>The snow covered everything. Tiny bushes were adorned. It was too icy to ski and so we walked in a state park in Vermont. A promised Nature Center never appeared though we walked up and up a path with a steep incline that narrowed and then disappeared. We imagined that perhaps the trail itself was a nature center or that an overzealous park ranger created the signs to inspire the less ambitious hikers to stretch and log more miles. It was the warmest day of the week. When the biting cold moved in, recreation became an indoor adventure. Still I strive to understand what I might learn from the shadows of sunlight on snow and the promises of a vista that never appears. The Green Mountains rose all around us and the air was cold and clear. I felt a sense of unrest; almost like foreboding. I know the upcoming year will bring many changes. I can feel it in my bones. When the restlessness settles over me, I must put one foot in front of the other and keep walking. I know there will be a clearing and whatever is supposed to happen will present itself, perhaps up a steep incline or maybe around the corner.
>Oh Time!
•December 16, 2009 • 1 Comment>It is hard not to feel overwhelmed in December. The holidays are fast approaching, my responsibilities mounting–papers to read, portfolios to grade. Meanwhile the weather vacillates from moderate to frigid. We had a snow day last week–precious day in the middle of the week that allowed me to read journals and grade papers. The wind whispers through the naked branches. What little sun there is offers no warmth. This is the time of year when we need to gather in–hold dear ones close and write letters to those who are afar. My definition of family has changed through the years. I am grateful for the ability to redefine that which is most important to me–my evolving and creative adult children (odd phrase, that one…) and my life partner who is also my closest friend and confidante. Friends also add warmth and meaning to my life.
The writing is there too–beckoning me to see life as words on a page. I taught metaphors to second graders and villanelles to high school students in the same week. The moon was a banana, a button, a sliver of cheese. The villanelles were haunting–mythic and personal. I see words swirling around the room and students struggling to catch them. When we read, it’s as if each student is able to find something in memory or perception that solidifies his or her truth. I’m a witness to this awakening on a weekly basis. It helps me to understand language as a powerful tool. How can I become complacent when I have so many words to choose from?
>Frost and Warm Cider
•December 2, 2009 • Leave a Comment>This morning startled me with its sudden cold; frost on the trees, clinging to the remnants of plants left in the garden. The only color is the dusty green of pine rising beyond the queue of barren oak and ash. I feel as if I should be slowing down, making soup, snuggling under the down coverlet. Instead I run from here to there, teaching children of all ages to love words. We try out the sounds, letting vowels roll over our tongues. We click through consonants, understanding the power of rhythm. Yesterday my second grade project wrote a story about a seadragon and a hammerhead shark–unlikely friends who part ways over a misunderstanding. There is wisdom in this story. The dragon had previously warmed the cold Atlantic with his fiery breath but now the shark must contend with relentlessly cold waters. Sometimes we cannot realize what friends bring to a relationship until it is no longer available to us.
The poetry class I teach at the university is coming to a close. Students have had a poem to interact with all semester. They shared a representation of what they learned–via a storybook made, a sculpture, a painting on wood, a collage, and dramatic readings. There were also powerpoint presentations, animations, videos, and musical representations. The important thing for me is that they had to look at a poem from all sides. Whether or not it resonated for them mattered less than the time they spent. That’s what poetry is–a slow and conscious way to look at the world. Though I was tired at the end of the day, I felt lucky to be a witness to the process. It is a little like being a conductor of an orchestra–I don’t create the music, I simply move it along and keep the balance. Now if only I can learn that balance in my own life!
>Late November and the Waning Sun
•November 21, 2009 • Leave a Comment>The days are getting shorter. When I awaken early, it is still dark and I am fooled into thinking it is still night. It’s been an extraordinary November–filled with mild sunny days and cool star-filled nights. I’m finding my muse again–beginning to reserve some early mornings for writing. I feel out of balance when I go too long without paying attention to my art.
Kira wrote that it snowed in Antarctica and she never tires of snow. I don’t completely share her passion for winter weather. I love the first snows–pristine and unexpected. Looking out my window from my hilltop view, I feel serenity until March, the longest month. By then I am craving light and warmth. The grayness of the days and lack of anything growing begins to nag at me. I follow cold rain eagerly, hopeful that soon there will be small sprouts and flowers pushing through the intractable ground.
Now I am settling in–awaiting the long evenings with stacks of books I want to read. Although I have far less time in winter, I seem to do most of my writing on cold, dark mornings when I am the only person awake and the tops of the trees are just beginning to be fringed by light.
Literary Imaginings by Lisa C. Taylor 