I’ve been raising monarchs. See this post. I am also planning for hybrid teaching, some in person, some virtual. Finding my direction through these tasks has challenged me in new ways.
Male monarch by Judy Rizzo
The word alchemy came across my radar. I found this definition: “a seemingly magical process of transformation, creation, or combination.” The process of metamorphosis is alchemy and in many ways, so is the way we have to teach this year. I decided to mine alchemist for words using Wordmaker. Following a poetic process created by April Halprin Wayland, I wrote a poem that probably doesn’t make sense to anybody but me. Let’s just say, finding my direction through this unique school year has taken some proactive effort. (The words from Wordmaker are in bold.)
Finding Direction
Connect line by line, etch a trail through calm worry, eyes that smile despite each new hurdle to scale. Raise the latch and release butterfly-mail to the gods of ethics— Teach.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Hurricane Laura threatened our area two weeks ago. We were lucky that we didn’t get a direct hit, but I was worried about the eggs on my milkweed plants. I had observed a female flitting around and laying eggs, so I knew there were a few.
Photo by Lory Landry
Lesson #1: Where there is one, there are many: The monarch egg is tiny and difficult to see, so when you see one, there may be more. I cut all my milkweed and put it into small bud vases inside a butterfly enclosure. Before I knew it, one became many. After I counted 30, I stopped counting. Every day there were more.
Lesson #2: They don’t all make it. When we were raising wood ducks, a wise Cajun fiddle player, 20 year old Adelaide, told us, “Don’t get attached. They don’t all hatch.” The same is true of monarch caterpillars. I stopped counting how many I’ve lost. They’ve died at different stages, some as tiny newbies, and others within the chrysalis. I have learned to accept loss as part of the process. Only 2% make it through the whole life cycle. That’s a tough statistic.
Clip from a video shows two caterpillars just days apart each other in growth.
Lesson #3: Farmers rise early. School has started and to be able to get to the chores of cleaning and feeding my “cats”, I have to get up early. The Very Hungry Caterpillar is no exaggeration. They eat and poop a lot! They’ve gone through all my garden milkweed, the trimmings from a friend’s yard, 4 plants I picked up at a nursery, 4 plants that my friend bought, a bag of frozen butternut squash, and half of a fresh butternut squash. I still have some feeding. I am not kidding!
Lesson #4: Hang out with the experts. I have joined a Facebook group called The Beautiful Monarch. You can post images there for celebration, but there are also experienced farmers to offer advice and commiseration. The raising of monarchs is “a whole world.”
Clip from a video of a caterpillar in J-formation getting ready to pupate.
Lesson #5: Give the gift of resurrection: I have had to find and buy more butterfly enclosures. But in so doing, I can spread the joy to others. Judy didn’t understand why her milkweed was bare. At closer inspection, we discovered 4 hungry caterpillars. They came home with me in a small terrarium that she had handy. Once the chrysalises were formed, I gave it back to her to enjoy the emerging stage. I also gave an enclosure with 3 chrysalises to a colleague in need of encouragement.
I have mixed feelings about this whole experience. It’s been a hard job to do well. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time. But isn’t that the way we feel about any new experience, inept yet open to learning? Kind of like educating children in a pandemic.
The Sunday Night Swaggers are back to monthly challenges. This month Catherine Flynn has challenged us to write an In One Word poem created by April Halprin Wayland. See her introductory post here.
I know I am not alone in having a rough beginning to this school year. Foremost on my mind is what is best for kids. Unfortunately, there are many meetings and required gobbledygook to get to the fun part of teaching. Every year, my goal is to inspire explorers, writers, and scholars. Following April’s prompt, I went to Wordmaker to gather words that can be made with the letters in inspiration. Each line ends with a word I chose. Thinking about this exercise was just what I needed to block out the messiness.
Virtual Teacher
I didn’t warm-up for this sprint. Breathless; my hand anoints each name, a nonart list that rips into a class of sorts, a prison on screen, trap of pixels, brain strain. Who’s bringing the aspirin?
In the spirit of language, I rant. Yet, I don’t rant about you. You are the rain to my pain, showing me we can soar.
This week I feature another amazing photo by Molly Hogan. I know we’ve written about webs before, but this one caught my eye for its uniqueness. Find a detail to focus and meditate on, the punctum (See the quote below). Write a poem about this detail. Could our individual poems be put together to create the complete photograph?
In Roland Barthes’s 1981 book Camera Lucida, he introduces the concept of a photograph’s punctum, which can be defined as the sensory, intensely subjective effect of a photograph on the viewer, or as he puts it: “that accident which pricks me (but also bruises me, is poignant to me).” Barthes contrasts the punctum with the studium, which is the more general approach to a photograph informed by historical and cultural experiences. Choose a personal photograph and meditate on the specific conditions, feelings, and circumstances behind it. What do you feel and know from looking at it? Then, identify the precise detail in the photograph you are drawn to—what is it exactly? Using your senses, write a poem that centers and delves into the punctum, the precise detail. What does a detail reveal about the whole?
