Poetry Friday: Finishing my QWP

I had a birthday this week, and it was a biggie.  Now I'm a quinquagenarian.  I announced back in July that I was embarking on a writing project to prepare for my birthday.  My goal was to write fifty first drafts before I turned fifty.  I achieved it, plus a little bit more, and I've shared some of my writing here along the way, and some more of it with my writing group, and some with my husband and my children and a few friends.  Some of it hasn't been read by anyone but me.

To celebrate my birthday, I'm going to share two of my QWP poems today.  The first one was inspired by a book my daughter brought home, in which the poet had written a "Self-Portrait as Motel Clerk."  It was about a job he had had in graduate school, and it made me think of a job I had between college and grad school.  When I look back at myself at that age (just a little older than my daughter is now), I feel fondness for that young person with so much ahead of her.  This poem is a good illustration of my QWP because it uses some of the raw material I've gathered in my 50 years on this earth.

The second poem is based on a prompt that Liz, last week's roundup host, shared.  It's called a "Why I'm Here" poem, similar to George Ella Lyon's "Where I'm From" poem.  (Here's my WIF poem, from back in 2006.)  I loved Liz's "Why I'm Here" poem and wanted to write one too.  I've worked at my school since I was 25 years old (with a few breaks here and there to move away and then back, and to stay home with my children), and now I am the éminence grise of the middle school, getting to that point where I'm older than most of my students' parents.  My own children don't need me as much as they used to.  I'm not cool any more (not that I ever was, very).  Why am I here?  I thought about it for a while (and it made the James Taylor song "That's Why I'm Here" go through my mind for a few days) and came up with some answers.  On my birthday, a bunch of my friends made a list of 50 things they like about me - best gift ever! - and I was pleased to see that several of the things about me that I think are reasons I'm here were on their list.


Self-Portrait as Waitress

It’s the summer before my wedding
and starting grad school.
I’m twenty-one,
dressed in a shiny nylon waitress uniform
and trying to look confident.

I’m waiting tables in Nashville, Tennessee,
just like half the people who moved here
to make it big in country music.

The kitchen staff and the other waitresses
yell cheerfully and profanely at each other and at me,
expanding my vocabulary and my world.

A busboy tells me proudly there are ten steps to bussing a table
and I realize I never thought about bussing a table
let alone about doing it well.

I’ve never failed a class before
but I struggle to master my eight steps of waitressing.

I sniffle as I eat my tasteless employee-priced dinner
at a table smelling of grease and sweat and vanilla ice cream.

A fellow waitress tells me this is her second job;
she works at another place during the day
and then here three to eleven,
and she’s saving up to leave her husband.

My feet hurt in their sensible shoes.

In my dreams I spill coffee, drop plates, forget orders
then get up and put on my dark green uniform
and try again to get it right.

I refill ketchup bottles and roll silverware after my shift.

One day a secret shopper writes me a glowing review,
and it’s hung up on the bulletin board in the break room,
like a report card on a refrigerator.

I learn what “sweet milk” is,
how to get sworn at without flinching,
and to tip well.

Ruth, from thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com


Why I’m Here

I’m here to make and pour the tea
and to add an extra spoonful of sugar
if you want it.  I’m here
to ask the questions
and listen to the answers,
to overthink and empathize.
I’m here to read as many of the books
as I possibly can.  I’m here
to fix punctuation
and recommend a good novel,
to lower the noise level in the hallways,
to witness the eyerolls
and try not to take them personally.
I’m here to learn new slang
every year, in several languages,
to say the wrong thing and then say I’m sorry,
to say the right thing every once in a while.
I’m here to tell new teachers
that there is nothing wrong with them,
and that the first year is just the worst.
I used to be here to clean up vomit,
and now I’m here to answer my children’s texts
and to savor my husband's cooking
and to hold babies whenever I get the chance.
I’m here to say goodbye
again and again
and somehow still find the energy to say hello.
I’m here to write it all down
and take pictures of all of it
and remember,
even if everyone else forgets:
love, and earthquakes,
and what the hibiscus looks like today.

Ruth, from thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com

Here's what the hibiscus looks like today, in case you're wondering:

I've been keeping track of my QWP on the whiteboard in my classroom, changing the number as it went up.  Most of my students didn't pay any attention, but there were one or two in each class who would comment and ask questions.  The day after my birthday, I erased the total, and decided to start again from scratch.  How much can I write before my next birthday?  We'll see!

And here's today's roundup.

Spiritual Journey First Thursday: Music

At my wedding, the congregation sang this hymn, one of my favorites, and my husband's absolute favorite.  The lyrics talk about the love of God as an ocean, "vast, unmeasured, boundless, free."  I love the tune, but really music to me has always been more about the words, and when I start thinking about the music which has been important to me in my spiritual journey, I am amazed by how many hymns I can recite, sometimes several verses.  Those words are in my head from years and years of repetition throughout my life.

When I went looking through my blog archives for writing about hymns, here's some of what I found:

Back in 2007, I quoted from this hymn, "New Every Morning," commenting that it gave a rather "dreary" picture of everyday life.  A couple of days later, I tried to explain a bit more about what I meant.  Here are those posts: the first and the second.

In 2008 I wrote this post about something we had sung in church.  We were using videos with lyrics at that time, and this one had substituted "the lowest hill" for "the lowest hell," which was what the original lyrics say.  I also criticized their punctuation, which caused an inadvertent change in meaning to the song.

I've written a couple of posts about the hymn "Abide with Me," which we used to sing in boarding school whenever we had evening chapel.  This one was from 2009 and this one from 2012.

Did you know that Charles Wesley wrote earthquake hymns?  I learned about them in 2010 after the Haiti earthquake.

And speaking of earthquakes... In 2010 I wrote a post about "Oh, the Deep, Deep Love of Jesus," the one with which I started this post, and also one about "My Faith Looks Up to Thee," one about "O Love that Wilt Not Let Me Go," and one about "My Song is Love Unknown." I was struggling so much in those months right after the earthquake, and the words of hymns helped me week after week.  I wrote some more about that in this Easter post from 2011, quoting the hymn "In Heavenly Love Abiding."  

In this post, I wrote about a friend who was stuck under rubble in the aftermath of the earthquake, and the hymn words that kept going through his mind.  

There are more posts about hymns, but these examples give a pretty good representation of how important these words are in my spiritual life, even though it's been a long time since hymns have formed the majority of the music in the churches I've attended.  There are many ways I experience this "deep, deep love," but church music is high on the list.

Today's roundup is here.

