10/30

some nights a haiku
will have to do— my muse waves
from tomorrow

9/30

White Noise

wind howl
thunder crash
rain patter splatter splash

keyboard tap
pencil scratch
bookpages flutter float flash

teakettle whistle
mouse click
poet slurp slump sleep

8/30

double chocolate
cupcakes pink sugar sprinkles
delicious Monday

7/30

An Ode to Spring

We've waited all winter,
all day, for the grey to lift,
the snow to melt, the sun
to shine. Late afternoon,
the sun burns away cloud
cover, and brilliant blue
stuns our weary eyes.

I walk around my neighborhood.
Sidewalks, yards, parks
teem with life: the couple
chatting in American Sign
Language. The father and son
casting reels into the turgid
creek water. The family walking
along the lake, dark coats, hats,
except the smallest child: twirling
in a pink and white skirt, casting
blossoms with each turn.

In the next block, I smell charcoal
charring meat. Teens propel scooters
and skateboards up the sidewalk,
and kids brandish holiday decor,
finally out of season: dried wreaths
and plastic candy canes.

At the park, parents push children
higher, soaring into the blue on
the four seat swingset. Toddlers amble,
and two girls race, playing tag or
hide and seek or both, coats cast
aside, cheeks ruddy, skirts billowing,
laughter echoing long after I'm
back home, stirring pots and opening
oven doors, sipping wine to celebrate
spring, spring, Spring.

6/30

Summit

I leave base camp early. Stars wink
behind dark trees. I trek up, past craggy
rocks and gnarled trees, moon setting
and sun rising.In the alpine meadow,
scarlet, gold, and amethyst blooms
fill the treeless expanse. Clouds zip
across the sky, snagging mountain tops,
hiding the sun. As I climb, breath ragged
with each mountain-climber step
(step pause step pause),
I catch scattered rays, snatches of blossom,
trail of clouds, until I stand, at the summit,
bathed in color, swimming
in light, touching
heaven.

5/30

puddlelicious
sidewalks yards parking lots
snowbergs melt melting

4/30

Peony

after Georgia O'Keefe

bold curves

pastel folds

ruffled edges

smoldering center

spilling

lush

plush

shimmering

me

3/30

Wednesday

All day I dream: a green leather chair,
tucked in a sunny corner. The Sunday
Times. Steaming Cafe au Lait, a perfectly
ripe pear. Muted Spring bird song. Yoga
pants and wool slippers. One uninterrupted
hour of solitude: bliss.

2/30: latte

Hot sweet elixir
capped with foam
my vice, my salvation.

1/30: modern

In celebration of National Poetry Month, I intend to write one poem each day throughout the month of April.

Today I taught High Modernist poetry, linked to modernist art and music. This poem echoes some of the works we discussed.


Nudes descend staircases
in a discordant rite of Spring,
as blackbirds watch wet
petals unfurl and fill wheel-
barrows with the pure products
of America.

daily bliss: after the storm

A 12 inch surprise, snowflakes swirling in the wind all night long, leaving sensual swoops on rooftops, driveways drifted shut. 

This morning I set out for a walk on my usual path, on the neighborhood sidewalks, which should be passable today, a full day after the storm. Most of the sidewalks were neat, with a skiff of snow providing traction (better than Tuesday's icy layer I trod upon). But the street corners! Huge mounds of snow from city plows, blocking easy passage. I stepped up and slid down several, enjoying the challenge. 

Along the way, I encountered pristine patches of sidewalk in front of homes for sale and abandoned rentals. I knew I would face more uncleared territory along a swath of public-owned land alongside the lakeshore. 

I was not daunted. 

Perhaps I should have been. The previous picture is the end of my uncleared path, where a natural valley in the drifting made for easy passage. In other spots, however, I would sink down to my knees, and rise up, only to find myself sinking in a few inches the next step. I sought firmer packed snow in the detritus of snow plows, or shallower snow on the edge of a drift. But mostly, for a good quarter mile, I trudged deeply, and slowly, practicing the mountain-climber step: one step, breathe/rest, next step, breathe/rest. I paused to snap photos of the majesty of waves and icebergs, of blue sky and sunshine battling with grey and clouds. I despaired at moments, looking around me for an easier path.

There was none.

The road I was walking next to is busy, and the wet streets no place for pedestrian traffic. I could turn around, but I was close to home.

The only way out is through, sings Alanis Morissette.

And the rewards: gorgeous vistas, a cardio workout like no other, the cool breeze waking me, the sun inspiring me, the strength of my legs humbling me.

daily bliss: embracing winter

Before Nemo blanketed the Northeast, the as yet unnamed storm draped the Great Lakes landscape with more than 6 inches of snow: perfect snow that frosts tree branches like so much fluffy buttercream. The day after the snow, when the sky was clear and blue, and the temperature soared to 25, I walked around the neighborhood, taking in the snowscape. 

The sidewalks were mostly clear, until I reached a span along undeveloped property. I trudged through knee deep drifts until I reached the corner to see that the rest of the sidewalk, along Lake Michigan, was also unplowed. I drank in the cotton candy clouds hanging over the waves, and headed back up the hill as the sun began to set. 