I chose to focus on the fulcrum that binds the web to the marsh grass.
Silk arrow, a fulcrum balance for delicate lace.
Margaret Simon, draft
Due to the aftermath (no power or internet) of Hurricane Laura, I am posting this for Poetry Friday. We fared well through the storm and have recovered for the most part. Please keep our friends in Lake Charles, LA in your prayers.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
I recently read Anna Quindlen’s Nanaville. I could have written it. Replace her son with my daughter and give Arthur the name Leo, and we are the same! Her grandson Arthur is learning Mandarin and English while Leo is learning Spanish (from his babysitter) and English. Quindlen’s book has inspired me to capture “Small Moments” about my grandchildren.
Leo calls milk “che-che” which is Leo for Spanish leche. He calls water for drinking agua while wawer means bath or swimming pool. Sometimes we assume a word is one he learned in Spanish because we don’t know what he is saying.
Leo is becoming himself and asserting his own language. He has decided to call me “Gon.” This, I guess comes from “grandma”, but it’s not very cute. He says it as a command like “no” or “mine.” We have been trying to get him to call me Ma mère because his grandfather wants to be Grandpère. Grandpère has become the sweetest soft sound of “Pee-père.” Leo has made the connection now, so following his command “Gon!” comes sweet eyes and “Ma mère.”
In addition to language, I am fascinated by how Leo plays. On Saturday a friend stopped by and brought me two quilts she had made for the boys. Leo chose the one with fish and gators on it. We laid it out on the kitchen floor, and I opened a drawer full of paper products: plates, napkins, and cupcake holders. He went back and forth from the quilt to the drawer to create a picnic. Here is a picture of him with a paper plate of goldfish, a favorite snack. “Shish.”
The thing about language is that it it the ultimate transactional process. If you watch children acquire language, you can see them not only speaking but arranging the known world. We ask them questions we know they know the answers to–What color is the ball? Where do frogs live?–so that they can practice the arrangement. It’s also pretty thrilling to be part of the process, and for a grandparent it’s tantamount to learning a new dialect.
Anna Quindlen, Nanaville
We ask Leo questions all day long. And he labels things. He also makes connections. He will point to the bayou and say “wawer” and follow it with “boat!” Then he waves because that is what we do. Watch for boats and wave to them. He sees a man wearing khaki pants and a hat cutting the grass and says “Pee-père.”
One of my favorite connections he’s made is the portal we use to call my parents. He says, “Pop!” He’s getting to know my parents in a different way using technology, but they are a part of his life and his vocabulary.
At 11 months, Thomas, Leo’s cousin (my second daughter’s son) is experimenting with his body, crawling at lightning speed and climbing stairs equally as fast. I could have sworn last week when I kept Thomas overnight, he echoed, “Night night.” I recall that his mother spoke early.
As a grandmother, I have the luxury of time with and time without my grandsons. I can pay attention to these milestones. Make note of them. Marvel at them. I am an observer. On the sidelines to the great miracle that is language and love.
Welcome to This Photo Wants to be a Poem, a weekly poetry prompt modeled after Laura Purdie Salas’s 15 Words or Less. We invite you to write a small poem in the comments and write encouraging comments to other writers. No judgements here. Just playing with words.
Today’s photo comes from poet Donna Smith. She lives in Maine and recently biked near the Kennebec River. Maine is a place I’ve never been, but I imagine summer is for outdoors. Not like in Louisiana where you can only tolerate short bursts outside. Donna has returned to Maine after spending some time in Pennsylvania. She is happy to be back. On Facebook she draws a squiggle and writes a poem each day. Here’s a recent one:
The Stairs
The stairs go up The stairs go down They also turn and Turn around They go from here And end up there Just when you think You know just where The stairs will lead You to a place You’ve never set your foot or face But don’t despair Don’t cry or mope The stairs mean that There’s always hope Hope for a place Of peace and love Of open doors And blue above I know it’s there And you can, too Step up, step down Keep stepping true. Then all at once You will arrive The steps lead you To full alive.
By Donna JT Smith, 8/18/2020
“Me and my bike relaxing by the Kennebec on a beautiful summer evening.” by Donna Smith
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Temperatures are high in these parts, and the virus doesn’t care. I haven’t seen my parents in person since Christmas. My mother sent me a Portal that works like Facetime through Facebook Messenger. The screen props up on the counter in the kitchen. Every time Leo (20 months) comes over, he points to it and says “Pop!” That’s my dad. That’s how he knows them, through the Portal.
My father has not been big on social media, but in the last month, he’s posting almost daily reports, “Reports from an independent retirement home.” They have been on lockdown for two weeks and were finally released on Saturday (Covid tests negative) to go downstairs for meals again. Here is one of my dad’s posts.
