Wordsanctuary

Heart of the Matter

2007-03-07T14:44:00.000-05:00

Valentine's Day makes its appearance six weeks after the frozen turn of the year and six weeks before spring usually blossoms in Cleveland. (This arctic year...who knows.) On the calendar, it's a kind of pivot point. The heart is at the center of our lives...no matter how tiny or large the creature, it has a heart. Yet, technology has begun to elbow our feelings out of the way. Ironically, I post these sentiments electronically.

I began a meditation on this topic while driving, where large vehicles protrude, aggression reigns, and blood boils. Passing a preserved one-room schoolhouse, I saw two heart wreaths juxtaposed on the wooden doors. I thought of the bond of loyalty and mutual respect that once linked teacher and student. (I have spent many years as both.) Today, an adversarial atmosphere mars classrooms. There is mutual suspicion at times. Parents blame teachers; teachers blame parents; many blame the intrusion of legislators in the educational process. The heart of the teaching relationship--trust--seems lost. I could despair (and some days do), but then remember some of my own most cherished students and teachers. They were wise. Compassionate. Made me feel so privileged to cross their paths. My heart is full of love for them.

At risk also: The doctor and patient relationship. I think of this at a stoplight. What I call "stopwatch medicine" is the norm. I have heard that some hospitals or insurance companies demand a quota of patients seen per hour, per day. Could this be true? Two linked hearts may seem an overstatement to represent the ideal relationship--yet, "old world" doctors who made housecalls saved my life several times. They helped, and they gave me courage to heal. I once heard a doctor who served Amish country speak to a college audience. He said two things were certain: he would be paid, even if it took years...and it was unlikely he would ever be sued.

The light changes. I have observed extremes of incivility in cyberspace--a medium that would have been pure fantasy when I was in elementary school. (Go ahead: estimate my age.) A body of research even explores the "mean-while-anonymous" phenomenon. Perhaps it is the opposite of "random acts of kindness." I know of one suicide exacerbated by cyberbullying. This technology could unite the world, if it doesn't first destroy it. Have I ever felt like fainting, upon getting an irate email? Definitely. Perhaps we need an addendum to the Tabor's medical dictionary or the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of emotional disorders. A.T.S.S.: Acute technological stress syndrome. Treatment: Get off the computer. Remove headphones. Turn off cellphone. Look out the window. Breathe.

I channel surf for a moment as I drive, seeking an uplifting tune. Guess what: "nothing lasts forever in love..." One need not be a country singer to know that, nor check local divorce statistics. But I just looked out the window and passed a graying couple walking hand-in-hand in snow.

Love is as old--and potentially enduring--as the human heart. Keeping an open heart is so difficult. But maybe I can invoke the wonder I felt on Valentine's morning as a kindergartner. I woke up early to address cards to classmates. I felt a surge of caring amid pinks and reds, a feeling that my goodwill could really touch another heart.

Life continually challenges that early idealism. Technology tests my patience. But then again, here is the possibility for distant connection, relationship, and a synchronized heartbeat in time.

Polar Bear Photo Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (public domain)

I can't believe I got back in!

2007-12-26T22:32:00.000-05:00

Fond readers...I have found out how to enter this cherished Wordsanctuary. Right hip, ouch, left hip, ouch (a bit stiff today): But hurray! Now that I have another site too, www.wordsanctuaryrevisited.blogspot.com I will have to decide on a preference. But for now, there is no place like home.

A Poem

2007-12-27T22:42:00.000-05:00

My bark is worn.
My sap is warm.
My limbs wave imperceptibly.
My leaves dissolve in restless earth.
My roots extend beneath your feet.
My essence wavers in your hand.
My story pulsates in your heart.

Photo Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Sad As Midnight Approaches

2008-06-11T23:30:00.004-04:00

This evening I was swept with a wave of nostalgia and longing for students gone on to better things—and more than a few from OASIS (Older Adult Service and Information System) to the world we cannot know from this place. I was showing a current class of public relations students a video I was involved with in the mid 1990s; it documented the Lake Ridge Academy/OASIS Intergenerational Arts Projects. A segment of that video focused on my own class. My intention in showing it was to point out some elements of documentary making. Unexpectedly, my heart just began to grieve and I had to keep myself from crying; luckily, some of the video is just plain fun and funny. I miss Florence, Betty, Olive, Sanford, and others not in that group, such as Fran, Paula, Miriam. My heart aches for them even as I recognize the rare privilege I had in serving as their teacher. The hardest thing about making true friends is letting them go. I have counted these wonderful writer-storytellers among the aunts and uncles and extended family I never knew due to historical tragedy, geographical dispersion, and isolation. I pray that their spirits have found peace, perhaps even a way celebrate language and love in all worlds, here and there, now and then, forever and forever.

On Letting Go

2008-05-29T23:05:00.005-04:00

How often have I heard the imperative to let go, and resisted. Please don't tell me to step back, distance myself, or let something go. I need it. I had it! (Or thought I did.) I liked it. I may even have loved it. Tell me instead to hold on as tightly as I can. That, I know I can do. I have been doing it since the day I was born.

