reading and writing in the land of overwhelm

Welcome to lotus and rabbit, an online sanctuary for lovers of children's literature, poetry, and living simply.

imagine you are the sky

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Meditation

 

Imagine

you are

the sky,

 

You are not

the clouds, thoughts

billowed.

You transcend

the clouds.

You are

the sky,

Imagine

 

the clouds—

billowed thoughts,

you are

not.

The clouds,

you transcend.

 

The sky.

You are.

Imagine.

 

You

transcend billowed

thoughts, healing

rain, cleansing

breeze, wash of

gray drifting

by,

remember.

 

Remember

you are

the sky.

 

(photo by Jeff Paul. Poem inspired by a meditation practice detailed in the book Way of the Winding Path by Eve Eschner Hogan)

retreat … well, I just got here

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I went into the woods to write

a story about going into the woods.

When I got there (The Retreat at Pointers Ridge)

I realized I didn’t want to write the story,

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which is to say, I didn’t want to write the story

just yet.

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What I wanted to write, it turns out, was

poetry.

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I’ve been writing poems since I was ten years old.

Or before.

The first one I memorized (of my own creation) was

about a snowflake. The snowflake, to be clear,

was not my creation. The poem, delightfully, was.

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No one tells you, when you are young,

that you can journey well as a poet.

No one tells you, when you are in the middle of life,

that you can journey well as a poet.

What will they say when I am old …

or will I simply no

longer hear them?

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I joined the Marines, once,

long ago. I learned the language

of conflict. I learned love.

Hope. Fear.

I went to college. I learned

the same things, only

from books.

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It was in the woods where I

remembered: I speak

more than one tongue.

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I know

more than one path.

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I am

from more than one home.

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I am more

than one woman.

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I contain multitudes

still, I contain

multitudes I

contain still

multitudes

multitudes I

contain.

 

Still.

 

(All photo poems are from The Retreat at Pointers Ridge, South Dakota. The painted door is a creation by artist Jennifer White. Don’t know her work yet? Wait. The photo of the sky out the window of the Writer’s Cabin was inspired by a different photo, made by Jeff Paul. One moment after the other, I tried to see the world as Jeff sees the world, as Jennifer sees the world, as I see the world. I am better for the experience.)

in front of josephine’s

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in front of josephine’s

flowers like prayer

flags breathing

coaxing intention

from the breeze

yes

you wish only

for light

light shall be

yours and

light you

shall be

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Note: yesterday, I went downtown to talk photography with a group of women, some strangers, some friends. Emily spoke eloquently of light. Walking home later, I happened upon dangling flowers in front of a shop. They reminded me, equally, of Tibetan prayer flags and poetry. And so I was blessed. And so I was healed.

dear teachers …

First, a confession: I considered homeschooling.

I take the education of my daughter seriously. At five years, she was a sensitive and intelligent child—introverted, artistic—and I figured she’d struggle in a traditional classroom and, perhaps, flourish if given freedom to continue learning at home.

Now, as she launches into summer after three of the best middle school years imaginable, I’m shaking my head, wondering how I could have ever considered education without teachers?

Before you fire off those emails and letters, please understand that I am not against homeschooling. I am simply allowing myself to gush a bit about the educational system I know best. (But, seriously, how could we—children, families, society—manage without teachers?)

Virtually nothing about school is simple. The homework alone gives me anxiety nightmares. And yet … allow me to offer a slice of wisdom from my now-14-year old:

“Mom, just because something is complicated doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to figure it out.”

This, in fact, has become one of her pet peeves—when adults chuck an idea out the window because it feels too complex. When finals week arrives and she has a chorus concert, honor’s night, cello lesson, and a stack of homework that makes her mother want to wail and rend her own clothing, the girl pats the mother on the head and assures her everything is under control.

There you have it. Sometimes, when the going gets tough, the tough serve cheese and crackers with fruit for dinner (all week, mind you) and sit in the audience and cheer. Oh … and drive the car. I still get to drive the car. Maybe school is simple after all.

