What You Can Read Next
/Most of you know I retired from a twenty-nine year teaching career last June. Stepping away from my job (especially during the strange time we’re living through) made me ponder. Now that I’m no longer part of the world of education, what I can offer as the teacher part of my blog title? And then I thought about something that’s been important to me my whole life: books and reading.
Books got me through many difficult times as a child and young adult. And they are offering the same solace now. So let’s talk about books.
When we began sheltering at home because of the pandemic, perhaps you found that your reading rate went up. I know I’ve been reading these days. I decided to stay away Amazon as much as possible and support local independent bookstores and small presses. The books have piled up, but so has my pleasure.
Three such books gracing my nightstand come from my favorite small press, Saddle Road Press and the press’s new imprint, Two Fine Crows Books.
Both Saddle Road Press and Two Fine Crows Books are run by Ruth Thompson and Don Mitchell, talented writers themselves.
Of course, I’m grateful because they published my poetry collection, Always a Blue House.
But today I want to recommend these new books from Saddle Road Press and Two Fine Books to add to your own collection. Order one or all of them from Bookshop.org to support an independent bookstore in your area.
Face: A Memoir by Marcia Meier.
This book asks readers to consider what is a face? It is the question the author had to confront from the age of five after a traumatic accident left her face partially disfigured. As she chronicles her journey to recovery, Meier invites us to consider how important our physical self is to our sense of identity.
Join Marcia and Don for a conversation with other Saddle Road Press writers on February 20, 2021. You can find the Zoom link HERE.
Shibai: Remembering Jane Britton’s Murder by Don Mitchell.
In Japanese culture, shibai means "drama," or "play," but in Hawaiian slang it means "smokescreen," or "bullshit." In this book, part memoir, part true crime story, Mitchell weaves together the brutal 1969 murder of his college friend, and the long-term ripples it has created in his life. Along the way he struggles to understand what is truth and what is shibai.
Heart’s Compass Tarot by Tania Pryputniewicz.
This is the first publication of Two Fine Crows Books. Whether a Tarot expert or beginner, this workbook offers the reader the opportunity to dive into the world of Tarot in a playful, creative way through journaling, writing and art projects. (I have taken many of Tania’s Tarot workshops, and you will find some of my artwork in this book.)
Join Tania for her book launch Sunday, February 14. This will be a panel discussion with some of the artists (including me) featured in her book. You can find the Zoom link HERE.
This beautiful post from Brainpickings helps explain how important reading can be: Mass, Energy, and How Literature Transforms the Dead Weight of Being.
And finally, I was excited to hear that Levar Burton of Star Trek: the Next Generation fame has been named the Inaugural PEN/Faulkner Literary Champion for his contribution to the world of literature. I used to show his Reading Rainbow videos (yes, back in the days of VHS) in my ELL classes. Check out his podcasts: Levar Burton Reads.
I’d love to hear your thoughts. What has reading been like for you during the pandemic?
Day 82 Sheltering in Place; My Last Week
/
I love to keep records of ongoing events: 2,484 days of daily morning writing; 82 days of sheltering in place; 204 days of studying Italian on Duolingo. I’m not sure what it says about me other than I’m a bit obsessive.
Yesterday, day 204 of studying Italian, this sentence popped up for me to translate: La prossima settimana e la mia ultima settimana. The next week is my last week.
And it’s true.
I’ve been counting down to retirement all school year, even after Covid-19 forced teachers and students to leave schools and begin our new adventure in distance learning.
A few weeks ago, I donned my mask and gloves to clean out my workspace, to give away books and recycle papers I had thought I couldn’t live without. Until the end came. I finally got rid of lesson plans saved from year to year. I shoved all the mementos I received from students into a box, now sitting in my garage.
What will I do with the set of three white elephant statues given to me so many years ago that I have no memory of the boy’s name (I do remember they came from a boy) who gave them to me?
Along with the World’s Best Teacher plaque (again the giver’s name is lost) and a letter holder brought back by some child from Jordan, they represent all the students I taught in the 23 years I spent as a middle school teacher.
