one word poems

 Margaret (Mags), dear blogging friend, has set me on a rabbit trail of poetry, for which shove I am very, very grateful.

I had stopped writing poetry. No idea why. I assumed it was because I'd aged out of the poetry-writing years of life. It was too much of a struggle, too hard. And the ideas for poems did not come to me as clearly as before. They used to come into my head and stick like a burr and develop themselves until I had to spit them out on paper.

Mags gave me this idea: write a poem each day in February, prompted by one unusual word.

I thought, "Hmm." I read a few of her one-word-prompt writings and liked them very much indeed. I thought, only to myself, "Why not? Why not make a little folder on my desktop and write a poem from each of these little words?" The little words are a list of unusual vocabulary words I gathered nearly 20 years ago while reading Trollope or Goudge, I'm not sure which.

I wrote it on an Elisabeth Elliot newsletter, back before such things came via email. Somehow, I kept it all these years. Miraculously, it was in the first place I searched for it!

I've written a poem most days in February since I started. I told myself I'm writing them ONLY for myself. I do not have to consider a reader. I do not have to consider if it is understood, if it is structured, appealing, tight, edited. Nothing. I spit it out when the word prompt has worked its magic -- i.e., when the word from the list has sparked an image in my head, an idea with an image. Then I write it down and try only not to explain, but to show. Poems that explain things are boring from the first word.

They often end abruptly and look a bit like ee cummings's, but they feel right to me, like good chocolate on my tongue. Perhaps now that I'm old I'm ready to write poetry just for me and not care about the world of readers, rather like wearing flowy gypsy skirts at last. Here's one I think I'll share, short and sweet:

plouter

when I am old enough

to play in mud puddles

big deep mud puddles

bottomless puddles

splashing laughing

in my Sunday shoes

again

then I will know

it’s time to go

2/16/2022

And What Exactly Am I Doing Now?

 You ladies out there of a particular age -- you know who you are -- old enough to be over half-way done, but young enough not to throw in the towel yet .... 

Do you struggle with what to do with yourself? Not exactly who you are, but what you are? I used to be a teacher. I used to be a mother. I used to be a secretary. I used to be a writer. I used to be a gardener. I do believe in allowing myself to move on from some roles to new roles, not coercing myself to being everything forever.

But still. Sometimes I look at myself and at my life and I wonder, "What in the world am I doing?" As my mother would say, I'm piddling. Dilly-dallying. Mucking about and wasting time. When I was a younger woman I seemed to have a tighter vision, more direction, a more organized mind.

I'm not even sure what I'm talking about here, which is a perfect demonstration of what I'm trying to say. I'm going to stop and insert some photographs to help this blog post.

I am still spinning, weaving, painting, and making youtube videos. But the spinning/weaving/painting form the content of the videos, and honestly, I haven't a clue what to DO with the things that I spin, weave, and paint. I discovered yesterday that the local farmers market I've been part of for a decade, is likely dying. Where will I sell the things I make? Do I set up an independent online store? Will my youtube viewers buy my stuff? Ugh. I don't like marketing.

Oh, dear. Now I'm whining. Let's change the subject! 

The first daffodil. She's a harbinger of active days outside. One project that I can really get my teeth into, is working on this property, as much as I'm able. I sometimes contemplate how much I could possibly do. I can learn to use the riding mower. Could I start to tear down the barn? Could I learn to use some tools? Could I take down the garden fencing ... hmm. Don't know. How hard is it to manage a heavy, gas-powered weedeater? Will this be my new exercise program?!

At pushing-60, am I supposed to be slowing down, or speeding up? I've heard rumor that one's 60s are the most productive decade of life. I'm cogitizing how that might look for me. I feel like I would need to organize both my body and my brain, and all my habits, to become more productive than I've been before. Instead, I feel as if I'm mentally slipping down, like a weary bather into a steam pool in a Japanese bath. 

If any of you have any input into these feelings, please do share. I need all the help I can get.

A Dusting of Snow

 The first cold weekend, we had ice, a thick slab of ice that didn't melt on our north-facing deck for days. A bit treacherous! This past weekend we had a dusting of snow. It lasted for an hour or two before disappearing in the sunlight.

Leo the Cat has been such fun. He's photogenic.

I've been spinning and painting a little, and finally have started weaving again.

It's too cold to be outside (except to check on chickens), so I am hibernating. Our house is COLD. The heat runs and runs, and we bundle up, but we're still cold. I make pots of hot tea and go to bed early under my heavy comforter.

Poor Adam has to get in the car while it's still dark and drive a half hour to teach all day in the cold. And he doesn't really feel well. But he loves his job! He loves the kids and what he does, and he suffers through the cold, which he loathes. He did get one "ice day" that first weekend, and he used his time at home to start making books again -- books with medieval binding. The first one had a ropey spine, the second one had a simple flat spine, and the third one has a leather-rope spine.

