Honestly, I’m not sure if I’ll be home soon. I’m glad you were able to see me. I love how you hear a different story from my eyes,
how we find honesty under the moon– a strawberry moon rising– like a beacon through the trees.
You read me with an elder’s wisdom. Tears well up when you hold my heart with your eyes, how they flow with knowing. Your own tears leaking onto your cheek.
You never even met my father, but he was speaking through you, his presence nowhere and everywhere.
Honestly, the well of deep compassion grows when watered with our tears.
Whimsy doesn’t care if you are the driver or the passenger; all that matters is that you are on your way. [Bob Goff]
Just like exercise, drinking water, and calling your mom, whimsy should be a part of your day. But you can’t really create whimsy. If you relax and smell the roses, is that whimsy or wonder? No matter! This is Ruth’s invitation: “Look around your corner of the world and find something whimsical. Take a picture. Write about it. (Don’t make this more complicated than it needs to be.)”
The weather has turned quite chilly, so I’m not spending much time outside. But yesterday when the recess bell rang, I walked outside to chat with colleagues and shot a photo of the sky. My friend Erica said, “You always stop to smell the roses.” Doesn’t everyone? If you are not one of those people who looks up, smells the cool air, and takes time to notice the wildflowers, then take a little advice from me; start now!
January Sky by Margaret Simon
My grandchildren are an endless source of wonder and whimsy. When I was with them last weekend, my daughter was trying to put hooks on the back of a framed painting. She had gotten out all the tools she needed and put them on the counter. Leo, age 3, loves to work with real people tools. When he started whining that he had to see his mother, I knew what he really wanted was to “help” her fix the frame.
I called to him as he clung to Maggie’s leg crying “I want Mommy!”
“I have a tool here and some yarn that needs fixing.” I held up a crochet needle and a strip of red yarn and a toilet paper tube. He came running, sat down next to me, and patiently wove the yarn in and out of the TP tube. It was a brief moment of whimsy and wonder and his mother was able to finish her project.
Some of us in the PF world are working on poems for a big competition inspired by Taylor Mali’s metaphor dice. I wouldn’t post anything I thought could be a contender but this draft was fun, whimsical practice. (Metaphor roll: my heart, bright, brand new toy)
The Possibility of Death; The chance for Wonder
Hold me, he whines, straining to see what cool tools Mom has gathered for a project. She raises the toddler to sit on the counter-top and walks away to find more supplies. Meanwhile, the coasters in metallic gold look shiny in the toaster. Then “NO!” Daddy saves the boy and the toaster of coasters.
Each day holds the possibility of death.
My heart is like a bright brand new toy, which is to say Mamère has cool tools, too– crochet needle, yarn, and a cardboard tube that temporarily become a magic wand sprinkling sparklers through a telescope.
You know how sometimes without any prompting from you a “memory” pops up on your phone, a photo that you’d totally forgotten about and most often, enjoy seeing again. Jogging a memory of another time and place. But I’ve noticed when it comes to flowers, the memories are a repeated vision of the flower I took a picture of yesterday. That happened to me twice this week. Blooming seems so miraculous and random and something we have little control over. It just happens. There is consistency in the blooming of a flower. They come back around again.
This week I took a picture of this amazing gladiola. I shared a small poem in response on my Instagram.
This May morning shows its gladiola heart sipping summer sun. Margaret Simon, #haiku #poemsofpresence
I found a similar photo in my phone album from a year ago. Last year during lock down when I was walking every day.
On Monday, I heard a call for poems from Kwame Alexander on NPR. He creates crowdsourced poems based on small poems people send in. This week’s prompt was from Maya Angelou’s poem “Still I Rise.” I wrote and sent in this small poem.
Still, I rise with the sun following a path through watermint where the scent fills me.
Still, I rise to feel her gentle kicks inside a waterwomb knowing love grows from my seed.
Still, I rise to watch ducklings drop to waterglory following Mama hen through fervent streams.