How do you thank the people who have become your tribe? How do you thank a music teacher for providing a three-year jam session that has made middle school raucous and joyous and cool? A science teacher so awesome that a teenage girl wants him to teach her how to drive? A social studies teacher who celebrates the arts? An art teacher who celebrates everything? How do you thank a poetry-slammin’ language arts teacher, an orchestra genius, math master, quirky gifted ed dude, Spanish maestro (maestra?), band wizard, power principal, compassionate counsellor …

Can I just come to the school, sit on the front step and weep now?

I didn’t send cupcakes to the middle school staff during appreciation week. I didn’t send gift cards or flowers.

I have only this to offer. A story. Because story is what I know.

I’m sitting in my car outside school, waiting for my child to amble out the door. As usual, she’s going to be the last student to leave the building (a topic for another day). I wait, watching all the Whittier kids. This school doesn’t have a “uniform,” I think. No one really dresses the same. There’s no popular brand I can discern, no must-have shoes or bag, no haircut that signifies your belonging. I like that.

The buses pull away, the crosswalk signals flash. A teacher sporting an orange reflective vest remains, standing next to a student I don’t recognize. The boy is holding a football. He tosses it to the teacher. The teacher backs up and throws a tight spiral back to the kid. The kid drops the ball.

Maybe this boy has an awesome dad who throws the football around with him every day after dinner, I don’t know. But it sure looks as if he’s never been taught how to pass and catch. It sure looks as if he really, really wants to know. Without words, teacher guy holds up his hands in that universal triangle position men use when showing sons and daughters how to catch footballs. They pass back and forth for a while. The clock sneaks past four. They keep going.

Another kid jogs around the corner, and he’s a ball player for sure because the teacher launches a long one and the kid snaps it out of the air, and now it’s a game of three-way pass, and everyone’s smiling and laughing, and I’m pretty sure the contract doesn’t cover this kind of after school instruction, but there it is.

I sit in my car with my memories and my gratitude and my tears.

How many times have the teachers here given my daughter—this sensitive, artistic, brilliant human being—something I didn’t know she needed at the exact moment she needed it?

When no one was watching?

When they could have been doing something else? When they probably “should” have been doing something else?

Yeah. How do you thank someone for that?

All I can say is that I see you. I see you and I love you.

sculpture walk

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Each year, right around the time the earliest

blossoms begin slipping

from their branches,

a fresh series of sculptures appear

in the heart of our downtown.

We embark, as ever, upon the reasonable,

which is to say:

We take a walk.

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We open our eyes.

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We greet the world.

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Not all change is struggle.

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Some change arrives as a carpet of petals,

unfurling beneath your feet.

for love of january

january sunset

photo by Jeffrey Paul

 

My friends think I’m crazy for loving January.

In fairness, my fondness for the month didn’t start until I lived, for a time, in California. It was the rising of a new year and I suddenly found myself staring into the Pacific, longing for a cold slap of Dakota air to keep things around me a little more honest, a little more real.

Then, after four gorgeously redundant Januaries in Hawaii, I finally knew it was time to turn homeward. I needed to live where Mother Nature lets her hair down and gives it a gentle shake now and then.

So here I am. January in South Dakota.

Sometimes, it gets so cold around here the citizens throw their hands in the air and decide to just stay home for the day. School is cancelled. Businesses close. And there it is—the curving of a perfectly fine morning and you find yourself holding a book and a blanket with no particular place to go.

Hello, couch. It’s been a while.

Of course one must, more often than not, march boldly into that glaring whiteness, wisps of danger curling beneath your tires as you squint at the road and accept, if not exactly welcome, the aching chill that haunts your bones the rest of the day.

We pat each other on the back for this, this surviving. No one pats you on the back for enduring January in Hawaii. What would be the point?

These are the mornings we appreciate our cars, our furnaces, the sturdy men and women in Carhartt overalls who repair our cars and our furnaces. These are the days we utter clumsy prayers and mantras and benedictions for the things we normally take for granted.

Bring her home safely. 

Please start, please start, please start. 

Stay warm. Be safe. 

Reality is heightened in January. The air bites and stings and reminds you of the delicacy, the fragility, of human skin. And yet, January, perhaps, is the simplest month of twelve. For one frozen moment, we neither over-plan nor over-schedule, if only because we are stunned and humbled into accepting our own limitations.

