poetic bliss: day thirteen

you open your arms
your heart to the lowliest
lambs and we leap—

poetic bliss: day twelve

i believe in poetry
the divine heart body soul
within and beyond.

poetic bliss: day eleven

sometimes poetry isn't pretty, and sometimes it's provocative, and sometimes it's political. 

they want us to think
pregnant possibilities
every single fuck

poetic bliss: day ten

To the Sharpie-wielding Women in the University Bathroom

Where someone has scratched I ♥ Sex
on the blue bathroom wall, you print I ♥ School
in wide tip exuberance, your boldness shining through
the white-out I ♥ Sex, the wall a chiaroscuro of
conflicting desire. In the next stall, you witticize grammar,
pondering the proper use of the semi-colon. You explain,
plainly, and provide an example, erroneous, and then
provide corrective notes. In the last stall, you quote
Bob Marley, urging us to swap the love of power for
the power of love, and I believe you, in your permanent
black ink voices, in your civil disobedience, in your reclamation
of this wall, the space, for something positive and true.

poetic bliss: day nine

The Introvert Professes

In front of class, I ask questions
they stare at desks, windows, wrists.
The bold ones meet my exasperated gaze
and say nothing. We play this game
twice a week and my soul recoils, dreads
the energetic tugs I must now make. I
stifle sarcasm, disappointment, ridicule,
tears. I try to be my best encouraging self.
I call random student names until predictable
hands spike and wave, brains engage, words
tumble out of unhinged mouths. That moment
of silence, before these machinations, is everything
I dread, and nowhere I want to be.

poetic bliss: day eight

Blossoming

I wake with Cat Stevens' words lilting
through my mind morning has broken
like the first morning and I remember
those Easter sunrise services, the voices
joined in song, the pervasive hope, and,
after, the pancakes, chocolate, eggies-I-
can-hold-in-my-hand. This morning, I
walk along a pine needle strewn path
with my parents, watch the tightly held
blueberry buds sway, hold my fiancé's hand,
the thrum of transformation, possibility,
and love radiating everywhere.

poetic bliss: day seven

Holland Spring

Chartreuse leaves unfurl
across the Midwest, and
pollen swirls through the air,
ending in a collective sneeze.
We sit at a high-top table,
sipping beer and watching
the tourists stop amid the tulips,
snapping pictures, thawing smiles
backlit with pink and purple,
yellow and orange petals,
opening to the sun.

poetic bliss: day six

beautiful morning
afternoon of endless road
forgotten poem.

poetic bliss: day five

Today was the last event for the Wisconsin Teaching Fellows and Scholars group I've been privileged to be part of this year. We had a full day: we met, shared stories and posters, ate bad hotel meals, presented at a formal poster session, and then celebrated with a drink in the hotel bar. I believe it was P's comments about the dreamy Mr. Darcy that started a good 20 minutes of multidisciplinary "hot or not," in which my friends named key authors, musicians, and social scientists and I searched google images on my phone and we declared them hot or not. At some point, M reminded me that I still needed to write a poem, as I had announced this poetic bliss project earlier in the day. I recruited their help, another M decided the topic/title, and in the true collaborative spirit we've developed over the past 11 months, we wrote the following poem.

Hot or Not

I'd take the road less traveled with Robert Frost;
Orville is the Wright brother for me.
The whole month in High School that we read the Scarlet Letter,
I was dreaming about Nathaniel Hawthorne.
Viggo is the true Lord of the Rings.
Melville can call me "Ishmael" anytime.
Did you notice Charlotte and e.b. in the corner, touching?
Without Ernest, I bid farewell.

poetic bliss: day four

Floating

The yoga teacher demonstrates
the mudra for grounding, hands
framing a triangle just below the
navel, but I want the mudra for
floating
lifting
soaring
above this terra firma,
this body.

poetic bliss: day three

Hoodie
for Trayvon

I pull you over my head, escaping this world,
these glances. I focus: the path ahead, where
I am going. Safe, secure, warm, dry, home.

poetic bliss: day two

Free to B
for B


Imitation is flattery,
and I wanted your pink
pumps, your wardrobe,
your car: white, fast, turning
heads of young boys.

