Happy 75th, Mom!

This morning, my brother, Chet, reminded me it was Mom's birthday with a post online and he mentioned how Mom used to rearrange furniture. I wrote this essay a while back, but thought I'd share it in honor of her birthday today. Miss you, Mom!

Moving Furniture

For as long as I can remember, my mom rearranged the furniture. As a kid, I’d come home from school and find the couches and end tables on opposite sides of the room; the tv pulled out from the corner and pushed up against the wall, picture frames rehung where there had been white space before.

Weeks later, I’d find another formation, or maybe things would be moved back into their original spots. Sometimes Mom would flip flop the living room and dining room and, if I didn’t get used to them, I’d find myself running into a coffee table as I made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water. Eventually, I would get used to the new arrangement just in time for Mom to change it once again. 

Summer of 1992: photo credit Elayne or Robert Logan-Currie

As an adult, nearly every time I visited my parents’ home, Mom would have moved things around. Maybe Mom bought a new side table or lamp and this new piece would inspire a new version of the living room, dining room, or sitting room. I’d notice, and offer a compliment: “It looks so much bigger now,” or “I love how I can see the plum tree when I sit here,” or “I like the new chair.” But I never got too attached. Even if I liked a room’s set up, I knew this too would pass.

Mom’s furniture moving always kept me on my toes, but I didn’t inherit this trait. In every space where I’ve lived, the furniture has found its place and stayed there for the duration. If something didn’t fit, I got rid of it. If a space needed something new, it was purchased and put in it’s new home. Even as a mother, my kids’ room has had two arrangements: one when there was just one, and another when the second came along. Maybe this trait skipped a generation. My siblings don’t seem to have it, but my sister says my niece rearranges her bedroom every few months. Maybe my little ones will rearrange when they get older.

I never asked Mom why she moved furniture all of the time. I don’t know if there was a pattern or a cause. Did she rearrange things on days when she was unhappy, or feeling restless, or bored? Mom was rarely satisfied with the status quo. She craved constant change and was always searching for ways to make her life different and better. Shifting the furniture could make a room open up, or feel more spacious, or cozy. This could become a perfect spot to watch tv, read the paper, nap, or have a conversation. Maybe if the furniture was just right, she would be satisfied. Moving furniture might have given Mom a feeling of control over her world. She moved it to remind herself that even if she couldn’t make the church, or her husband, or her children do exactly what she wanted, she could make us sit where she wanted.

I wonder how many times Mom would have shifted the furniture in the two years since she’s been gone. I never thought it would be something I’d miss, but when I visit Dad now, the house looks pretty much the same as it did the visit before; stuck in Mom’s final arrangement. I’m sure, wherever she is, she’s ready for change, and I imagine she’s watching us and thinking about just how she would like to move things around.

Ten Blog Posts to Start the School Year: How Do You Refuel?

Summer, summer, summertime!

Tomorrow is the first day of school and today teachers are officially back to the grind. Last night, I didn't feel ready. A summer that started with daily swimming lessons and constant sunscreen application, bore trips with carsick kids to Oregon and Washington DC, and closed with days of writing bookended by life with two kids is over. This summer didn't provide the rest and reflection I'm used to having to reboot for the new school year. But tomorrow the kids are coming, so I need to ready my mind and my heart in a hurry.

In the early days of this summer break, I got a message from an acquaintance. She is a mother and a teacher too, and she wanted to know more about my teaching philosophy. Do I use a certain program or strategies? Is there a workshop that has been my model? In essence, she wants to know how I do what I do.

All summer I've been thinking about how to answer her questions. I think about my teaching all of the time, but I hadn’t written my thoughts about teaching down since my credentialing program almost twenty years ago. So, I'm thinking about her questions and others that have come up this summer, and I'm going to try to write something about my work for the next ten days to remind myself why I do what I do. 

But, I'm also crowd-sourcing this question: How do you do it? How do you find motivation in the day-to-day grind? And teachers, I'm looking for your wisdom in particular. It wasn't until I started teaching that I realized the necessity of summer vacation, so how are you refueled by summer? I'll post my response and hopefully some responses from readers tomorrow.
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Mother's Day 2016

I only celebrated Mother's Day three times as a mother before my own mom passed away. This is my second without her. The missing persists daily, but feels even heavier on weekends like this. Here is a poem from this year's NaPoWriMo collection: The Equilibrium of Lost Change. It's inspired by the poem "Before" by Ada Limón about "the hazardous bliss before you know what you would miss." Enjoy... 

Before


by Ada Limón

No shoes and a glossy


red helmet, I rode


on the back of my dad’s


Harley at seven years old.