It is human nature to cling. Clinging is survival. One of the first things my newborn did was clench my finger. He had trouble nursing due to fatigue accompanying severe jaundice. He was a premie and could barely stay awake when it was time to eat. I was horrified when the doctor told me that I had to put a cold washcloth on his small cheeks and roll him side to side with a blanket to rouse him for feeding. But one thing my son could do, even when drowsy: squeeze my smallest finger with all the might of his tiny fist.

It is my nature to hold on to what I can. It's instinctive, a reliable reflex over time. When in doubt, hold on. It works for roller coasters and bumpy bus rides. It works for hats in all but the worst of winds. It works for clip-on earrings, even if they hold too tightly and leave dents. Try not holding on to tax records, old student papers. The year you pitch them is the year you are audited or have a grade contested.

Like many people, I don't like to surrender old clothes that no longer quite fit (maybe they will again), friends I have cared about (even when they forget me), cherished memories (though sometimes I can't conjure up the words to write about them). I would rather accumulate, add on. I'm happy in libraries, museums, back rooms with boxes and papers. I type this in a room that is more like a nest, stuffed with cherished manuscripts in layers, cluttered and colorful bookshelves, and news clippings in every shade of buff and yellow, all around. Why does it look like this? It's so hard to let things go.

As far as what you can't see--old hurts, for example--I am sometimes not even aware that I am still carrying them. I have absorbed spiritual teachings from several traditions, including Buddhism and the Unity movement, that suggest one release what has caused pain. Heal fast, with grace and help. Let go of grudges and worries, lest there be no space for openhearted love and confidence. Don't play the old, victim tapes. I try. I move ahead. I release a lot of people, and their brusqueness, their ignorance, even their violence and hate. But every so often, I surprise myself by discovering that somewhere, deep in my heart, is some pain I've locked away. I thought I had given up the struggles, the ache...but under several layers of letting-go efforts, the bruise is there. Intact.

But I had an epiphany the other day, a beautiful fall day. I was standing by a window that let in dazzling colors, especially orange and red. I moved aside sheer curtains to better see how the sun and leaves worked together to create that incredible display. I felt literally bathed in warm light.

Through the window, the fall leaves melded into tones reminiscent of tinted, scented candles--exotic cinnamon, bergamot, mocha--and they burned with the melody of the setting sun. If I stood at just the right angle, I felt as if a stained glass window stretched the length of my yard, filtering in deeply emotional tones of comforting light.

As I admired the color, and anticipated a longer merging experience, something suddenly caught my eye.

A single leaf.

The tree had gently shed it a moment before, tossing if off like a light layer of snow on a breezy winter day. It was a soft, natural movement. Viewing this from a second-floor windown, I was stunned. It was like a shrug.

Aha. So that is how it's done.

Then the leaf, moving through the air, twisted, turned, surged up, descended. It had moments of floating, flying. It was a celebration, a dance.

But the lesson for me had happened that split second before.

Being told to "let go" has a rawness to it. People often say this when they are sick of hearing of a hang-on, let-go dilemma. It's said with the same growl as "relax."

Luckily, nature teaches its own lessons, perfect and silent.

Though I had seen leaves fall in the past, I had never witnessed this in a warm-tinted landscape with joyful choreography. Much is written about the symbolism of fall for good reason. The pure mystery of separation is among the season's lessons, taught over and over, persistently and creatively. The moment I witnessed is repeated ...in neighborhoods lavish and simple...with every variety of leaf...and the trees softly surrender.

I watched as long as I could. The yellow leaf would soon merge with cool earth. Even e.e. cummings' inspired visual poem "l(a" was topped that day. I've taught that poem a lot, and thought I knew what I was doing as I showed classes the movement of the leaf in letters and sounds down the page. But that was simply a prelude for seeing this impromptu dance, wordless and compelling.

To let go is not to grit one's teeth in tension. It does not involve tearing and wrenching. There is no clenching. There is sadness but not regret. There is also a sense of expection: "and now..." The leaf was a master traveler.

As well as learnng from trees at sudden moments, I learn from my child. He is no longer a sleepy newborn but a gregarious first grader who knows how to separate from books, clothes, toys he has outgrown or no longer needs. He takes pleasure in giving things up, and goes about it strategically, calmly. Clearly, he does not get this from me.

Watching his competence eases the ache of loss I feel at his rapid passage out of early childhood.

And like the evaporation of dew, the release of night into dawn, the last reverberation of a bell, water off a duck's back...all of creation lets go.

On any random fall day, a bright yellow leaf will surf the wind and gently whisper (but only to those who are receptive): It's ok. Let go.

Written in 1998 but posted in memory of Sonia Zorich Klodor, dear friend and mother of Karen Zoller, May 30, 2008.

"What are you looking for?"

2008-01-30T09:49:00.000-05:00

“What are you looking for? Why do you keep going?”I suppose these questions could be asked of any researcher. But this time, hearing them at a party, I have to admit that between the lines, I felt a judgment. As in: Why don’t you leave that subject alone now? Stop. It makes me uncomfortable. It makes the world uncomfortable. Why don’t you focus on other things? No one can tell by looking at you that you are just one generation removed! Be normal. Be detached. In any case, don’t tell me any more about what you find.

