The Blog to end all Blogs!

Pressure builds in my brain

It comes on slow and steady

Minute by minute

Hour by hour

As I read

Page after page

Text after text

First it is a mild numbing sensation in the mind

Then there’s a soft squeeze in the middle of my forehead

Next comes the tightness

And the ache

I look up from my pages,

Out the window

Glorious sunlight shines on the grass

After many days of cold, gloomy rain I almost don’t recognize the sun.

The bright sunlight almost hurts my eyes.

But I am drawn to it.

Forgetting my book and the over 100 pages left to read I begin to walk outside.

Almost in a trance.

Mesmerized.

The air is not quite warm.

The feel on my skin alerts my senses.

The pressure in the center of my forehead breaks

And gently melts away.

Clarity begins to illuminate my thinking.

The muscles in my back loosen.

I hadn’t even realized they were tight.

I automatically pick a marigold.

Closing my eyes

The sweet earthy smell of the flower reminds me of picnics and child’s laughter

Without thinking I roll the reel mower over the grass and begin to mow.

Flick, flick, flick, flick

The grass flies into the air like confetti.

The clean smell fills my nose.

My son runs out, happy to see me

His arms are wide open, running, running.

I open my arms, too, squatting down to catch him.

He slams into me knocking me over.

We lay on the grass together.

Both of us smile.

I look out over the lawn,

Green, spiky, lush, surprisingly soft

It feels good to take a break

Especially with him in my arms.

I will soon need to get back to work, but for now I will savor this moment.

It’s been a long while since I wrote a thankful poem. Here goes: Unedited and from the heart.

I am thankful for. . .

Sleep. Restful, relaxing sleep, leaving me refreshed and bright the next morning.

The cold rain that dripped onto my roof last night, softly tapping on the bedroom window.

My soft bed, warm covers pulled up to my neck when I climb in after a long day.

Time to read before going to bed, wiping my mind clean and free from the cares of the day.

My daughter, at times bursting with drama, at times saturated with loving kindness, the pure, real essence of an emerging adolescent girl.

My son who is all boy – loud, bold, talkative, decisive, tiring, demanding, tender hearted and fun.

My husband, strong willed, hardworking, committed. Sometimes exasperated. Almost always quiet. caring and concerned even when my face is a scowl.

Fun date nights with Bruce. Going out together and reconnecting just the two of us.

My parents and family who send me their love a million different ways from the other side of the world. Keeping me connected to who I am and what I want to become.

Loud boisterous Girl Scouts fluttering about, full of ideas and energy.

Stressful, overwhelming schoolwork. Each assignment bringing me one step closer to my ultimate goal.

My body as it moves, twists and turns, allowing me to accomplish more than my imagination can dream. Healthy. Solid. limber.

Friends. Loud and quiet, many and few, bold and timid, sweet and sour, filling and draining.

This tiny community. Supportive. Stifling. Festive. Caring. All you need it to be and more.

My car, zooming me through the chaotic streets of Chisinau.

A chipper attitude, when I can summons it from my inner soul.

Delicious, mouth watering food, nourishing my body and satisfying the hunger within.

Quiet time with The Lord upon awaking each morning, peace seeping into my soul after ten short minutes.

My husband’s birthday is in a few days.  In honor of his birthday I wrote him a poem.  To be quite honest: This is my kind of thing, not his, but I thought I would do it anyway.

Bruce

A dedicated father.

An honorable soldier.

A potentially wonderful diplomat.

A true friend.

A determined athlete.

A fierce competitor.

A thoughtful son.

A Carolina Blue Tarheel.

A dependable brother.

An excellent leader.

A loyal and patriotic American.

A loving grandson.

An adoring uncle.

A world traveler.

An honest person.

An intelligent man.

My sexy husband.

Your smile.
Your presence in my life.
The way you make me feel.
Your soothing aura.
The way you touch me.
Long conversations.
The glimmer in your eye.
The feel of your skin again mine.
Your gentle kiss.
E-mails.
The sweet way you calm me down.
Your contageous laugh.
I’m missing you!

This past Saturday I had a small poetry reading at my house.  Here is what I read.  The first two poems are by me.  The last poem is by an acutal poet.  Enjoy.

Late Night, Early MorningBy Donna

The baby has a fever.

He and I are up for hours in the middle of the night.

Stuffy nose.

He only wants to cuddle in my arms.

Then he falls asleep.

He howls when I put him in his crib.

The hours pass, two, three, four o‘clock.

My eyes are droopy.

My mind stops functioning correctly.

The sun rises.

I start my day exhausted.

There’s not time for being tired.