Instead, we adapt. We overcome. We check on our neighbors, jumpstart the cars of strangers, pass out extra mittens.

In January, it is enough to survive.

And, of course, we have now also entered the new year—the season for dreamers. Everything is seen afresh—how to eat, how to breathe, how to make the closets airy and sparkling by Easter.

In January we leap from the ledge of optimism, gracefully kneading a smidgen more sunshine out of each day. For we are the people of the warm socks, who stand in knee-deep snow in order to spill birdseed into our backyard feeders. We are January people, loosening our white-knuckle-grip on destiny for the momentary pleasure of imagining a life lived free and light and clean.

Perhaps one can never convince those who hate winter to appreciate how the sunset looks different—sacred, glasslike—at 30 degrees below zero. That’s all right.

A simple life isn’t one where you scream at the world to change its mind.

In January, the only mind worth changing is your own.

a simple grief

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It is two thirty in the morning and I find myself suddenly and irreversibly awake, accompanied by the aching dread of realization: Tomorrow will be exhausting if I don’t somehow fall back asleep.

Yet something feels wrong. For reasons unknown, my mind is obsessing over the fact that my refrigerator seems to be perpetually running out of milk. I buy the milk, really I do, but moments later it vanishes, leaving me with the uncomfortable inkling that perhaps I left a cold gallon in the shopping cart, or on the roof of the car.

Who is drinking all this milk, I ask the night. Is there a platoon of kittens stationed in the fridge, waiting for the door to close so they can lap up their rations?

No. This is just me, losing track of the days again, waking up on Monday and blinking to find it is already Friday night, blinking again and discovering another Monday morning.

And now we enter Advent, the season of waiting. I have cleared the kitchen table to make room for the Advent Calendar, dusting and discarding what is no longer needed in exchange for the hope of a new season.

I started the year with a longing to simplify, and believing, naively, that simplifying meant getting rid of clutter. I immediately fell short of my goals, was slammed with a flooded basement, and was rescued from the disaster, in part, by my father.

Not what I had planned.

Then my dad became ill, more so than any of us fully realized. He died in early November.

Not what anyone had planned.

One of the most difficult (and blessed) moments of grieving has been standing face-to-face with others who have, at some point, lost their own fathers as they reach out to me. I look them in the eye and see suffering reflected.

This doesn’t ever go away, their eyes reveal. The sorrow. The joy. The crushing humility. All are here to stay. Welcome them. Shake their hands.

My friends have showered me with gifts. Hugs. Vegetarian chili. Letters and cards. Memorials to my dad. All useful. All deeply appreciated. In a crisis, everyone seems to know exactly what to do, even if they didn’t believe that to be true when they got out of bed that morning. In a crisis, minutes unfold in sacred order. The patience, the kindness, the ability to mourn—all arise without summon and blanket me.

When you are wandering through a shadow season such as this, you realize how few disasters there really are in modern, American life. Most of our perceived suffering is unnecessary and absurd in comparison.

It doesn’t matter if I run out of milk or have yet to adequately cull my collection of books. Extra weight. Debt. All are laughable distractions compared to the twisting ribbon of life now unspooling before me.

In January, I will carry on. But now, it is December. I will listen to music. I will drape the hooks through the ornaments as my father did when I was small. Now, when I awake in the middle of the night, I will accept the invitation of darkness and curl up next to the Christmas tree, bathed by the moon and by the holy twinkling of lights.

One of my dad’s friends told me this: “The way you watched your father … that’s the way your own kids see you.”

If he speaks true, then my own child sees me thus: Larger. Than. Life.

So I have cleared the table for her Advent calendar and pared my schedule in December down to a few essentials. Minimal entertainment. Minimal shopping. Minimal baking. There will, however, be hot chocolate. There will be stories of Christmas past and present. There will be snuggling.

I will not lose track of the days, for the days are never so careless as to lose track of me.

I began the year wanting to live simply. I enter December knowing it is enough to simply live.

a day without planes

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It’s been almost a year since I first decided to forgo holiday shopping in order to begin simplifying my life. Now, the heady sweetness of November once again alights upon the upturned faces of the city. Have I abandoned the quest to launch my Christmas shopping yet?