The topic is the Holocaust. The subject, more specifically, is when and why did some of my loved ones die? What were others doing, and where, during the years that they were alive? What odds were defied so that the family could continue? And, of the several family members whose death records can’t be found—is there any chance that they survived?

If I were a more combative person, I suppose I could respond: “Why do you feel the topic is irrelevant?”

But I’m polite.

And I typically don’t inflict much on friends; let them be.

I knew one friend for eleven years before I told her that my father was a Holocaust survivor. And it was only because that morning she was so insistent that I go see Schindlers List because it could teach me about the Holocaust.

I will try not to equate the questions that began this entry with the world’s massive indifference and ignorance at the time.

Seeing pictures of and getting general statements about any massive atrocity is just the surface. It’s one level of knowledge. Often it’s all we can take.

I’ve lived for decades with partial knowing--my own vast unknowing.

This is among the most difficult topics I’ve ever researched—because of the interwinings of the world’s history and family history.

There is nothing I can tell this friend to help that person see the relevance—to my life now, to the precarious situation around the world, to the unhealed wounds of history, to hate being alive and well and thriving, to racism still posing a threat in many places.

Perhaps I should just answer: Because.

Ode to my Broken Toe

2008-01-07T10:18:00.000-05:00

e.e. cummings wrote when just a fellow:
"Oh, the little birdie oh, with his little toe, toe, toe."

Three toes I think that I have broken:
Though my physician has not yet spoken.

If the bones are whole, the tissues's bruised:
Across a fresh-waxed floor I cruised.

Why sing the praises of the house ideal:
When wool socks may turn into a wayward wheel.

At least my head is still intact:
(Though some out there do think me daft).

Don't Forget

2007-12-29T01:25:00.000-05:00

I have overcome the technical obstacle that left me unable to open this blog. However, during the dry spell I did create another blog;

www.wordsanctuaryrevisited.blogspot.com

Go there to read some of the older essays. And thank you for spending time with me here (or there). I wholeheartedly appreciate it.

Perfection, Exhaustion, Parenthood

2006-04-01T15:22:00.000-05:00

This entry is inspired by my son who just returned home from a local adjudicated (judged) music performance for middle schoolers. He plays the violin, and he played with my mind upon walking in the door. I was tired from teaching all morning. When asked how he did, he stormed to his room in sullen silence. "Oh no," I thought. "I need to go into mom-damage-control mode. It must have been a disaster."

Two years ago this June, my son performed at a school talent show. It was the end of fifth grade. He got rattled and his fingers somehow went wayward on the piano keyboard. (That is not hard for a typist like me to imagine.) I'll leave the description of his anguish to your imagination, but my son told me that he would never, ever play piano in public again. The next morning, he pleaded that he wanted a private violin teacher--an intuitive move toward healing, perhaps. Earlier that year, he had begun violin with the school orchestra, so it was not entirely unprecedented. I am not a stage mom, but I don't want my child traumatized for life at school events. My taxes are much too high for that.

I am not a "Type A" mom, and I surely never intended to create superbaby. But to make the time pass, I have explored the world with my son in many ways, including art, music, math, and language. We began exploring since he was tiny and long before he spoke. (He spoke late.) My son had many health problems in early childhood, and our home was our universe. We drew, played the piano, played with toys, collected animals and books, read, cut things out, talked, laughed, took walks. Before I knew it, he had developed a great love of learning as well as high standards for himself.

I wrapped my teaching hours around his waking hours as well as I could. As he got stronger, we could fold in outings to museums and short bursts away from home. But he was not the type of child who could tolerate a lot of time away. So wherever we were, that was our point at which to explore. Often, when attached to his nebulizer (for asthma), my son would draw and write and even play a tiny keyboard. I quickly learned when he was a premie that I did not have a "wash and go" baby. We adapted as new health problems surfaced. Creative life was particularly important for me and for him. In art, nature, music, writing, fantasy...we could transcend all we could not control.

And then comes the audience. Good grief, the outside world (whether it be preschool, daycare, middle school, a concert hall audience) can be so tough. And add to this, a pinch of that most-noxious ingredient: our own self-inditements if we have feel we have fallen short. The piano recital fiasco of 2004 was worsened by the crowd's laughter--the laughter of judgment, even ridicule. (A year later, at another school in our district, my son was greeted with: "You were the kid who screwed up at the talent show....") But before school adjourned for summer, a sensitive teacher alert to my son's temperament arranged to have a piano brought into her classroom to allow my son to play "Fur Elise" again for a smaller group. Bless her. My son played it through without incident.

As it turned out today: my son in fact had performed "successfully" in the strings' recital. No screw up, no laughter. He had chosen an ambitious piece of music and had practiced for weeks. When he got home, he was just pretending to have done poorly in the judges' eyes. I suppose this is progress--to be able to joke. But he remembers the heart-crushing agony of defeat and acts quite convincingly. My fear today was not that he had missed the mark...my fear was that the experience might again silence the music that has surged in his heart since before he was born. My prayer for him from a distance was: "Let his love of music and his sense of joy be preserved..."

When I was five months' pregnant, I had attended a wedding where, in utero, my son kicked to very loud music within seconds of our arriving at the reception. The ability to hear is a very old sense...

