Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Art by Leo, left, and Stella, right from “Let’s Make Art” activity at the Hilliard Museum.
On the campus of ULL (University of Louisiana at Lafayette) there is a beautiful museum, The Hilliard. Saturday they held a drop in art activity for kids 4 and up. I showed up with Leo, 4, and Stella, 2, and they were the only children there. They had the full attention of the artist instructor.
I was amazed by the focus of both kids on this activity. From the flyers on the table, I realized it was meant to be a quilting activity. There were shapes cut out of various papers. However, Leo immediately grabbed the scissors and started cutting the shapes to his liking and building a 3 dimensional motorcycle. I glued it down for him on the white “quilt piece,” and he continued to add to it a winner’s banner and a man riding (notice the skinny yellow strip sitting on the motorcycle.)
Stella was happy enough to glue and glue and glue. The artist taught her how to put the glue on the back and turn the paper over and press it down. We were also able to freely roam the current art exhibits. It was a great way to spend a rainy cold Saturday morning.
Today, at Ethical ELA Open Write, Stefanie Boutelier is teaching us how to use technology in poetry with a wonderful prompt and model poem “A Pile of Good Things”. You should follow the link and see what it’s all about. Here is my pile:
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
I love to go for a walk in the morning. Getting out of the house is my problem. First, I have coffee. Then I check email and these days, write a Slice and read some Slices. Comment. I get sucked in. Even with this problem of getting out of the door, once I’m out, I’m never sorry. Most days when I get back home, there’s a mad rush to get ready for school. Somewhere in this morning routine, I try to get in some writing. Sometimes the writing happens while I am walking. Notes app, microphone on.
My grandson Leo visited this past weekend. He is highly creative. He draws with amazing design, unlike most scribblings of a 4-year old. Last week we ran into my cousin Andrew, the architect, during Mardi Gras. I showed Andrew Leo’s drawings. My daughter started a shared album about a year ago, so I have them on my phone.
Andrew told me a story about his second grade teacher. He loved to build things, and his mother, my aunt, would throw out things like paper towel tubes, boxes, and magazines, etc.. But not Andrew’s teacher. She had a box of trash just for him. An Andrew box full of scraps to build with. He has never forgotten this and may be the artist he is today because of it.
Being Mamere I collected toilet paper tubes, gumballs, and a box. Early on Saturday morning (Leo woke up at 5:30 AM), I showed him the stuff. “You can make whatever you want.” I gave him a plastic container with glue and a paintbrush and left him alone. He created something. When his mother saw it, she noticed that he had even found a wad of cat hair to add to the top of one of the towers. I placed the sculpture in my new butterfly garden to hopefully attract insects and caterpillars.
For Poetry Friday, it is the first Friday, so the Inklings (my writing group) have a new challenge. And it came from me. I asked my friends to toy with the use of anaphora (repetition) in a poem using the mentor text from Jericho Brown, Crossing. I wrote one last week that I ended up putting in the trash, so I didn’t have anything to share. Remember the walk I took? I spoke a poem into my Notes app that is my poem offering today.
Welcome back to This Photo Wants to be a Poem, a weekly writing prompt that I borrowed from Laura Purdie Salas’s Fifteen Words or Less. I was not here last week, so Linda Mitchell took the reins with a beautiful photo from Amanda Watts. I was busy last week with the arrival of my 4th grandchild, June Margaret. You can read about that experience here.
On Christmas Day, my husband and I were separated for the first Christmas in 40 years. He traveled to New Orleans on Christmas Day to meet his new grandchild and have a bowl of gumbo. Baby June is a big baby, and her fingers are long. I marveled at them as Jeff (Papère) held her tiny hand. This is a more personal image than I usually post. Forgive me, I’m smitten.