My husband has to go to work.

I have to take my daughter to school.

I am a zombe.

The baby is fussy. He wants constant attention.

His nap time comes.

He is tired.

Finally, sleep comes his way.

Twenty-eight short minutes later he awakes.

I did not sleep.

I sluggishly make my way to his bedroom.

When is the day going to be over so I can snuggle in comfy bed?

I hear cranky noises outside of his door.

I am so tired.

I peek into his room.

His eyes light up.

He flashes me his giant tic-tac grin.

He utterly adores me, and I him.

My tiredness washes away.

I smile in return.

He continues to follow me with his eyes as I walk to the side of his crib.

He lets out a deep belly chuckle, still ear-to-ear grin.

I pick him up and say, “I am so happy to see you.”

And I mean it.

My heart walks around outside of my body.By Donna

My heart plays joyfully on the neighborhood playground in front of our house.

My heart walks unsteadily on the front sidewalk trying not to fall.

My heart stands all alone and scared in the middle of the Kindergarten classroom, waiting to make a new friend.

My heart smiles happily coming into my room early on a Saturday Morning.

My heart flies freely on a bicycle along the village green with a puffy, frilly dress flapping behind in the wind.

My heart asks me with uncertainty if I like the unrecognizable art project brought home from school.

My heart asks me to cuddle after a long bedtime story, trying to procrastinate the bedtime hour.

My heart sleeps peacefully in the room next to my own.

My heart walks around outside of my body.

And I hope and I pray and I wish and I want for it to be protected and loved and cared for and treated well.

Life is a tangle of
twisting paths.
Some short.
Some long.
There are dead ends.
And there are choices.
And wrong turns,
and detours,
and yield signs,
and instruction booklets,
and star maps,
and happiness,
and loneliness.
And friends.
And sisters.
And love.
And poetry.

Life is a maze.
You are a maze.
Amazed.
And amazing.

By Naomi Shihab Nye

Tuesday, April 8, 20089:47-9:54, 12:28-12:50

To be honest, I think that today is my last official “blog day.”  Wow, amazing.I think that I am going to continue my blog even when my class is done.  I enjoy most writing the reflective essays and the poems about things that are important to me.  I also enjoy creating the stories, especially the ones that are about the lives of my family members.  Although as long as this class is going on (the rest of the month) I don’t imagine I will have much free time to do too much reflective thinking – I still have some big assignments due.Anyway, today is supposed to me more editing and revising. I think that there is probably more I could do on Molly and the Straw Hat, but I will put that on the back burner again and work today on a poem.  It is one of the first poems that I wrote for this class.  The reason that I pick to work on this poem is because I teach two home school girls Literature lessons once a week and in honor of National Poetry Month we are hosting a poetry reading here in my house.  I am sure you feel cheated and dismayed that you didn’t already know April is National poetry Month, but I am here to tell you it is.  So, get out your pencils and get to work creating a masterpiece of your own.  For me, I would like to edit and revise a previous poem because each of us (me and the two girls I teach) are each supposed to share a poem that we have written ourselves and a poem that is well-known, already published.  Here is my original poem:

Being a Mom

My heart walks around outside of my body.

            It plays on the playground outside the village school.

            It walks unsteady on the sidewalk and sometimes falls.

            It smiles coming into my room early on a Saturday Morning.

            It stands all alone in the middle of the new classroom, waiting for a new friend.

            It flies freely on a bicycle along the village green.

            It sleeps peacefully in the room next to my own.

I look deeply into the eyes of my child.

            I see the hope of the future.

            I see my ancestters looking back at me.

            I see a fear of being accepted.

            I see a desire to become her own.

            I see joy in self-accomplishment.

            I see the unforgiving love I am so grateful to have. 

Revised Version:

I have divided this one poem into three poems. 

Being a Mom

My heart walks around outside of my body.

In the eyes of my child I see reflected back to me the light and dark side of life and the world around us.

My heart walks around outside of my body.

My heart plays joyfully on the neighborhood playground in front of our house.

My heart walks unsteadily on the front sidewalk trying not to fall.

My heart stands all alone and scared in the middle of the Kindergarten classroom, waiting to make a new friend.

My heart smiles happily coming into my room early on a Saturday Morning.

My heart flies freely on a bicycle along the village green with a puffy, frilly dress flapping behind in the wind.

My heart asks me with uncertainty if I like the unrecognizable art project brought home from school.

My heart asks me to cuddle after a long bedtime story, trying to procrastinate the bedtime hour.

My heart sleeps peacefully in the room next to my own.

My heart walks around outside of my body. 