So, we old people are surviving over here. To be honest, our cold weather lasts for about 3 weeks each winter, and by mid-February we are all enjoying daffodils and planting our peas in the garden. We can hardly complain!

Sometimes, it's true, the world seems to spin around us in a frightening way -- people's lives falling apart, world events looking ominous, fussing and fighting. I am trying to silence the din of sorrow with prayer. Prayer and blessing -- Praying for others in their trouble, and asking God to pour blessing into their lives, His favor and His grace.

May you experience our Lord's favor and His grace in your lives too!

I Will Write Nothing Grim

I like that word, "grim." It's so British. I nearly wrote a grim post, and then deleted it. Aren't you glad? Instead, I must inform you that I have become a Cat Person. I didn't intend to, but The Cat decided I am his person. Who am I to argue?

Cats are entertaining. Leo is inquisitive and very smart. He's fascinated by the humans' potty. He understands "no," and adapts his behavior accordingly. He sleeps on all the cozy spots near any window.

In addition to cat-watching, I've been burning lots of yard waste in a big barrel, doing a little painting, and a bit of spinning.

Carding rolags. Spinning a single-ply.

Leo showed an interest in yarn, but I was stern with him.

A couple of scarves have come off the knitting needles, trying to use up old yarn that's pretty but lacked purpose.

I painted this with the help of a youtube tutorial.

a card for a friend

prompted by a painting by fellow watercolorist Fernanda Saraga

Granny Marigold, I made your butter tarts! They were amazing. I tried them with raisins, chocolate chips, and pecans. The raisins were the best, by far!

These days, I'm mostly staying home, which I very much enjoy. January is the quiet month, isn't it? The animals are snoozy all day, something warm is on the stove or in the oven for supper, and I feel I'm in a time of anticipation, waiting for the world to heal.

And while I wait, this farm is a beautiful place to be.

Much love to you, dear friends. May you find rest and peace wherever you are.

Inconvenience and Whining

 This fourth Sunday of Advent fell in a weekend of difficulties, frustrations, and inconveniences. Just the sorts of things that feel like irritating stones thrown into your path, one after another, by God who is trying to do something ... and you're not sure what. 

I said I would not careen into Christmas, but this fourth Sunday of Advent does put that intention to the test. Our Lessons and Carols service at church was at 6:00 last night. This one time each year, I'm in charge of the service, of what happens. Adam gets to sit and enjoy it, which is so good for a pastor occasionally.

But we had a fun and exhausting "big dinner" to attend on Friday night. And farmers market on Saturday morning (and all the labors that lead to that). Cookie baking happened on Saturday, but I was tired, and kept noticing the general slovenliness of the house. I'm waiting to clean until today and tomorrow, but the grime was building up. This irritates me. Adam went back to the school to do classroom work he couldn't do before, from 7:30 - 3:00. He wanted to go back and do more today, but I growled at him and put my foot down. "You are on break!" I said. "We will rest now!" I was saying to myself.

One of my hand chime ladies fell ill and was in the hospital, throwing my musical plans for Sunday night into chaos. I shuffled around and made "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" work somehow, while worrying about her health and feeling guilty that I was even bothered about hand chimes when she was hospitalized. 

I had to practice: 1) a solo with my auto harp (an instrument I'm ill-at-ease on), 2) a duet ("Do You Hear What I Hear?" that I'd arranged and hand-written on staff paper in pencil with many scratches and mistakes, and with only a few words scribbled on the page, scrunched between wonky quarter notes, 3) "O Holy Night," which we'd thrown in there at the last minute, 4) various preludes and the carols, of course.

Then there were candles to put in windows, poinsettias to water, refreshment tables to arrange, holly to snip, more cookies to bake, programs to print and reprint. (How could I make three mistakes in such a simple document?) So Much To Do. And I must do it all with a smile and a happy spirit because I am, after all, the pastor's wife, and I've been doing this for many years, and none of these little difficulties should get to me now. 

But they do. And I have learned self-control over the years to suppress my inner rage at minor inconveniences. Now I simply whine ... at home.

Sunday morning after snipping new holly to replace dead holly in the sanctuary, I suddenly developed a sharp muscle pain in my back, just under my shoulder blade. Adam rubbed it, I took Tylenol, and I went on with my day. But I did ask God, "Really? This childish behavior again from You? We both know you've already got my attention. We both know I have issues with my attitude when things don't go absolutely smoothly. Do you really have to remind me again to slow down and not care so much about the details? I already know that, God!" (I took more Tylenol in the afternoon.)

