A single dandelion is just a weed, poking its spiky leaves right where it has no business being
and yet
a field of them is a wonder to behold, I thought as I gazed at the carpet of yellow and green on my way in from today’s fire drill.
And then I saw her, her kindergarten fingers clutched clumsily around the stems she picked and held while she was in line and wanted to carry inside I didn’t see her go in
but
I found these where she had stood.
Did she get bored? Was she told to leave the outside, outside? Did someone tease her? Was she startled when someone said boo? Was there a grown-up too preoccupied To see and recognize her gifts?
Perhaps one of those things. Perhaps any of those things. We will never know what she intended, only what she left behind:
glimpses of beauty yellow, fragrant, withering along the sidewalk
Each Sunday, I’m working my way through my experiences with race. I’ll share stories and memories from throughout my life. I know I’ll encounter moments of growth that I wish I could relive. I’ll also have to think back on choices that I wish I could remake. Come join me each week.
I remember in college having room in my schedule for a couple of extra classes so I signed up for multi-culti studies
which is where I first learned
about white apologizing and also what-about-ism masked as curiosity
and I remember how hard I worked to understand criticism of dominant culture
and I remember I tried so hard with my Nation of Islam paper to understand how people could hate my people so very much that I almost explained it away, rationalized the caricatures in the Final Call comic strips
but Professor McCarthy said no sometimes prejudice is what it is, regardless of whether it comes from the disempowered and I thought
huh
well I guess that’s something new.
And I remember trying to make sure my student teaching experience brought questions of diversity past FOODFOLKSFUN so we had a debate about immigration which was actually pretty eye-opening (as a matter of fact, so were the swastika doodles one of my loveys drew in his notebook)
and I also realized that for most of my kids the question was not about color of skin but the freeness of their lunch
(and something tells me much of that is still the case, and that if people really figured out that the shaft is given to people across the racial rainbow some folks would really be in trouble)
so sometimes what they needed was to keep making their New Year’s Dragons, their Kente cloths, their tissue paper flowers
as long as the love poured free and so did the morning snacks.
There was a lot that I enjoyed about writing today’s poem. For one, it came as a surprising counterbalance to yesterday’s post. I also gathered inspiration from my time today with an incredible group of educators through the Just Schools Cohort. The work my colleagues do inspires me to do better, to be better.
That, and the fact that I’m a complete math geek at the heart of things. It’s nice when I can flex that muscle every so often.
Those who wish to perfect this world who wish it to be smooth and round and beautiful forget that a perfect sphere is only a thing mathematically:
understand. A circle is but a collection of points, the round world a fractal consisting of infinite corners, with infinite spaces between them
(and no matter how close those points stand, we can find infinite points between them, and points between them, which is why pi is such a big deal anyway)
so maybe the question is not about making our world perfect and round
but
whether we can connect those corners those tiny spaces within and between our selves and others, bending into formation, connecting point to point to point
and
perhaps, rather than a sphere, the shape of a perfect world
What do you do with all of your ideas, they wondered that you gather during the day?
She thought a moment, pursed her lips looked real hard to her left (as if something were there) then she shrugged her shoulders and said,
Depends.
The idea might be thin and wispy so I’d carry it like a scrap of paper, tucking it wherever it might fit best
Or it might be rough and scrabbly, so I might work it with my hands, roll it around my brain until it’s smooth and shiny
For the one that might be handy I’d plunk it into my pocket and carry it around with the keys and the loose change and the day’s worries until I needed it
Some others still just need to live in my mind, traveling in and out of rooms whispering when they want to and shouting when they must.
Her head is littered with poetic debris – random shrapnel of thoughts the daily barrage of metaphor that obscures her vision:
the cairn of rocks from her nature walk how trees grow through fences (and how they’re like some teachers) the many places where she stores her ideas how grief attracts more attention than joy the waiting-for of lilacs the student who opens her eyes to hyenas, misunderstood the giving-away of writing time (and the pale ritual she’s resigned to)
She can’t not see things as a poet, without lines and images swirling, accumulating in staggering piles so all she can do is sweep up after herself or open the door and let them blow away
Today is a Sunday. Which is traditionally my Sunday Sit-Down day. But it is also April 18. So today, Sunday Sit-down will have to take a proverbial back seat.
Six years ago today, I was with my husband, enjoying a beautiful spring day while working the hostas in the garden. I received a phone call that my brother was in the emergency room in St. Louis, five hours away. Things didn’t look good. I lightening-quick packed a bag and jumped into the car, only to find out he was gone by the time I hit the highway.
After a seemed-like-forever road trip, and after a few heartbreaking hours at my sister-in-law’s house, and a weary, disconsolate landing at my parent’s place, I was alone, silent with my thoughts. Six years ago, on that couch in a darkened living room, I felt myself in the midst of everyone’s else’s grief and sorrow and this poem is what came to me. I’m sharing it again now.
So I heard this story the other day About a guy Who saw a lama for his pain.
And the lama Had trained his heart To grow big as the sea So it could shoulder the Burdens of the suffering And replace them With love.
The lama Asked for the guy’s hands And took them Into his And he asked for the guy’s grief And took it Into his heart And the guy felt better.
I want to do that.
Not to be the guy.
The lama.
Let my heart swell Limitless Let love flood.
Place your hands into mine. I will ask for your pain And my heart will open wide Wider Wider And swallow your pain In love.
Here’s another poem I’ve brought out from the dusty corners. I remember when I wrote this, and everything about this writing hummed along until I got. To. One. Line. I worked and reworked and reworked, and put the whole darn thing away because I couldn’t get the right word.
I STILL don’t have the exact right word for that line. Bonus points if you can figure out which one I struggled with.
Who knows? Some day, that right word will come to me and I might, just might, come back and make one last edit to this poem. But until then, as they say, I shall “bless and release.”
In the meantime, it’s also hit me that I started this poem in pre-COVID times. I think it reads differently in today’s context. That’s okay with me too.
Just like the kosher lady who sneaks pancakes with bacon I awake into action Cheerfully rouse the troops Serve a nutritionally-balanced breakfast Drop the kids off with a smile Hi! How are you doing today? Great! And you? Just fine. I greet my colleagues in the same fashion As we Gather In important meetings And sit rapt. I stop at the store, exchanging Currency and small talk Great! And you? Just fine.
Just fine. How I want How I wonder How I wish
The feeling of Shrugging off appearance Sloughing away Thick skin Broad shoulders Heavy heart A shedding of pretense Leaving me At the intersection Of intent and reality.