Whether my son's connection with music becomes a career, avocation, lifetime hobby, or pursuit-soon-abandoned is not my call. But it breaks my heart to know how quickly life can discourage risk and creativity. As a writing teacher, I witness every semester the joy of students rekindling a connection with writing or lighting a new fire when their hopes had been doused in the past. It takes guts to pick up bow, pen, or paintbrush and begin again.

In what seems like another life, long before my auto accident, I began taking modern dance classes on my lunch hour. I was in my late 20s. It was old to be pursuing something like that, but better late than never. I was driven by inner necessity. With demanding, long hours at a desk surrounded by text, my body wanted to dance. Looking back, I can barely believe I had the guts, considering the shapes of those around me. As my shoulders and neck are quite altered now, there is no danger of history repeating itself. In class, the real "artists" and hobbyists like me vied for mirror room. Often, I was elbowed out of the way. And though I love to sing, I have found that prima donnas abound in amateur choruses too; those with the most highly trained voices (egos?) will prevail. Do the rest of us have to just move our mouths? And writing? Well...

To dance, to sing, to write, to play an instrument...these are human. Yes, experts excel. But no art should be strictly the province of the well-oiled expert. There might be a bit of room at the inn, recital hall, reading, or art gallery for the rest of us.

Birds of the World

2005-07-03T21:15:00.000-04:00

Photo Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (public domain photo)

For Andrew, with much love

May beautiful birds sustain you when life is hard.

My six-year-old was a bird lover, a passion he acquired on his own. Maybe I jump-started the process with the purchase of seed for our long-empty feeder. Little did I know that Andy would go from watching birds at the window to developing an insatiable appetite for memorizing types of birds, habitats, and behaviors from books and tapes. Even quick trips to the grocery store then became an adventure; we might see birds along the way. This phase was one of the happiest in my life as a mom.

Andy was an early reader (though he began to speak later than most); birding by the book was a hobby he could pursue independently. As a three-year-old, he had mastered names of dinosaurs. The following year, he was consumed with mammals, often wanting parts of zoology texts read at bedtime. When birds became his focus, we started with references we could borrow -- such as his aunt's twenty-year-old, disintegrating field guide. His aunt had often shared horrors of a birdwatching class she took as a biology major at Ohio State University. Hip-deep in mud, arriving to sites at 4:30 a.m., unable to see elusive birds through binoculars, she considered the course an early-waking nightmare. "But Andy would have loved it," she said, as she discovered his affinity for birds.

It was quite a while before we finally returned that classic field guide to her. Andy had since discovered that there were others on the market too -- all informative and beautifully arranged. Yes, birdwatchers are a subculture; we may be perceived as a bit weird. Birding inspired by book is perhaps an even smaller subgroup. I lost count of how many bird books we own now. I admit to a mildly compulsive nature -- as compulsive as I can be on a budget.

Andy learned to do convincing bird calls. I will never forget the day that he broke into an exuberant "bald eagle call" in the middle of Cleveland Museum of Natural History. (Those exhibit floors echo.) The museum's continuously running video of the hatch of baby eaglets had inspired him. "Not everyone will know you are a bird lover, Andy. Some will just think you don't know how to behave."

Andy threw one of his most memorable tantrums one day after he fell in love with birds. We were leaving Wild Birds Unlimited. (I will take this essay to them, perhaps to post on a bulletin board.) There was a book Andy wanted that just wasn't in my plans for the day. "That book will never be there again," he cried when I refused to buy it. I explained the process of publishing and how, rarely, we are buying the very last one. But I knew -- and still know -- how hard it is to be rational when you love something so much. One of the stories of my own childhood was about my crying jag when a neighborhood girl left with a book she brought over to share for an hour, but I thought was a gift. I was less than two year old. I guess this is what Whitman calls the "fluid and attaching nature . . ."

One day, I asked Andy: "Why is it that you are so interested in birds?"

His response: "Because they are beautiful."

My own knack for memorizing bird names froze in early childhood. I knew just the basics: robin, cardinal, sparrow. "No, no, Mommy -- 'American robin', 'Northern cardinal', 'chipping sparrow'." Andy was outraged, as if I had referred to visiting dignitaries by nickname. In this phase of his childhood, one could simply say "nuthatch" and be treated to a detailed discourse on various types of nuthatch and where they live -- despite the fact that Andy was still having trouble pronouncing "ch" and "sh."

I could and can take no credit for Andy's mastery of this field. More than a few people assumed that a zealous parent had grilled him. No. But I did foster an awareness of the environment in his very early years, which just seemed like the thing to do. Even when he was tiny, we took short walks and car rides. I would read street signs and house numbers aloud, point out colorful objects, spell out license plates. Was I trying to create super-baby? Of course not. I was killing time, communicating . . . and my son seemed passionate about the world around him and receptive to my spirited commentary on the mundane.

For a child with asthma and severe allergies, the early spring and fall can be times of discomfort and suffering. But they are also times of bird migration. There is action at bird feeders. One year we were amazed to see a pair of cowbirds making an appearance. A few weeks later we found a nest built in an unused heating exhuast vent on our garage -- complete with sparrow eggs and a large cowbird egg. In my four decades, I had never heard of, let alone seen, a cowbird. My son told me about its habit of laying eggs in others' nests and probable history of following herds of buffalo.