And what about the envelope full of portraits of me drawn by kindergarteners accompanied by letters thanking me for helping them? As an instructional coach, I spent the year with them and their teacher, working together to nurture those young children into writers.
So, tomorrow will be Monday, June 8, 2020. The day that begins the last week of my job. In five days (another number) I will be retired after having spent 29 years working as a teacher and coach for Jefferson Elementary School District. Almost half my life.
In this troubling time with so many people suffering, it seems selfish to feel this is a sad time in my life. But retirement is a rite of passage that deserves contemplation and celebration. I just never thought I’d be marking the end of my career via Zoom or sitting six feet apart from friends.
When I began this blog in September 2011, in my first post I asked the question: Teacher/Poet or Poet/Teacher? After I retire, I can still claim poet but what about teacher? What will I say instead? In five days, I’ll have to ask myself that question. At least I’ll have plenty of time to think about it.
April Fool's Day # 15 Sheltering in Place for NaPoWriMo; 46 Days to Work
/
Oh boy, April Fools Day. This may the perfect day to read that California schools will maintain “at-home” instruction for the rest of the school year as reported on SFGate.
For me this means that I’ll end my career as a public school teacher sheltering in place at home, working at a desk in my bedroom instead of one of the classrooms where I’ve taught and coached for the past 29 years. Who knows when I’ll be able to go back to foggy Daly City?
Thank you, Covid-19.
But I’m determined not to let this nasty virus to take complete control of my life. To that end, I say Happy National Poetry Month!
For poets and poetry lovers around the world April 1st marks the first day of National Poetry Month as well as National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). It’s been a few years since I’ve participated in NaPoWriMo, but maybe this year I can manage to squeeze out a few poem just to spite the nasty virus.
For this day, I offer a post I wrote five years ago. It heartens me to remember how this poem was born. A revised version found its way into my book Always a Blue House.
National Poetry Month: April 1, 2015
It's that time again: National Poetry Month which means I'll be participating in NaPoWriMo once again. Last year I posted a haiku on my blog every day in April. This year I'm determined to post different types of poems each day.
And if any of you want to write a poem to me, I'll post your work as well.
So taking courage in hand (who in her right mind would post poems when they are newborn?), here goes.
Day 1:
Washing Dishes
White shards shattered,
scattered over the tile floor.
The plate flew past his head,
like in a movie
she had once watched,
like she had often imagined.
How it started doesn’t matter.
A bird trapped in her cage,
approval the worm she craved.
Not his half hidden glance
as he turned away,
derision written in the curve of his lips.
As she wiped that plate dry,
warm from its bath,
porcelain smooth,
this time her hand
knew the reply
she had never dared.
Day 4 of Shelter in Place; 53 Days to Work
/9:36 a.m. Trying to work from home.
Day 2 of Shelter In Place; 55 Days Until Retirement
/Today this Instructional Coach:
Participated in 2 video Google chats with members of the Teaching & Learning Department
Participated in 1 video Google chat with 1 teacher
Collaborated with 1 coach by phone
Talked to 2 teachers on 2 different Zoom calls
Received and received innumerable emails
Spent 4 hours searching for online sites and other resources teachers can use for their at-home instruction
Read that Governor Newsom suspended state testing for this school year
Read that Governor Newsom said California public schools may be closed until the end of the term
I took this photo the last day I spent as a teacher at Ben Franklin, June 2014. It probably looks a lot like this today with teacher and students sequestered in their homes.
The Road to Retirement: Sheltering in place while Always a Blue House travels without me
/
As of today, I have only 56 days to work until I retire on June 12, 2020. As of today, I am working from home because here in the Bay Area we’re sheltering in place due to the covid-19 pandemic. As a teacher I spent many years practicing emergency drills with students, including sheltering in place. I never would have imagined that we’d actually be participating in such a wide-spread event. What a strange way to end my career in public education!