And I hope and I pray and I wish and I want for it to be protected and loved and cared for and treated well. 

I look deeply into the eyes of my child.

            I see the hope of the future.

            I see my ancesters looking back at me.

            I see a fear of being accepted.

            I see a desire to become her own.

            I see joy in self-accomplishment.

            I see the unfailing love I am so grateful to have.

            I see a child that is looking to me to be an example of how to live and love and hope and dream and behave and think and believe and be.

Holy Tuesday, March 18, 2008

6:20-6:30a, 1:53-2:04

I think that this is my final draft.  I am sure that I have other responsibilities in life, but these are what I think of off hand.  The idea for this poem came when someone mentioned how many different “hats” many women wear.  This is my response to that. . .  enjoy.

D

Hats?

My many hats?

I don’t wear hats.

But I do wear shoes,

Many shoes.

I wear comfy brown shoes as I walk out the door for the day with a long list of To-Dos stashed in my purse that I will accomplish as soon as I walk my daughter to school on a cold, frigid morning.

I wear stark clean sneakers to go work out, but they feel unnatural so I shed the tennis shoes to practice yoga instead, shoeless, slowing my breathing, stretching my limber body and centering myself in preparation for a new day.

I wear socks as I snuggle into the worn leather chair, still wearing my pajamas and my oversized terry-cloth robe as I drink piping hot chocolate and turn to the good part of my most recent book.

I wear elegant black high heels that squish my toes and make me wobble when I attend church to sing praises to the Lord and worship Him.

I wear outdated black flats attempting to look professional as I volunteer in my daughter’s classroom in order to get a glimpse of my little girl playing among her friends and learning all that life requires of her, academically and otherwise.

I wear sleek, trendy sandals on a hot summer day meeting my mom and my sister for lunch at the quaint little tearoom as smells of the broccoli cheddar quiche begin to make my mouth water even before it arrives at my table.

I wear bright pink Wellies that extend past my calves as I trudge through our back garden on a wet and rainy English springtime day, admiring the blooming flowers and taking in the fresh, crisp air.

I wear goofy indoor shoes around the house, endlessly doing dishes, laundry, cooking, cleaning, trying to keep up with the mess we seem to make and the cleanliness of the neighbor who only has one sweet little girl who never makes a mess, the neighbor who doesn’t go to graduate school in her spare time.

I wear black leather high heeled boots that go up to the knees and make me look sexy as I happily glide alongside my husband on a rare date.

And I go barefoot when walking along the Carolina coast, allowing the cold sand to seep between my toes and the warm waves rush up against my ankles.

Hats?

I don’t wear hats.

But I do wear shoes,

Many shoes.

Holy Monday, March 17, 2008,

Happy St. Patrick’s Day

Yesterday was Palm Sunday, Lazarus Sunday

9:21 – 9:28, 9:38-9:46, 5:09-5:13, 6:05-6:17

Working on my hats poem. . . .

Hats?

My many hats?

I don’t wear hats.

But I do wear shoes,

Many shoes.

I wear comfy brown shoes as I walk out the door for the day with a long list of To-Dos stashed in my purse that I will accomplish as soon as I walk my daughter to school on a cold, frigid morning.

I wear stark clean sneakers to go work out, but they feel unnatural so I shed the tennis shoes to practice yoga instead, shoeless, slowing my breathing, stretching my limber body and centering myself in preparation for a new day.

I wear socks around the house, endlessly doing dishes, laundry, cooking, cleaning, trying to keep up with the mess we seem to make and the cleanliness of the neighbor who only has one sweet little girl who never makes a mess, the neighbor who doesn’t go to graduate school in her spare time.

I wear elegant black high heels that squish my toes and make me wobble as I happily walk alongside my husband on a rare date.

I wear outdated black flats trying to be professional when I go to volunteer in my daughter’s classroom to help out, but I really go to get a glimpse of my little girl playing among her friends and learning all that life requires of her, academically and otherwise.

I wear sleek, trendy sandals to go out on a hot summer day,

I wear goofy indoor shoes, as my daughter calls them

I wear black high heeled boots that go up to the knees and – warm, church, date, sexy,

And, lastly, I go barefoot when walking along the Carolina coast, allowing the cold sand to seep between my toes and the warm waves rush up against my ankles.

Hats?

I don’t wear hats.

But I do wear shoes,

Many shoes.

Alright, so I am still not finished, but I did make progress on it. The big difference between this poem and the others that I have written is that this one I am writing at the computer, where all the others I write in my mind and then just type it into the computer. I have changed the style that I am using with this poem. At first I was describing the type of things that I do with each pair of shoes. Now, instead, I am trying to capture one day in the shoes. One moment even. I think it works better.