During one of his hospitalizations (for asthma), I knew that my son had turned the corner when he chose to do a bird count from the seventh floor of Rainbow Babies' and Children's. As I recall, 70 birds in about two days. And during peak birdwatching times Andy had little interest in TV. A picture he drew in kindergarten showed him watching "Arthur" in a small segment to the left of the page. But, to the right and in vivid colors, was his portrayal of the birdwatching window -- complete with lilac bush in full bloom, bird feeder on a pole, and several meticulously drawn birds perching birds.

One morning at home I was awakened by: "The fledgling cardinal is almost an adult! He is as large as an adult! His color is adult!" That same year, several mother-child sparrow pairs would use our feeder to begin separation training. The babies were fed by their mothers, who would intermittently fly away, then return.

"I know what they are doing," Andy said. "The mothers are trying to teach them that they have to learn to feed themselves."

One day at North Chagrin Reservation, Andy announced that he could see a white-crowned sparrow. A volunteer countered that it was a white-throated sparrow. Andy restated his view. She restated her view. Seeing where this was going, I looked up from my book and rerouted the discussion to say how much Andy loves birds and what a pretty site this was. Diplomacy attempt . . . I thought the volunteer might be offended.

Months later, I got an excited phone call from my mom and sister. They had visited the same nature center and heard the following from a volunteer. "A few months ago, a boy of about six who knows all his birds was in here and identified them while his mother was reading a book."

I'm dismayed that schools have so little true nature curriculum. Andy's interest in the past six years has waned. Mine has not, but I don't have the mind that can absorb what he can. For anyone, it can get discouraging to speak a language that few respond to.

Some of my best moments of rest have been at the picture window that was my son's first vantage point on the world of birds. I have seen insects spin, clouds float, birds fly, leaves sway. A randomness and an order prevail in the yard, particularly when everyone else in the neighborhood is at work or school. Yes, it is lonely. But it is also where another community -- colorful, dynamic, underestimated in intelligence, and eager to eat -- congregates. I have sometimes felt my most important task of the day is to put birdseed out.

Andy's pleasure upon seeing birds has been contagious. Whether I am with him or not, I am on the lookout for birds I would have missed in the past. Robins downtown in January during a mild winter, mourning doves in a puddle on a flat roof after rain, a flock of birds singing in a spring snowstorm at John Carroll University, seagulls nibbling unidentified scraps in the Target parking lot. I do sometimes talk to them, always appreciate them.

At one library, a berry-gobbling flock of about forty cedar waxwings finished off a bush in the time it took me to go in and return a book. I may never be able to stop making mistakes like saying "rufous-sided towhee" instead of "rufous-headed towhee" -- but my son did his best to teach me. I will still look for bird nests inside curled letters of restaurant signs.

One day I brought home a deluxe birdseed that promised to attract "the most beautiful songbirds" to the yard. The next morning I was disappointed to find that the first visitors to the feeder were three large crows.

"Andy, what do you think of that?" I asked.

"But Mommy, crows are songbirds."

Music, in unexpected places.

Soaring

2006-03-30T22:26:00.000-05:00

Trumpeter Swan over Martin Lake
Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Today was one of those days that class took flight, creatively. First of all, we had sun shining on campus. Talk about a transformation. In Cleveland, sun is cause for major celebration. As I walked toward the 9:30 a.m. class, my mind floated between the planned and the unplanned. Do I figure out a way for this writing class to work outside? Or do I stay with the predictable, planned activity--an in-class review of selected literary criticism?

The sun and creative impulse won out.

After covering some necessary reminders, I set the class loose. But just before, we read three poems without comment: "ABC" by Robert Pinsky, "Swan and Shadow" by John Hollander, and "in Just" by e.e. cummings (which no one seemed to have read before, to my surprise). We had weeks of poetry early in the semester. I believe that at least some of it has settled in the subconscious.

Then, I gave the group 25 minutes to seek inspiration and write a poem -- either in the form of one of the three we had just read or their own form. I said, "when you come back, I don't want to have to beg for participation." Then I opted to stay in and guard the backpacks so that my students could depart with a free mind and less to carry.

The poems created were excellent and varied in tone in content. But more than a few captured the mood of the day...and their mixed feelings about this phase in their lives. The poems could be the beginning of a student's anthology on spring and other topics. After the first poem was read aloud, the class spontaneously applauded...and each effort earned applause.

If students experience inspiration and find words to channel it...they'll have grown not only in skill but in heart. In watching them soar, I remembered what a great privilege it is to teach.

Still Afloat

2006-03-26T14:18:00.000-05:00

Arctic Loon on Water (Gavia arctica)

Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

I have been away from this blog for quite some time. The beginning of the academic year kicked in, and there was no turning back from grading, class preparation, and connecting with students.

I think I hit my creative peak here in the heart of summer at precisely the point when income plummets.

Perhaps this summer I should learn from ducks adept at diving for snails and other food. Keep treading water, stay mindful, and look nonchalant...life forms of some type are sure to manifest sooner or later.

