A Slice of Reflection

“Learn. Learn. Learn.” (Benjamin Eder, 1980-2001)

At some professional development session offered by BER, a dynamic presenter emphasized the “magic three” as a writer’s tool for cadence, for rhythm, for attention. I had to begin with Ben’s quote today and add that there is no more powerful three-in-a-row, that profound anaphora, for keeping life interesting.

Of course this ultimate post of the Slice of Life Challenge, 2024, extends gratitude for all who participated, and as I firmly avow to anyone who stops by to read what I’ve written, “Attention is love in action.” I am humbled.

What I learned today is that, if I want to do justice to the folks who join in this annual event, I have to go back to go forward. Timing is everything. In this writing community, people come from many time zones. People’s lives are crowded with obligations and a panoply of personal timetables. Many of us write on a schedule. I’m a morning person on the West Coast. I usually write and comment in the early hours of the day. (Too infrequently do I return to see what’s happened after I’ve left. I apologize.)

For others, their days have already begun, and what’s early to me, is midday to them. Maybe they’re in the middle of a class or performing a lunch duty at school. Some are ferrying children to after-school activities when I’m walking on the beach, or putting children to bed when I’m putting dinner on the table.

This morning I went to yesterday’s writing invitation, March 30th, because I seldom read anything from the posting-late-in-the-day crew. What I learned is that if I do revisit the day before, I will meet many writers I’ve missed. Going back sends me forward to discovery.

There were 110 blog posters in our community yesterday,(111 if you include someone who posted today), and I could easily spend today catching up on yesterday. It’s a conundrum, but I will add some go-back-to-go-forward to my routine next year; I have learned!

I look forward to another year of Tuesday slices and to my eighth year when March, 2025 arrives.

To Buy or Not to Buy

“We throw ourselves into work, consumed by finishing this or that project, convinced that each professional task is truly important. And yet if what these oldsters say is true, it’s likely that at some point we’re going to leave it all behind and not look back.

What lesson should the rest of us glean from these folks? If you’re 35 or 49 or 57 and see people living their deepest lives after they’ve shed the curse of workism, should you drop out of the rat race and take this whole career thing less seriously?” (from The Atlantic shared on Facebook/Meta)

My journey today, and the genesis of this post, began when I read the email from Melanie Meehan at Two Writing Teachers about the upcoming student writing challenge this April with a link to the information. I realized that I wanted to promote this event on Meta through the Oregon Council of Teachers of English (OCTE) web page.

After doing so, I quickly changed to my personal page—I haven’t visited in a while—and saw a shared post by a valued friend (oh, that tricky algorithm) “The New Old Age” with the quote I’ve included above. I wanted to read this article, again that bot, so I clicked only to discover, as usually happens with The Atlantic, that I could not complete it without subscribing.

How many times have I almost subscribed to this periodical? So many! My interest has been piqued more than a dozen times, and I receive their overview newsletter each week. Today, though, I follow the steps to the part where payment is required. Several times before, I’ve stopped at establishing an account, but even as I type this, I am looking at the payment/subscription page and pondering…yes or no?

We already receive The New Yorker, and while I read it online as a perk of our full subscription, unless my husband specifically recommends an article in the print edition, weeks go by where I never even open it. He, however, reads it cover-to-cover. My mom subscribed to it throughout her lifetime, it was a perennial coffee table guest, so partially it’s that connection for me. When I do take the time to read something, I remain firm on its value. Admittedly, I have many covers saved in a folder and two framed on our walls.

I search “compare The Atlantic with The New Yorker” and find a wealth of information at the enlightening Eye & Pen, a travel blog site with no real credentials except that I’ve second-sourced a few of the facts the blogger declares, and they check out. (I won’t bore you with the fact-checking.) I read a that, “The Atlantic was initially created [in 1857] as a platform for discussing and promoting the abolition of slavery. Its founders aimed to provide a space for progressive thinkers to exchange ideas and engage in intellectual discourse.” That encourages me.

Now I move to a different consideration. If I purchase the “digital and paper” for $89.99, instead of digital only for ten dollars less, am I harming the environment? This leads me to ask,”Are printed magazines sustainable?” “Yes,” according to this marketing-focused website…surprise! Once again, the fact-checking does support the provided information. Physical copies are more easily shared, that’s for sure.

Last night we went out for dinner, a rare occurrence, and spent about $100 with tip for three good meals. One good dinner versus a year of The Atlantic—for less. Hmmm.