Another change: this is the first time in decades that I didn’t make plans to travel abroad during summer vacation time. I thought after 29 years following a school calendar I’d be able to travel in any month I choose. Well, covid-19 may have grounded me for some time. How long? None of us know right now.
One place I’ve never visited is Costa Rica. That’s because summer is their rainy season. I figured it would be a good place to visit after I retire. One of my writer friends just went to Costa Rica and honored me by taking Always a Blue House with her. I can take solace in thinking my book traveled even it I can’t.
Last Day at La Muse, Labastide Esparbairenque, July 2019
/Le Montagne Noire, Languedoc July 2019
Stone walls march
up the mountain side
beside cliffs of the same
granite. Stone chipped
and stacked by hands long gone.
Walking the gravel road
I can almost see them, those farmers
hands calloused and bleeding,
carrying tons of rock
to surround their fields.
Here in the mountains,
under the deep dome of sky,
time drips slow honey.
Chartreuse lichen and succulents
with flowers blue and yellow
cling to surfaces, not caring
if nature or human-made.
Bees rise up buzzing,
hours hang sweet in the air,
apricots waiting to be picked.
At La Muse Writing Retreat, Labastide Esparbairenque, France
/swallows dip and sway
wings spread under tattered lace
sky blooms wide open
Sea Ranch Poem
/My friend and sister AROHO alumna, Esther Cohen writes and shares a poem every day. As she says on her blog, she tries to write about “what happens every day (some days notwithstanding) most often, in a poem. sometimes, with sentences. maybe every once in a while, with a picture of SOMETHING”
I read every one of her offerings and marvel at her bravery sending her newborn words out into the world. But Sea Ranch is a special place alive and vibrant. The sun has finally come out after days of fog, giving me a bit of courage.
white light
summer night
moon spills
across my pillow
let me rise
with Jupiter
in the horizon
let me walk
the meadows beside
sea cliffs, waves
crashing far below
Sea Ranch June 2019
/What more could I possibly want in a location for a writing retreat than some friendly sheep and beautiful wooded paths?
Poetry Guilt - National Poetry Month
/
For the past few years I’ve participated in NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month), writing and posting a poem every day (or almost every day) for the entire month of April.
This year I just couldn’t do it. Hence poetry guilt.
But today is a beautiful spring day here in the Bay Area, and I need to remember that poetry will come again. Besides, when has guilt ever done any good? Instead why not offer up this poem for spring.
Bee Song
we sisters
visit one sticky
yellow center
then the next
nestle our striped
fuzzy bodies inside
search for sweet
syrupy beads
rolling in pollen
till we clothe our legs
in gold
we sigh and hum
come sing with us
raise your face to light
soak in nectar ecstasy
mingle your hands
in blossoms
crabapple spring
—from Always a Blue House
Clearlake, CA.
/scalloped clouds floating
washed in opal twilight
we surely become pearls
—from Always a Blue House
A Memoir Publication
/
If you had told me when I started this blog in 2011 that it would lead me to writing nonfiction, I would have scoffed. But that’s exactly what happened.
A few months ago I discovered Longridge Review, a journal that is an evolution of the Essays on Childhood project started by editor Elizabeth Gaucher. Longridge’s mission is “to present the finest essays on the mysteries of childhood experience, the wonder of adult reflection, and how the two connect over a lifespan.”
I’m honored to have my essay published in their latest issue. You can read it it online here: Snowsuit Prisoners.
What a Nice Surprise...
/...when you completely forget that you've had a poem accepted for an anthology, which, when it comes in the mail, is quite beautiful, thick and juicy with poetry. And you find your poem amongst works by such luminaries as W.S. Merwin and Jo Harjo and Denise Levertov and Lucille Clifton and Evie Shockley (who I met at AROHO), just to name a few. And the overturned truck on the freeway that lengthened your morning commute by almost an hour and the school room that is your "office" with no heat and the hard conversation you had to have with a colleague fall away as you bask in the glow.