But I have to relearn regularly to lay down my little idols at His feet and remind myself that they are worthless, lifeless things. Even preparing a worship service can be an idol. All ministry can quickly become an idol because it has the trappings of religion all around it, and it smells and looks like God. But it's not God Himself. It's far too easy to worship the ministry work, and not worship the Lord Himself. As I sit at the piano in the sanctuary week after week (and especially last night), I close my eyes and pray, reminding myself that I'm there to worship too, not just to facilitate others' worship. I disengage my thoughts about what key signature I'm supposed to be in, whether my voice will cooperate, whether this or that song was the best choice; I turn my mind around again to worship. 

Today, we rest.

Home

 Home is the quietest place, the place most calming to the spirit. I'm home as much as possible, and it heals me. I'd never considered how homeless Joseph, Mary, and Jesus were, after they left  Nazareth. How utterly homeless did Mary feel when they went to the home they were expecting to stay in, in Bethlehem, only to be told that the guest room was already occupied, and there wasn't space for them? "All we can offer you is where we keep the animals." Have you ever lost your home? (We have.) Being without a home is spirit-crushing.

They went from Bethlehem to Egypt swiftly, then to Jerusalem, then back to Bethlehem through Jesus's babyhood till the magi came. When they finally returned to Nazareth, I wonder if Mary let out a sigh of relief and though, "No more of this cray living! I've done enough, God!"

I'm very thankful for my home.

A friend gives me a waxed amaryllis bulb each Christmas. Slowly, so slowly, it rises, and gradually pushes out the first bloom, then the second. But after years, I have large clumps of amaryllis in my flower bed. So many beautiful things come slowly in life.

I celebrated in WalMart yesterday and bought a big, square tin of lovely cookies. I bought 3 bags of chocolate. (One for me, one for Adam, one for Julia. He instructed Julia to take his bag of peanut M&Ms AWAY so he couldn't eat them all.) I bought some new boxes of tea for church. 

The Yorkshire tea, in malty biscuit flavor, is for home, however.

I've decorated, although the outside of the house is devoid of Christmas cheer, I'm sorry to say. I'm at an age where I accept what I can do, and don't worry about what I can't do. In addition to our fake tree, I'm putting the appropriate ornament on our Jesse Tree each morning.

I've placed my little wooden tree with its ornaments on top of the piano.

Our old creche is assembled with its pine cone trees.

And I've hung my woven Advent calendar on a door. I was faithful to snap on only one figure each day for about the first 5 days, but then I couldn't resist; I put them ALL on. It was so much fun! The snaps are stubborn and sometimes don't work. I did save Baby Jesus, however, and will lay him in the manger on Christmas morning.

It's a jumble of figures, isn't it?

Mostly, I'm trying to get a variety of things finished before my daughter and her family arrive next week. Then I want it to be sheer family fun and together time while they're with us. I'm weaving, knitting, making lotions, doing yard work. And making Youtube videos nearly every day, which has been fun! If you have time and want to, go watch :)

I'm trying to be slow like the amaryllis. It's a gentle constant push against the hurry, a steady application of the brakes each day, all day. I choose not to go careening toward Christmas this year. So far ... so good!

Outside, doing yard stuff:

Inside, doing yarn stuff:

In the kitchen, making yummy stuff:

And I'm doing occasional poetry readings:

Quiet

 It's December 6. In a eye's blink, 2021 will be past. Advent and Christmas, with all their beauty and wonder, will be gone.

So I want to go slowly. As Robert Frost says in "October," -- "Slow! Slow!" He wishes for autumn leaves to fall only one at a time. At that rate, autumn would take all year long!

This past week I met with a dear friend at church, and we did "the greening of the church" for the first time ever. We started small, and we wore out quickly. We do the poinsettias every year, but the green swags of cedar, holly, and magnolia are a new thing.

There are cedar swags on the windows that you can't see here.

Each week I tell myself I'm going to stay HOME and get things done, work in the yard (so much tidying up to do!), and stay happily in my studio. But every day, something comes up -- a grocery run, errands, recycling, doctor visits -- and before you know it the week is gone.

We put up the Christmas tree. Our daughter's new kitten Leo loves to climb in the tree (of course), so he will be consigned to her room quite a bit this month. We're watching Christmas movies in the evening and drinking eggnog and enjoying the twinkling lights in the living room.

The house it quiet now. It's early Monday morning and I have the whole week stretched out before me. I wonder what I'll get done?

I have three scarves to weave, one knitted scarf to finish. Painting, of course -- I'm working on North Carolina's lighthouses. 

Pondering Advent, I read a friend's post about the carol, "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel." We do plead with the Savior to come and ransom us. Truly we "mourn in lonely exile here."  I once wrote a song about what the world might have been like, if Jesus had never come. A fallen, broken, dark world where no savior, no rescue, ever arrives. How thankful I am for His birth at Christmas! His love pierces the world's darkness, consigning it to the corners. His love pours a balm of healing on all our brokenness. I cannot imagine living without the hope He gives me, of peace both here and after I die. These are my thoughts during Advent, that each year we wait in desperate hope for help in the hovel of our lives. He always comes.