In one month, I have lost two cherished first cousins...one local and several decades older than me...she was a Holocaust survivor...and the other, in Germany, just a few years older than me. My cousin in Germany had suffered a serious surgical mishap while pregnant nearly 24 years ago and became disabled. Her teaching career was over. Nevertheless, she found a way to stay creative even with limited use of one arm. My local cousin carried her anguished history very privately but had extraordinary creative gifts as well...In memory of both, I am giving a small gift to Notre Dame College's Tolerance Center.

My family is dispersed, and the numbers are further declining; it is very possible to be lonely. A former student of mine, Olive Robinson, told me that she made the whole world her family when she lost both parents at an early age. That is admirable.

Back to Nature

2005-08-10T22:54:00.000-04:00

Black-tailed Prairie Dog. Photographer: Gary Stolz. U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service
Before I go to sleep, I had to restore this site to its pictorial source of inspiration: nature. If you have not done so, don't forget to click on the pictures, to see them BIGGER. It's worth the extra second. In some cases, the birds become lifesize, with a click. I hope this compensates for my impressionistic writing.

Play or Struggle

2005-08-21T14:09:00.000-04:00

Brown Bear Cubs
Photographer: Steve Hillebrand
U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

A friend said that this picture reminded her of her two sons.

When you click on this picture so that you can see it larger, notice the eye contact between the two and the way their paws are gentle enough not to snag fur! Perhaps I should have titled this post: "Rapport."

Blossoms and Tears

2005-08-16T00:49:00.000-04:00

Lotus. Photographer: Elise Smith. Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

Ms. Smith has conveyed something so very beautiful. This lotus reminds me of a daffodil and also of a butterfly. It's good to reflect on a breathtaking image such as this.

I have spent the better part of the past week on a new listserv with a spiritual theme. It is energizing but it also, at a deep level, saddens me. It seems that I will never find a permanent spiritual home. Is it that my standards are so high? Or am I just too much of a hybrid? I don't know. But it hurts. Hence: blossoms and tears, my title.

If you find yourself reading this and there is one person in your life who loves you, indeed you are lucky. And if you have a spiritual home, cherish it.

A Colorful Post

2005-08-04T23:17:00.000-04:00

Ursus maritimus (polar bear). U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

I have chosen these playful yellowish-white creatures with amazing midnight eyes to punctuate my post on color. This evening, laying down to try to forget pain, I began fall course planning in my head. Yesterday, I think the theme of color might have begun to incubate because the door fell off my closet. Again. (It's not the heat, it's the humidity. Cabinets stick, doors fall off.) Like any sensible person, I figured I had better do a better job of organizing my clothes lest anyone look into the closet while fixing the door. (If there had been a way to hide all the clothes into another closet, I would have done so--but I could only stash the summer dresses there.) I spent ninety minutes sorting my clothes in approximate, inverse-rainbow colors. (Starting with pink and violet, to navy, to green...with blacks and greys interpolated...and red at extreme right, as I rarely wear it). This type of compulsive behavior while battling shoulder pain is a very bad idea.

Today, from wherever such thoughts come from, I found myself with the idea of an ice-breaker exercise to be done early in the semester. Students might write about a rainbow with hues of their own choosing, their own rationale, and in any order. The truly adventurous could illustrate it, but that would be optional. For example, I could put pink in my rainbow somewhere because of my former love of the color; I would include something like cranberry or maroon because I like the drama of it; I would include copper, silver, and gold because they are awe-inspiring even when achieved through crayons, which is how I came to love them. I might include earth brown and new-growth green, which stretch endlessly on the freeway in spring and remind me that winter does pass...

Well, before I knew it, my mind leaped into remembered childhood colors...I moved from my former pink bedroom to shiny red tiles and countertops in the kitchen to our yellow attic...if you ever do this exercise, caution! It may trigger nostalgia or other pains. Color carries powerful potential to evoke memory. If I think hard (or soft) enough, I can recall my childhood dog's golden fur (not only the color but the texture and the scent) and the beautiful white dot at the center of what I called her forehead.

Are such memories powerful because they were encoded in childhood? Or is it because--pulling them once more from the musty trunk of one's mind--one knows for sure that the times are gone, for good?

Yes, one can defy the rules of optics with imagined rainbows. But color-recollection allows one to leap through time and space anyway. As I remember those I loved, I recall my dog Happy...who ate crayons no matter how well I hid them (she was part retriever). Perhaps crayons evoked memories of carrots, radishes, green pepper...or were easier to access than the bone hidden outside. Upon finding the chewed-up remains of crayon-label, I would be angry. But Happy looked so guilty: she could not help herself. And if I could bring her back, I'd buy her a whole box.

I scribbled at a very young age--with crayons--on our dining room wall. It was long before I could write. It was more than a compulsion; nothing and no one could stop me. My mom, at her wits' end, asked a neighbor what she should do. The response: "Buy her a blackboard."

Treading Water

2005-08-13T19:58:00.000-04:00

Black Duck. Photographer: Glen Smart. Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Happy Birthday to my dear sister in another state.

My son and I have been working on a satire of a new children's program. Matt Groening: Move over. Actually, Matt has broken ground for all of us given to zany humor with a message...Sorry we can't provide excerpts here, at this time...But who knows, maybe we will start our own blog.