What does one look forward to when you are in quarantine? It’s different I imagine for everyone. As days go by, the options diminish. It gets down to such things as the next nap, the next meal, the next unexpected package, even the mail. Then there’s TV, which ends up being a search for the never found good program. My solace is a good book, which often ends up being the next nap. And so the circle goes on and on. The challenge becomes the acknowledgment that where you are is where you are and you’d better adjust to it. Part of the adjustment is to occasionally posting my thoughts. I hope you don’t mind.
John Gibson
Dad doesn’t know it, but I’m collecting his posts. I started doing this thinking I’d make a found poem, but now I like the way they speak themselves, full of his unique voice.
Andy Schoenborn posted the #OpenWrite prompt on Monday’s Ethical ELA. (Click the link to see the full prompt and read some amazing poetic responses.) Here is my poem draft:
My dog, Charlie
Weather Report
The dog lies at my feet on the cold floor because Heat is unbearable at 91 in dog years, the age of Mac in human years, when the virus took him.
Heat doesn’t care if you are young or old or if you have people who love you. I see my parents through a screen. Their weather changes daily with temperature checks, sticks up the nose. (It was reported that my dad yelled from the pain.) Funny if we didn’t care so much about isolation, the comfort of a friend to eat ice cream with.
Hurricanes come in late summer when we’ve let our guard down, when masks fall to our chins, when we just want to hug because another person, human, grandmother, friend has died.
The weather channel broadcasts 24 hours a map covered in red.
On Tuesday I treated myself to a virtual writing marathon sponsored by the National Writing Project. #WriteAcrossAmerica. I showed up for the last stop on a journey across the country. I’m sorry I missed out on all the other stops. This last one was in New Orleans where the writing marathon originated.
Years ago I would spend some time each summer at the New Orleans Writing Marathon organized by the Southeastern Louisiana Writing Project. Three to four days of walking the French Quarter and writing led to lifelong friendships and a few memorable writing pieces.
Unfortunately, the virtual marathon happened in my own house through a screen, but because of the miracle of technology, I was able to connect with new friends and see some old ones. We had three writing sessions and shared in small break out rooms.
The third writing session led me to this poem, still quite drafty. I was just getting my writing muscle to work and the whole thing was over, not a marathon at all, but a quick 75 minute sprint.
Muses
Muses have a lost sense of time. They live in the back of Napoleon’s Bar drinking Pim’s Cups.
I’ve asked them to visit me here on the bayou steeped in cafe au lait brown buzzing with cicada song.
They come in the long shadows of a summer afternoon. or in the fractal face of a sunflower in bloom.
Muses mock me with their silver linings, here then there, then nowhere, hiding in plain sight.
Welcome to This Photo Wants to be a Poem, a weekly poetry prompt modeled after Laura Purdie Salas’s 15 Words or Less. We invite you to write a small poem in the comments and write encouraging comments to other writers. No judgements here. Just playing with words.
Today’s photo comes from teacher/poet/photographer Molly Hogan. She lives in Maine and recently photographed the marsh. This photo with its sepia tones attracted me. The soothing sway of nature keeps me sane these days, and I am grateful for Molly and others who post such wonderful natural landscapes.
Marsh by Molly Hogan
In this yellow light, an elegant ballet of marsh grasses shine.
Today is my 38th wedding anniversary. Yesterday I was buying a last minute card for my husband, and I told the clerk, “I almost forgot; tomorrow is my 38th wedding anniversary.”
She smiled under her mask and behind plexiglass and said, “That’s so nice.” Something in her voice made me hear her longing for love in her own life.
I replied, “It is nice when you find the right one.”
I’ve been blessed I found him so early in my life. I was not yet 21 when I walked down a long, candlelit aisle knowing with confidence I was doing the best thing I could ever do. And I was so right!
On Sundays we change the sheets. Sometimes he’ll put them back on the bed before I know it, a sweet surprise. And sometimes we make the bed together. I am reminded of this love poem by Li-Young Lee from Behind My Eyes. Li-Young Lee turns this chore into a love song.
to hold :: li-young lee
So we’re dust. In the meantime, my wife and I make the bed. Holding opposite edges of the sheet, we raise it, billowing, then pull it tight, measuring by eye as it falls into alignment between us. We tug, fold, tuck. And if I’m lucky, she’ll remember a recent dream and tell me.
One day we’ll lie down and not get up. One day, all we guard will be surrendered.
Until then, we’ll go on learning to recognize what we love, and what it takes to tend what isn’t for our having. So often, fear has led me to abandon what I know I must relinquish in time. But for the moment, I’ll listen to her dream, and she to mine, our mutual hearing calling more and more detail into the light of a joint and fragile keeping.
Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. She is a retired elementary gifted teacher who writes poetry and children's books. Welcome to a space of peace, poetry, and personal reflection. Walk in kindness.
Reflections on the Teche 