Hickory Smoked Turkey

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 ha...

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 Mo...

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...

  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 ...

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 i...

  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 chall...

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 Wo...

  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: "Yo...