Extraordinary In the Ordinary

I thrive in pastures and woods while the scents of soil and pine surround me. Blue jays, cardinals, mourning doves, crows, chickadees, nuthatches, woodpeckers, and tufted titmice - a motley congregation - share their woodland territories with my husband and me. They punctuate the air with a chorus of chirps and cheer as they fly about the business of winter survival: foraging for seeds and insects beneath tree bark and on evergreen branches. A bird-feeding station in our yard supplements their rations with suet and sunflower seeds. In late afternoon, I pause and admire the birds' diligence for finding food before the sun sets and they seek shelter in a tree cavity for the long night ahead.   

At dusk, I often hear two barred owls calling to each other somewhere in our woodlot: "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you - all?" Sometimes close. Sometimes far away in various corners of the neighborhood. Always, my longing to see one face to beak. The odds remain slim. I'm an early-to-bed sleeper due to my farm upbringing. The owl is nocturnal and preys on rodents. I'm snoring when the owl begins its hunt.

Recently, I glanced out a window and saw a female barred owl (I assumed female because females are larger than males) perched in a gray birch tree mere feet away from the house. This gift, this unexpected manna from heaven, charmed me. Like a child binging on Halloween candy, I feasted on the extraordinary in the ordinary: the owl's calm presence, facial disk, large brown forward-facing eyes, hooked bill and talons, barred feathers across her breast, and streaked feathers lengthwise down her belly. She's not a bold dresser, but she doesn't need to strut her stuff back and forth along a branch. Her fearlessness is the only fashion statement she needs to make. 

After several minutes (not long enough!) the owl flew away between the pines, maples, and birches. The unexpected sighting of a fellow creature of blood and bone nourished my spirit. Winter is harsh, cold, and often cruel. The pleasure of observing an owl - a bucket list number - brightened the day into one of warm possibility. People tramp hither and yon in search of the holy. This morning holy found me.

Snow

I imagine these mourning doves sunning themselves in our backyard are discussing the recent big storm that dumped sixteen inches of wet, heavy snow in our area.

Winter

 

In winter, our hens become confused: cold, snow, wind, rain, ice, sun, or warmth. They seldom know whether it's going to be a good morning to leave their coop's shelter or whether they'll slide down an icy ramp only to become buried in snow up to their rumps. Winter mornings are like that for me too.

Thanksgiving

Each year, during some quiet moment during this season of Thanksgiving, I like to number a sheet of blank paper 1-my current age. Then I list everything I'm grateful for in my life, my community, and the world. This exercise quickly silences any murmuring and complaining I may be tempted to do. Perhaps it will do the same for you. What are you grateful for this year?

This exercise works well with students of all ages too - no matter what course you're teaching.

Mom Day Love

I am blessed with flowers & love.

             






                                                

            Enough said.

                                                                            

Grace & Magic

My latest blog post for the Minerva Rising Literary Journal at minervarising.com.

Grace & Magic

It was the summer of 1972. At the time I lived with my parents on a modest 110-acre dairy farm. Imagine a white clapboard farmhouse with a front porch, a weathered gray barn, pastures abuzz with grasshoppers, and black-and-white cows slurping water out of a small, shallow pond.  

I tottered on the brink of adolescence, bookish and lonely. Our closest neighbors lived a mile away. My best friend lived on the other side of town. And then, city people “from away” purchased an abandoned house just up the road—maybe a quarter mile or so. They created a summer retreat and returned year after year. I don’t know about you, but over the years a person here and a person there have unexpectedly touched my life. Each time I’d never ever be the same again. One of the city people, a girl my age, became the first of them.     

She had traveled to Boston and Chicago, took ballet lessons, ate yogurt—whatever that was—and gasp! wore a bra. These observations elevated her to a dizzying height of sophistication I couldn’t match. My greatest accomplishment to date had entailed riding my bicycle four miles to the local mom-and-pop store for potato chips and root beer.    

I offer you a poem in tribute to memories of those who grace our lives with magic.  

Lost to Inexperience

Once, I watched you twist your long hair into

a tight bun against the soft nape of your neck,

and shut my eyes while you fastened it with

a shiny hair clip.

I wanted to kiss you when you turned around

and smiled at me, but the moment passed

into other moments and disappeared into the air

like a wisp of smoke.

Another time, you baked sweet cinnamon bread,

served me warm chunks slathered with honey butter,

and brushed crumbs from my lips.

My fingers brushed against your hand, and you

slipped away, pirouetting in perfect form across

the wooden floor until you paused, and bowed

to my inexperience.

My favorite photograph shows our faces in shadow,

your arm draped across my shoulders.

I kept the picture on my dresser until it faded,

and I couldn’t see our faces any longer. 

After graduation you attended Julliard.

I worked in an office filing people’s taxes.

When I called you one rainy Saturday,

Oh, is all you said.

Writing Circle

 

This week I started a 5-week writing workshop at a local cancer center. The flier for the workshop includes the following information:

 

Writing is a valuable tool for tapping into our memories, feelings, thoughts, and beliefs. Writing relieves stress, improves communication skills, and provides clarity, perspective, and potential solutions to life’s ongoing challenges.  

Writing is also a meaningful way to celebrate and record our experiences and life lessons for our children, grandchildren, and future generations to come.   

The Pen in Hand Writing Circle provides an opportunity for you to write in a safe, comfortable atmosphere. Grammar, spelling, and punctuation are on vacation while you write. This is not a therapy group though painful topics may arise in your writing. That’s okay. Release, clarity, and insight are often found while writing through the discomfort.  

Our time together will include guided writing exercises that invite reflection and discovery. Elements of nature, scraps of poetry, literature and music, art, photographs, dreams, and letters will inspire us. We may share our writing with the group if we wish though sharing isn’t required. We’ll write and discover what our souls are longing to tell us. 

If I write what my soul thinks,

It will be visible, and the words

Will be its body.

n  Helen Keller