I was reminded of my first few winters back in my native region, after living in the snowless Southeast for seven winters. I wrestled with winter by embracing the snow, the cold, the slush, the grey. I looked for beauty in the patterns of ice on windows. I walked, skied, and ran outside. I visited the ice arena at the Big Ten school where I worked, and skated circles on smooth ice. 

And then I moved to Wisconsin, where the snow may not always be as plentiful as it was in Michigan, but the temperatures are much colder. Even with a 20 degree threshold for outdoor walks, I found myself stuck inside more days than not. I tapped the arrow key on the thermostat higher, and fashioned my own snuggie out of hooded sweatshirts and fleece blankets. Winter became an endurance race on par with the Tough Mudder. 

My Seasonal Affective Disorder sunk me to new lows, and I found it harder to leave the plush comforts of my fleece and down ensconced pillowtop bed called Cloud. 

This winter, I'm back to embracing winter rather than hiding under the covers. The temperatures are cold, the snowstorms are hitting with unpredictable regularity, and our new house is cold, cold, cold. However, I start each morning with 10-20 minutes of Happy light time, and my brain zings and zaps with positive energy. 

Yesterday a friend mentioned that she was going snowshoeing today, which inspired me to find outdoor winter activities in our area. The local nature center sponsored a candlelit snowshoe hike tonight, so G and I drove a few miles out of town, strapped on borrowed snowshoes, and walked. The snow still draped the branches of trees and bushes, the luminaires cast a warm glow, and the temperature hovered just shy of 30 degrees. The first section of the trail, we were alone, and all we heard was the crush of our shoes on the path. As we began to encounter others, the tranquility was interrupted with the bright flash of cellphone cameras and talk of facebook. But in my heart, I felt the transformative wonder of winter, the beauty of austerity and abundance, commingled. 

When we reached the end of the trail, a fire crackled in an outdoor ring, and indoors, local musicians played smooth jazz. The instant cocoa was thick, rich, and hot, and the gourmet s'mores bar was decadence in a brown paper bag (for ease of transport back out to the fire). I toasted my marshmallow and slid it between two chocolate wafer cookies topped with a Ghiradelli caramel square: so much sweetness. 

And, I'm finding my way home. 

daily bliss: snowflakes

The first snow of the season has danced through the sky all day long, prompting two passes by the city plow, and creating a soft landscape. I've been ensconced in fleece inside all day, still trying to overcome this late semester cold. Besides a walk through freshly fallen snow on a crystalline, blue, sunny, crisp winter morning, this is my favorite way to experience snow: from the warmth within.

As I watch the Lions-Packers battle on the frozen tundra (also from a safe distance), I cut several snowflakes from copy paper. Folding, snipping, playing, experimenting, I created six lacy flakes to grace our front and back door windows.

And I felt a little like a kid again, playing with snow.

daily bliss: taking care

Mrs. Grass' chicken noodle soup, flavor enhanced by a wee golden egg. Kraft macaroni and cheese. Tea. Juice. Warm blankets. Mom's soothing care.

When I'm feeling under the weather, these are the things I long for.

For many years, living alone, I had to drag myself to the store for the provisions, and fix my own soup, brew my own tea, and feel sorry for myself in silence, regaling my Mom with details of my illness over long distance.

Through the years, I turned to friends and neighbors for supplies the very few times I was sick enough to not leave home.

Since Gregg and I have lived together, we've taken on the loving task of caring for one another in sickness. We've discovered that I like to be taken care of; he mostly wants to be left alone. And so we nurture each other in the ways that suit us best. This time around, he fixed me tofu noodle soup following my detailed directions, brewed me tea, brought me water and juice, cooked oatmeal for breakfast, and gave the bed over to me the night I was tossing and turning, shivering and sweating.

Today, when I started feeling better, we made homemade mac-and-cheese-and-broccoli together, and diced peppers and onions for black bean soup, taking care.

There's an art to taking care, balancing the needs of the person being cared for and the person caring. We're finding our way, and giving each other comfort.

daily bliss: haiku

Scratchy throat heralds
One last semester cold
Just in time for finals!

daily bliss: tree

At one time, my Grandparents V. had a Christmas tree farm. And, when my Dad was younger, he and my Uncle sometimes drove trucks full of trees for another farmer. I'm not sure of the logistics of these stories, but I know Dad tells some interesting tales about his brief stint trucking...and I know that for many years, my family would traipse in the woods behind my Grandparents' house in search of a Christmas tree from the stragglers left behind after the switch to a more fruitful form of farming: blueberries. 

Looking for the tree was an adventure, with snowflakes and chilly temperatures adding a certain charm...and discomfort...to our task. I loved trudging through the snow, and I liked watching my dad, and later, my brother, run the saw through the tree trunk. As my feminist consciousness grew, I wonder why I couldn't help with the cutting...until I tried and readily relinquished that task. Mom and I scouted and commented on tree shape. 