Papère’s Hand
Christmas package wrapped in tiny fingers perfectly peaceful
Margaret Simon, draft
Take a peaceful moment for yourself to write, remember, marvel and share. If you are able, write an encouraging comment for other writers.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
June Margaret and mother Martha
I was prepared for this to be a different Christmas. My youngest daughter’s first child was due on Dec. 19th, so I took off the 19th and 20th and drove to her home to be with her and her husband. She had a scheduled induction on Tuesday, Dec. 20th. I will not go into the details of the whole process, but Martha handled the long labor like a champ. When at 11:30 PM, she was ready to push, my middle daughter turned to me and pointed to her watch. We realized that the baby would be born on her great grandfather’s birthday. She came into the world at 12:39 on Dec. 21st.
My first look at this new baby girl confirmed our suspicions that she would be a big baby. She even had jelly rolls on her legs. Later we found out she weighed 9 lbs. 5 oz.!
Martha and Paul did not reveal her name until she was born. I anxiously waited while Martha said she needed to hold her before she would name her. With the baby in her arms, she turned to me and said, “Her name is June Margaret.” My heart melted.
Margaret is a name that was given to me by my mother to honor her mother who passed away 3 months before I was born. I’ve always thought of my grandmother Margaret as a guardian angel. We named our first daughter Margaret and call her Maggie. When Maggie didn’t use the name for her daughter, I thought that was the end of the line. I never imagined that Martha would choose it. Once Martha knew she was having a girl, she told us that the baby’s name was one syllable. That put me into a rabbit hole of one syllable girl names. June never appeared on my list. And neither did Margaret.
I know Baby June will grow into her name and give it her own personality. The legacy of Margaret is with her. But even without the gift of the name, this child is in my heart.
While she was being born, we played Martha’s Christmas playlist. One of the songs was “Breath of Heaven” by Amy Grant. In that moment, all was quiet. I looked over at the doctor, a small petite woman, who was swaying back and forth as I was. We felt the presence of God in the room. Birth is a holy moment.
One hymn that has been playing in my head was featured in Presiding Bishop Michael Curry’s Christmas message: “Love came down at Christmas. Love all lovely. Love divine. Love was born at Christmas. Star and angel gave the sign. Love came down at Christmas.”
June Margaret is a Christmas miracle. She is love divine. She is a pure angel.
I attended Christmas Eve service at Christ Cathedral in New Orleans. In her first Christmas message as bishop of Louisiana, Bishop Shannon Rogers Duckworth told us to embrace the small moments. I pray this first Christmas with June will stay with me as one of those gems, the small moment of holding pure love and being a witness to the love of my daughter with her husband and their new not-so-tiny newborn.
Breath of Heaven
A winter solstice A holy birth Total darkness shines with June light.
This week was the first week of Simon Summer Camp with the visit of Thomas, better known as Tuffy. We have had a wealth of experiences each day. How do you build memories for a 2.9 year old? Why, you sing about it, of course. Tuffy and I have been singing along to the brilliant and everlasting Raffi. (If you’re a grandmother, you must download his songs.)
I haven’t had much time to spend alone writing poetry, but that’s as it should be. I missed posting yesterday on actual Friday. His mother is back from her “trip.” The song we sang together to tell her about his camp week is sung to the tune of “If You’re Happy and You Know it.” When I sang it to him last night at bed time, he cuddled up on my shoulder, and I looked at my daughter and whispered, “I think I’m going to cry.” He popped his head right up and said, “Don’t cry, Mamère!” Then we all laughed and laughed. Pure Joy!
Uncle Ric fixed your tires, so you could stroll. Svitlana gave you vegetables to grow. CeCe watered flowers and plants in her yard, And Mr. Al waved good-bye.
KiKi showed you sculptures you could touch. She told you all about them, oh so much. Sophie made quesadilla out of play dough, And Rylee chased water rainbows.
I live on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. I love teaching, poetry, my dog Charlie, my three daughters, and dancing with my husband. This space is where I capture my thoughts, share my insights, and make connections with the world. Welcome! Walk in kindness.
Reflections on the Teche 