Before the divorce.


Before the new apartment.


Before the new marriage.


Before the apple tree.


Before the ceramics in the garbage.


Before the dog’s chain.


Before the koi were all eaten


by the crane. Before the road


between us, there was the road


beneath us, and I was just


big enough not to let go:


Henno Road, creek just below,


rough wind, chicken legs,


and I never knew survival


was like that. If you live,


you look back and beg


for it again, the hazardous


bliss before you know


what you would miss.

and here is my response... 

Before

On my last night in your house

we argued about your happiness.

When you came to visit, I was

annoyed by your exhaustion

before I knew I was pregnant

before your surgery

before I came to understand a hospital bed

and how doctor’s rounds worked and final goodbyes.

before decisions were made 

and I learned about death

there was the mundane

and annoying:

the conflict that only matters

with the ones we love.

Previous Mother's Day posts:

Happy Mother's Day 2015

Mother's Day 2014

Not a Mother's Day poem 2013

National Poetry Month: Work Poem

Writing Death, Life, Work, & the Words In-Between was work. And writing it reminded me of all of the work being done by so many. And in that work, there is the attempt to find balance. Here is a poem about breathing in the space of all that work.

How to Find Balance

Up early.

Feed the little one.

Hold him close

and try to enjoy

these fleeting moments.

Breathe.

Get up and shower.

Hope the baby is still asleep.

Eat breakfast with

the not-so-little one.

Let go of the princess shirt

and princess necklace

and princess conversation.

Breathe.

Steal a few moments

to write

a few words.

To capture

and see the world

in all its beauty

and tragedy.

Breathe.

Drive to work.

Drink the coffee.

Start checking off

the list of to-dos

before the students

enter the room.

Smile.

Be kind.

Teach.

Breathe.

Pump.

Because the little one

is still so little

and this is the time

in the day when

you are connected

even though he

is far away.

Breathe.

Return to the to-dos

and the students

and ignore the noise

outside the classroom

that distracts from

the real work.

Pump.

Eat. Coach. Teach.

Drive back home.

Pick up the kids.

Breathe.

Attempt to enjoy

these fleeting moments.

Hold them close.

Feed.

Bathe.

Laugh and play.

Brush and read.

Breathe.

Go to bed early

because tomorrow

is another chance

to balance it all. 

National Poetry Month: Life Poem

Yesterday's poem was a bit of a bummer, I know, so I'll try to lighten it up a bit. While writing Death, Life, Work & the Words In-Between, I learned that I tend to write pretty serious poems. Many of my students write about kale, the Illuminati, pickles, and raisins while others write about death, suicide, and serial killers. My poems definitely lean toward the latter, but this one isn't so bad.

"Morning Conversations"

Spring Day

A spring morning 

still in bed

with all of my loves:

the baby

the toddler

the partner.

A morning run 

after breakfast

under clear skies

still clean 

from the rain

of a few days ago.

A late-morning walk

for coffee

when the toddler notes

“It’s a beautiful day”

reminding you

that it’s a beautiful day.

A long nap

when we all sleep

and dream

and wake

taking a few moments

to reopen our eyes to the day.

An early bath in bright light

that floods our afternoon

and a cool breeze

under cloud-dappled skies

before an early bed time
on a spring evening.

On the Eve of My 41st Birthday

This will be my first birthday without my mom.

Mom and me :)

41 years ago she cleaned the house. I imagine her folding the laundry, picking up after her three and five-year-old, putting away dishes. She thinks maybe all that activity helped things along, made her water break.

A neighbor came over to watch my siblings while Dad drove Mom to the hospital. April is still cold in Bend and that's what Mom remembers about the drive: that her feet were cold and Dad refused to run a red light.

It wasn't the easy birth the third baby is supposed to be. There was back labor and my shoulders were too wide for the birth canal. But I arrived all the same, on a cold April morning.

Mom was with me for forty birthdays after that. I remember my little kid birthday parties: at the pool or a parade around the yard. And Mom always baked a homemade cake. I used to be embarrassed by these cakes. I thought she was being cheap and often wished for a store-bought cake with thick, white frosting. But now I wish for one of those cakes, or for the cherry crunch my sister and I often requested.

As an adult, on my birthday, Mom always called. She always sent a card in the mail, and sometimes a little gift, something she saw that made her think of me. But this year, and I'm sure for every birthday to come, I will remember Mom. I will remember all of the wonderful ways she taught me to celebrate. I will remember all of the ways she made me feel special. And that will forever be my gift from her.

Back to the Grind

On my way back to the grind...

I’m sure there are things that would have made my return to work easier.