 

What I Learned in February

I wrote about some things I learned in January, and I decided to try that kind of post again this month.  I made a very short list, but then February is short.

Back at the beginning of the month, I learned about the Red Rule of photography.  I post a photo every day on Facebook using prompts that come from CY365, and the prompt for February 2nd was "The Red Rule."  When I looked it up, I learned that the rule is "Every time you see something red, take a picture of it."  I took lots of photos of red things and enjoyed the way the color pops every time it appears.

I learned about a podcast that is not at all new.  It is called ArtCurious, and so far I've found every episode completely fascinating.

I learned, not for the first time, that you can't possibly over-communicate in seventh grade.  Have you told your students several times a day for three weeks about an assignment?  Are you getting tired of hearing yourself talk about it?  It doesn't matter.  Say it again.  I guarantee you that someone in the room will be hearing about the assignment for the first time.

I learned that The Courage to Teach, by Parker Palmer, really is a wonderful book to discuss with a group of intelligent friends.  I thought it would be when I first read it, but I hadn't had the opportunity to be in a discussion group about it until now.  Back in November, I heard Gretchen Rubin recommend on her podcast to "schedule some daily transcendence."  It's sort of a secular way of saying what those of us who grew up evangelical were taught as "have your quiet time."  This book falls in that same transcendent category.  Palmer encourages a kind of reflectiveness that teachers often don't have time for, as we run about dealing with the immediate chaos that faces us.  It's so rewarding to look deeper and talk about the process.

At the end of the month, I had a big birthday, and learned some of what my friends think about me.  Since I was turning fifty, some people made a list of fifty things they like about me.  I'm still floating on the good feelings of this gift.  I highly recommend telling people what you like about them, and getting them to do the same for you. 

Poetry Friday: Keats

Sonnet X

Keats

To one who has been long in city pent,
  ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair
  And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with hearts content,
  Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
  Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
  Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet’s bright career,
  He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear
  That falls through the clear ether silently.

Here's today's roundup. 

Poetry Friday: Stability

I have several things to share with you this week for Poetry Friday.

First, I get a daily poem email from poets.org (you can sign up for it on the website), and yesterday's was "Scaffolding," by Seamus Heaney.  To me, this poem speaks to long-term relationships, whether marriage or friendship or family ties, and the way we learn over time that we can count on certain people.  The many hours and years that have gone into wall-building, the stories that have gone into our history, have produced a fine and lovely building.

Secondly, last week I received a postcard from Tabatha, and I'm posting a photo of the front and one of the back, with the poem she chose for me.  This one, too, seems to speak to history and stability, a happiness beyond flightiness.  Thank you, Tabatha, for this perfect choice.

I'm going to be turning fifty soon, and I've been in a reflective mood about this large number, and about my life so far, what I have lost and what I have kept, what lasts and what doesn't.  Both of these poems are appropriate for this mood. 


Scaffolding
Seamus Heaney

Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;

Make sure that plans won't slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.

And yet all this comes down when the job's done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.

So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me

Never fear.  We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.

I also posted a couple of original poems this week: Metaphor for Valentine's Day, and Ashes for Ash Wednesday.

Here's today's roundup.

Reading Update

Book #14 of 2018 was Henri Nouwen's Life of the Beloved and book #17 was Jonathan Martin's How to Survive a Shipwreck.  I wrote here in this post from 2016 about how I reread both of these books frequently.  I don't add them to my total every time I reread, but this is the first time this year for both, so here they are.

Book #15 was Grief Cottage, by Gail Godwin.  While I didn't love this quite as much as some of her other books, I did appreciate the full-circle quality of it and the reminder that the villains in our lives are often just people whose full stories we do not yet know.

Book #16 was The Last Battle, by C.S. Lewis.  My friend Marilyn Gardner blogged the other day about what good Lenten reading this book is.  It struck me that she was right, and also that it had been a very long time since I had read any of the Chronicles of Narnia.  I used to read them all through once a year.  I see that since I started this blog, I haven't done that.  I went to my daughter's room to look for a copy, and couldn't find one.  By the time I was done searching, I had located five of the seven books (and two copies of one of them) and put them all together on the shelf, but no Last Battle.  Oh well.  I was pretty sure I had it in my classroom, and sure enough, the next morning I found it.  Marilyn was right: this is perfect Lenten reading.  I have a student who is reading Pride and Prejudice, and I told her I was envious of her, reading it for the first time.  This was clearly not the first time I read this book.  It was not the tenth time.  It's possible it was the twentieth, but likely I have read it even more than that.  It's an old friend.  "This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now.  The reason why we loved the old Narnia is that it sometimes looked a little like this."

Book #18 was Plainsong, by Kent Haruf.  I enjoyed it, and now I have to find the second book in the trilogy.  The library, from which I downloaded the first one, has the third one but not the second. 

This post is linked to the February Quick Lit roundup at Modern Mrs. Darcy.

Ashes

There's been a photo in the news today of a woman at the high school where the school shooting yesterday took place.  Among the other photos it caught my attention because she's been to church for Ash Wednesday; she has a cross drawn on her forehead with ashes. 

Here's the poem I wrote yesterday after getting home from church.  We were reminded that we are dust.  We didn't need a gunman to remind us again.


Ashes

I’m here for the ashes.
I’m here for the dust,
for remembering that that is what I am,
and that that is where I will return.

I’m here for the ashes,
the remains of what I loved,
the palms from last year,
burned
and carefully preserved,
precious dust.
Those palms mattered
too much to toss their remains away.
They became today’s ashes.
And that’s why I’m here.

I’m here for the ashes,
for the reminder that though my flesh is solid now,
it will die.
The smudge on my forehead
will wash away,
but I will still be mortal,
corruptible,
headed for my expiration date.

I’m here for the ashes,
so smear them on me,
whispering as you do,
“Remember,
remember,
remember that you are dust.”
Precious dust,
but dust nonetheless,
a temple filled with the Holy Spirit
that one day will fall
silent
and
still.

I’ll leave with the ashes,
and through my day I’ll see others
with dusty marks on their faces,
as they too have been reminded
of what they are.
Beautiful and impermanent,
valuable and temporary,
glorious
and
needing to be
swept up
with a broom.

There are other places to get
roses and accolades,
work and fulfillment,
conversation and snacks,
but this is the only place I know
where they are imposing ashes today
so
that’s why I’m here.
For the ashes.

Ruth, from thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com

Metaphor

When I ask my students to make metaphors
they take to it right away.

A metaphor for love?
They have an idea!