I’m exhausted now, and wondering why I ever started this, having almost, but not quite, lost interest in reading about “The New Old Age” altogether. I am hearing my good friend’s comment on turning 70, the stark reality of it, “Seventy isn’t the ‘new’ anything!” In truth, I have yet to leave my dedication and interest in education behind, still including it as a part of living, “my deepest life.”

I press, “Start my subscription—digital and print.”

Inspired by “Sick”

I don’t remember what year it was when I heard Shel Silverstein speak at the University of Miami in Coral Gables. What I recall from the event is something he said—or maybe in the revisionist view of my past—something I think he said about teaching poetry to students. Encourage your students not to be slaves to rhyme. It’s a hard sell when he is such a master and was popular beyond all others in my first and second grade classrooms. We do love rhyme.

Today a poem of his is running through my head, a parody of a poem, to be exact. I have had middle school students, on the heels of successfully playing with the copy-change methods from Dunning and Stafford’s Getting the Knack,

embrace the opportunity to play with the poems we’d share in class. Frost’s “Stopping by Woods…“, inspired such classics as, “Whose cheeseburger is this? I think I know…” or lines from William Carlos Williams’ “This Is Just to Say” morphed into “I’m sorry I stole your bike from the garage…”

I have Shel’s “Sick” on my mind this morning. My sister-in-law gave me my copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends where “Sick” lives happily surrounded by other Silverstein gems. On the inside front cover her son, now a 50-year-old, had written a note in pencil letting me know that he was giving me this book because it’s the BEST BOOK EVER MADE, including page number of his favorite poem, “Sick.” He had struggled to unlock reading, but Shel helped him find the key.

Sick

I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more—that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

From Shel Silverstein: Poems and Drawings; originally appeared in Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein. Copyright © 2003

In my head I am hearing, “I cannot write a post today/all my ideas have gone away./my pen lacks ink/my thoughts, they stink/I can’t imagine what to say./ What if I never find my words/ is that a thought beyond absurd?/ Around me people buzz and prate/ they seem to think their words are great./They do say much I wish I could/but my stories really aren’t that good!/I know I have no writer’s skill/to face the page takes more than will./ I’ve told some tales that make me smile/but not today, I’ve lost my style./Wait, you urge, just give it time/those challenging days are not a crime./Who knows if later on today/you’ll not be grabbed by what to say?/ You’ve started now, you’re on a roll/ You’ll end this now; you’ve reached your goal!

Post 29 of 31! (Thanks, Shel🙏)

My Kryptonite

Here’s a great idea if you’re struggling with topic selection on this, the 28th of 31, day of consecutive blog posts. Vivian Chen has written a mouth-watering post in response to her question: “What is your kryptonite?” She invites us to do the same. Of course I have to go off in a tangent because that’s the way my mind works.

Donuts are not my kryptonite, but as soon as Vivian mentioned them, I was led back to the novel I am almost finished reading, Hello Beautiful by Ann Napolitano. I awakened at 1:49 a.m. this morning to the sound of rain pummeling the roof and wind wailing around corners, and read until almost 4:30; it’s that compelling. Right now, I’m getting chills thinking about it and the pages, (345-383), that remain. Just before I went dark to give sleep another try, I was in tears, had gone to get a tissue, and then said to my (also insomniac) husband, “This book makes me want to be a kinder person. I’m calling my sister tomorrow.”

Back to donuts, and I promise no spoilers unless inferences are your kryptonite! At one point in the novel, Sylvie, one of the central characters, begins buying an ice cream cone every day for lunch and a donut every morning before she heads to her work as a head librarian.

“Before, she’d believed pretty firmly that ice cream and donuts were only for children, but when she removed all rules and guilt from food, she realized, to her surprise, that those were two of her favorite things to eat. Now she went into the expensive, delicious-smelling bakery every morning for a donut and bought an ice cream cone for lunch” (Napolitano 316).

This nothing-special excerpt divulges little about the power of Napolitano’s novel (unless you are an inference-junkie and ponder the,”Before,”). It does, however, segue into a cocoon of community carefully created by the author. It hardly does justice to the wonder that is this world made of words and of our shared humanity.

Maybe you’ll read it. Maybe books are your kryptonite, too!

Below the Surface

I awaken as soon as the massive ship hits the cliff. The ship upends and heads down into the deep ocean; the cliff watches unmoved. It is noisy, isn’t it? It seems noisy, and I think it’s the noise that brought me from sleep. Then I realize, I am standing in the back of a classroom. All eyes are trained on the video playing in front of the students. The ship is sinking, its stern pointed straight at the sky.