Um … no. Looks like this simplicity thing is going to stick.

It’s not that I’ve “arrived,” not by any means. If you showed up at my door, you’d find a dog whose collar I removed for a good neck scratch (a week ago) and still can’t find. (I can’t find the collar. The dog, thankfully, possesses the amiable quality of always finding me.)

My plan for this evening is to remove some books from a shelf, dust, sort, reduce as many titles as palatable, and line the shelf with books that are more beloved. The beloved books, alas, are mostly in piles on my living room floor. And, in spite of good intentions, I recently found myself wondering, “How did October become so busy?” because I had, once again, over-scheduled myself.

For me, simplicity is still a process. Last week, standing upon the glossy floors of Target, I got a little further insight into why.

I only needed one thing at Target, maybe two. Household basics. And yet there I was trying on fall jackets. I don’t need a fall jacket. I already have one. So I walked away, because, you know, I’m all about self-discipline. (You know by now that’s a joke, right?)

I wandered the aisles, going over my mental list (of two items, you’ll remember) because if there is one thing I loathe it’s going to the store and having to go back again the same day to retrieve some forgotten necessity, which by the way, happens to me pretty consistently. I am the kind of person who buys the cereal and forgets to bring home the milk.

A year of simplifying has brought unexpected benefits, namely paying down a certain amount of credit card debt. All at once I realized that I had a card in my pocket with a zero balance. New fall jacket? Possible. A present for my daughter? She deserves it.

My unexpected good fortune rushed over me and, frankly, threatened to pull me under. It was smartly followed by my old friend—fear.

What if my current jacket rips and I need a new one and then I can’t find one I like? What if December arrives and I’m out of money? Hadn’t I better stock up on gifts, just in case?

Justification, slipping towards fear, cascading into panic. Soon I was wondering where the money would come from if I lost my job, the car breaks down, our decades-old furnace refuses to stumble through another winter. And, sure enough, I began feeling like I had better buy anything I (might) need right now, before it’s too late.

I don’t mind telling you, deep breathing and a sanity check were both required.

When did I start believing that there would never be enough—enough work to sustain a family, enough time to sustain relationships, enough activity to contribute to a community? When did I start believing that everything was so fragile and could somehow be made less so by squirreling away supplies, tangible and otherwise? When did I start thinking that saying yes to every request would somehow increase my value as a human being?

I’m not sure, honestly. By way of extended metaphor, however, I’d like to offer the morning of September 11, 2001. I was home with my daughter, just an infant then, with not even one year of knowing each other tucked away. I plopped her on a blanket, turned her away from the television, pushed the mute button and wept as the second tower crumbled into dust and ashes and bones.

I was alone. And, like everyone else in America, I didn’t know what was going to happen next.

But there was this child of mine, perched upon the floor, turning over the pages of a board book, oblivious to the vastness of the world into which she had been born, except for a few touchtones. Her book. Her blanket. Me.

I turned off the television and took her outside. We walked and walked; I’m not sure how long we were gone. I kept watching the sky and whispering to myself “no planes, no planes” as a reminder that my family, my city, was not under attack. Something bad was happening. But it wasn’t happening here. It wasn’t happening to me.

I could keep walking. I didn’t have to run.

Sometimes there seems to be such a heaviness of tragedy and threat in the world, we all stand moments away from toppling into panic. Panic can manifest itself in some rather silly ways. Shopping. Yelling. Obsessing. Refusing to help those in need in order to protect our own sense of security and order.

This year, more than any other, I have learned the things you think make sense don’t always stay that way. People who spend a lifetime taking care of their health tumble into disease. Relationships you thought would sustain vanish like vapor. Work becomes a twisted game of corporate Candy Land, with some colleagues swooshing up to the castle, while others swish off the board at the flip of a card.

Deep breath. Sanity check.

Today, I turn again to picking the books off of my living room floor. Why? Because it is the task in front of me, and because I can do it with love. I hug my child. Stir the soup in the pot on the stove. Call someone I love. Say thank you.

Today, I do one thing at a time. Without fear for what comes tomorrow. With only the blessing of today to sustain. It is enough.