“Love is a rose,”
one tells me,
excitedly.
“Because it’s beautiful,
and it smells nice,
but it has thorns,
and it rots.”

Yes, I tell them.
That is a perfect
metaphor,
which is why writers
have been using it
for centuries.

On Valentine’s Day
they buy each other roses,
and there is an intoxicating aroma,
and petals on the floor in the hallways
in an array of pinks and reds,
and some people carry bouquets
and other people cry,

and who cares whether the metaphor isn’t original?

You’re right,
I tell them.
Love,
I tell them,
love is a rose.

Ruth, from thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com

Poetry Friday: Two Love Poems

We have all of next week off of school for Carnival (Valentine's Day falls on Ash Wednesday this year), so Poetry Friday is our designated Valentine Substitute Day.  (That's just my name for it, not the official term.)  I am writing this on Thursday evening, but I have experienced enough Valentine's Days in middle school to know exactly how it will go.  It's a dress-down day, with everyone wearing red and pink (our kids normally wear uniforms).  Seniors will be delivering roses.  Candy will be in evidence.  Each of those sentences represents an additional layer of wild, added on to kids who haven't really calmed down from Christmas break yet.  There will be twitterpation, and the Festival of Sugar and Hormones will take place in all its glory.  There will be giggling, and probably some tears.  I will take my annual photos of discarded rose petals on the stairs.  (The photos in this post are the ones I took on February 14th, 2014.)

But it will be OK.  It's the last day before a week off, after all, and we will survive.  And I like celebrating love, so I will work on being patient.

Are you familiar with the concept of Love Languages?  You can learn more about it here, but basically the idea is that everyone experiences love differently, and if you know someone's love language, you can know the best way to help that person know that he or she is loved.  The languages are gifts, quality time, acts of service, words of affirmation, and physical touch.

I tend to mock this idea a little bit because what I have noticed is that usually when I hear women (and it's usually women) talking about love languages, it is because they are complaining that their significant others are messing up.  "My love language is acts of service, but he keeps giving me flowers!" these women will say.  I always feel that if someone's trying to love you, you should notice that part and give credit, even for an imperfect attempt.

However.

It's obvious to anyone who knows me even slightly that my love language is words of affirmation, even though I like all of them, and my husband is very welcome to show me love in all those ways.  But my love language is language.  In any relationship, romantic or otherwise, I like to talk and talk and talk, or write and write and write.  I like feelings to be expressed in words. 

On Wednesday this week, a poem popped into my chat window from my husband.  Not just any poem, but a love poem he had written himself.  I amused myself mightily by how I responded.  My heart raced.  Tears came to my eyes.  People, I've been married almost 29 years.

So here's the poem, posted with his permission.

The Games You Play

My love. I like the games you play.
Washing the Mah Jong tiles,
Building the wall, insisting
On proper protocol.

The mid-game break to brew some tea.
The thoughtful look, deciding whether to
Discard a West Wind, a Dragon, or a lowly bamboo.

And that thoughtful look takes me back
To many of your other looks,
Of wonder, anger, pleasure, pain and joy,
Looks that have, variously,
Thrilled me, frustrated me, confused me, annoyed me
And captured my heart.

Looks that make me want to hold you
And make you smile.

Steve, husband of Ruth, from thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com

I wrote a poem recently about another kind of love, my love for my children.  I had been texting with a new friend (recently married to an old friend), and my poem was partly about our conversation, so after I finished it, I sent it to her, and she reacted in the perfect way that she does, being both an English teacher herself and a very nice person.  She wrote and told me that my poem had brought tears to her eyes.

I shared the poem with my writing group this week, and after I had read it aloud, I sighed and told them that I had shared it with my friend, and that it made me so happy to communicate with someone who is dear to me, expressing what I meant to say.  I said, "I really like this poem," and one of the other members of the group replied, "Yes, I can see why you would.  It's a very Ruth poem."  I laughed later on as I realized she didn't say she liked it; you could take her words in several ways.  But anyway.  I like it, and here it is:

Flying Away

A friend and I text about our children who are traveling.
Her son is delayed somewhere between home and Paris,
and my daughter missed her train in Chicago
between the airport and her dorm room.
We are thousands of miles from our children,
and fifteen hundred miles from each other,
but our love and concern fly through the atmosphere
faster than airplanes.

My son who still lives at home
wakes up taller than when he went to bed
and when I smile at him now I have to look up just a little.
I heard that astronauts grow while they’re in space,
because when there’s no gravity,
their vertebrae expand and relax.
Maybe as he sleeps, the same thing happens to him;
but whatever the explanation,
soon he will fly away too;
oh, not to the moon, but far,
far beyond my reach.

We end our text conversation,
confessing that we are likely to be asleep before
our children reach their destinations.
“We can pray for our kids before we go to sleep,”
she types with her thumbs,
and we both do,
we both send our prayers
flying after them,
through the atmosphere,
through space,
through eternity,
through the night;

letting our vertebrae relax,
and our spines grow,
as these children who grew inside us
fly away.

Ruth, thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com

I'm thankful for love, and for words to express it in, and for people who send me words of love and receive my words in return, with grace and kindness.  I'm thankful for the chance to share beautiful words with middle schoolers who are learning how to express the big feelings they have.  I'm thankful for my writing group and for Poetry Friday, giving me opportunities to share my words with people who appreciate them.  I'm even thankful for the chaos that today will bring as we celebrate Valentine's Day.

Today's roundup is here. (Poetry Friday friends, somehow the combination of Australia and Haiti isn't working so well, and I can't get to the roundup site either to put my link there or to come visit your links.  I'll keep trying!  Meanwhile, I've asked someone to put my link up on the roundup.)

Reading Update

Book #8 of the year was The Beautiful Mystery, by Louise Penny.  This is the eighth in the Inspector Gamache series, and my favorite so far. 

Book #9 was the bizarre but brilliant Lincoln in the Bardo, by George Saunders.  The Bardo is a Tibetan concept, the idea that souls linger between life and death and that there's some kind of choice involved in whether to move on or not (I actually could not articulate the choice more than that, because I'm a little unclear about it).  Willie Lincoln, the son of Abraham Lincoln, is the latest famous guest in the Bardo, having died of typhoid, but there are many other colorful souls to be met there as well.  It's difficult to summarize exactly what goes on in the book, but I can promise you that you've never read anything quite like it.  The best parts are beautiful and life-affirming.  Here's a sample:

"The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars; the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes; writing one's beloved's name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger.

Tying a shoe; tying a knot on a package; a mouth on yours; a hand on yours; the ending of the day; the beginning of the day; the feeling that there will always be a day ahead.

