Haiku

Today while I was on my morning walk, I saw a few autumn leaves on the ground. This reminded me of a Haiku I wrote last winter when I came upon an artificial leaf in the snow. At first I thought it was a genuine dash of color in the otherwise bleak landscape. When I discovered it was a poor imitation of the real thing, I took a picture of it--dirt and all and wrote this Haiku.

In the moment

I have always been a worrier--a what if kind of person. I took this picture when I was taking a photography class. Months later, I began to understand that because of my anxious nature, I am rarely present in the present. I miss out on so many joys and so much wonder. It should not surprise me that I have a poor memory for people, places, events. Several months after taking this picture, I began to understand the importance of being in the present. A thought came to me, and I added it to my photo. Perhaps I should enlarge this picture to poster size and hang it in a prominent place. I need this gentle reminder several times throughout each day.

Aztec Poetry

Today I read a remarkable article in the spring edition of the Humanities at BYU publication, It is with Words that we are Sustained by Allen J. Christenson. The piece covers diverse and absorbing subject matter. At the beginning of his article, the author discusses the Aztec’s love for poetry, their most sacred form of communication. The author explains that these flower-songs were recited orally, sometimes to musical accompaniment. Christenson clarifies that, although the Aztecs had no phonetic written language, we are fortunate to have some of their beautiful works because Spanish missionaries wrote them down after the conquest in 1521.
  One passage cited in the article moved me in so many ways: The grace of the words, the spiritual ramifications and the glimpse into the humanity of these ancient people. The author introduces this poem by explaining that the poet believed his songs came from heaven, and he sorrowed  over the fact that there was no way he could adequately  express these revered hymns.
It occurs to me that often, when the Spirit speaks to us, we feel this same frustration at the impossibility of expressing these sacred insights.  Here are the lines that now tie me to the poet,  Ayocuan Cuetzpaltzin.                            

From within the heavens they come,

The beautiful flowers, the beautiful songs.

Our longing spoils them, 

Our inventiveness makes them lose their fragrance.

(Leon-Portilla)

A Close Look

I worked with my macro lens this morning. At some point I'll need to go online and read more about using this lens. 


                                              
Despite the fact that I don't have a clue what I'm doing, I am enjoying the experience. In fact, (to borrow words from one of my students) It brings a kind of joy.

road signs

 Isn’t it grand that one can find story starters everywhere: Fodder for fiction. Grist for a poem. On my morning rounds, I saw two familiar signs in a new light. Can you imagine the endless creative harvest that these signs could yield if given a chance. I wonder if Robert Frost beheld a pastoral road sign at the point his roads diverged.

 Speaking of taking roads less traveled: it seems to me that most people consider following relatively uncharted paths is somehow scholarly or creative or courageous. I lean toward that line of thought, too, with at least one caveat: Whatever the road, keep your moral compass handy

Introduction

My son recently encouraged me to start a blog. Initially I was hesitant because I do not have remarkable day to day adventures to share, nor do I have the intellectual prowess to flex scholarly muscles from time to time. However, when he suggested that my blog could be a place to record snippets of my diverse interests, that appealed to me. It might be amusing or therapeutic for me to peruse my disjointed posts from time to time to get acquainted with myself after all these years. Thank you to my daughter, Meredith, who talked me through the process of getting this set up. 


Turkeys

As I walk every morning, I see and hear great throngs of turkeys. I was reminded of an assignment I wrote for a short story class a few years ago: Write one page, double spaced, entitled "Things I See Outside my Window." This is what I wrote:




 
  

                                          Things I See Outside my Window

        Old Fran’s house is gray, and, it being January, her lawn is yellow and her trees bare. In the street, between our houses, there are puddles in the potholes instead of snow. Thankfully!  Today I can drive across town if I want without the stomach knot that comes when I’m faced with slipping over the treacherous white winter roads ---roads so often reduced to meager trails.

The gray-house door opens, and Fran’s companion, Mike, makes his way to check the mailbox at the end of his driveway. His retired status is reflected in his daily attire: robe with loose belt and plaid slippers. I always hold my breath for fear his flapping robe will reveal more of his wizened frame than I would ever want to see. I won’t go out to my box until after Mike is safely back within his walls.  Oh, Mike is a good old guy, but he can’t hear well, and our exchanges are always shouted awkwardly across the street to one another.

Old Fran’s sky is gray. I’m sitting here looking for that magical patch of blue that one of my creative writing classmates discovered last week. I’ve contorted my neck to get a better look through the curtained window. No. No glimpse of blue.  Only gray.

I’m hoping for the local gang of turkeys to noisily toddle by. In spite of their nasty droppings, they always make me smile. There are typically at least ten or so, gobbling boisterously as they eye each dreary blade of grass for nourishment. Turkeys seem to have the bad reputation of being dim-witted creatures. But they’re not lonely, are they? It’s always, “All for one, and one for all” with turkeys.  I don’t see them, though. Nor the neighborhood deer. The only life out the window is Mike, ambling back into his stronghold.

It’s so incredibly still outside. No wind. No cars. Silent, gray and yellow. I’ll wait a few more minutes before checking for mail. Perhaps the turkeys will come.