My whole life, we've loved
pretty, dresses, words,
photos, flowers. We've run
distances, towards and away
from something.

Herbivores, seekers, teachers.
Almost sisters.

poetry bliss: day one

in celebration of National Poetry Month, I plan to write and post one poem each day.

Fashion

These clothes don't fit—

winter wool weighs,

denim waistband gaps.

I cannot be contained.

I long for floaty, flirty,

floral, feminine—young

and dream, not this 

aging exhaustion, these

feet grown tired, the

aching arch in patent

peep-toe pumps. I stare

at 40 and quake, 

barefoot, naked,

me. 

wedded bliss: carrot cupcakes, take one

This morning, as I lay under the layers of warm covers and stretched my sleep-cramped limbs, I counted on my fingers. Six.

"Six months!"

Gregg laughed, knowingly.

"We only have six months! We'd better start planning!"

In our defense—and with many thanks to my mom—many plans are already set in motion. Venue? Check. Caterer? Check. Royal Restroom? Check. Wedding gown? Check. Bride's Attendants notified? Check. Groom's wedding band? Check.

I will spare you the list of pending tasks, except for the most delicious one.

My biggest DIY project is to bake my own wedding cupcakes, a true labor of love that I couldn't be more excited about. We've determined that there should be at least two cupcakes per guest, and we want a variety of four or five flavors. Now begins the arduous task of selecting the best recipes.

Yesterday, I began with carrot, at Gregg's request. I made the recipe from Smitten Kitchen, with a few tweaks: half whole wheat flour, brown sugar instead of white sugar, chopped candied ginger in lieu of ground, and a mixture of toasted pecans and walnuts. I also played with decorative toppings, though I did not play with my frosting technique. I'll save that for another chilly winter day.

The verdict? Gregg loves these cupcakes for their moistness and flavor. I love the flavor but would like a little less moisture, which is always tricky in a carrot cake. I'm going to try my mom's stand-by recipe next, with the spice combinations from Smitten's recipe.

daily bliss: happy holidays!

We're happy holidays folks in our household, not because we hate Christmas and everything it stands for—we both grew up celebrating Christmas at home and at church—but because we have a wide and varied circle of friends who celebrate the range of early winter holidays, and we want to include them. We want the transition between the old and new, the days of dwindling light and growing darkness, to be filled with warmth and love. And, in our minds, that's what all of the holidays do. (save Festivus, but that's a whole other post).

On the solstice, which was also the second day of Hanukah, I made latkes, using the recipe from the red tome of awesomeness otherwise known as the New York Times Cookbook. I riffed a little on the recipe, adding finely chopped rosemary to the batter, and using regular flour (having neither potato flour nor matzo meal). I fried them in less oil than called for, and used a mixture of olive and canola. 

In lieu of the traditional applesauce, I made a chunky pear sauce, infused with vanilla bean and topped with a hint of cinnamon sugar. 

The latkes were tender inside and crisp outside. The pears were edging on sweetness and fragrant. The sour cream, which these two dairy lovers couldn't resist, was tangy. 

As we ate next to our Christmas tree and observed the crystalline night sky, we felt warmth, and most of all, love.

Wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays!

twd: bittersweet brownies

Bittersweet...

Coming back to the ritual of TWD baking in the last weeks of the journey...

The last few golden leaves shimmying and clinging to near-bare branches...

Friends close yet distant...

A semester two-thirds completed...

Saying goodbye to friends who are embarking on new, exciting paths...

Bittersweet...

Like most of life, sadness and happiness intertwined. Longing and fulfillment coexisting.

Bittersweet...
My favorite kind of chocolate, and my favorite kind of brownie.