If baby Gabe wasn’t so perfect, his lashes, his coos, his snuggles beneath my chin. That would have made it easier.

If my school wasn’t quite so awful, was cleaner. If my classroom hadn’t been thrashed by the traffic of the one hundred fifty-odd students who traipse in and out everyday. That would have made it easier.

If I had an easy, clean, private space to pump and rinse the bottles and cones with water that wasn’t labeled undrinkable and a refrigerator to store expressed milk until the end of the day. That would have made it easier.

If my schedule wasn’t dictated by the ring of a bell. If I could pump and pee when I needed to instead of depending on the bell schedule or the field trip or the testing schedule on any particular day. That would have made it easier.

If it wasn’t that time of year. Instead of teaching, I am a test proctor, a computer re-starter, a warning bell that your time is almost up. If I was teaching sonnets and slant rhymes, black out poetry and onomatopoeia, instead of watching students tip tap click clack on keyboards and staring at screens. That would have made it easier.

But Gabe is lovely, and so is Kiara. I have amazing help from David. My students are brilliant poets and many of my colleagues are supportive. That makes it just a little bit easier.

So even though it’s hard, even though it’s not easy, I know it could be so much harder. Women are doing everything, everywhere, everyday. Or maybe are staying home facing all of those unique challenges. All I know is that motherhood has taught me what so many have known: this is the hard work of life. 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

A poem for you, Mom, on Mother’s Day 2014

after Sandra Cisneros’ “Abuelito Who”

Mom who is far away

and wants me to call everyday

who is pain and worry and naps at noon

whose hair has gone gray

who tells me visit soon

who moves furniture around the room

who is hungry

is chocolate cake

is hamburger and fries

is full of sighs

who tells me never lie

who says question what you believe

who will never, ever leave. 

52 Poems: Weeks 51 and 52 The End

These are the last poems I'll be posting for a while. 52 poems ends up being quite a lot, so thanks for coming along with me on this year's poetry detour. It reminded me how much words matter. Hopefully, they reminded you of that too.

2013 has been a year filled with teaching, writing, reading, and poetry, but it's also been about a little girl who is growing in a world far away from where I grew up and far away from my immediate family. Here are a couple of poems from my Reflections on Motherhood collection about little Kiara Harper's journey. They were inspired by poems I posted in week 14 of this poem-a-week project, Pablo Neruda's "You Will Remember." and in week 16, Billy Collins' "Forgetfulness." 




Urban Girl
after Pablo Neruda’s “You Will Remember”

You will remember sirens and bright night skies,
the beach and warm winters,
voices in a chorus of languages
and traffic flowing instead of silent water.

You will remember snow as a vacation
an escape to a mountain
rather than a driveway or walk to shovel
or a day off from school.

You will remember family
after a plane ride or a long drive
and the Oregon relatives whose love
stretches from a thousand miles away.


Pictures with Grandpa
after Billy Collins’ “Forgetfulness”

I watch you with your grandpa
and I’m so glad you know him,
that his booming voice
is familiar to your tiny ears,
that his bright white smile
brings out your giggle.

I snap pictures to capture the moments

so when he slips away,
when he can no longer remember your name,
I can show him pictures
of that first Christmas and first birthday
to help jostle loose a memory
of how much he loves you.

And when he is gone
I will show you these photographs
so you will know,
in a time before you can remember
your grandpa loved you
and you loved him too.

52 Poems: Week 22 Conception

At Beckie and Gearin's nuptials,
you were there with Gray and Lucas.

If you have been on this ride with us for a while, you know the journey to Kiara started way back in 2009. I wrote a post, Fertile Soil, about the miscarriage which had me worried about getting pregnant again. And if you do the math, Kiara, born in 2012, took quiet some time. I wrote an update in 2010 and then finally announced good news in 2011. And once Kiara arrived, that journey to get pregnant faded away, until we started trying again. Yep, we're trying again. Wish us luck. Here's a poem from my collection about a piece of that journey. A Life in Revision: Reflections on Motherhood.

Conception  

I wish it was more magical,

more an experience of the earth,

a spontaneous moment of passion

between your mother and father

on a tropical vacation during summer break.

Instead, your conception, the beautiful moment

when the egg and sperm collided

and cells divided forming the beginnings of you,

was a sterile miracle

in a doctor’s office on Sunset in Hollywood.

I suppose it was magical

the shots in my belly

the long freeway drive

the hollow straw

and Dr. Jabara on a holiday weekend.

Then there were the weddings we attended

with the secret of you growing in my womb

and the holiday season that passed,

all of us so anxious for your arrival.

It is magic—and miracle.

You are here.