Goodbye, I must now say goodbye to all of it."

Book #10 was Intérieurs d'Haïti, by Roberto Stephenson and Marie-Louise Fouchard.  I mentioned in an earlier Reading Update post this year that I wanted to read through some of the art and photography books on my shelves, since doing that makes me happy.  This one has an essay by Frankétienne, a revered Haitian poet, in English and French.  This is followed by a hundred panoramic photographs of the inside of Haitian homes, from the most humble to the most ornate.  The only copies available on Amazon are extremely expensive; I'd be happy to loan you my copy if you come over to my house.

Book #11 was Braving the Wilderness: The Quest for True Belonging and the Courage to Stand Alone, by Brené Brown.  Apparently I'm not the only person who struggles with the issues in this book.  Good to know.  As usual, Brené Brown has written a wonderful book.

Book #12 was Emily P. Freeman's Grace for the Good Girl: Letting Go of the Try-Hard Life.  I have been listening to Freeman's new podcast, and so I could hear her voice as I read the book.  This was a good introduction to my OLW for 2018: ENOUGH.

"The job of the branch is not to make life happen, but to remain in the vine.  To remain in Christ is to stay where you already are.  No need to get up and try to find that which you already have.  Stay.  Abide.  Remain.  Believe."

Book #13 was an old classic, Nevil Shute's On the Beach.  The book opens in 1961, but it's a post-apocalyptic 1961.  We are in Australia, one of the few places left on earth where people are alive.  Soon, the entire planet will be overtaken by radiation and everyone will die.  Sounds uplifting, doesn't it?  Oddly, it is.  I first read this book many years ago, before I moved to Haiti in 1993.  At that time, Haiti was under an international fuel embargo, and I thought many times of this book as I watched people rationing fuel, since that's one of the first problems the characters face.  Later, as the embargo strengthened, and no commercial airlines were allowed to fly to Haiti, I thought more about the book because of the sense of being cut off from the outside world (in those pre-internet days).  But another aspect of Haitian life back then that reminded me of the book was the way people lived every moment, enjoying the pleasures they had available.  As I read this time, I kept thinking that this is really the human condition: unlike the people in the book, we don't know exactly when we're going to die, but we know we will, and it's up to us to decide what to do with the days we have.  I smiled as one character said to another towards the end of the book: "Don't try and analyse it....Just take it, and be thankful."  That's a bit difficult for me, since analyzing (or analysing, as the Australians in the book would spell it) is my second nature, but I'm trying to do more of just taking my life, and being thankful. 

This post is linked to the February Quick Lit roundup at Modern Mrs. Darcy.

Poetry Friday: I Can't Forget You

I read this poem with my eighth graders last week.  I got it from the Nancie Atwell anthology for middle school, Naming the World: A Year of Poems and Lessons.  It looks as though it's out of print and only available for outrageous prices, but if you teach middle schoolers and you have access to the book, you should definitely grab it.  The vast majority of the poems work well with my kids.  There are many student-written examples, and a fun variety of published poets.  Each poem comes with a page of ideas on how to approach it with your students, including Nancie's "benediction" that encourages the kids to try something out in their own writing. 

This one is one of my favorites, because it's so relatable for my students.  They know graffiti; it's ubiquitous in Port-au-Prince.  They respond well to the idea of noticing something and wondering how it came to be.  And they know what it's like to miss someone. 

I CAN'T FORGET YOU.

spray-painted high on the overpass,
each letter a good foot long,
and I try to picture the writer
hanging from a rope
between midnight and dawn,
the weight of his love swaying,
making a trembling
N and G, his mind at work
with the apostrophe -
the grammar of loss -
and his resistance to hyperbole,
no exclamation point but a period at the end
that shows a heart not given
to exaggeration,
a heart that's direct with a no-
fooling around approach,
and I wonder if he tested the rope
before tying it to the only tree I can see
that would bear his weight,
or if he didn't care about the free-
fall of thirty or more feet
as he locked his wrist to form such
straight T's,
and still managed, dangling, to flex
for the C and G,
knowing as he did, I'm sure,
the lover would ride this way each day
until she found a way around,
a winding back road with trees
and roadside
tiger lilies, maybe a stream, a
white house, white fence
a dog in the yard
miles
from this black-letter, open-book,
in-your-face missing
that the rain or Turnpike road crew
will soon enough wash off.

Len Roberts
Here's the Poetry Foundation link to the poem.

Such amazing details!  I especially love the apostrophe, and the lack of an exclamation point.  And that phrase: "the grammar of loss."  Someone should write a novel with that title.

And while I'm waiting for someone to do that, here's very much a first draft of a poem playing with the idea.


The Grammar of Loss

is in the perfect tense,
of course,
because the past was perfect,

and there are
apostrophes
on the names
because it’s all about
belonging,

or used to belong,

in the past,

instead of this moment
when
it's over,

this present tense moment
where

whatever
or
whoever
you lost

is absent,

a misplaced modifier,
a split infinitive,
an interrogative,

missing
from a dependent clause,

a subject and verb
no longer agreeing,

a fragment.

Ruth, thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com

By the way, speaking of fragments, if anyone is keeping track of my Quinquagenarian Writing Project (#QWP), in which I attempt to write 50 first drafts between last July and my February birthday in a couple of weeks, when I'll become a quinquagenarian, I'm up to 44 first drafts.  So, yay me! 

Donna (who's doing a lot of hosting lately) has today's roundup.

Spiritual Journey Thursday - The Moon

     "I have been given the gift of lunar spirituality, in which the divine light available to me waxes and wanes with the season.  When I go out on my porch at night, the moon never looks the same way twice.  Some nights it is as round and bright as a headlight; other nights it is thinner than the sickle hanging in my garage.  Some nights it is high in the sky, and other nights low over the mountains.  Some nights it is altogether gone, leaving a vast web of stars that are brighter in its absence.  All in all, the moon is a truer mirror for my soul than the sun that looks the same way every day.
     After I stopped thinking that all these fluctuations meant that something was wrong with me, a great curiosity opened up: what would my life with God look like if I trusted this rhythm instead of opposing it?  What was I afraid of, exactly, and how much was I missing by reaching reflexively for the lights?"

from Learning to Walk in the Dark, by Barbara Brown Taylor

Today's hostess of Spiritual Journey Thursday, Donna, has asked us to write about the moon.  I immediately turned to Barbara Brown Taylor, and her beautiful book on darkness.  I have often felt, as Robert Frost put it, "acquainted with the night," and Taylor's book helps me work through some of those thoughts.