Friday,

March 7, 2008

12:25p-12:41, 4:15-4:23p, 9:21-9:32

Continuation of my observations of the classroom

. . . Then so after the students labeled their pictures, they were to write in the box at the bottom of the paper what the thing was that worked the best and put a check by it and the things that worked the worst and put an x by it. And they were supposed to write the word beside the item. After the students completed this they were allowed to finish their center time, followed by end of the day recess, then a storybook before they go home. Today’s storybook was by Collin McNaughton called Oops! It is the story of little red riding hood except Red is a boy pig named Preston. It was a variation, more modern, more British, and funny. They have been reading a lot of books about fairy tales that look at the traditional fairy tales from other view points or are modern adaptations or versions from other cultures. It is neat to do a study like that and analyze a story from many different points. The book was not finished when the bell ended the school day, so the teacher told the students that she would put a bookmark in it.

I have picked up reading chapter books to my daughter at home. Her teacher reads illustrated chapter books to the students and they do very well with it. In the fall, my daughter and I read Charlotte’s Web together, but I haven’t yet found another book that I like as well as that. And I haven’t found another book that is simple enough for her to understand at four years old and still be a chapter book. I did find a book at the thrift store the other day called CatWings, I think. It looks pretty good, we will give it a whirl. Here in the UK there are these simple chapter books about fairies (they are a series with probably a hundred in the series). My daughter likes those a lot, but at £3.99, which is about $8.00 for a book that takes us only one week to read, usually only four nights, I don’t think that I am going to buy too many of them. I need to find a good series at my local library when we move back to the States sometime this summer.

I could write for eternities about children’s books, which is my true passion, but I will refrain and start writing a poem that has been simmering in my mind for a few days. Let’s hope it comes out alright. I won’t just be typing, but composing as well, so it will not be as much as I normally write. Here goes:

Hats?

My many hats?

I don’t wear hats.

But I do wear shoes,

Many shoes.

I wear comfy brown shoes when I “run errands”, walk the kids to school and

I wear stark clean sneakers infrequently to “work out” and keep fit, but most often I shed the tennis shoes to practice yoga, shoeless, slowing my breathing, stretching my limber body and centering myself in preparation for a new day.

I wear socks around the house, endlessly doing dishes, laundry, cooking, cleaning, trying to keep up with the mess we seem to make and the cleanliness of the neighbor who only has one sweet little girl who never makes a mess, the neighbor who doesn’t go to graduate school in her spare time.

I wear elegant black high heels that squish my toes and make me wobble as I happily walk alongside my husband on a rare date.

And, lastly, I go barefoot when walking along the Carolina coast, allowing the cold sand to seep between my toes and the warm waves rush up against my ankles.

Hats?

I don’t wear hats.

But I do wear shoes,

Many shoes.

O.k. So I am not finished with that poem. I think that there is a lot more to write, but my time is up for the day, so here goes. Enjoy.

Wed

March 5, 2008 6:45-7:10a, 9:11-9:40

Paige wants me to write a story called “Paige dancing in the dark in the park.” She would also like her classmate Mark to be in the story because Mark rhymes with park and dark, but I think that if I am going to write this, I should make it with our family in it.

Here is my rough draft:

Playful Paige sings and swirls, She tumbles and twirls,

She forgets its dark, dancing in the park.

Daddy comes along, singing a funny song

Joining his daughter, she jumped and he caught her,

Caught Paige whirling and twirling,

Playing in the park, dancing in the dark.

Mommy joins the two, laughing and saying, “I love you.”

Her lantern lights the way, she doesn’t want their play to end today,

Daddy joining his daughter, she jumped and he caught her,

Caught Paige whirling and twirling,

Playing in the park, dancing in the dark.

Baby Bruce squeels in delight at this splendid sight

He hopes they just might dance throughout the night.

He wants to join in but he can only grin and grin.

Mommy’s lantern lights the way, nobody wanting to end their play,

Daddy joining his daughter, she jumped and he caught her,

Caught Paige twirling and whirling,

Playing in the park, dancing in the dark.

Grandparents crowd around when they hear the joyful sounds

Watching their loved ones they shout and cheer,

For in years to come these memories will be so dear.

Bruce squeals in delight at this splendid sight,

Everyone hopes they just might dance throughout the night

Mommy’s lantern lights the way, nobody wanting to end their play,

Daddy joining his daughter, she jumped and he caught her,

Caught Paige twirling and whirling,

Playing in the park, dancing in the dark.

It’s a cumulative poem. It is not the best ever, but I hope my daughter likes it.