Margaret Simon, all rights reserved
So I rise each day for a walk. I take photographs of flowers again and again. I will keep taking photos of flowers. Why not? They make me happy!
This Canna Lily came back after the big freeze. I take a picture of it every year.
Gardenia is my favorite scent. I’ve been unsuccessful at the growing of a gardenia bush. For now, I enjoy cut ones in a vase in the church hall.
Spiritual Journey First Thursday is being gathered today by Carol Varsalona at Beyond Literacy Link.
Carol is gathering Spiritual Journey posts today around the topic Blossoms of Joy. When I first typed it, I wrote “Blossoming Joy,” which slightly changes the blossoms into action. I have come to believe that we are all in the process of blossoming. We never arrive because life is hard and good and disappointing and joyful all wrapped up on any given day.
I’ve been listening to Untamed by Glennon Doyle. It’s a book full of quotable quotes. This is one that spoke to me.
“I am here to keep becoming truer, more beautiful versions of myself again and again forever. To be alive is to be in a perpetual state of revolution. Whether I like it or not, pain is the fuel of revolution. Everything I need to become the woman I’m meant to be next is inside my feelings of now. Life is alchemy, and emotions are the fire that turns me to gold. I will continue to become only if I resist extinguishing myself a million times a day. If I can sit in the fire of my own feelings, I will keep becoming.”
My spiritual journey is the alchemy that keeps me blossoming. I’m in a constant revolution with my inner and outer selves. Outside I want to show I’ve got everything under control. No rocky roads here. Smooth sailing. I know what I am doing, and I am doing it.
Practically every day, someone in the halls will comment about my appearance. Whether it’s the cute Dr. Seuss “Teacher, I am!” mask or the shoes I’m wearing, someone will say something. I know. I know. This is how women interact. I find myself doing it every day.
In fact, one day a little kindergarten girl was rushing in the hallway. She said, “I have to go to the bathroom,” and rushed by me. Then I heard from her little sweet voice, “But I love your hair!”
Perhaps she genuinely had noticed and liked my hair. But it struck me that even our young girls are trained to greet another girl with a compliment about her looks.
I’m not saying this practice is one I would change so much as notice. Our society trains girls at a very young age that how you look matters. Is this healthy?
Lucille Clifton is one of my favorite poets. Years ago I had the privilege of hearing her read at the Dodge Poetry Festival. Her poem “roots” was the poem of the month for A Network of Grateful Living. I loved the voice and cadence so much that I wrote beside her. Literally placed the poem on a document and wrote my own beside her. Glennon’s words and my own inner thoughts led me to this poem.
One of the most satisfying things about teaching for me is learning. I learn something new every day, and it still surprises me. On Teach this Poem by Poets.org, I learned about a poetic device: caesura, referring to a pause for a beat in the rhythm of a verse, often indicated by a line break or by punctuation. This literary device was used with effectiveness in a poem by Yesenia Montilla,a brief meditation on breath.
A brief meditation on breath
–they’re saying this virus takes your breath away, not like a mother’s love or like a good kiss from your lover’s soft mouth but like the police it can kill you fast or slow; dealer’s choice. a pallbearer carrying your body without a casket. they say it’s so contagious it could be quite breathtaking. so persistent it might as well be breathing down your neck—
A long held belief of mine is that our bodies will tell us when to pause. I’ve believed this since 1995 when a herniated disc in my spine caused severe pain and subsequent surgery. There was nothing to do but pause and heal. Whenever I moved, pain would send me back. Luckily, I’ve not had any serious trouble since then, but I have learned to listen and pause when my body tells me to. I haven’t quite conquered yet the annoyance and guilt that sets in. We always want answers, so when the answer is “wait”, we twiddle thumbs and pace and complain.
Pause to enjoy the azaleas– Walking to the parking lot from school, I stopped to notice how two azalea bushes were intertwined.