Where do dreams come from? There are theories and continuous research to explore that question. A simple overview from the Cleveland Clinic posits that dreams may arise from challenges one experiences during the daytime, providing a “rehearsal space.” They may be the brain’s way of analyzing memories.

Fresh from the dream, its impact remains, so I think about its connection to my yesterday and share an armchair analysis. Can you see the connections?

• Yesterday afternoon I grabbed the window of sunshine and hiked my route on Yaquina Head State Recreation Area. At the very end of the paved road, stands the lighthouse that just celebrated its 150th anniversary, its sesquicentennial. From there I headed up the Salal Hill Trail to get views from the cliff top to the north and south. On my way back to the entrance, I veered off to climb the Communication Hill. The summit after a gentle upward journey affords panoramic views to the south.
• Before I left the house, I made a salad. While I worked, my husband shared details about the ship that had slammed into the Francis Scott Bridge and caused an immediate collapse. He asked if I’d watched the video, and I said I had no desire to see it after I’d already pictured it from the articles I’d read. Oh, the power of imagination—for both good and ill.
• The Yaquina Head parking lot was crowded. People dotted the sidewalks. Families stopped to read the informational posters. One eager youth asked me if this was where they’d see whales; a mother and her daughter were interested in the best place to find sea glass. Spring Break in full swing! However, school would begin again next week for all of us. I had committed to working every day.

The elements of my dream played out my yesterday, the electrical brain impulses right on target.

A Taxing Morning

Do you procrastinate when it comes to taxes? I am the opposite. I rush to complete them. I don’t know why, but I want them e-filed before the middle of February. I don’t pay them until the last possible minute, but I want to know what I owe. I could analyze that a bit more closely, but in this moment, I am beating myself up because of my hasty decision; this year it cost me—not in dollars and cents, but in good sense? Absolutely.

Because I rushed, and even though I had an inkling that I was missing a W-2, I submitted my returns, federal and state, through H & R Block’s online product. I had begun using them once I moved to Oregon and filing taxes with a fairly predictable retirement income became the norm. At first I actually went to the local office and worked with an agent. The first year, I met a wonderful woman, retired like myself, and like me not 100% retired because tax season would come, and she couldn’t resist.

The next year, hoping I’d get to work with her again, I’d set up an appointment, only to learn that she had left the office. After that less-than-satisfying experience with a different agent, I committed to doing the work online. After all, the process seemed straightforward. I could do this.

Then came this year’s delinquent W-2 on February 8th, the one I knew I was missing, the one from my substitute teaching in the fall months when the district had changed to a new payroll system. And I had already filed. The amount to many might count as pocket change, but I wanted to be 100% honest, so I began to file an amended return form 1040X.

In short, it didn’t go as planned, and I don’t know how to fix it. This morning I tried to amend my amendment, all for naught. I’ve decided to stick with my original return, send the voucher payments in sooner than usual, and keep my fingers crossed.

According to the amended version, everybody owes me. I know that’s incorrect. Rather than eliciting satisfaction, it makes me nervous. I also know where I made my mistake. All to no avail. I hope our checks don’t cross in the mail. What will I do then? There is a “Where’s My Amended Return” website the IRS offers, but I’ll need to wait to access it. To be totally honest, I’m not sure if I actually submitted the amendment. H & R Block is not particularly transparent.

I wonder if I am alone; I feel alone (though the website suggests I have some company). I assuage my inner critic with this: “small potatoes, small potatoes, chicken feed.” I have learned something though. Haste makes waste; Ben Franklin knew what he was saying. Next year, no taxes before March. (Or maybe I’ll just wait until after I receive word of the March Blogging Challenge?!)

Living Drama

How about a little drama? If you’re free today—and are up for a bit of Shakespeare—I have an idea. It came to my inbox, as it does each month:

I don’t know when I first connected with Nick Newlin and his brilliant brainchild “30 Minute Shakespeare.” I am fairly certain it was a serendipitous encounter as I was wandering the row-upon-row of English teacher wares on annual display at the National Council of Teachers of English Convention every November. Because I’ve attended over a decade’s worth, it’s hard to say precisely.

What I can say for certain is that his magnetism drew me, whenever it was. He has a wide-open smile, and I could almost picture him in a foolscap, or cap’n bells or jester’s hat. He has that kind of friendliness, the understated charismatic, non-threatening kind. And I’m sure I saw the magic word “Folgers” somewhere at his booth.

