What is, is.

I sit by the gently flowing river,

in the shade of a large pine tree. 

Its exposed tangled roots, caked with mud, 

my temporary abode.

I absently dangle my toe over the icy rush below, 

eyes taking in the mountains on the horizon 

rendered hazy by sun's whimsy.

The kids jostle and squeal as they stand

waist-deep, urging me to embrace this

wet, cool, sublime suspension of Time.

Bucket lists don't matter. 

Doing something, being somewhere doesn't matter. 

Staying put, right here, right now

is me.

I dash full-speed the first 10 miles,

anticipatory warmth charging my innards;

inexplicable screeching halt, snail-like inching,

the next 10 miles an eternity.

I punch the preset radio channels, one, then another;

restless, I reach my destination: home.

Change of plans— no eggplant Parmesan,

no corn bread, no green beans tonight.

A quick burrito and salad would have to do.

Mealtime: the super-glue that binds us together.

Elaborate dinners don't matter.

Unwashed dishes, overflowing hampers don't matter.

Racing home from work, caring, feeding

is me.

I watch the whirring humming bird,

the noisy chickadees, bushtits, and sparrows.

I park myself on the deck; camera 

and steaming coffee my cohorts.

Summer weekend holds the promise of forts and watermelons,

home-made ice-cream, sprinklers, and bubbles.

Young tempers flare, discord escalates,

I feel no urge to jump in and set things right.

A hundred To-Dos ping-pong in my head

longing for prioritization and closure.

Nagging guilt doesn't matter.

Cobwebs and bathtub stains don't matter.

Idling away, willfully slothful, procrastinating

is me.

I flip the omelette, stir the oatmeal,

butter the toast, dish up some yogurt&granola;

the agility of a multi-armed octopus, my asset.

I set the table, pack the lunches, wake up the kids.

"Breakfast!" I champion, skipping mine—

hypocrisy is a parental prerogative.

I let small hands pack a healthy snack, 

fill the water bottle, and assemble the lunch bag—

inculcating responsibility is a parental duty.

I hug and kiss the kids and rush off to tackle

another day filled with deliberate undertaking.

Bucolic mornings don't matter.

How things Ought-To-Be-but-Aren't doesn't matter.

Chugging on, frenzied yet grateful,

is me.

I step outside— spontaneous, disembodied, hovering;  

watching, resisting, struggling, drooping, bracing.

Arrogance of Youth discarded, I welcome 

the promise of an unfaltering march to the Finish:

Wisdom beckons. Such as it may be.

 I do not wish to defer emotion;

I do not dare to entertain remorse.

I hail the hurried days of speeding through the hours;

I grasp and cradle the humdrum days of slow-dripping clocks. 
Time is only a whimsical concept.

Special occasions don't matter.

Achievements and validation don't matter.

Accepting each day, being, existing

is me.

Tide Pool Poems

Following our tide pool hands-on study at the Oregon coast and the books we read, both the kids have been interested in doing projects involving tide pools.

Oggie made a Tide Pool Book with me a while back, second book on the subject as a matter of fact. And since then has moved on to other things that interest him, while still retaining a special place for tide pool in his heart (the recent sidewalk chalk art being one).

After considerable thought about what sort of a tide pool project she wants to do, inspired by the How To Write Poetry books we've been reading, knowing what an inspiration A Kick In The Head has been, Ana was firm about making a Tide Pool Poems book.

I was thrilled about the idea, but did not want to steer or direct it in any leadership role, nor co-write it which might stamp out her signature in this maiden venture.

However, knowing that it can be overwhelming and intimidating to tackle such a project all on her own, this being her first of this kind, I asked strategic questions and guided her with enough information and suggestions so she can realize her vision, always standing by to lend a hand if she is stuck.

How many poems do you want in the book?
What creatures/features/things are you going to write about?
What poetic forms do you want to use?
Will there be illustrations in the book?
What style of illustrations do you want to use?

When she answered those questions to her satisfaction, the book started taking shape in her head.

One poetic form per tide pool creature, one illustration to go with each poem, a title page plus an About the Author page, and six poems in all. She had it all laid out in a scrap sheet of paper, with some preliminary notes about illustrations and poem ideas.

Which poetic form to use, and for which animal, was entirely up to her and I have no idea why or how she arrived at the final result.

She worked on one poetic form at a time when the creative streak hit her over the last few weeks.  She referred to A Kick In The Head by Paul B. Janeczko for the poetic forms, sample poems, and inspiration. And brainstormed with me about the tide pool creature in focus, throwing out ideas and weird verses until things started to fall in place.