Following The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, I’ve been writing morning pages for a few months. They are scribbled scratches before my coffee, before my mind wakes up. I really wasn’t sure this exercise was working for me. I’ve been resistant and irritated about it. Like when my body hurts, morning pages were a kind of pain in my side. I did them out of obligation, a commitment to a weekly group. But yesterday morning, a poem came out. And today, I wrote about a picture book idea.
So, wait a minute…you’re telling me that writing morning pages every day since January 3rd is finally opening up your creativity? Could it really take that long? Perhaps it won’t for you, but it has for me. And I’m still unsure if I’ll keep up the practice after our last meeting this week. Yet, there is something to be said for taking a pause, taking your pulse before the day begins.
On Sharing our Stories Magic, Ruth posts a weekly writing prompt. This week the prompt came as a challenge to write about a sunset without using color or seasonal language yet evoking a sense of both through the story. My mind naturally goes to poetry, so I wrote a poem. In June of 2019, my parents moved to a retirement home, and my siblings and I cleared out their home of 30 years. Even though, thankfully, Mom and Dad are both living healthy lives, the move was like a death. Their home on the lake had become a peaceful vacation spot for me and my family. I mourned this loss in this sunset poem.
The Last Time
You won’t know when the last day comes, but it will come with a sunset while you sit in the porch swing dangling your feet like you did as a child perhaps talking with your brother.
Hummingbirds will hum at the feeder, a blown glass ornament your mother left behind for you to fill with sweet water just to see their wings flutter hungrily, hearts beating faster than the speed of sound.
The orb that makes each day new ends this day in silent symphony hovering over the lake bathing it in jewels you can hold in your hand lay down in the velvet-lined jewelry box she left in her closet for you to find.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
A friend sent me an article suggestion from The Atlantic. “Ode to Low Expectations” by James Parker. Here’s a quote to start off my Slice of Life March Madness:
We’re half-finished down here, always building and collapsing, rigging up this and that, dropped hammers and flapping tarps everywhere. Revise your expectations downward. Extend forgiveness to your idiot self. Make it a practice. Come to rest in actuality.
James Parker, The Atlantic March 2021
I needed to read this before committing to a month long writing challenge. I need to lower my expectations and be myself on this page. Who else is any better or worse? Who else could I even try to be?
I’m testing my creativity every day. If I place my hands on the keys and get something written, then I’m ahead of the game. I’m just warning you, if you are a reader of my blog. Every day is a risk. Every day is scary. But I am here. Will you join me?
Leo is learning the difference between his reflection and his shadow. He sees himself in a mirror, says, “Cute Shadow!” I am finding myself fascinated by how his little brain makes connections. How does language develop? What I am learning is that it is not at all linear. We start by repeating things a big person says. Leo parrots often. I was writing a card to a friend and said, “Dear Ellen.” He took the paper using the pen to draw right over my words and said, “Dear Ellen.” But then he kept scribbling hard and said, “Words!” And then some gibberish I didn’t understand. I took a video on my phone and sent it to Ellen.
I don’t have much video from my own children growing up. I’m sure I was as fascinated, but I was also busy being their mom. Being grandmother allows me time to reflect. I am writing things in a notebook for him. I’ve decided not to worry whether or not he will care about this when he gets older. That is not the point. I think that so many times as someone who wants to write, I worry too much about audience.
I read this morning on the Writer’s Almanac that Toni Morrison felt free when she wrote. She didn’t worry about her audience. She just marveled in the way writing consumed her. “But the writing was the real freedom, because nobody told me what to do there. That was my world and my imagination. And all my life it’s been that way.”
I don’t expect to be Toni Morrison, but I can take a bit of freedom from her. Let go and just write what comes. Ruth’s invitation today was to write fast. This was a quick write, about 20 minutes or so. Just enough time to bake a brownie or write a post. Both are sweet in their own way.
Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. She teaches gifted elementary students, writes poetry and children's books. Welcome to a space of peace, poetry, and personal reflection. Walk in kindness.
Reflections on the Teche 