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Winter Gift

It was bitter cold many days this February, colder than it’s been in many years. With many layers of clothing and a relatively warm house, I didn’t suffer too much for which I’m grateful. But prolonged cold does something to the psyche (at least mine). The dreary weather, the gloomy news reports, and the challenges always present in families left me struggling to feel hope.

One afternoon, I returned home feeling tired and discouraged. I got out of the car, put the windshield wipers up so they wouldn’t freeze to the window, and walked toward the front door. Scanning the sidewalk, as is my habit, I looked and found nature had left a gift on the front porch. I took a quick breath and thanked God. It wasn’t a bird, or even a small animal. It wasn’t a pretty feather, a smooth nut, or a colorful rock. But it was no less a delight to me.

It was fragile, but in tact. I bent to pick it up hoping it would not break apart. It was a beautiful brown cup made from 12 tulip poplar seeds on a 3-inch stem. A perfect tulip shape. We don’t have a tulip poplar tree in our yard which made this little gift brought by the wind even more precious. It cheered me to think of more colorful tulips to come, but that day, a brown one served just fine.

Thank you to all who make this writing space
a place of safety, support, and beauty.

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Name that Tree

It never ceases to amaze me that learning the name of something suddenly brings awareness of the presence of that thing all around me. It begs the question, why have I never noticed it before I knew its name?

I was visiting my daughter in Harrisonburg, VA and we were at a park with her children. I noticed the lovely shape of a very tall tree and the interesting branching pattern it had. I loved how so many branches broke free from the trunk at close intervals, and how all the branches seemed to be reaching up, raising their arms together. I also noticed how beautifully symmetrical it was, but I didn’t know it’s name. After some research, I learned that it was called a Dawn Redwood. What a lovely name. Redwoods in Virginia! You can learn more about them here. I spent some time just enjoying the tree until grandchildren called, “Grandma, watch me!”

Later, while driving through my home neighborhood, I spotted the same beautiful shape and wondered how I had never noticed it before in the 50+ years I’ve lived here. Then, driving to my piano lesson, there was another, so tall and majestic! And again, driving to my sister’s, I spotted another. They’ve been all around me forever, but I hadn’t been aware. Now, when I see these dawn redwoods, I feel that they are my secret trees. Now they are mine because I know their name. There’s a metaphor here, I’m sure, but I’ll let you ponder that for yourself.

In winter, the silhouette of the dawn redwood is a gently rounded cone that looks soft next to the craggy sycamores, maples, and oaks. Somehow, I find its symmetry soothing on these cold January days.

Dawn Redwood at dusk, Vienna, VA 1/28/25
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Outside

Over the past year I have been trying to gather and write stories from my childhood. I found that the more I remembered, the more I realized that most of my significant memories are of being outside. I’m so grateful to have grown up in a time when play was mostly unsupervised. It was unhurried time. There was plenty of time to explore at the creek or in the woods or to swing on the swingset.

I wrote last week (here) about my grandson falling into the creek. Let me say a little more about that. Three of my grandchildren were walking with me down to the neighborhood park that has a stream flowing through it (Bear Branch Stream which feeds into larger tributaries of the Potomac River). It’s a short walk from my house, but I always feel transported to another time when we reach the park.

It had rained a lot the day before and the ground was muddy, but the sun was out so we went. Maggie asked if she and Johnny could run across the bridge. I knew the stroller wouldn’t go well in the mud, so I said they could go. I stayed with Molly at the swings. It made me so happy to watch them tear off across the bridge and down the path on the other side of the creek. It’s a good path that I know well. I could see Maggie’s long hair flowing behind her as she ran through the trees. Her pink coat made it easy to see where they were.

Molly is at the age where she would be happy to be pushed in a swing for hours. I pushed and pushed. I had my back turned away from the creek for just a few moments. Then I heard, “Grandmaaaaaaa! Johnny’s fell in the creek!” As they ran back from the woods, Johnny had taken a wide turn and slipped off the footbridge. By the time I saw them, he had climbed up the bank and looked afraid that he might be in trouble. He stood still and said nothing. I laughed and assured him he was fine. It was just an “Oops!” I was actually happy for him to have the experience of freedom, even freedom to fall with no harm done.

I guess that’s my wish for all children–to be able to play outside, to experience the natural world, to fall and get up, to get wet sometimes and not be afraid. To look up and notice the bare branches against a winter sky. To smell pine and feel rejuvenated. To hear the Carolina Wren’s sweet song and the chirp of a cardinal. Perhaps then, they will believe that the world is more good than bad.