I had posted two pictures of myself and received zero response. Either no one is reading or no one had the heart to say anything. I took them down and hence this segment looks a bit vacant now.

Generic Ranting

2005-08-08T18:53:00.000-04:00

American Avocet. U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

It's a shorebird. I don't have the equanimity of this bird today. This year I set my personal record for written and published letters to the editor. I sent four and three were published, each in a different paper. I saw something today that made me want to jump out of my chair and shout (not that I am an expert in journalism). But sometimes the holes in a story are so obvious.

"Oh no," someone close to me said. "Don't tell me you are becoming one of those people who writes letters to the editor!"

Since I set my personal record for published letters this year...there's no chance I'll get another one in any of the three papers. But I'll have to figure out an indirect way to get to the subject here...

Seeking Refuge

2005-08-06T14:03:00.000-04:00

Upper Mississippi River. U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

I first titled this post: "Finding Refuge." There were times in my life I knew precisely where to go to recharge. On the swing under the ancient oak tree in my yard. By the fountains near the office where I once worked. In the basement where I could play with dolls and friends. Well, I can't quite find refuge at this phase of my life--which probably coincides with the point at which some folks think: "If you don't have refuge in your heart, where and when will you find it?" Disquiet is a good word for uneasiness. I did steal away yesterday to a place that had a pond, and I saw some yellow water lilies there. This picture of the Missississipi had the closest match I could find. The flowers I saw yesterday were budding, not open. The ones here are exuberant in their petal-celebration of sun. I have learned my share of deep breathing and visualization techniques in life. I think that these, too, can be used for effective living or as escape. Sometimes the mind spins and spins like a disk drive with nothing in it. (Soon that technology will be obsolete--if it isn't already.) If your eyes light on this, I wish you momentary refuge (wherever you may find it) from the struggles of your life.

In and Out of Shells

2005-08-05T22:25:00.000-04:00

Loggerhead Sea Turtle Hatching Photographer: Donna A. Dewhurst. Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

I have a turtle collection. Many media: coconut shell, coal, gemstone, ceramic, glass, wood, crystal, cloth. You name it: I might have it. Turtles became my totem many years ago. I had a pet turtle in childhood, Phyllis. And I loved her and showed my love by powdering her (as she felt wet, being in water most of the day). Then, I would put her in dark places (typically, one of my dad's shoes). Buy one turtle totem, buy a hundred...before one knows it, they have proliferated all over the house.

An expression I disliked passionately when my grade school teachers used it: "We would like to bring her out of her shell." How many times in life have I, or anyone, ventured out of the shell...and then wished there was a way back in? But the shell is gone. Turtles have a distinct advantage in that the shell travels along. Imagine having that flexibility...to stretch out, check out the place, pull limbs and head back in. A person can reinvent himself/herself only so often. Many places on earth, there really is nowhere to hide.

Singing and Trust

2005-08-02T22:29:00.000-04:00

Banding a Yellow Warbler, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (top)
Hooded Warbler, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (top left)
Kentucky Warbler, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (right)

A friend across the seas has suggested I modify this list to password protected. I'm assuming this would mean it would then not be accessible by the worldwide web or to anyone outside a known circle. He probably is wise in his suggestion. But I have had a few situations in life in which I thought things were secure and -- wham -- they were not. The feeling of trust betrayed, even accidentally, is overwhelming. Is there safety in openness? Not necessarily. So, like the birds, I retreat to my nest, maintain my balance, hope that no gust of wind topples me. And hope that if someone must track me, no harm is meant. Take a look at the top bird: a picture of equanimity.

Sunrise, Sunset

2005-08-01T16:41:00.000-04:00

African Sunset. Photographer: Gary Stolz. U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Is there anything in words that can match this sunset? I don't think so.

Thank you, Mr. Stolz, and the incredible photographers that do work for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

I am in a physical pain flare-up. I won't stop writing but such times really do make one reconsider everything. There is so much I thought was will-power or power of the mind in my youth -- that was probably a surplus of feel-good neurotransmitters in the brain. I had challenges but not this kind of challenge.

There is some pretty good research out there about optimism and pessimism that takes into account one's state of health. Of course we all know healthy people who are unhappy and unhealthy people that are happy, that float above their pain. I can't float at the moment but I can reflect on one beautiful experience.

A friend of my son's had his Bar Mitzvah this past weekend. As I know this young man fairly well, it was awesome to hear him and see him in a sacred context. Not that carpooling and overhearing what boys talk about is not also sacred...Some day, he wants to explore space...and he has that certitude of achieving his plans, as I have observed in people sometimes. My son's violin teacher knew at the age of three, seeing a violin in a shop window, that he wanted that...though he had never had experience of the instrument before...awesome.

I was in a hospital waiting room when the Shuttle went up this past week. I heard people engaging in an informal debate on the value of such exploration. I said: "We may not know the value until several more decades to come." I was thinking of what my son's generation may uncover.