Here she is again:

"If Christians look to creation for wisdom about the spiritual life, seeking resurrection in springtime, divine promise in a rainbow, or the flight of the Spirit in a dove, why don't we look to the moon for wisdom about our relationship to God?  Sometimes the light is coming, and sometimes it is going.  Sometimes the moon is full, and sometimes it is nowhere to be found.  There is nothing capricious about this variety since it happens on a regular basis.  Is it dark out tonight?  Fear not; it will not be dark forever.  Is it bright out tonight?  Enjoy it; it will not be bright forever."

It was bright out tonight, as the super-duper Blue Blood Supermoon came up.  I tried and failed to take decent photos of it.  But at least I saw it, and it was so beautiful, and turned my mind up to a higher plane than the one it had been occupying.

On a slightly less spiritual note, I wrote the following golden shovel poem/prayer back in November.  (See, it is spiritual - it's a prayer!)  A golden shovel poem takes a quote (in this case, a line from Paul Simon's song Insomniac's Lullaby) and ends each line with a word from the quote.


Insomniac’s Lullaby

Awake in the middle of the night and oh
I wish you’d let me sleep, Lord!
Here comes slithering every mess I ever made (don’t
Surround me with your tentacles, keep

Your slimy horrors away from me!).
Nobody else in the whole world is up
Except for me, and now I have to face it all:
All my mistakes, all my losses, the darkness of night,

They all approach me, side by side.
Till morning, I’ll be in deep conversation with
Everyone who’s ever abandoned me, the
Whole sorry scene lit bright by the silvery moon.
Oh Lord, don’t keep me up all night
Side by side with the moon

Ruth, thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com

(I posted about this song before here, including a YouTube video where you can listen to it.) 

Here's the Spiritual Journey Thursday roundup.

What I Learned in January

Several of my favorite bloggers post regularly - monthly or quarterly - about what they have learned.  I thought, at the beginning of this year, "What a good idea.  Let me write about my learning, too!"

I started a list.

In church we have been studying the book of Leviticus, and discussing the sacrificial system in the Old Testament.  I admit I was not initially thrilled by this choice, but I have been learning every week from the conversations around our Table.

For some reason, I put the word mordicus on my list; this is a French adverb meaning "with an opinionated firmness."  I'm sure I learned other words this month, but that is the only one I carefully wrote down under the heading "What I Learned in January."

I learned about Oprah Winfrey and her TV career this month by listening to the interesting podcast series "Making Oprah."

I learned that in this season of my life, it works better for me to exercise first thing in the morning, right after I wake up.  I had been working out right after getting home in the afternoon, but that hasn't been happening for a while (I'm embarrassed to say how long).  This month my workout calendar filled up, and there are many more days I did exercise than days I didn't.  I will never be an athlete, but this is progress.  I feel so much better when I'm exercising regularly; I know this, and yet I fall off my routine again and again.  This new routine has worked well in another way, too; I have been listening to uplifting podcasts instead of what I was doing before, which involved a fair amount of brooding over the world and its current condition, and all the things I can find to be sad about.

I learned what the President of the United States allegedly thinks of this country, Haiti, where I have lived for more than twenty years, where my children were born.  Worse, I learned that many Americans agree with the words, whether he actually said them or not.

An eighth grader's quiz, where she announces her intention to interview the President of Haiti about what the President of the United States allegedly said.

After that my list ends.  That's not because I didn't learn anything else, but because I did, and because I started to get discouraged that I need to keep learning the same lessons again and again.  In January, I learned how clumsy I can be about people and relationships.  I learned that emotionally I am a little too much like my thirteen and fourteen year old students and not enough like the staid, sensible middle-aged woman with everything figured out that I am supposed to be.  I learned that people leave, and it hurts.  It just hurts to love people, period.

I already knew all these things.

Other people post helpful advice, apps that will organize your life, wise thoughts.  Maybe in February I can learn some of that.  We'll see.

Poetry Friday: Not Enough, Too Much, Just Right, and Happy News At the End

I wrote this poem several years ago, but it came to mind as I was thinking about my OLW for 2018, ENOUGH.  During the course of this challenging week, I have had plenty of moments that would fit into the first two stanzas: Not Enough and Too Much.  There aren't that many moments I can identify that would belong in the third.  Can I consider myself Just Right if I showed up and did my best?  Can I ever let that be ENOUGH?  Working on it...

I shared this poem with my writing group this week, and someone said it felt "crowded."  I can see that, and I even agree with it, but this is one of those times when I feel as though what I wrote completely expressed what I meant to say.  It would probably benefit from some editing, but I like it the way it is.   Maybe I'll come back and work on it some more later, but for now, I'm going to call it Just Right.


Not Enough, Too Much, Just Right

Often I am Not Enough.
Not patient enough or pretty enough,
Seeking constant reassurance
From the mirror of other people's eyes:
Do you love me?  Huh?  Do you?
Not knowing what to say
Or which fork to use,
Wearing jeans to the ball,
Not hip or cool enough,
Missing the point, holding back
Until the moment is past.

More often I am Too Much.
Too many words
Escaping even though I clamp my lips shut,
Hips too big, feet too clumsy,
Clomping around stepping on toes.
I call and text and email all day long:
I love you I love you I love you!
Too much laughter and too many tears,
Too much messy overgrown emotion,
A jungle that overwhelms any explorer.

But sometimes, ah, sometimes
I am Just Right.
Giver of a moment of complete satisfaction,
Purveyor of breastmilk at just the right temperature
To soothe a fretful baby.
I say the right thing sometimes
And understand exactly:
That's just what I meant!  How did you know?
I love and am loved with perfect equilibrium.
I'm an earthly angel, having a good hair day,
I am Baby Bear's porridge:
Just Right.

Ruth, thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com


By the way, a happy thing, extremely welcome in this aforementioned challenging week, happened yesterday.  I got an email letting me know that one of my poems is going to be in an anthology.  This is the first time for me, and it feels very good.

This week's roundup is here.

QWP Update

Since my last update on my Quinquagenarian Writing Project, in which I'm attempting to write 50 first drafts before my 50th birthday, I have made quite a bit of progress.  I'm now up to 40, with about five weeks left. 

Reading Update

Book #3 of 2018 was Patched Together: A Story of My Story, by Brennan Manning.  Few people have expressed God's grace like Manning.  As someone who needs God's grace every single day, I appreciate his words.