Leslie from Lethally Delicious selected this week's recipe, which I had made before, but made again on Sunday. While I'm still partially to the fudginess of cocoa brownies, I love the depth and richness and, yes, of course, the bittersweetness of these brownies, not to mention the ease of preparation (one bowl, one baking pan).

twd: depths-of-fall butternut squash pie

As of last Friday, I'm on a facebook hiatus. I had several low days last week, and I realized that part of my blues (besides the encroaching winter and shortened daylight hours) was at once a disconnect from the ones--and hobbies--I so love, and a sense of hyper-connection. That's to say that my time connected to virtual worlds seemed to be taking me away from the pleasures and slower pace of real life. And so, I posted a semi-dramatic status to announce my intent, and logged out. 

Since then, my days have been a bit more reflective and contemplative, with a greater appreciation for sustained thought and activity. I believe the studies that show how technology, with its clickability and fast pace of ever changing stimuli, is changing the way we think. I know it has worked its (evil) magic on my brain. And, so, I'm retraining my brain--with long novels (reading and writing) and projects to be started and completed in one continuous unit of time. 

Activities like baking, especially for Tuesdays with Dorie, the baking group I joined years ago, and abandoned this summer, called to me. My mom is a faithful reader of other TWD bloggers and she told me the group was poised to finish the book at the end of the year. I clicked over to the TWD website and decided to start baking along, again. 

This week, I selected the Depths-of-Fall Butternut Squash Pie chosen by Valerie of Une Gamine dans la Cuisine based on my ingredients at hand--frozen roasted squash, one organic pear, dried cranberries, and the remains of last year's Alabama pecans found in the depths of my mom's freezer.

I used a Martha Stewart pâte briseé recipe, which rolled out beautifully.

I diced (pear) and chopped (butternut squash); I infused (cranberries in bourbon) and roasted (pecans). I sprinkled (cinnamon) and grated (nutmeg) and zested (orange). And the filling looked like a fine stuffing or culinary confetti. 

I spooned the filling into my diminutive pie tin. 

I draped the top crust on, crimped the edges, brushed the top with water, and sprinkled with my favorite hot pink sanding sugar.

With mugs of black vanilla tea in hand, Gregg and I sampled the pie. 

Interesting, different, and texturally unique, the pie intrigues me. I'm not a fan of pumpkin pie, so I was concerned about this pie, but the various fillings and cinnamon-centric spicing keep it from veering too heavily into pumpkin territory. The orange flavor (from zest + juice) was a bit too pronounced for my taste, and I would have liked a touch more sweetness. However, the pie ages and mellows well, and I enjoyed my second piece, eaten two days later, even more than the first. 

Mostly, I enjoyed the mindful creation of the pie, and the expanse of time on a long Sunday afternoon, free of digital distractions, to refocus on myself and my favorite pastimes. 

daily bliss: sailing away

The docks creak as the boat pulls away, easing into the harbor. I'm sleepy awake—a short night's slumber, an early morning, two non-drowsy Dramamine—and I feel a little woozy.

Around me, fellow passengers eat breakfast from trays and the air smells smoky sweet, essence of bacon and maple syrup. Families file outside to watch as we glide into the open sweet water sea of Lake Michigan. People dot the breakwater and piers, waving to the big ship as it cruises west for the last time this season.

The Michigan dunes are impressionistic autumnal. The lake rolls with small waves, and the ship lumbers along, at a slow 16 miles per hour.

I am sad.

The falling leaves, the last day of sailing, both signs of the coming winter. My mom, now out of sight, driving back down the lake, farther away form me. My cell phone spins and roams, still connecting but not for long.

A group of Great Lakes Maritime Academy students gather in the lounge downstairs, and a young man with piercing eyes stares my way.

I sit in the upper aft deck, where small round tables fill an airy enclosed room. I can face forward, which is west, which is the direction of my chosen home, where my fiance waits for me.

A toddler with long blond hair and a pink sweatshirt grapples with a glittery Rubik cube. She sits on her grandma's lap; her mom types a college paper on her laptop, a classic composition notebook at her side.

The boat is full.

A stack of papers fills my clipboard and my purple pen is uncapped and poised to critique my students' words.

Old people, young people sport sea bands to prevent motion sickness, and drink coffee. The ruffle of cards being shuffled, and the banter of multi-person games surround me.