When I was teaching eighth grade language arts, one of my favorite parts about our final nine weeks together was to add a concentrated dose of iambic pentameter in the form of A Midsummer Night’s Dream to our year-long poetry exploration. I had attended an online Folger’s Shakespeare workshop offered through the Folger’s Shakespeare Library and knew there was no other way but to “put it on its feet.”That meeting with Nick, discovering his passion, his connection to Folgers, and his 30-minute approach, I was hooked.

This morning’s email for the performance of Taming of the Shrew later today made me smile.

Nick has worked for more than 20 years conducting workshops teaching Shakespeare with the Folger Method. Though I’ve never worked with him in person, his work has affected me personally.I can vouch for its effectiveness; kids who audibly groaned when I introduced the last of our adventures together turned into dramatis personae extraordinaire; whether Theseus or Lysander, Egeus or Hippolyta, Demetrius, Helena, Hermia, the mischievous Puck or the buffoon-y Bottom, characters came alive.

At the end of last year’s NCTE Convention, I was waiting for my Uber to the airport on an easily located street corner in Columbus, Ohio. I had had an uplifting time. I recalled how I’d quickly passed through the vendors’ showroom but stopped short when I saw Nick sitting calmly alone under his 30-Minute banner. I stopped, re-introduced myself, (How long it had been since our first meeting?), and said thanks again, for what he’s done for keeping Shakespeare alive—”Not of an age, but for all time.”

I had pretty much decided that this was to be my last convention. After all, I wasn’t teaching full-time any longer and had to foot the bill on my own, no small thing. Granted I’d made this decision before, but next year’s convention would be in Boston, and… As I stared up the street, the restaurant door behind me swung open, and out popped (oh, the timing!) Nick. We chatted. He asked if I still received his emails. I said yes, and he said, “Join us sometime.” As my car pulled up, and he headed down the sidewalk , he spun around.

“See you in Boston, ” he grinned.

“Maybe,” I replied, “or maybe online.”

Maybe today. How about you?!

It Begins

After hours of rain, the sun has broken through. It looks like it might last for awhile, like I might not need rain gear to tackle a beach walk after all. While mountains of clouds tinged gray pile up to the east, they are moving out, as I make my way down the path toward the shoreline.

Out on the horizon it’s blue, blue, gauzy blue, promising a walk without spatters. I am not the only one who has read the sky. On the broad expanse of beach to the south, I see a cluster of people. I walk in that direction face to the stiff breeze that sends house flags snapping. Nearing the group, I can count a dozen or more bodies in motion. This is no yoga class, no tai chi practice. I’ve seen enough of them to know that even from a distance—no wedding party either.

There is something about the suggested shape, the way it shifts, that seems familiar. Closer, I walk, and faint sounds drift above and beyond the diamond shape that’s emerging. They are playing softball, but I am as far away from their game as the low tide allows. Foam nips at my feet. I’m too far away to know who makes up the “they.” Their contest sits in the shadow of the embankment where once-tall winter dunes have been leveled by the relentless winter winds.

I pass them at this distance, walking my parallel path, a wide swath separating us. Two players at bat have gained their places at first and second. The yelps, the clapping I can only imagine, as the next batter up hits a long ball and the way-outfield scrambles as runners head home.

Spring Break on the Oregon Coast has begun. We are all sharing this field of dreams.

No…Not Wordle, or Connections

(Spoiler Alert: If you complete the New York Times “Flashback Quiz: Your Weekly History Quiz” and have yet to do so this week, 🛑!)

“Can you place eight events in chronological order?” This invitation greets me every Saturday morning, and I accept. Bear with me as I take you back through time.

We are given an anchor event. Today’s is from 1951 when a basketball scandal positioned the NCAA to rise to power over the NIT. “First held in 1938, the NIT was once considered the most prestigious post-season showcase for college basketball before its status was superseded by the mid-1980s by the NCAA Division I men’s basketball tournament.^[1][2]” (Wikipedia).

Now the fun begins. Aristotle and his connection to monopoly poses the next challenge. Not really. Aristotle certainly preceded basketball tournaments, of that I’m 100% certain. I drag and tap to its correct position: Circa 330 BCE.

Next Lady Mercians and the Vikings, again not much to doubt. Vikings certainly came after Aristotle and before United States basketball tourneys. 912-17. Right again. Am I feeling smug? Heck no! I’m not even halfway yet.