Styles of Listening

2005-08-01T00:16:00.000-04:00

Blackbuck Antelope. Photographer: Dick Mitchell. U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

There is nothing passive about active listening. I was reminded of this while reflecting on the work of William Stafford, the poet. He was said to have had a "fierce neutrality" in listening to the work of student writers. (I wish I could attribute the quotation.) He did not wish to lead them astray from tapping into and expressing their inner voices with his too-apparent affirmation or with cutting criticism. I was also reminded of watching video of Carl Rogers with a client last semester, in one of my counseling classes. The stereotype of a therapist who reframes and restates as an automaton is not only potentially infuriating (in practice) but also decidedly not in the tradition of Rogers. Excuse my italics. Rogers, as I observed him on tape, was an incredibly active listener. I was reminded of palpable movement of the heart and/or of the inner spirit that can happen when with such a person.

Is it obvious that I chose this picture because the antelope is in rapt attention? In this hectic era, there is often little time or inclination to listen to one's self--or to anyone else.

Just Thoughts

2005-07-30T23:57:00.001-04:00

Downloading is slow. There still is a beautiful picture of a golden sunrise with geese that I have borrowed from -- who else -- the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service that won't download at all. This brook came with my computer. I find water inspiring.

While driving, I had the great delight of seeing another deer of the age and type that I saw in my neighborhood yesterday. There are phases of my life in which the highlight of the day is what animals I have seen. Truly, that type of thing makes me happy. And I stole away to a favorite spot and saw geese! Really, like Whitman I could "turn and live with the animals/they are so placid and self contained/I stand and look at them long and long/they do not sweat and whine about their condition..." (I'm reciting from memory, so forgive the lines breaks, which are wrong.) But if I can't sweat and whine on my blog, where can I?

I believe, as does a new contact, that animals are high on emotional intelligence. And I believe that we barely have the means to measure this, but pet owners and people who observe animals in the wild (like Jane Goodall) see this confirmed again and again.

My son does not like it when I reminisce about his early childhood (here or elsewhere). But I learned so much from him, I can't help myself. He had a passionate respect for Jane Goodall when he was tiny, and I loved observing that. I share his admiration, and I think he felt her sensitivity in his bones. As an animal lover, my son recognized the value of a researcher of her dedication and spirit. I remember walking down the street with him one day, and he whispered earnestly: "Mommy, that lady looks like Jane Goodall." The woman was never to know what a profound compliment that was.

A dear friend locally has a loved one who remains in intensive care with a condition that may or may not improve. This is the type of suspension in time and space that makes one ache for the whole family, and the medical staff, and -- of course -- the patient. Her first name is "Sharon," and prayers are welcome for the alleviation of her suffering, the best possible outcome, and for the strength of her family.

I used to not understand why Buddhists chant the evening gatha (like a prayer) that affirms the transitory nature of life. Really, who wants to think about the transience of things at all, let alone daily. And I used to not understand why Buddhism takes suffering as its starting point. I guess I've lived long enough to get it now. A death or learning of someone's critical illness or the loss of a sense...these indeed shock one, put one up against we cannot change. How delicate the whole process of life is. Like a feather drifting in gusts of wind --

I was remembering when my physical pain levels were so high that it took all my concentration just to breathe. The body forgets pain, so they say, but one should not forget what that type of suffering is like -- not to promote martyrdom, but to promote empathy for those facing such anguish at this very moment. It may feel like pain will never end. There are at least two major national organizations that support awareness of chronic and acute pain. I did not learn of them till a day I was close to overwhelmed, and I am glad I learned of them.

I stole away this evening for about an hour to the most beautiful place I can get to at the moment. Last summer, it was the first place I went after regaining enough shoulder function to drive that far. To many, it may not be much of a sanctuary, but it is a place I find very, very calming and stimulating. I think if I were to spend a lot of time there, I could heal from a lot of things. It is near Lake Erie but somewhat isolated. The air is so different: real air. What passes for air in the suburbs is not very satisfying. And to hear the birds talk about the place. They know a good thing when they find it.

Deer and Flowers

2005-07-29T23:02:00.000-04:00

Ankeny National Wildlife Refuge, Oregon. Credit: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Something beautiful can make all the difference on a day in which one is depleted. Today and last night, to curb loneliness among the tasks of the day, I carried a picture of a deer that was on a small card I have never had the heart to mail to anyone, as I like it -- but which emerges and vanishes in a messy desk at regular intervals.

On the way home from grocery shopping in the evening, what did I see down the street? A young deer that bore a striking resemblance to the image on the card.

Interestingly enough, he was nibbling on a rose of sharon bush in early bloom, only a few yards away from a "wild dog" that has been known to terrorize the neighborhood. The dog was tied up, and I suspect some of his hijinks are due to loneliness -- but I remain guarded anyway.

The deer had its grace as protection, its youth, its ability to run. I was reminded that there are a variety of ways to be strong.

I may not be a fast runner anymore, but I sure as heck can still appreciate a deer. And I'll settle for a card, but the real thing is better.

I tutored for the last time this summer a few days ago and was given a bouquet of flowers by the mom of my student. Another moment of something beautiful, unexpected and unbidden.

Am I still depleted from battling not one, but two "Trojan horses"? Yes. I never knew they existed. So, while I have words and keystrokes available, I'd better hit "publish" before whim fades and my inner editor takes over -- or the latest electronic glitch.