Book #4 was Caribbean Style, by Suzanne Slesin and Stafford Cliff.  I decided that this year I want to take some time to read through the text of the beautiful art and photography books I have on my shelves.  It makes me happy to look at the gorgeous photos in this one, and I would imagine that if you live somewhere cold and snowy, this book could provide some helpful therapy.  Published in 1985, it is out of print, but it looks as though you can get an inexpensive copy on Amazon.

Book #5 was Stoner, by John Williams.  I checked this out of the library after reading about it in a list of books every teacher should read.  I do appreciate books that explore how it feels to teach, the kind of inner battles that it's possible to fight when you have a student who makes your life difficult or a colleague who's using subtle power games that would sound ridiculous if you described them out loud to someone else.  (Another book that mines some of this territory is Teacher Man, by Frank McCourt, which I reviewed briefly here.)  In the case of this university professor, there's another person making his life miserable, and that is his wife.  A plot summary would sound despairing, but I found this book surprisingly uplifting in its portrayal of a man whose life is lived mostly in his own brain.

Book #6 was Kent Haruf's Our Souls at Night. I loved this poignant story about how desperately we all need love and connection.

Book #7 was Left for Dead: My Journey Home from Everest, by Beck Weathers.  For some reason I have read several books about Everest in the last few years.  I think it began when I read Peak for the first time with my seventh graders.  I have no desire whatsoever to climb enormous mountains, and I get out of breath just reading about what it's like.  Beck Weathers was part of the expedition Jon Krakauer wrote about in Into Thin Air.  (I read it in 2016.)  He was, as the title tells us, "left for dead."  Somehow he managed to survive, though much damaged by his experience. This book is about his recovery, including the recovery of his marriage, which had suffered from his obsession with climbing mountains.  We hear from Beck himself, his wife Peach, their two children, and several of their friends.  There is no sugar-coating of the messiness of the situation.  I was especially fascinated by the connections between Beck's depression and his mountain-climbing.  He found that climbing eased the emotional pain he felt much of the time, and he kept pushing himself more and more as his depression worsened, even as he saw how he was destroying his family.

Human beings are mysterious creatures, aren't they?  I think that's the theme of this set of books, except maybe the one full of Caribbean photos.  I guess I needed that one to recover from the intensity in all the others. 

January: The Dead Season

I remember that when I first moved here, my Kreyol teacher told me that Haitians call January the dead season.  The festivities of Christmas and Independence Day (January 1st) are over, it's the middle of the dry season, and it's cold (well, what passes for cold in the Caribbean).

I find the weather this time of year pretty nearly perfect, and there's certainly no Seasonal Affective Disorder to worry about, because the sun is shining brightly every day.  But January is rough, anyway, for a couple of reasons. 

Photo from my walk this morning - look at that sky!

First, January 12th, 2010, was the date of the earthquake.  That's what we call it, the earthquake, as though there's only ever been one.  Or, in Kreyol, goudou goudou, after the sound it made when all the concrete buildings shook and many of them fell down.  On the first day of January, we eat pumpkin soup, the traditional New Year's dish, and that's great, and then soon enough we go back to work and spend the next few days gearing up for the anniversary, which, even eight years later, is so overwhelming and sad.  Even after the day itself is past, we remember the days that followed that one, days of aftershocks and fear.

(This year, there was the additional joy of hearing nasty things said about Haiti, again and again.  Did he say it or not?  It almost doesn't even matter, because whether he did or not, we had to keep hearing about it, and I had occasion to tell my middle schoolers that we don't use that kind of language in my classroom, even if it is on the news.)

The second reason January is rough is that at work we have to declare our intentions for next year; are we coming back or should they advertise our jobs?  So this is the time when we start learning which of our friends are leaving.  One of my best friends of many years moved away without warning in the summer, due to her husband's health issues.  Now, more will go.  This makes me sad every year.  And again this year.

It's tempting to say, "That's it, I'm not ever making any friends again; instead I will go live in a cave and have no further interaction with human beings, thus sparing myself heartache in future."  Instead of doing that (which seems like a really good idea to me), I am attempting to continue being nice to people in the hopes that some of them might not move away.  Losing people is hard, and it doesn't get any easier as I get older; it gets harder and I seem to recover from it more slowly.

Welcome to the dead season.  At least the weather is perfect!

Poetry Friday: Finding Poems for my Students

I was thinking about this poem this week; I reviewed the book it appears in, E-Mails from Scheherazad, here.  I highly recommend this book for its wonderful poems by Mohja Kahf on being an Arab American.  This poem is just about being a teacher, and I relate to it so completely.  Maybe some of my teacher friends will, too.

Finding Poems for my Students
Mohja Kahf

O my students,
I scour the world of words
to bring you poems like the rocks
my girls dig up in riverbanks
and come running to show me
because the notches in them
say something true, something
that an ancient Wisdom
wanted us to see.

I run to you, pockets full of poems.
I select: This poem will help you pass a test.
Here is one that is no help at all,
but is beautiful; take it, take it.

O my scroungers after merely passing grades,
I bring you poems I have hiked high
and far to find, knowing
they will mostly end up like the rocks
my daughters find, tossed in drawers
with old batteries, mislaid keys,
scraps bearing the addresses
of people whose names
you no longer recognize or need.

Your current glazed-eye indifference
doesn't bother me.  One day,
when you are either cleaning house
or moving (and sooner or later
everyone must do one or the other),
you will shake the drawer and the poem
will fall out.  And may the poem be for you
the one phone number in the universe
you were looking for, and may it be
for you the mislaid key
to your greatest need.
On that day,
you will read.


How thankful I am for the poems (and other writing) my teachers (and others) have found for me, and shared with me, all through my life.  How many times they have been the mislaid keys to my greatest need!

Today's roundup is here.

The Day After

I took a walk this morning, and took some photos of this beautiful place where I live.  Not everyone thinks it's beautiful, but I notice that quite a few people who don't think so have never been here.

 Broken bottles on the top of a wall, used for security.

Yesterday at lunch, a colleague who wasn't here in Haiti when the earthquake happened was asking me questions about my memories of that day.  I was surprised how emotional I felt as I answered; I have told these stories so many times by now that I would think the tears would be over, but they aren't, not completely.  She wanted to know whether the anniversary was an especially tough day, and did I think that it would be better if it were a holiday.  The answers to that are yes, and I'm not sure.  The anniversary is difficult.  At first, the twelfth of every month was difficult, but now I don't think about the earthquake all the time any more.  But should January 12th be a holiday every year the way it was for the first few?  It will never be an ordinary day to me, and it is hard to work.  I cried several times during the day.  But even being at work yesterday, I found myself sucked into social media, and getting involved in looking at everyone's photos and reading everyone's reminiscences.  If I'd stayed home all day, that would have been intensified even more.  Maybe the best way to honor those who died is to go on, to live the lives they aren't able to, to have a normal day.

