too often try to rush through life without acknowledgement of experience, struggle, or emotion.   On Friday I met with a new acupuncturist who is helping me with my healing process but also fertility. When going through my intake form she asked me a few times about stress levels in my life. I answered each question with, "Nah, I don't think I'm

Dynamite In the uneven lot, he walks slowly, the shuffle of a stroke, to the coffee shop door. I stay behind, don't want to rush him. I wait in line, "Good morning, Brian.  Coffee for here and two refills?" The man smiles, "Yes, please. "

The window, one large cloud, nowhere to go or float suspended near me.

  When I was a kid I believed that once you hit a certain age, maybe 30 or 35, a switch was flipped and you suddenly knew everything you needed to know about life.  How to pay the mortgage? Answered. How to deal with difficult or challenging situations? No need to worry. How to be happy? Pfft, so easy.   I also assumed that adults were done growing and learning, that they had every ounce of knowledge and wisdom that they needed. Adults always had the answers and were never fumbling for what to say, what to do, or how to act. In my young mind, adults didn't have to "work" on things, they were simply fully evolved. It sounded logical to me, in many ways that if I didn't have the answer to an obstacle or tricky question at 21, I would at 31.   One of the things I'm glad I was wrong about is the ability as an "adult" to continually improve and learn. At 39 I am working on so many things about myself. This task can be overwhelming and scary but it can als

Found Poem That spark         in the early night RiffRaff         canvas transformed         listening artist         home back home

  I'm back! The past 9 days I've been off schedule, working extra hours and traveling.  I've visited Mary Todd Lincoln's childhood home, drank gin at a liquor distillery, and met a server named Sharon who brought me insight into what it means to connect with others.  More on that later.   For now, I'm getting used to writing regularly again.  It's only been a short time since I stepped away, but I feel like I'm fumbling and disconnected.   There is a neighborhood stray, a grumpy black and white cat, who we affectionately call Bing Bong.  He never comes up to our door but regularly visits our neighbor.  For the past year she has fed Bing Bong daily, patiently building a relationship with him and letting him know she can be trusted.  Slowly we've watched Bing Bong creep ever closer to our neighbor's door. Whenever we approach, he runs away, but he waits for our neighbor to appear. He's most likely only interested in food but he feels safe with

No Hands On the way back from the library, I see him in my rearview mirror.   A red windbreaker, white hair, and faded jeans slowly move towards me.   The man sits upright on a ten speed, two triumphant arms in the air.   Like a child, he continues to bike past Dougherty Street and down the hill towards Lake Tomahawk.   I watch his achievement until he bikes out of sight.   I am the only witness to this small act.   On the way back to school, I drive towards the park, hoping to see the biker again, but he is gone.   Probably off to do some other trick of life.    I pull into the parking lot at school, walk into the classroom, and sit on the floor next to a student who is nine.   “I saw the coolest thing on my break today,” I tell her.   Her eyes light up, sure that I have a magical story to tell.   Something with punch, but I only have a lesson learned.   “I saw an older gentleman ride his bike today with no hands!   He first only put one hand in the air but then he did bot

Untitled We stand in the dark kitchen. Next to me  you brush your teeth. We are silent.  We watch the window, the street lamps, and the sky. Clouds hang, touch the point of mountains that turn blue in the evening. Sporadic lightning turns the dry sky white, not as a warning, but a prompt.

Bookend sky, day, night. Same mountains, pale clouds, distance. Rest for what is done.

Start with the table smell of rye, dill, and coffee. My grandparents' home.

  I celebrate the beginning of a new year in August, not January.  A new school year is full of hopes and resolutions for me.  Some of these return every year; my resolution to be more patient, present, and mindful in the classroom.  I want to help students find what inspires and excites them, to greet each student, each day, with a fresh open heart.  In preparation, I go to bed early, take deep breaths, slow down, and trust that everything will be ok.  The doubts, however, are also always there.  Regularly I wonder if I made a lesson interesting enough, if I nagged the students all day to tidy up, or if I overlooked a sad face in the classroom.   In more ways than I can count, I am extremely lucky to have landed at the school where I teach.  Our small school is comprised of teachers and staff who genuinely care not only about the well-being of their students, but all of the students and their fellow co-workers.  I'm finishing up my Montessori teacher training and get to assist o

To curate a creative life, please include the following: Coffee stained books Stacks of paper and notebooks Mismatched towels, dishes, sheets, and silverware Anxiety Three or more full bookcases Two dresses that you never wear Secondhand furniture and clothes Handwritten and typed letters from friends A dog, cat, or hamster Trees A bowl of lemons Pens The art of friends hanging on the wall Large windows to stand in front of Notes left all over the apartment with lines of poetry, questions, recipes, and lists written on them; reminders to keep going

Median Pull That median, where I thought I'd end up      east and the actual place where I landed      west is what holds me today, into the night.

