From April 21, 2016. I thought about writing a poem that described how I was feeling. Realized I had already written one:
She told me That someone told her To set aside Time Each day for a Reckoning, A counting of things One carries.
After checking my pockets, My shoulders, My soul, I have this List Of what I brought to school today: My tea thermos A school bag The weight of my brother’s passing Eighteen mental reminders A wish to do today better Four separate to-do lists The grief and anger of loved ones The burden of self-expectation The need for self-forgiveness, And the restorative power of Patience, Patience, Patience.
Since when did streaking become something poets did each day in April?
All I really know is I’m not as ambitious as WordPress would think
And while statistics can offer encouragement they’re sometimes heavy:
an extra bag to sling over a tired shoulder, drag to the next day
or so, until I decide enough is enough and just let it go.
Post-script:What can I say? Deciding to write every day is a commitment. Which, I’m realizing, means that writing every day might not necessarily be a joy. Today, I’m writing. And and some point I will get my energy and mojo back. Another day, I will write something witty or clever or insightful or wise. Today, I will settle for written…
There was that podcast the other day about tacky stuff. Not the tape or the glue or the stick-em-up putty, but the stuff that doesn’t deserve love or fandom, but somehow gets us.
Things I love more than a person should: boxed macaroni and cheese, singing in front of my children, plain marshmallows, new school supplies, the feeling of flossed teeth
Things I love less than a person should: button mushrooms, Tiktok, dog kisses, coffee sitting down to write in discipline, intention
Each day I move myself start to finish, not quite knowing how
I have the energy to keep going but somehow I do…
I do think probably I could use some time to just relax.
Sometimes, when I’m looking for a way to post a poem for the day, I’ll look around for a poetic form I’ve been waiting to try. Today, it’s the Arun, a poem with three sets of five lines, with each line increasing in number of syllables from one to five.
Hey kids! In honor of National Poetry Month let’s try a little FUN with SIMILES
Ever wonder what it’s like to teach a group of eleven-year-olds a new thing in technology?
Forget herding cats or nailing Jell-o to the wall.
It’s like
putting puppies in a box cleaning raw egg with your bare hands riding a bike on top of a skateboard playing checkers with six people at once getting the last corner of a full-sized fitted sheet on a queen-sized bed
except harder.
So. Real talk? Today, I worked with a group of fifth-graders to set up their own blogs on a new platform. Don’t get me wrong: there is some REAL excitement in the air about some new stuff we’re doing, and that will forever be infectious. Enthusiasm on the part of my students will always, always get me out of bed in the morning.
Still, there are moments that test a girl. Those moments make up teaching just as much as those flashes of joy and jubilation. Teaching is astounding. AND it’s hard sometimes. It’s okay for it to be both.
It’s a blessingcurse to live in metaphor: to see sun pushing through clouds, a shoelace refusing to relinquish its knots, extra-long stoplights, a stubbed toe, wondering if these things carry meaning
or just are what they are
and wondering if that’s yet another metaphor
Today’s quadrille was inspired by Raivenne, one of the folks who challenge me to try something new here and there.
They’re weird when the person we wish to celebrate is instead memorialized, made tribute-to.
Grief is weird.
Today, I’m sharing the poem I wrote last year because I don’t think I can do much better – but I’m adding an encouraging post-script for those of you who make it to the end. Thanks for reading.
Birthdays should be marked by cake and ice cream, Instagram posts and Facebook wishes Or texts, the kind with hearts And balloons And silly memes
but this time next time every time
I’d settle for anything that fills the absence.
I draft and scribble out poems in my head:
a catalog of today’s distractions
our conversation in the sun today
the four times I cried (frustration, grief, happiness, gratitude)
how I wonder if other people get to talk to those long-gone, or not-so-long-gone, or if I am lucky or just weird
how dumb it is to depend on words anyway – the arrogance of insisting life can always be willed into poem.
Post-script: In Crossfit, there are often “tribute” workouts dedicated to the memory of those who have fallen, often armed service members or first responders. These workouts incorporate elements or dates from their lives. I thought it was fitting to craft a workout in Jess’s memory, and I put it together with the help of Jess’s younger brother.
I put a call out to my gym members letting them know I’d be doing her workout today. I expected one or two folks to show up and sweat alongside me, but I was floored that so many came out to show their support. Knowing that I could draw on their love and strength brought tears to my eyes.
I just needed one thing, but in my drive to the store I tallied the things I could also gather, until I saw I couldn’t
which reminded me of the barbecue sauce I’ve sought across five stores and just can’t find to save my life,
or that one frozen dinner that was always my favorite, never to be found again in the freezer section,
or those dried apples or the chipotle ketchup or the pancake mix or the beet chips or that spice blend,
and I wonder if my love for a thing is a kiss of death – whether there is a deeper metaphor behind my search, or whether the ephemeral nature of grocery product is what Frost meant when he said nothing gold can stay.
Soapbox: The Way I see Things 