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Poetry Friday, August 27, 2021

Poetry Friday is hosted by Elisabeth. Drop by and visit here.

One of the blessings of the past year has been the opportunity to participate in poetry classes via Zoom. One of these was a 6-part series called Poetry of Resilience that was hosted by James Crews and Danusha Lameris. I have become very fond of them as poets, thinkers, and teachers.

This week I have been thinking about my experiences with poem writing. I am a novice, at best, but with each poem I write, I gain a little confidence. Poetry is something that is a private practice to me. I read and write it mostly by myself, and haven’t shared my poems very widely. I’ve never had a desire to be published, or to enter a contest, but I’m happy to have this small space in the universe to try out a few thoughts.

Belief

Walking beaches
and country lanes

Climbing mountains
and city hills

Circling the track
and neighborhood block

Strolling along rivers
and wandering forests

Always looking
Always searching
Always listening

Starting to believe
the poem
is
in me.

DRAFT, 8-27-21

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Cicadas

We’ve been hearing of the return of our 17-year cicadas for weeks. Doug Kammerer, NBC meteorologist, has been giving updates daily for the last few weeks. Today was to be the day where we would really begin to see them.

My son, Tim, was 7 when he first fell in love with the odd, clumsy, red-eyed cicada. He collected their exoskeletons which are left as they molt and played with them. I don’t remember the details of that play, but it was such that he was excited when they came again when he was 24. Now he has a 7-year old himself, and the cycle begins again. A new generation of boy, and a new generation of bug.

Whether you are freaked out by cicadas or not, there is something comforting in knowing that nature continues to do its job, and yes, the cicadas arrived right on time.

On May 5, 2021, Tim posted the first pictures of emerging cicadas. His caption read, “I’ve been waiting for you.” He meant it in the most gentle way, finding nothing sinister in this unique creature.

I may have more to say later this summer when the incessant sounds of cicadas preparing to mate and lay new eggs become intense. But until then, I’m willing to let them be.

Weekly writing on Tuesdays with TwoWritingTeachers.org
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For Jane

When warm weather calls
and the grass is just green
there’s a time of day
when bunnies can be seen.

Jane is my daughter who
loved bunny hunts best.
“Mommy, look!” she would say
“It’s our small, furry guest!”

Now she’s a mom,
her baby still new.
Will she teach him of bunnies,
spring green, and sky blue?

Baby feet, April 27, 2021
Writing on Tuesdays and every day in March.



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Outlets or Inlets?

Recently, I read Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert which contains thoughts about the creative process, writers, writing, and challenges to the creative life. I never finished Eat, Pray, Love, but I really liked Big Magic.

She wrote about the importance of finding our own voices and expressing ourselves. The term “creative outlet” was used often. I got to thinking about creative outlets in my life such as playing the piano, writing, and dabbling I’ve done with painting and other arts over the years. These experiences help me in the moment to feel present and even happy. They do give me an opportunity to share something of myself.

As I thought, I decided that “creative inlets” are just as important to me. Just as inlets of water provide the right set of conditions for certain ecosystems, creative inlets provide the right set of conditions for ideas to grow, for healing to happen, and for beauty to refresh the soul.

I realized that I need to pay more attention to inlets. What am I inviting and allowing to flow inward to nourish my creative ecosystem? The world is sometimes harsh and the news brutal, but nature teaches us about seasons, ebbs and flows, and surprises us over and over with beauty. I think I need more time outside.

Thank you Two Writing Teachers and teacher-writers in this community.
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Borrowing Words

I’m taking a short course with Georgia Heard on poetic forms. Last night we talked about forms of poetry that are created by borrowing words from other writers. Some in the class said they felt like they were cheating by borrowing, but I found it really fun and stimulating. T.S. Eliot said, “Good writers borrow; great writers steal.” I didn’t know that he borrowed heavily from other writers when he wrote “The Wasteland.”

For my practice, I turned to one of my new favorite books, WORLD OF WONDERS, by Aimee Nezhukumatathil. Her writing about natural phenomena is gorgeous. I was sure I would find words to borrow there.

World of Wonders: In Praise of Fireflies, Whale Sharks, and Other Astonishments

Here is my FOUND POEM after “Firefly” in WORLD OF WONDERS:

Firefly

The first glimmer-pop of firefly light,
electric dress,
a small flame sputtering
erratic flashes of light
through the navy blue pause
just moments after twilight.

Such a degree of tenderness
the quiet reassurance
their light rhythm
recalibrates
sending out their love-light signals
a lime glow to the summer night air.

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