The first inkling of challenge arrives with the publication year of Maurice Sendak’s classic, Where the Wild Things Are. Before or after 1951? Hmmm. I could Google it, couldn’t I, open a cheater’s window. Yes, but today this post is keeping me honest. I go with after-1951 and am rewarded! 1963 it is.

Hokusai’s unmistakable “The Great Wave” curls on the screen, one of my husband’s favorites. Google’s siren sings in the background, but I resist. After the Vikings? Yes, right? and well before basketball betting, no doubt. When I’m correct, 1831 to be precise, I wonder if some of my husband’s art history knowledge is sinking in.

Okay, it’s getting tougher with the question about the Treaty of Manila. The additional clue about 48 states at the time clinches it. I drag and tap and voilà: 1946.

Here I meet my Waterloo (June, 1815, btw) about five decades before Florence and the Crimean War 1860—about which I am woefully ignorant (so many wars). I have conflated her with Clara Barton, the Civil War, and founding the American Red Cross. I place her before Hokusai and RED chastens me. (Oh, Florence, you were right about the hand-washing!)

Are you following this? Here’s what we’ve got so far:

Alexander Pope is up next. Him, I know; all those English classes in college come in handy with the Flashback! Nothing but green as I drag and tap into place. 1711-17.

Last is Pompeii, the eighth event. I’ve taught this, can see an entire village frozen under volcanic flow, ash covering all. Before the Vikings? Absolutely. Before Aristotle? Absolutely not! 79.

And I’m done, 7 out of 8. I’ve done worse. And better still? I’m done with this post 2024.

The Well Being…

Metropolitan Museum of Art Night Fountains (Brecht Bug)

I’ve been thinking about the coupling of the words “well” and “being” this week. Perhaps it started because of the poem posted at the Poetry Monday website, Kay Ryan’s “The Well or the Cup:”

Yes, I’m sure it started there. I remember meeting Kay Ryan at the Dodge Poetry Festival one fall morning, lined up in front of her book signing table. She was the Poet Laureate; I had already brought her collection, The Best of It. 2010 was a banner year for the festival with luminaries around every corner. It’s been over a decade ago now, and I am far from my feeling then—that I couldn’t imagine a year without being there—the magic of it, the very air, a well I would draw from often.

This week, Pádraig Ó Tuama wrote about happenstance conversations, the encounters with strangers both desired and not. He referred to a poem by Gregory Pardlo,”Wishing Well,” shared on the Poetry Unbound podcast in October, 2020. (I urge you to read this one aloud, or listen to the podcast.)

“Outside the Met a man walks up sun
tweaking the brim sticker on his Starter cap
and he says pardon me Old School he
says you know is this a wishing well?
Yeah Son I say sideways over my shrug.
Throw your bread on the water.
I tighten my chest wheezy as Rockaway beach
sand with a pull of faux smoke on my e-cig
to cozy the truculence I hotbox alone
and I am at the museum because it is not a bar.
Because he appears not to have changed
them in days I eye the heel-chewed hems
of his pants and think probably he will
ask me for fifty cents any minute now wait
for it. A smoke or something. Central Park displays
the frisking transparency of autumn. Tracing
paper sky, leaves like eraser crumbs gum
the pavement. As if deciphering celestial
script I squint and purse off toward the roof
line of the museum aloof as he fists two
pennies from his pockets mumbling and then
aloud my man he says hey my man I’m going
to make a wish for you too.
I am laughing now so what you want
me to sign a waiver? He laughs along ain’t
say all that he says but you do have to
hold my hand. And close your eyes.
I make a starless night of my face before
he asks are you ready. Yeah dawg I’m ready.
Sure? Sure let’s do this his rough hand
in mine inflates like a blood pressure cuff and I
squeeze back as if we are about to step together
from the sill of all resentment and timeless
toward the dreamsource of un-needing the two
of us hurtle sharing the cosmic breast
of plenitude when I hear the coins blink against
the surface and I cough up daylight like I’ve just
been dragged ashore. See now
you’ll never walk alone he jokes and is about
to hand me back to the day he found me in
like I was a rubber duck and he says you got to let
go but I feel bottomless and I know he means
well though I don’t believe
and I feel myself shaking
my head no when he means let go his hand.”

From:  Digest Copyright ©:  2014, Four Way Books

Oh, this story and the unlikely encounter hold me; I can feel the “rough hand…like a blood pressure cuff.” And maybe it’s the title “wishing well,” the hope now added to my sense of “well,” the phrase both noun and action, that moves me, that makes me think of our collective well-being and whether each of us today has untapped depths to draw from or is at the bottom of the cup.