The leaves are falling, and they are beautiful. The weather is inviting, as long as you have a good fall jacket, which I happen to have.

One is all I need.

she calls me away

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She calls me away

from the table where I work

Come, sit

with me instead

It is far better here

with my sighing body

my thoughtful head

resting in your lap

 

 

*photo by Jane Walsh

the things we are doing take time

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photo by Jane Walsh

 

First, a confession: I woke up the other morning feeling like a thoroughly incapable human being.

It was a wretched way to start the day, I’ll admit, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Some days dawn ripe with opportunity for self-doubt and self-pity.

On this particular morning, the realization broke that everyone I know seems to be doing more, achieving more, and generally wringing more juice from the fragile fruit of everyday than I do.

So, naturally, I wasted a perfectly equitable sunrise battering myself mentally. What on earth is wrong with me, I wondered. Am I just inherently lazy?

Over breakfast, my daughter was gentle, true to form. Pay attention to how you spend your time today, she offered. Only consider the day before you, the moment before you. Stay away from the Internet. By the end of the day, you’ll know if anything needs to be done.

I suspected my malaise could not be eased by a day minus online distraction. Still, I vowed to honor the advice with an emergency reboot of digital simplicity.

Then, after taking my wise child to school, I picked up the phone and called Harry Bliss.

I was scheduled to interview the famed cartoonist/illustrator before his presentation at the South Dakota Festival of Books. The conversation quickly turned to, for lack of a better term, his creative process—mostly because I have a long-nurtured fascination with how artists, musicians, and writers do their work in the world.

On any given day, Bliss might spend two focused hours working on a single cartoon. Then, he surfaces from this creative depth to do something physical, such as working in the yard. Then he might return to his desk. For some reason, this image made me think of a child on a summer day (no homework, no bedtime) playing with toys for hours and then dropping his plastic cow on the rug to run outside and play.

It made me remember my own childhood days, cradled in the branches and hidden by the leaves of my favorite climbing tree. Shirking chores. Writing poetry.

And then I exhaled.

All at once I felt all right … more than all right … I felt sonically aligned with the pace of my day, as if someone had rung a bell that resounded throughout every cell of my body.

That might seem like an exaggeration, but it’s not. If the description sounds a little far-fetched to you, I don’t mind. Go ahead. Roll your eyes. The fog cleared, that’s all. And I was awake enough to notice it.

I talked with Harry Bliss for a good long time. Then I put down the phone and my pen and I went outside. I never did turn my computer back on that day.

In the evening, I found there was even more to learn, this time from my dad, who has spent most of his summer visiting with doctors, rearranging his life as he deals with the shifting sands of his health. This process, as you might imagine, has altered the weight of his “daily accomplishments” considerably.

“It’s not that I’m not doing anything,” he told me. “It’s that the things I am doing take time.”

There it was. The trifecta of wisdom I needed to satisfy my hunger:

  1. Honor the minutes, turning away from the distractions of our age.
  2. Work unapologetically on your art, on doing what you love to do, then get your physical body  moving, preferably out-of-doors.
  3. Finally, above all else: The things worth doing—creative things, sacred things, things with meaning and purpose and impact—they all take time.

What did I get done that day?

Well, I spent a lot of time listening. I spent even more time hanging out in the kitchen with my teenage daughter who, not incidentally, still digs hanging out in the kitchen with her mom, chatting about books, friends, and how we spend our days.

I spent the day writing—filling blank pages with with notes and ideas, even a few sketches. I stepped outside more than once to sit in wonder at the adoration of the bees as they bid their farewell to summer.

(My dad told me, when I was younger, that you always know summer is ending when the bees are out looking for new homes. I’ve never forgotten that. It’s not over until the bees tumble over themselves saying goodbye.)

Basically, I spent the day welcoming the voices of wisdom around me as well as the voice of my own wise self, who had simply gotten out of bed a few minutes later than usual.

I don’t know how other people have time for their abundant accomplishments. Maybe they don’t. Maybe it just seems they do when I peer at their lives through the thick glass walls we install between ourselves and others.

I only know that conversation takes time. Writing takes time. Healing takes time. Love takes time.

I only know that I’ve got plenty of time for that.

 

 

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