Even with pain,  our current president, loss, natural disasters, climate change, shootings in schools, a broken education system where kids lucky enough to have rich parents  get a good education but kids born into poverty get forgotten, asked to hurry up, are misunderstood. Even when we don't know who to ask for answers, we still smile at strangers, buy flowers for people we love, say when we are wrong and apologize, gather at coffee shops to find ways to help our community. We still sit beside friends when they are hurt, laugh during dinner, look out the window and get lost in thought.  Even in this world,     this world we continue  to try again.

Grocery Store Flowers The older gentleman at the grocery store, with a bunch of roses, walked to his car,     small spectacles,     white thinning hair, glanced at me and smiled slightly. Minutes later, another man,     suspenders, white t-shirt and jeans left the store. He held no bag of produce or ice cream but another bunch of flowers. This time, they were daisies. Each drove off and returned home with flowers for someone. And each became a reminder that there is still good.

  I am grateful for morning skies, streets where I have walked, artifacts from childhood, moments of nature, and the presence of healing.

The Sunflowers      (after Mary Oliver) The sunflowers in our school garden, are strong enough to hold the feet of three birds. Students gather at the window to watch the yellow and black birds eat seeds from the multiple brown circles. Their eyes,      raised, to witness.

  I've been stuck in my head lately and have had trouble snapping out of moods.  Then, a friend recommended a women's writing and tea circle that I attended yesterday.  I'm impatient but I also believe that things happen when they are supposed to.  As I sat in circle with a small group of women, drinking tea, and cutting out lines from famous poems and magazines to make a found poem, I felt like I was where I was meant to be.  Sometimes you need to leave your home to feel like yourself again.   I wrote pieces I normally wouldn't and created a found poem. I smiled, I met new people, and I slowed down.  You can get addicted to feeling this way, to being creative, to trying something new.  Most of all it was a reminder that I could feel this way.

Untitled This is how you stand in Traverse City sand: feet apart, arms in sweatshirt pockets, fingers around a Petoskey stone. This is how you stare at the lake: eyes on the water, heart center with the sun, water, cold sediment beneath your toes. This is where you go, when the bank account is low, life one more turn you didn't expect, and hands that are empty. This is where you go.

  My goal for 2018 was to read more.  I've been spending more time at the library and reading.  I've re-read books about Northern Michigan, poetry books by Oliver, Berry, and Collins, and I've tried to read books I'd normally look past, mostly fiction.   The weekends have become my time to write and read more.  Carving out time to do this, and routinely following through, has been a goal for me.  But even when doing what I set out to do,  I feel like I should be doing something else, something more.  I can't find the appreciation and gratitude for having the time to read and write.   What is that about?  I have a suspicion that is goes back to worth, feeling like I am and do enough.  I tell my older writing students all the time to "Never compare yourself or your writing to someone else.  Your talents, way of living, outlook...those are unique and necessary for our world.  Don't stop being you." I hear these words as I feel guilty for being indoo

  Our small town rests this morning under a thick source of fog.  The mountains are hidden behind it and our neighbor's home, where the man sits every day on his porch, shares snacks with his black dog, and blows bubbles with his great-grandson, are almost out of view.   Life, in a way I didn't know I needed, has slowed down since we moved to North Carolina. I spend more time looking out the kitchen window, talking with library clerks, and listening to my breath.   My husband, born and raised in New York City, has a mammoth sized heart but does not always trust new people, new situations. He can be impatient for change, I can too. There are small moments though, seen through our kitchen window, where I see a shift for him too. When I look out the window and see him sitting on our neighbor's porch, talking, petting the dog, and when I watch him bake cornbread for our neighbor's wife, because it is her favorite.  Those shifts are felt in the foundation for us both.

So you... ate potato chips in bed after work have a messy kitchen table and no desire to organize it don't have matching bathroom towels, dishes, or window treatments are 39 and have a pet hamster. So you... walked into a heart specialist's office sat in a room of walkers, white hair, frail hands and found out your husband may not need surgery. That refrain, "He is ok," the only fact you care to hold on to today.