Of course, on social media yesterday there was also a lot of discussion of the words allegedly spoken by the President of the United States about Haiti.  There were responses, videos, comments.  Anderson Cooper teared up as he talked about a small child who had been rescued and praised the dignity of the Haitian people; his video was widely shared by friends who live in Haiti.  Tucker Carlson said that the President was only saying what almost every American believes; nobody shared his video, but I saw a tiny clip of it in a montage I watched. 

Today, on the day after the anniversary, I feel as though 2018 is finally starting for real.  Every year we have to get through that terrible day, January 12th, before there's the clean slate feeling of New Year's Day.  I wish I hadn't let the President's words occupy my thoughts so much yesterday.  The more I think about what he allegedly said, the more I feel sorry for him.  He can't know what he doesn't know; he has not had the opportunities that I have had to know people from the countries he criticizes or to live in them (I've spent a large portion of my life in two such countries).  How much poorer his life is!  However, he is not someone whose views affect no one but himself.  He has the power to change the lives of people he despises and disrespects.  So in addition to pity, I feel deep concern and even fear about where he will lead the world.

Someone's champagne bottle on the road

The banner says, in French, "Haitian Coalition of Volunteers."

But the saddest and most dispiriting experience yesterday was reading comments from people who defended the President's words.  It hurts to find out what people really believe, deep down, and are now moved to say or type.  Whether or not they would use the President's vulgar language, there are many who would like to deny the opportunities of the United States to people who come from countries that they look down on.  They don't want foreigners coming to the US as students - the number of international students is way down this year already - and they definitely don't want them making their lives in the US.  Yesterday there were studies posted showing that immigrants have a positive impact on society rather than a negative one.  People gave their own experiences and wrote about immigrants they know or their own immigrant families.  People posted beautiful photographs of countries to which the President has given an ugly name.  Some reached back into history to point out that the riches of the US are based on the free slave labor that built the society, and to outline the ways that Haiti has interacted with the US - Haitians fought in the War for Independence, for example.  After Haiti became a nation in 1804, the US refused to recognize the new country because of fears that their own slaves would "get ideas" about emancipation.  The US is not guiltless in Haiti's poverty.  But some were able to dismiss all of this.

My word for this year is ENOUGH, and it is not easy to find the moment when I have had ENOUGH input from the news and from social media.  I want to know what is going on in the world; I want to connect with friends and share their joys and sorrows.  But I don't want to allow the President and those who think like him to occupy the limited bandwidth of my attention.  As I walked this morning I composed arguments in my head, but really, the arguments spiral out of control already.  I want to focus on the job I have to do, the kids I have to teach.  I want to show the people I interact with that Haiti is not as the President has described.  But it's not my job to convince everyone in the world that Haiti is wonderful (it is) or that Haitian people are strong, hardworking, an asset to any society (they are).  Many people don't want to be convinced, and honestly, I am sad for them. 

On this, the Day After, the 13th of January, I remember how Haitians were the day after the earthquake.  People were sleeping in the streets because they didn't trust that their houses weren't going to fall down on them.  Some had lost everything.  Many were terribly injured.  But they were helping one another.  They were digging survivors out from under buildings.  They were sharing what they had.  They were singing hymns of praise and thanking God for their survival.  Haitians have suffered much worse than having bad things said about them, and they will move on and do what needs to be done. 

Poetry Friday: My Earthquake Poems for the Eighth Anniversary

January 12th will never be an ordinary day to me.  It is the day that I learned about earthquakes. Today, on the eighth anniversary of January 12th, 2010, I want to share some of the poems I wrote in the months afterward.  For years, it seemed that everything I wrote had something to do with that awful day, whether I started out intending that or not.

One of the changes that the earthquake made in me was that I became much freer about sharing my writing.  Before it happened, I hardly ever shared my poetry.  I didn't even tell where I lived, let alone show my soul the way poetry does.  It was a huge step for me to post this poem about the Hotel Montana at the end of January, 2010, and I even said in the comments that it was scary but that I found the courage to do it because of what my friends in Haiti were doing.

I don't know what you know about Haiti.  Lately some hateful things have been said about the country and its people, but take my word for it, as someone who has lived here a large percentage of my adult life: Haiti was a beautiful country before the earthquake, and it remained a beautiful country after the earthquake.  It was full of beautiful, courageous, strong people before, and it still is.  But there was something about that "earthquake time" that was special; people came together in amazing ways to help each other and care for each other.  It was unforgettable.  I won't ever forget it, and neither will anyone else who was here and who saw it.  

These poems are about my own experiences.  I wrote about what happened in prose here and here and here, and then rehashed it again and again through the whole rest of that year.  There are many posts in my archives about the situation in Haiti and what was happening to other people, but my poems are very personal and don't reflect anybody else's views or experience. 

In April 2010, I posted Earthquake Vocabulary.

In May I posted Morning, about missing my husband while I was in the US and he was still in Haiti doing relief work.

In November I was back in Haiti, still struggling with the emotional aftermath, and I wrote Wave. Later that month I wrote Ordinary, about how much I appreciated the normal day to day aspects of my life after being away from home for so long.

In January 2013, for the third anniversary, I shared This Quilt.

In December 2013, I posted Sounds from this House. This is an example of a poem that I didn't expect to be about the quake at all when I started writing it.

In January 2014, I shared my poem about being evacuated from Haiti after the earthquake, called How to Pack an Evacuation Bag.

In March 2015 I posted Tears.  This one wasn't explicitly about the earthquake, but it's certainly one of the things I do still cry about, even now.

For last year's anniversary, I wrote Memento Mori and How Long Healing Takes in Port-au-Prince.

I've written much, much more - poetry and prose - about the quake.  Writing was one of the things that kept me sane, and continues to do so.

On Sunday we gathered with our church family and shared many stories of our memories from that time.  My husband commented that there are things you get over, and things you never do, and perhaps January 12th, 2010, falls in the second category.  While we go days or weeks now without thinking about it, it's always a part of who we are.  It changed everything.

Today's roundup is here.

Photo credit: I'm not sure who made this image, but it is widely used every year as a profile picture on Facebook.

Reading Update

Welcome to the first Reading Update of 2018!  I haven't read much yet, but here are the first two books of the year.