After college, when I lived in a series of apartments, I would waver on a tree. It seemed a waste to buy and decorate a tree for a short period of time, as I always spent several weeks back at my parents' house at the holidays. Trees were sporadic. When I moved back to Michigan after grad school, I would trudge through the now sparsely tree-d fields and find a small tree for my apartment. I decked it with my growing collection of keepsake ornaments from my Grandma C. 

In all of these years, I've never had a taller-than-me full size tree.

Until this year. 

Our new living space and higher ceilings, our expanded collection of ornaments (what perfect shower and wedding gifts!) demanded a bigger tree. G and I headed to our favorite tree lot, a family owned business at a local coffee and ice cream shop, where we've purchased the cutest small trees the past few years. This year, we measured our designated tree nook ahead of time, and then unfurled the tape measure in the tree lot. We selected a tall, slender-ish balsam tree on a damp, grey December 1st. We tucked her into the corner of the dining room, where her lights will be seen from outside, and where she will stand at the center of our home. 

Tonight, we gilded her with our ornaments, and dressed her with the skirt Grandma V. made for my bridal shower gift. The stockings I made are hung on the Hoosier cabinet, and memories are everywhere. Each ornament tells a story, represents a moment in time, a friendship, a family connection, a craft project. 

Welcome to our home, tree. We're so glad to share these weeks of love, laughter, stress, baking, shivering, planning, tears, and singing with you. 

daily bliss: books, identity, possibility

My Women and Popular Culture class is currently reading one of my favorite books, Stealing Buddha's Dinner, a memoir by Bich Minh Nguyen, and today we discussed identity. Specifically, we talked about the struggle to claim your identity as an adolescent, torn between being yourself, and competing visions of what's cool or right or comfortable. One of the many aspects I love about the memoir is that Bich reads voraciously, piling up library books, delighting in the free books on Reading Is Fundamental Days, and ogling the Scholastic Book Catalogue. I should note that she's my age, so her examples resonate in that deep "you're of my moment" way.

But I digress. Bich finds herself in books. As the class discussed her identity struggle, I shared some of my story—how being the bookish girl, more comfortable and happier in books than real life, made me a target for some of the "cooler," jockier girls in middle school. I mused to my class that it's a wonder we make it through those times, and bragged that despite, nay, because of my bookish past, here I am, with a whole room of people, who are listening to me...talk about books! Take that, J-- (I named the most obnoxious middle school girl I could remember). My students laughed.

This evening, as I sit here feeling a bit blue, a bit overwhelmed with all the non-reading bits of my job, I realize a few things. One, I'm fairly certain that J- had issues of her own. We all did. Two, I don't think I've entirely made it through that struggle yet.

I am confident with who I am, knowing all too well my flaws and strengths. I know my quirks, and I realize elements that might still change and grow, and elements that are likely fixed (insert detailed list of your own here, dear reader). But as I age, I realize the identity issues remain. They simply take another form, and I don't turn to books as often as I used to for solace, comfort, or understanding (something I need to fix).

My mind keeps circling around motherhood, as that window inches more closed everyday. My fingers ache to trace out gorgeous, achingly true poems and stories, but my mind-heart-soul holds them close out of fear that they will not, ever, be good enough. My soul longs to reconnect with so many friends who've been my saving grace and delight through the years, and who now seem just out of reach. I long to spend as much time as possible with my family. I dream of ways to make my already strong marriage even stronger.

I think about the years I've spent and the years I have left. What do I want to do? Who do I want to be? How much time do I have? I'm at turns urgent and contemplative, anxious and laissez faire.

When the questions and longings seem too much, I cull one of my favorite lines of poetry out of my memory (or flip over my iPad, on which it is engraved):

I dwell in Possibility

And I try to transform the struggle into a wide, free expanse where the future is open before me...sublimely.

daily bliss: haiku

this damp white fog
sandburg pound eliot
creep rush linger

daily bliss: weekend breakfast

Back when G and I were dating, I made special breakfasts most Saturdays and Sundays. These days, I strive to create a non-oatmeal breakfast at least one weekend morning.

As I attempted to fall asleep last night, I conjured up this morning's breakfast: sour cream pancakes (made with part whole wheat flour and touched with cinnamon), with quick strawberry sauce, maple syrup, and toasted almonds.

G magically appeared, bed-headed but bright eyed, right as the last pancake was bubbling in the skillet. Excellent timing.

What a sweet start to a domestic day of holiday decorating and leaf hauling and essay grading and laundry.

daily bliss: purple haze

Purple Haze, Sequim, WA

As the days grow gloomier and colder, small pleasures become more meaningful. 

A wee bottle of lavender essential oil offers tranquility, and happy memories every morning (and some nights), as I shake a few drops in the shower before turning on the water. 

On our honeymoon, Gregg and I stopped at Purple Haze Lavender in Sequim, WA. It's one of many lavender farms in the area, planted with abundant varieties. While Sequim is known to be a sunshiny spot amidst coasts and mountains of grey, on the day we visited, the only color came from the fields of fragrant blossoms. 

And so, as December makes her cool, damp, and grey debut, I conjure up the lavender fields of the Pacific Northwest, and dream of long days of exploration, fueled by love, with every drop of essential oil.