Literary Imaginings by Lisa C. Taylor

Teardrop shaped leaves litter the path, rain painting a sheen on gold and burgundy. Soon there will be only dried grass and the skeletal limbs of trees. Trudging to work or to teach, I take in the changes, noting that every autumn manifests differently though each is a harbinger of brief sunlight and chilly darkness. This season carries moisture as its marker, droplets that reflect scant light, and pliant, spongy earth welcoming my footprints. Here in New England, habits and clothing change as the winds pick up and the temperature drops. Unpacking sweaters and woolen socks, I uncover what has been dormant, the soup and fire of the coming months. I look for warmth and nourishment in all that I do, whether helping a child to discover imagery in a poem or story, performing at a library or cafe, or reading the thoughts of my adult students. It is a privilege to be an observer but it is also a responsibility. I am responsible to take my charge seriously, make time for the bitter, cacophonous midday, the resonant and timid night. What I will find is as unknown as the path of a storm or the dreams awaiting me tonight.

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We walked for three hours, past the horses, the single tree behind the white picket fence, the red barn. It’s a walk I’ve done for years, noting the seven shades of green in summer, the verigated colors of autumn, and the stark and sharp angles of winter. Still there is something to learn from the dirt pathway that grows smaller as it winds higher, the left side of the mound where once I saw a family of foxes, and the acrid smell of manure and rot by the barn. Today the sky is bluer than my memory of September skies. A family walks in front of me, each holding the hand of a curly-haired child. Two bicycles pass me, their riders windblown and flushed. At first I thought of all I should be doing instead of this. Later I thought of how I should be walking outside more often. I should be, as Mary Oliver says in her poem “The Summer Day”,  idle and blessed.  Later the poem goes on to say, Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?/Tell me, what is it you plan to do/with your one wild and precious life?  I was considering that question as we walked–a question I think about quite often as lately it seems as if caretaking and work take up all my time. How is it that each of us has the same twenty-four hours? It is true that one cannot give from emptiness. The natural world asks nothing from us except respect for its resources. How lucky I am to have vision, strong legs, a warm sweater for cool mornings. The clarity I receive from taking what is freely there in front of me will propel me through the week. I will bring it to my classes, my office, and offer it at the dinner table. May all of you do the same.

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Friend has now beome a verb, thanks to Facebook. I’m okay with this. Friendship should be active. I remember when parent became a verb. Parents used to be nouns, solid figures who did things but their actual title was simply a formality. Suddenly there was a wrong and a right way to parent. I’m not disagreeing with this though I bristle at having only two choices, believing that all relationships are imperfect and complex,  representative of our own human strivings and failures. Like teaching, rules must be flexible since each child is different and daily challenges provide a chance to redefine priorities. If you are teaching Shakespeare and there’s a stalker outside the classroom window, Hamlet may not be as important as personal safety. A child who becomes excited about a book may be allowed to stay up late to finish it. I believe in wonder, considered it a priority to take my own children outside during snowstorms, bring them to the window to see hail, driving rain, or a doe nibbling at the brush by the side of the driveway.

When someone “friends” me on Facebook, I don’t consider him or her a true friend unless this is simply an extension of an existing relationship. Far-off friends can now communicate electronically and I like to hear their musings on obstacles and triumphs. I have some Facebook friends I’ve never met because they are friends of friends or people I know of and find interesting, wise, or both. A few really move me with their deep sharing of grief or success. We are different people when we write. For me, writing is connected to how I think and there’s an intimacy that is often obscured by public protocol. I realize that this is the opposite for many people. My sister regularly tells me that phone calls are her preferred type of communication. I’m not a fan of phone calls though I savor rambling calls from my daughter or son–the ones where they share what they are thinking about and learning, because it’s a chance to experience their world, a world I cannot know but can imagine. How we communicate is changing but nothing replaces human contact; holding a hand, sharing a meal. The one I love will eat breakfast with me this morning on the back porch, the beginning heat heavy in sugar maples, the sound of awakening crickets, bees, and a red-winged blackbird foraging in the warm earth.