Book #1 of 2018 fits in well with my OLW, ENOUGH.  Living in Haiti is a constant challenge in figuring out how to care for other people, and realizing that you are never enough. You can never fix all the problems around you, no matter how hard you try. You can never fix even the problems of the people who come and specifically ask you to fix their problems. You find yourself saying "No" a lot, and even when you do say "Yes" you feel conflicted about whether you did right. Kent Annan has many wise things to say in this book, Slow Kingdom Coming: Practices for Doing Justice, Loving Mercy, and Walking Humbly in the World.  There is no magic formula (I would mistrust it if there were), but here are some tastes from the table of contents:

Attention: Awakening to Justice
Confession: The Posture for Engaging
Respect: The Golden Rule for Helping
Partnering: With Not For
Truthing: Hard Thinking and Feet on the Ground
Practicing Faithfully Even When We're Overwhelmed

I highly recommend this book; it would make a wonderful choice for a discussion group.

Book #2 was Emily Wilson's new translation of The Odyssey.  My daughter and I read aloud the Fagles translation to each other in the summer of 2016, and as soon as we saw this new one advertised, we knew we wanted to read this one too.  On January 1st the Kindle edition was on sale for $3.99, so we grabbed our copies and started reading. We finished the 24th book last night.  I'm sorry for you if you don't get to read it with my hilarious daughter, who also happens to be a Greek student, but you should definitely read it anyway.

This translation is fast-paced and readable.  It doesn't make any effort to preserve archaic diction; in fact, there were a few words that we found a little jarring in their modernness, like "canapés" being served at a banquet, Penelope's suitors sitting around "playing checkers," or Odysseus giving his men a "pep talk."  We loved reading it, and remembered once again that this is just a great story; there's a reason people have been reading it for so many centuries. Telemachus is a whiny adolescent who has every reason to feel grumpy.  Penelope is courageous and resourceful in spite of her terrible circumstances.  Windy, self-important, deceitful Odysseus somehow still stirs your heart.  Life is all about grief and loss, but it's also about dinner.  And how much more modern could you get than these lines:

"The worst thing humans suffer
is homelessness; we must endure this life
because of desperate hunger; we endure
as migrants with no home."

Poetry Friday: Then and Now

Back in 2011, I watched a friend care for her son during church, and then wrote the poem below.  I sent it to the friend, and she posted it on her blog, but I realized the other day when I was looking for it that I had never posted it here on my own.

It's easy to look back on lovely times in the past and wish for them back, but in the spirit of my OLW for 2018, ENOUGH, I'm also posting a more recent poem, appreciating some of the advantages of my life now.

Holding a Baby in Church

As the praise band warms up
The mom notices me ogling her baby
And asks if I'd like to hold him.
Would I!  I grab him, trying not to seem too eager,
And relish the feel of the bundle.

That sweet weight brings back
Years of Sundays
When the baby I held was my own.

In those years I lived more in my body than my head
As I carried babies all day
And nursed them at my breast.
I was indispensable,
Source of all they needed.
When we were apart
I could kiss ouchies over the phone.
I was the great and powerful Mommy.

I would stand to sing,
Relieved, because sitting down,
I was likely to go to sleep
(Another short night).
I swayed to the music, letting keeping the baby happy
Be my excuse to move.
Worship then was physical, primal,
As my tired body swayed back and forth
And as the fierce love I had for that baby
Reminded me, deeper than words,
Of the love of God for me.

This baby, who is not mine, starts to fuss
And I give him back to his mother.
I see her nurse him
And later I see them outside
And I remember that too,
Walking in the back of the sanctuary,
Pacing with a noisy child
Out of earshot,
Longing to hear the sermon.

These days I am back in my head;
I sit in the pew and nobody is in my lap or
Putting little arms around my neck.
I am clean and nobody has drooled on me.
I stand still to sing.
My shirt remains tucked in.
My children read their own Bibles
And I can hear the sermon all the way through.

As I look at the mom
Whose baby I borrowed for a moment
I wish for her life,
The aching body,
The fatigue,
The dear, ever-present weight in my arms.

Ruth, thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com


Gratitude List

Praise be this evening for work ended,
the bare feet, the droning fan,
the smell of soy sauce floating upstairs from the kitchen.
Praise be the doves outside my window,
the dried eucalyptus in the bottle,
the empty mug, my tea already drunk.
Praise be the books on my shelves,
the photos of friends who smile at me benignly,
the fully-charged laptop, playing music I’ve chosen.
Praise be the lizard, scampering across the wall,
digesting bugs that will not trouble me tonight.
Praise be the quiet, the nobody needing anything,
the slight rumbling of my stomach that will soon be quelled,
the peace, and sleep not far off.

Ruth, thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com


(Here's the first time I posted this one, back in April 2017, including a link to my mentor text poems, "Gratitude List," by Mary Lee Hahn, and "Gratitude List," by Laura Foley.)

Today's roundup is at Reading to the Core.

QWP Update

Last time I updated the blog on the status of my QWP was back in November, when I'd written 21 first drafts out of my goal of 50 before my fiftieth birthday in February.  (Here's my original post on my project.)  Now, with a little less than two months to go, I'm up to 31 first drafts. 

OLW 2018

In 2017, my OLW was ROOTED.  (I'll put links at the end of the post to all my One Little Words since I started this in 2009, so you can meditate on the rather pathetic fact that I have the very same issues every single year.)

I started thinking about my 2018 word about a month ago, and there was really only ever one word on my list: ENOUGH.  I want to remind myself that God's daily provision will be ENOUGH for me, without hoarding or fretting.  He will also give me what I need so that I can be ENOUGH for what the people around me need from me. 

"Pain du ciel" means "bread from the sky," and refers to the manna that fell in the wilderness in the book of Exodus.  The people were to collect it every day, and only enough for that day; if they tried to stick some extra in Tupperware for tomorrow, it would go bad.  The exception was on Friday; they were to collect two days' worth, and the manna never went bad on the Sabbath.  The provision came when they needed it, not before.

Chances are that my provision won't come from the sky; it might even come in a lopsided truck like the one in the photo.  But I know from experience that God will provide for me, and that His provision will be ENOUGH.  I don't need to worry that I'm missing out on something I should have had or that someone else's manna is a tiny bit more delicious than mine.  (Even Jesus limited Himself to one human life - and it was ENOUGH.)

2009: LOOK
2010: LOVED
2011: TRUST
2012: HEAL
2013: SHALOM
2014: GARDEN
2015: UNAFRAID
2016: LOVED

This post is linked to Spiritual Journey First Thursday at Reflections on the Teche.