We did sit together and jot down rhyming words first like pool, cool, fool/nose, close - of course, we went down the letters of the alphabet bool, cool, dool, fool, gool and so on till we can extract a few we can use; and we also looked up the definition of some of the sea creatures in the dictionary/encyclopedia to find words that might be interesting to use (like spiny echinoidea, nudibranch and so on).

What did the author have to say after the poems were complete?
"Haiku was the hardest. Couplet and Tercet were the easiest and most fun to write. Limerick was the silliest. Acrostic took the longest to write. Concrete poem was not as easy as I thought it would be."

All that was left to do was create the illustrations and put the poems in a book.

The illustrations for each poem was either cut-paper collage or just a drawing colored in as the mood dictated. Picture on the left and the poem on the right was the format Ana settled on for each page of the book.

Of course, the title/cover page of the book had to be gorgeous - so we did glue-and-chalk-pastel work. (Top picture.) I applied the glue to Ana's pencil sketch, "fixing" it as I could not help myself.

And it was my job to write the About the Author page, which is always fun to make up, while Ana drew the profile picture of herself to go with it.

Here are the six original Tide Pool Poems by Ana. (Clicking on the picture below pops up a larger image that might be easier to read)

Children Learn What They Live

While not much is going on this summer - nothing fantastic, nothing too hectic - it seems like I am getting too  emotional thanks to visiting my family. After my last trip to India in 2009, I am seeing my parents only now... while intellectually I can understand aging, I refuse to accept it when it comes to my parents.

Anyway, my dad had sent me these words, something that he came across on the web a while back, when we were talking about what 'discipline', 'obedience', and 'respect' meant to him as a parent and how it has evolved from his generation to today's.

My dad used to say, Command respect, Don't Demand It and 'command' of course in this context equates to 'earn'.

In an unrelated note, by coincidence, I recently read Tehanu by Ursula K. Le Guin and while the book is a bit of a disappointment thanks to its morbid tones and weak plot, the writing is brilliant as always with strong social commentary. And, I was struck by a simple dialog between Ged (G as in guest, not ginger) and Tenar about Tenar's ward Therru:

"How she's changing!" she said. "I can't keep up with her. I'm old to be bringing up a child. And she . . . She obeys me, but only because she wants to."

"It's the only justification for obedience," Ged observed.

Children Learn What They Live
By Dorothy Law Nolte, Ph.D.

If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn.
If children live with hostility, they learn to fight.
If children live with fear, they learn to be apprehensive.
If children live with pity, they learn to feel sorry for themselves.
If children live with ridicule, they learn to feel shy.
If children live with jealousy, they learn to feel envy.
If children live with shame, they learn to feel guilty.
If children live with encouragement, they learn confidence.
If children live with tolerance, they learn patience.
If children live with praise, they learn appreciation.
If children live with acceptance, they learn to love.
If children live with approval, they learn to like themselves.
If children live with recognition, they learn it is good to have a goal.
If children live with sharing, they learn generosity.
If children live with honesty, they learn truthfulness.
If children live with fairness, they learn justice.
If children live with kindness and consideration, they learn respect.
If children live with security, they learn to have faith in themselves and in those about them.
If children live with friendliness, they learn the world is a nice place in which to live.

I've worked with your flower

There are many wonderful words, some simple and delicate, some rich and complex, which when strung together in a certain sequence can squeeze the heart and overpower our emotions.

My mom being a retired high school teacher, I know how much she loved all her kids. (I must admit, it used to make me a bit cross when she said "my kids" when referring to the school kids - my friends - she taught).

Though not choked with emotion to the point of weeping, I know my mom felt a pang of something every summer when a batch of kids moved on to college after high school. She remembers many of her kids, if not by name, but by where they sat in the class, what worked best to get them interested in the topics, how they did their lab work, sometimes even their handwriting and their smile!

Anyway, I came across this little poem when Ana recently finished KG, and I do believe her teacher teared up a bit and got emotional when it was time to say good-bye to the outgoing kids. To cherish that moment, I quote this poem as it seems quite timeless. (Author unknown; please drop a note if you are the author or know who wrote this, authoritatively).

I've worked with your flower,
And helped it to grow.
I'm returning it now,
But I want you to know...

This flower is precious,
As dear as can be.
Love it, take care of it,
And you will see...

A bright new bloom,
With every day.
It grew and blossomed
In such a wonderful way.

In September just a bud,
January, a bloom;
Now a lovely blossom
I'm returning in June.

Remember, this flower,
As dear as can be,
Though rightfully yours,
Part will always belong to me!