My cell phone sits next to me, as I hope to catch the moment when we slip between time zones. The phone is confused, switching back and forth, and time eludes me.

Our here in the middle of the lake, I am somewhere and nowhere. I am home.

The boat bustles with conversation and activity. A dedicated stream of people perambulates the outdoor deck, eyes shining in the bright morning sun, hair winging back in the light breeze. My cell signal is lost, and I settle in, deeper, into myself.

The 410 foot ship plies the water, frothing the dark aquamarine depths into a deep V and enfolding whirls. One hour away from docking, and the shore of Wisconsin begins to rise on the horizon, shadowy and ill-defined.

A father and young daughter eat soft pretzels. A Grandma walks briskly around the boat. On the fore deck, books claim chaise lounges and, inexplicably, a Canadian flag flutters from the bow.

Back in the aft lounge, a brother cajoles his sister to smile for the camera, "Bree! Say cheese!"  while a large family eats pizza and plays cards. Behind me, a woman meticulously pores over bound lab reports.

People move, shift, pack up, and disappear into the boat, but I stay rooted, a stack of papers, now graded, a slim volume of short stories beckoning like candy.

As we glide into the harbor, I scan the shore for my neighborhood, my workplace. As we pull closer to shore, poised to back into the dock, I circle around to the port side and scan the shore for a familiar figure, tall, dressed in short sleeves and jeans, lifting a Nikon, and walking with a gait I recognize from a distance.

The captain blows the horn a few extra times, and the dock replies. Soon, she will depart for one more trip across the Lake and then settle in for winter.

I gather my bags, walk down the stairs, head into the bright sun, and a warm hug.

daily bliss: late summer, meet early fall

Warm sunshine hits my bare shoulders, and the lake sparkles with caribbean hues. At the farmers' market, huge zucchini and cucumbers share table space with hard shelled butternut squashes and crisp apples. The sun sets earlier everyday, and darkness brings chilliness. It's almost time to put the cotton blanket back on the bed, and to haul out the lightweight sweaters.

My days are filled with teaching, reading for class, and responding to student writing, balanced with journaling, reading for fun, watching football, and trolling wedding sites for inspiration.

I love these bridge seasons of summer to fall, and spring to summer, when the best aspects of each season balance each other.

Like returning to the classroom, and dreaming of the future.

daily bliss: not a princess but a woman

this is not my dress. this is a BIG dress. a heavy dress. 

Highstepping into a big, ballgown, strapless wedding dress, I tried not to look too closely in the mirror until I was zipped and clipped in.

Body image issues, bridal style.

Magnified by layers of tulle or disguised under heavy lace.

My inaugural wedding dress shopping experience left me feeling frustrated with this body of mine, and wondering about what kind of dress would feel right.

I am not a princess.

I do not want to utter that stock bridal phrase, "I feel like a princess," at any time during this betrothal-wedding process.

I want to recognize myself in the mirror, whether clad in lace or tulle or denim or cotton.

I left the shop, glad for the fun outing with two of my attendants/best friends, Mom, and Grandma, but unsatisfied with the dresses themselves.

On Monday, back in Wisconsin, I drove diagonally across the state to Premiere Couture, a dress boutique on one of my favorite streets in Madison. Once I walked into the shop, I felt hopeful.

Laura selected several dresses for me based on my descriptions of what I wanted. The dresses were light, elegant, bridal, and beautiful. No overwhelming tulle or heavy laces. Just pretty gowns.

The first one I tried on looked and felt...like me only...bridal. I loved it.

While not all the dresses felt like me, they all felt sophisticated and bridal and relevant. The collection at Premiere Couture stands out; as Laura said, they have dresses for women. (not princesses, I thought).

Readers, I bought the first dress I tried here and I love it. I can't describe it just yet, but I can tell you that I feel absolutely beautiful, elegant, romantic, and absolutely accepting of my body as it is right now in this dress. And that is amazing.

Now, if I can just find some back-to-school clothes that elicit that same feeling:)