Oak Tree

This majestic oak tree along one of my walking routes marks the eastern corner of our 14-acre woodlot. It seems like a treasured friend each time I walk past it.

Listening

PammieSue Beak
 

The quieter we become the more we can hear.

Free-fall

This morning I nearly wore down a pencil's eraser while mapping out Grappleton Street in Braxton, Maine, the fictional town in my novel-in-progress. Great fun on a rainy day. Satisfying work.

When I wrote my memoir, Sing Me a Lullaby, I knew and understood the characters, story, and themes I fashioned into a manuscript (art, hopefully) for readers to enjoy.

The novel is different. I'm writing toward a general direction and that's all. Writing a memoir was overwhelming enough. A novel is free-fall.

Writing a novel is like solving a word puzzle on a grand scale. The words are typed out in neat lines and rows waiting to be rearranged and moved or discarded - order brought to chaos. Scenes unfold like fine pieces of linen.

Of course, all writers know the work must discover its own path, pace, and personality. All I need to do is show up, stand aside, and allow it to happen.

Violets, eggs, and rebirth

Our violets are in bloom. The hens bless us with eggs every day. Work on my novel in progress, Soup Bones for Sorrow, is going well albeit slowly. Here on Fishbone Farm, we're reveling in Spring's rebirth.

 

Yesterday I submitted final grades for the spring semester. It's always a bittersweet moment. There is relief, certainly, for any semester can seem long and relentless when the sun beckons us outside. Over the winter I critiqued dozens of student essays; oftentimes I served as confidant to their words even while I corrected their spelling and syntax.

 

When a semester ends we exchange our good-byes. I may never see a particular student again. I may never hear the rest of his or her story, and that's where the sadness blends with relief. Their words must live on in my heart. I wish them well.

 

Next week I begin a new adventure. I've been fortunate to be handed the opportunity to develop a 1-week intensive humanities course titled "The "I" and "We" in Contemporary Culture." The course description states:

 

Where does the "I" end and the "We" begin? Every day we are inundated with subtle and not so subtle messages containing rules and pressure to conform and fit the mold of today's society. Claiming our individuality paves the way for living within the clamor, clatter, and clutter of contemporary culture. This 30-hour course provides tools and a pathway for students to discern and claim their individuality while engaging with the communities of their academic studies, chosen career, family, friends, and significant relationships. 

 

The students will analyze selected pieces of non-fiction, fiction, poetry, social platforms, mixed media, and art. Together we'll work to gain a greater understanding of where the boundaries lie between ourselves and others. I'll hear more stories; I'll read more essays.

 

After class I'll return home and stroll our yard, admiring the chickens, violets, and daffodils, before heading inside to labor over my own words on the page. I look forward to the discussions. I look forward to the work.

 

 

 

 



First crocus

Today is perfect raking weather: warm sunshine, a cool breeze, and no black flies or mosquitoes. This morning I raked the lupine gardens and turned and aerated the compost pile with a pitchfork - deeply satisfying work. This yellow crocus is spring's first bloom in our backyard, appearing like a jewel upon the grass.

Nor'easter...the Aftermath

Yesterday's storm dumped 18 inches of wet, heavy snow in our yard. I'm cheered by the fact that the snow will melt soon, and the temperatures will warm. Today the birds are singing again, and a red squirrel is scrounging for sunflower seeds beneath the bird feeder. The chocolate cake is delicious. Life is good. Welcome Spring.

Nor'easter

Here in the Northeast it's been a day of snow snow snow.

Yesterday I heard the chickadees' mating song: a long two-note fee-beeee whistle. I watched a male mourning dove carry a small bundle of sticks in its beak to assist its mate with nest building. It was forty degrees, and the sun warmed my skin. The snow in our backyard had melted around the fringe of our 14-acre woodlot. The hens dug and scratched in the thawing soil rich with chickie delights. They stretched their legs and wings and savored the sunlit feast.

Today they refuse to leave their coop's warmth and the close proximity of grain and water. I imagine the chickadees and mourning doves are huddled on a branch in a sheltered copse of trees. They're not fools. Neither am I. This morning I pulled on long johns and wool socks and baked a chocolate cake to fill the kitchen with warm sweetness. I sipped lemon-ginger tea, watched the snow swirl around outside the windows, and remembered that Spring officially arrives tomorrow morning. Eventually this storm will blow out of town, the snow will melt, and the nest-building will begin again.