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     Last night thunderstorms flickered the lights; oak trees swayed like young women on a dance floor.  This morning: leaf-rubble was strewn all over the road and driveway.  While I like the intensity of a sudden storm, it is frightening in the power it wields.  There is always the potential that it could gather strength and cause serious damage.  I’m not the kind of person who believes that goodness is rewarded and evil is punished.  Talented and dedicated people lose jobs, have cheating or abusive spouses while difficult or cruel people can become CEOs of companies or politicians.  Power and success is a result of luck, persistence and sometimes an intangible.  At times I wish I believed that offering the best would result in success but it doesn’t always add up–in schools, in relationships, in life.  Instead I believe that offering your time and talent to the world is a matter of personal integrity and pride.  Seeing the light in the eyes of children when I am beating out the rhythm of a poem or reading Pablo Neruda can make my day.  Suddenly they stop fidgeting, shoulders down and hands still.  Even if they don’t understand all the words, they respond at a visceral level.  Such moments make me glad I’m a writer and teacher.  I know the students I’ve taught have benefitted from my passion for literature and learning.  All the teachers or professors I remember were immersed in the subject area, able to make it come alive in the classroom.  The prerequisites for teaching ought to be love of the subject and unqualified respect for the individual even though teaching will be frustrating and daunting at times.  Students care for younger siblings, hold outside jobs, have unemployed parents or parents in prison.  Sometimes they memorize and later forget, take every extracurricular activity to get into the right college but lose their love of the process, forget how good it feels to learn something new.   Fair isn’t equal, I used to tell my own children.  One child needs repetition, another needs to soar, yet all need to be treated as individuals.  When sudden storms threaten the status quo, I will look to the changeable skies for direction.  When I lived by the ocean, I would consult the tides.  Wildness reminds me that I am but a small part of the world.  When it seems that the trappings of life are overwhelming, viewing oneself as a shell on the beach or a single branch can be useful.  The sea holds its secrets like I hold writing close inside me, knowing that words can hurt or heal.  I vow to use my facility with language for the greater good, expecting nothing but a blank page and if I’m lucky, a listening ear.

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Some nights, the sun displays its grandeur before slinking out of sight.  If we are lucky, we are outside walking the dog, pulling those last few weeds out of the garden, on a sunset canoe ride, or sitting on the porch sipping something slightly sweet, slightly tart.  Everything changes.  Heat can feel like comfort or oppression.  A day spent teaching poetry can be many small moments of wonder strung together or one can feel like a visitor in the country of the classroom, speaking in a language no one seems to understand.  That’s when it’s time to pull out something else–a poem of surprise, maybe shocking, maybe soothing, an animation, Paganini, Led Zeppelin…don’t  discount any possibilities.  Life is best experienced awake, and learning is more likely to be accomplished when students are fully present.  We are all students, gliding through sunlit evenings or trudging through the mud.  Being an observer comes with responsibility. Learning flourishes in unexpected places..

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>Today our local newspaper chronicled the history of believers who predict an apocolypse. It is true that we are in a time of increased seismic activity, and weather disasters are becoming commonplace. On tonight’s news, they showed aerial photos from Mississippi where people are literally building islands to protect their homes. Nevertheless, hearing that some have quit jobs and spent irresponsibly makes me wonder what happened to make some of us abandon reason. I believe wholeheartedly in life’s happenings as metaphor. I also espouse respect for the beliefs of others as long as they do not impinge or exploit. Is there plenty to worry about these days? Absolutely. Still, the light revealing six shades of green on lush trees is enough to make me pause and catch my breath. I have strong legs and good eyes. My dahlias, tulips, pansies, and bleeding hearts are in bloom–and the color variations are complicated and beautiful. On Facebook, a number of comments have been posted–songs for the end of the world–Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, “Let it Be” by the Beatles. Tonight we prepared fresh greens with lemon and olive oil, turnips from the farmer’s market with a light dill sauce and a Pinot Noir. I can’t imagine anything better as we sat on the porch, watching the waning light through lacy leaves. I remember a poem by Linda Pastan, “The Happiest Day”…”if only someone could have stopped the camera then/and ask me: are you happy?/perhaps I would have noticed/how the morning shone in the reflected/color of lilac…” At the end of my life, I hope to remember these moments–looking at your still handsome face, muted by the encroaching darkness, the small light on the wine glasses, a nod of purple hyacinth in the untended garden. This has to be enough.

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>Walking amid primrose, bleeding hearts and tulips, I feel colorless. All of us walk around as if we were ordinary when inside, ideas are churning and blood is pumping, nourishing our organs. I’m amazed when someone tells me something about myself that I didn’t know—mostly because it often isn’t true. All of us have internal and external selves and we humans make assumptions. I asked my class in Critical and Creative Thinking how many of them had experienced a misunderstanding through email or text message and just about every student raised his or her hand. We are clumsy at communication. Reading between the lines, we see a callousness or intimacy that may not exist. Even as a writer, I often blunder on the page. But I would take imperfect writing any day of the week. Notes, letters, postcards, and even emails are important to me. I learned as a young child to revere the written word. In a sense it gave me a kind of power I never felt I had when speaking. I still prefer writing to talking on the phone. I’ve learned to speak or read my work in public but I’m never completely comfortable. I just fake it better now. Like the amazing bleeding heart, a person’s exterior can look very different from her interior or emotional state. I marvel at the complicated shape and color of this flower, realizing that we are also complex and our season of perfect blooming is short, not always fully realized.

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