Thank you to Melissa Tuckey, co-founder of Split This Rock Poetry Festival (which anyone on the East Coast should attend) and The University of Georgia Press for this lovely book. Here is my poem which appears on page 197 in case you want to buy a copy here:
Serengeti Afternoon
To stand upright,
a wildebeest struggles,
wobbly, his legs broken.
In the thin arms
of a baobab tree
vultures,
ink splotches
across the deep blue sky.
They are waiting
for the wildebeest’s
last fall
before they drop
down around him.
I watch stunned
as the first one, brazen,
tears a strip of flesh
from the still-shuddering flank.
Red means only one thing
in the Serengeti.
My silent vigil
is all I offer
the dying.
For the first time
in my life
I wish for a gun.
Always a Blue House Went to Lisbon
/
Lisbon is a beautiful city filled with many blue-tiled buildings. It was the perfect place for a new Always a Blue House video. Check it out here.
Welcome the New Year
/
And now we welcome the new year, full of things that have never been. -- Rainer Maria Rilke
2017 was a year of highs and lows for me in many ways. On the up side there was the Always a Blue House reading tour. Riding high from publishing my poetry collection with Saddle Road Press, run by the incomparable Ruth Thompson and Don Mitchell, I had a wonderful time with my writer-sisters Tania Pryputniewicz, Michelle Wing, Marcia Meier and Barbara Rockman who arranged readings, planned poetry workshops and opened their homes for poetry salons. Without them, I would never have been able to pull off such a tour. I can never thank these friends enough.
Then there was the saddest event of the year: my father's death on October 11, 2017. Having spent the last three years mourning the gradual decline of his mental capabilities, my feeling of loss has been a muted grief. I am thankful that Dad didn't linger in dementia limbo. Even at the end, he was able to enjoy visits from family and friends. He still knew we were his people even if he couldn't always remember our names.
With all the tumult of 2017, when 2018 rolled around a few days ago I felt particularly reflective. However, before I got around to making a list of new goals, I read an interesting article in The New York Times: The Only Way to Keep Your Resolutions by David DeSteno, a professor of psychology at Northeastern University. In it DeSteno claims that "By Jan. 8, some 25 percent of resolutions have fallen by the wayside. And by the time the year ends, fewer than 10 percent have been fully kept." Why do we fail so miserably when trying to keep our resolutions? According to DeSteno it's because of "our tendency to be shortsighted - to value the pleasures of the present more than the satisfactions of the future." And this is all because of the way we look at willpower as the key to success. The very idea of willpower goes against our own evolutionary path as human beings. Focusing on what DeSteno calls self-focused goals was not what mattered most to humans for most of our history. Instead, what led to our success was "strong social bonds."
So just what advice does DeSteno give to help us achieve our goals? Here's where I found the article most interesting. The author claims that we are ignoring the very tool that will help our success. What is that tool? "It's our emotions - specifically, gratitude, compassion and an authentic sense of pride (not hubris) - that push us to behave in ways that show self-control ." How intriguing.
This idea made me look at one of the biggest resolutions I've ever made: starting a daily writing practice. When I think about what has helped me get up early every morning to write (since August 19, 2013, 1601 days and counting), certainly genuine pride in creating this achievement helps keep me going. That is simple.
But what about gratitude? What part could this emotion play in helping bolster my resolve? Even though I am not naturally an early riser, the impact of my morning practice has been immense. I have never felt more like a writer in my life. And without this, Always a Blue House might not have been born. And for that I am grateful.
I know I'm grateful to my writer friends for their support. I know that giving similar support to them them can only enrich my life and help me become a better "literary citizen." (See Ten Kind Suggestions for Being a Literary Citizen post on Women Who Submit blog). I try very hard to be that kind of friend and colleague. I've just never named it as compassion before.
DeSteno's article gave me a new way of looking at setting resolutions. When contemplating a new goal, I'll try to remember to find not just the reason for that goal but the feeling that drives me. I'm hoping that will help me stick to what I set out to do.
As for the new year, now I'm struggling to find a reason to be grateful for going on a post-holiday diet. I'd welcome any suggestions for how to feel that!