  There are those moments, when you look at something differently than the person next to you.  You recognize that this viewpoint has been with you since childhood.  I remember my dad taking a photo one October of pumpkin seeds in a bowl because it looked pretty.  Then I remember cups of coffee being photographed, and, of course, the yearly Thanksgiving bird, which in my parents' home, is given its own paparazzi treatment. Pictures of the bird resting in the basement, smoking on the grill, being brought into the house.  There are photo albums documenting this tradition, decade after decade. Even during the seven years when I was vegetarian, I still looked at the photos and helped stage the scene.   I can't help it, I'm like my dad too.  Food, anything if you look closely enough, has its own beauty, its own quirks, its own message. Now, through this writing challenge, I'm trying to look more closely at the day.  Here are a few of my own photos.

  I have someone in my life who I love deeply.  They are struggling, physically and emotionally, but are closed off.  They aren't taking care of themself and they are refusing help that challenges them to get the resources they need in order to thrive.   I'm terrible at conflict, I want everyone to be happy, and I don't like to make a fuss.  The problem is, my not engaging in conflict feels like I'm enabling.  I live away from this person and feel guilt for not being there.  The truth is, even if I was next to this person, the situation would be the same.  Maybe not.   When talking to a counselor, she reminded me that I can't help anyone who doesn't want help, they have to want to change.  Intellectually I understand this but it feels too difficult to stop trying.  It feels like I'm giving up.  I'm scared to speak up during moments when I get hurt by this person, I don't want to upset them, they have so much going on, but ignoring it isn't th

  I saw this happening.  On the weekends I have more energy, I have more time to be creative, think, and nap.  I set goals for myself, I get excited, and I start a project.  I look forward to writing more regularly and getting a stronger routine down. Then, Sunday night comes around and I start the usual negative self-talk.  "It's easy to write more when you have time but come Monday, you'll be too tired to even feel inspired. Way to go!  You've set yet another goal you won't see through."     Part of the reason I wanted to challenge myself was to clear my head of the negative self-talk.  To push myself past the undoing of multiple essays and poems and simply start.  I've lost so many ideas before they even got down on paper because I convinced myself they weren't good enough.  Who gets to say what is good enough?   When I was in college I majored in creative writing and women's studies.  I loved my classes, they challenged my assumptions, made

Signs you may be dealing with fertility issues: 1.  You have boxes of unopened pregnancy tests on the bottom shelf of your linen closet.  They have been there for almost a year. 2. A smelly concoction of Chinese fertility herbs that you must drink three times a day. 3.  Five scars on your abdomen from surgery that removed six uterine fibroids. 4.  The editing of your household budget so that you can seek help from fertility doctors, acupuncturists, and nutritionists. 5.  The unfair critique you give to strangers holding a baby and parents who are much younger than you. (You struggle with this feeling the most and feel like a bad person.) 6. The test results that show low egg count, advanced maternal age (39), and absence of ovulation. 7.  To make you feel better, your sister AND mother offer to carry a child for you and your partner. 8. The never-ending collection of books on your nightstand. Some might as well have titles like "A Healthy Womb: You Are Doing it Wro

  I came across a website that challenged people to write 100 words, everyday, for 100 days. With writing, I need structure, a project, so I decided to try the 100 challenge. Today is my first entry.   I've been thinking about words. As a writer, that's part of the gig.  Lately, I've been stuck on the power words possess. Words can enhance, deconstruct, support, validate, diminish, name objects, and label emotions.   The absence of words, depending on the situation, could be positive or negative.  I think of my mom, holding my hand as we watched a baking show.  I think of my sister, how she almost cried when I showed her my scars from a recent routine surgery.  Words, in those moments, did not belong.   Words.  I look over the ones I don't know how to say.  The ones, when strung together, are too vulnerable to share.  Vulnerable.  For twenty years, I have left those words out.  Writing professors have said to me: "Your poems stop right before they get scary.

On Tuesdays, after recess, we gather around the rug and sit in a circle.   I see the faces of my students, red from running outdoors and I watch their eyes.   Their eyes hold wonder and curiosity behind their dark pupils.   For fifty minutes, we read poems and short stories.   We study pieces of art.   We share our feelings.   We laugh.   It is my favorite part of the week. In circle, we talk about Malala, her fight for education and the fact that she was the youngest person ever to win the Nobel Peace Prize as a teenager.  We talk about the past and how segregation used to be a way of life.   We talk about other young writers in elementary school, Langston Hughes, Elizabeth Alexander, and what it means to be brave. My students don’t understand hate or the idea that one group of individuals is valued over another.   They simply, but simply is not the right word, they unapologetically see faces.   Faces of friends, family, and people in their community. These 50 minutes a week ar